There's really nothing like something hot to drink. When I wake up, no matter the weather, a hot drink sounds appealing. At night, when the sun has set and the house is quieting down, that same idea comes into my mind. The only problem is: caffeine.

Coffee makes me so jittery that I can feel my heart almost bursting through my chest. On the outside I'll smile at coworkers, friends, really whoever I'm around, pretending I'm not effected, but they know it. They can tell. My eyes get bigger, and at least one leg has to move up and down, I sigh a lot, because caffeine sets anxiety in which makes it hard to breathe. Then there's the talking, when I have caffeine I can't stop. Anyone who knows me well knows that these times are scary ... or annoying. Yet time after time, I always consider coffee in the morning.

You are probably wondering: has she tried decaf? I have, yes, don't worry. But it has the same effect, though fortunately a much lesser degree of it. And while I only try to drink decaf coffee, and only decaf coffee on super early mornings or special occasions, I still can feel that it probably isn't the best tonic to start my day.

I do much better with tea. Not all tea, mind you. The black teas, though they are probably the favorite, have a similar effect (perhaps slightly better, depending upon how European the blend is). But what am I to do, drink herbal tea every single morning? I mean, herbal blends are prefect for nighttime but the morning too? It's a thought. Right now I'm drinking French Vanilla tea, and so far I feel a jolt, but nothing to write home about.

So here's to drinking to my idea of glorious mornings and cozy hot drinks! Even if in reality it makes me revved up like one of those power boats that has their engine shinning for the whole world to see, I still find the thought of it -- and of course the process of drinking it -- more than enjoyable.

Well, three weeks into school, five weeks into work, and I'm already hyperventilating. When I get stressed, which unfortunately has always been something that I'm prone to, I have a hard time catching my breath. No, there are no ridiculous small paper bags involved, though to be honest, one might help. Just deep labored breaths that turn out to be shallow sips of air. I get these weird knots in my neck; weird because they are so hard that I would almost bet it's new bone growth, and I start feeling overwhelmed by even the smallest of things like, "what am I going to have for dinner." It's interesting because I like to be busy, anyone who knows me well, would probably say I thrive off of some level of busy. But, like anyone, I fizzle when I've reached my limit. One thing's for sure: I am definitely being stretched. Here are somethings I've learned about myself recently:

- I can handle a full plate, but not a stuffed plate (there is a difference).
- I need time to be alone and think during the day.
- If I go weeks without exercising I become significantly moody.
- There's an ugly element that comes with school, almost a selfish entitlement of "I need to do this now," and it can quickly make a person neglect relationships.
- Even if you have a lot to do, it's ok to do nothing, actually, sometimes it's the best thing.
- I really like school, and I really like being busy (note, I said "busy," not "swamped").
- God's in control (I've known this, but it's amazing how often I seem to forget it).

There's no place like living out of your suitcase ?

Lately I have been busy -- not just busy -- zapped. I went from a nothing that was such a lack of something that you could reread this sentence five -- ten -- twenty -- who cares! -- times and not feel guilty because you have all the time in the world on your hands. But now, it's quite the opposite. The fact that I'm even writing this blog feels decadent. If time were a meal, this would definitely be in the dessert category (see my jokes are even getting weirder).

I like being busy -- I do -- perhaps, in many ways, I love being busy. And I went into this Fall with a "Carpe Diem" attitude, however, like I said, I'm zapped. How quickly I forgot the time it takes to do school. The labor one puts into a paper, the agony one using when scrutinizing over the syllubus, it can be all consuming. Then starting my new job (which is a HUGE blessing) is still time consuming, even if it's a good thing. But both those things have not been my real challenge. My real challenge rests in the fact that I have been living out of a suitcase -- this lifestyle can quickly make a person "zapped." Actually, I am quite astonished I have fought it out this long.

While I am forever thankful for the families that have let me stay with them, and know in many ways I'll look back with fondness (?) on this vagabound -esk living situation, I want a home. I want a place where I can put my groceries and clothes, I want to light scented candels, and complain about how "I really need to clean the floors or dust the cabnets." I want my nest, that's safe, and warm, and well-earned. Even if it takes over half my paycheck to live there, I have decided that a woman needs some place to, as Eric's mom says, "hang her hat." Though I don't have a hat, I have shoes, and I would like a place for them.

I know God will provide, and like I said, I'm thankful I've been able to save money, and blown away by the generousity of others who have reached out to me. But I think I'm ready to "go home." :)

Yesterday I made a big pot of spaghetti, garlic bread, salad, and brown butter blondies. The week before I made enchiladas, chipoltle style rice, beans, and chocolate chip banana bread. The list could keep going, because I LOVE to cook. I love the way everyone gets excited when they can smell it, the way food makes a place feel more like home, how all the spices, though I don't often times measure, somehow turn into an exceptional blend of flavor that makes what was once tomato sauce hearty and fragrant. Cooking momentarily consumes me, that of course is before I consume it; something about it shuts out the busyness and takes me into a place of peaceful productivity. I love cooking for the holiday's with special recipes, the recipes of friends long after I've seen them, or for some, long after they have even been in my life. There's something so reliable about that favorite biscuit recipe, or Grandma's lemon pancakes. And, of course, I add my own flair to each recipe, trying to mold it to my own. Naturally, there are the cooking disasters, the bread that needs to be scraped of burnt char and the pancake that tastes like butter masked baking soda, but the disasters are overshadowed by the victories -- the victories, yes, they are far better than any individual victory because you can see the contentment on people's faces as they're eating something that has been prepared for them. It is a simple, yet profound satisfaction to know that your food has brought together family, whether it's family by blood or by spirit, and in that there are laughs, and honesty, and sharing, and rest; this is the cooks reward.

Below:

The house of my dreams ...


(Images from the movie,"Stepmom." The house is located in, I believe, Upstate New York.)

You've probably heard it time and again, "think before you speak." It's not that novel, I mean, obviously you're going to think before words exit your mouth -- it's physiologically necessary. But obviously that's not what it really means.

I've never been an angry person, I mean, common, I certainly don't have the physical means to be angry, and personality-wise I am afraid to be vulnerable or "off the handle" enough with most people to even show a hint of anger. It's not that I bottle things inside if I'm upset, I confront them, even if it's with dragging feet, but for the most part, I think I'm easy going with most people. I recently realized something, though: sometimes I feel downright angry. Now, anger in itself isn't bad, I mean, it's good to recognize when something is unjust or manipulative and to keep your boundaries, protecting yourself. Yet what about anger in everyday conversations? What about anger -- that realness of negative emotion, shown to the people you're closest to. I mean most people don't get angry at their grocer, or the guy down the street. And on a deeper level, most people don't even express anger to the general circle of their relatives or friends. But most people have been openly angry at their best friend, their spouse, parents, or someone significantly close in their life. Why is this? It's there because those relationships are real, they're important, and they're safe enough to be vulnerable and open. However, is anger really the right way?

As I had said before, unless someone does something unjust or manipulative to you, is anger the right way of expressing yourself? Probably not, actually, it can be the worst way. Yet it's not that simple. I mean, feeling as though injustice or manipulation or something boundary shattering is taking place is all a matter of perspective. Classic example (sort of classic): in Father of the Bride (Part I, if you'd like to know specifics), Annie's fiance, Brian, decides to get her a blender as a wedding gift. This gift, which to me would have been slightly dull, but extremely useful and appreciated, was a statement to her that screamed 1950's housewife. To her it was downright manipulative and a slight injustice, but honestly, to me she was overreacting. In all reality though, who cares what I think, that's how she felt, to her it was valid, and therefore she was angry. Because she was close enough to Brian she was able to express this frustration, instead of bottling her negative emotion inside, and in the end this made them stronger. Or, at the very least, they pulled through it in less than eight hours and then resumed to happy. In a sense, her frustration was good, because it demonstrated that their relationship was safe enough to share unhappiness, and in the end, it taught her that Brian was not trying to manipulate her, but he just wanted to give her a useful gift (for the milkshakes she likes). However, did she really have to throw such a fit ... call the wedding off, have to have her father intervene to patch things back up? No.

What I've learned about anger, which is hard to do when you feel as though injustice has befallen upon you, is to stop, think, and then speak. Sometimes the stopping or the thinking takes a little time, but it's neccessary because once you say the angry words, they're out, they hurt, and they can't be taken back (though you can appologize, of course). What I'm trying to come to peace with, is that it's ok -- normal -- to feel angry, but the true test is how you handle that feeling. The key is to ask yourself what the person is really saying, then ask yourself what's really bothering you. Often times you'll find you might not even be angry, or it might not even be about that person, but it could be another feeling, like stress or fear, overtaking the moment; because we all get frustrated, it's something worth asking yourself.

Last night I saw an outdoor showing of Casablanca at Chapman University. They are doing a black and white movie series where they basically put an old, acclaimed movie on the screen (black and white as previous mentioned), pop some movie theater-esk popcorn, put out some store bought cookies, lemonade, and ice water, and people convene on blankets and lawn chairs at 8 p.m. on Friday night. Did I mention it's free? Yes, well that does add a certain charm to it.

It was the perfect evening, not too hot, not too cold, with a calm breeze floating all around. I had forgotten how: 1) confusing Casablanca can be, and 2.) once you get all the details how crazy good it really is. I mean that movie is truly an epic. And I'm a fan of anything epic-related.

What I thought was interesting was how the theme song for the movie, "As Time Goes By," talked about how the world will always welcome lovers ... how falling in love, though good and right, is always in some sense, the "same old story," time does not change love. This was an interesting theme song for the movie because Casablanca was sort of a place where time stood stagnant, a place where there was little certainty in anything, and amidst a war, which Igrid Bergman mournfully claimed to hate, there was little good. Yet there was that simple, time-tested, age-old thing called love, and that seemed to be the film's redeaming color. It was love that saved the couple in the game of roulett, love that ended up getting Ingrid and her husband on a plane out of there, love that, somehow, despite it's painstaken and jiltish ways, seemed to redeam Rick into wanting to vacation from Casablanca in the end, and love, even the influence of it, seemed to soften the bad guy. It seems that despite all the war and agnoy, that "same old story love" still rang true. I suppose the song was fitting then.

If you haven't seen it, or it has been awhile, I'd recommend watching it.

It's Monday again and I find myself looking ahead at the week wondering how it looks so short. It seems as if week after week flies by, and while I'd much prefer a breezy flight than a painful lag, sometimes it feels too fast.

This month I'll be starting school in what might be considered 17th grade. While I don't start for another three and a half weeks, I'm already getting the "back to school jitters," which I literally have gotten every year of my academic life. It's sort of silly to get the jitters, seeing that most of my education will be done in a distance program, but meeting new professors, having them assess my work, and student teaching all seem scary -- exciting -- but scary. For those of you who don't know, the program I'm doing is an accelerated Master's degree at USC. By the beginning of January 2011 I should have a Master's in Teaching with a single subject credential in English. What's cool about this program is it has an emphasis on urban education and closing the "achievement gap," something that I feel passionate about.

I'm glad that I finally have a clearer direction, though there are still lot's of little pieces floating around. Like finding a solid part-time job and the living situation. I think If I've learned anything in the past six months it's that life tends to be lived with lot's of little pieces floating around. In college the pieces were set in place for four years, than growing up, your parents seem to fix them in a stable state for you, but maybe, in a way, the pieces have always been sort of loose. It's just that now I'm responsible for them, I'm fully in charge, that's what's so new. True, a job and a house are essential, at least I have a place to live now and a little babysitting income. Something, after all, is better than nothing,

Lately I have been babysitting a good amount. At first it felt a little weird, seeing that I never babysat while in college, but with the current economy and all, babysitting suddenly seems a lucky profession because it pays (not to mention the cute kids). Although, upon my new venture in the business I've had some thoughts:

Why is it easier to get a babysitting job them pretty much any other occupation? Why, in the field of childcare, is the pay alarmingly low (say below minimum wage, not to name any names)? Both these questions become haunting if the statement, "my kids are the most important thing to me is true." Take scenario 1:

"Hi, I'm Debbie, Lisa, Carrie's mom, said that you babysat once for her old neighbor Tommy, can you babysit for my kid?" Now to work at Cosco you have to go through an application process that makes you think you're joining a Fortune 500 company, but uh-ah, not to babysit. Ok, so sure there are the sitters who do require documents, but not in the through the grapevine knits. My concern is, when I'm a mom, I'll probably be the same way, but isn't it a little odd, seeing that your kids are your highest valuables?

Then the pay, personally, I think the pay should be astronomically high. Afterall, watching your prized children should never be seen as a small or insignificant task. There should be overtime, sick pay, insurance ... so maybe I'm going a little far. But seriously, don't you think of all professions this one should be among the upper echlons of serious?

But that's just me. Maybe I'm bias.

Do you ever feel lonely in your world? Caught in the prospects of "what could be's" and "what should have been's," lonely in "now." I mean, what is "now" anyway?

The way I see it:

Now is the phone call that you can't put off another day ... the load of laundry that is three days waiting ... the dishes that aren't doing themselves ... the thank you note that just has to be sent ...

But now is also, the love of those close to you that will never be the same as it is in this very season ... a relationship with God that pours grace upon your mistakes each day ...

Now, is so many of the "I wish I had's" or "please God's" that you've been hoping and praying for much of your life ...

Hope for tomorrow, by all means; rejoice and mourn in the yesterday's, for that has a time too; but "NOW" (and I'm not referring to the embarrassing "Now" CD epidemic); Now is the time to live.

The Greek Philosopher, Epicurious says, "Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for."

The last couple of weeks have been trying ones, but it's hard to complain when there's so much good in my life. I came down with a pretty bad head cold, which I didn't even know could happen it July, then had some mysterious health problems which no doctor could really figure out, and got stung by a bee, which turns out I'm pretty allergic to, which means I've been laid up in bed all day today with an icepack on my foot watching "Boy Meets World" reruns. Then there's been my being out of work all summer, which has had it's perks, but I would definitely rather have a job. On top of it all, there's the fact that my lease it up in two weeks, and, I decided to apply to USC's Master of Teaching/Credential program for the Fall, and any one who's applied to college's know, it's a job in itself. Of course, being a lover of structure, none of this has appealed to my personality, which has been a challenge. Honestly -- I'm exhausted.

But as I first mentioned, there's so much good. I have had time this summer to decide what it is I really want to do, time to think and relax, and all this mayhem in my life has taught me patience. I have good people in my life, good opportunities, and I can feel God working now, more than I had in past months. With all that said, I really hope a little more structure is near, and that my patience can calmly wait out where I need to be.

So, if you want to know what I'm going to be up to ... we'll see! (but on a side note: your prayers would be good too!)

Lately I've learned something about relationships: you have to appreciate the small things. While I've always had a knack for mastering this in life, in relationships I tend to strive for "over perfection." True that spontaneity and originality are essential spices in life, but, as with any spice, a dash is all that's needed in the recipe.

When I slow down and breathe life in I find that the things which strike me as most beautiful are oftentimes the everyday. In all my relationships I am beginning to recognize a pattern in the seemingly mundane, and it's this: it's not so mundane. Some of my fondest memories are going to the grocery store with a friend and just being goofy, or cleaning up the room with a roommate and having a contest to see who can find the best junk on the floor to make a new invention (hey, I never said mundane had to be dry). Even things as simple as studying or running errands can in time develop a unique friendship. Maybe, I'm learning, it's when you're with people in their everyday, and in your everyday, that you can learn to truly appreciate both their simplicity and their intricacies -- creating a genuine intimacy.

I am lying here somewhat flatly on my bed this hot summer evening waiting for a breeze. But it will not come. Instead, an unusually humid desert heat has been boiling all of me from what even feels as the insides of my toes making me edgier than normal, but mostly, just uncomfortable. Sometimes, but not often enough, and never very powerfully, a sickly wave of air will teasingly graze past me. Yet in this heat "sometimes" is never enough. I have hope, and because of past experiences know that this air will eventually cool and engulf the room (or somewhat fill it), but it's hard to be patient when I have this much discomfort.

This is how I see parts of life like. This is reality. Sometimes we are uncomfortable -- dreadfully so. Everyone around is getting jobs or boyfriends, maybe it's the best grades in the class or their figure looks nicer. We may struggle with one given thing until we feel like all the air is out of us, until we can't imagine a time after that particular struggle; sometimes this battle happens for so long, we almost become numb.

Have hope! Please, if you have nothing, have hope. And if anyone tries to drain you of your hope, don't let them. Stay strong, because you are strong. God will see you through, and when he does it will not only be a testimony of his sovereignty and grace, but a testimony of Christ in you. My prayer for you -- whoever reads this and needs encouragement, is not to fall through the cracks of discouragement, but hold your chin up high. God will not fail you.

I'm sorry I haven't been blogging recently; although to be honest, I don't know who exactly I'm apologizing to.  Perhaps, more than anyone, I am saying "sorry, self, you need to blog more."  Of course I need to do a lot of things more, journaling being one big thing, although there are dozens of others things as well.  Still, I'm not re-joining the blogosphere after a little over a month to tell you what it is I need to do.  Actually, to be honest, there are a lot of things I could tell you (you being my readers, which I presume their are but a few of).  Hi, Grandma ;)  

Today, I will tell you a few things, and perhaps, my beginning musings will get the ball rolling for more blogging.  Hope so ...

At this very moment my stomach kind of hurts, and it's not from bad cereal or any other ordinary stomach aching disturbance, but because I'm about to get a haircut.  That's right: chop, chop ... snip, snip (you get the point).  Ladies and gentlemen, I am going in for (drumroll, if you will) bangs.  My "look" will now feature a dark brown fringe that frames my face, and, hopefully, accents my features (fingers crossed).  I decided to do this today, which I feel is enough time for a decision.  Goodbye forehead, hopefully I won't miss you too much.

I've also been really wanting to plant a garden -- secret garden status with lot's of random flowers and shrubs, of course a swing, and maintained, yet containing slight feral disarray.  The only thing I'm missing for this endeavor is land ... and also a bit of patience.

Lastly, I have a poem I've been wanting to share.  I hope it captivates you as it has me, regardless, I thought it was a good find.

"You Who Never Arrived"

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of
the next moment. All the immense
images in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and un-
suspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods--
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house-- , and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced
upon,--
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back
my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening...

~Rainer Maria Rilke

Now that's poetry.

Even though my room is prone to easily becoming cluttered due to a lack of storage units (dressers, desks, etc.) I have grown to love my space.  It is not so much the room itself, especially since my roommate and I have dramatically different stylistic tastes, and I would rather my windows overlook something more picturesque than La Mirada Blvd; it is more the things in my space.  The books, journals, pictures, bedding, jewelry box all have little stories behind them and make my space more of a home.

I think what it is, is that deep down I'm a "nesting person."  I showed the early signs of this from when I was in the single digits (1-9).  I would always find place to "burrow."  Though it may have been a slightly odd practice, it made me feel safe and I guess in my childish way, domestic.  I remember having this huge field with all this Minor's Lettuce growing about, only I thought it was called "Minor's Lice."  My best friend and I would pile that stuff up for as long as our attention spans would permit, and we'd make a literal nest out of it.  Don't worry, the nest had a key component in our make believe game.

When I'm grown up, because let's face it, I really am not that grown up yet (or don't feel it).  I am going to have a office in my house.  Maybe the day I get my own home office will be the day I officially grow up.  Either way, it's going to be lovely.  Even if it's the size of a closet and overlooks an ugly highway.  I'll find it's closet-like size endearing, and the lights of the highway perhaps in certain moments semi to fully romantic, and it won't be so bad.  You know why?  Because it will be my little nest.  With things ... things that aren't just lame materials, but things that remind me of places and people I love.  I'm looking forward to that time in my life, but until then, I'll remain content with my half of the bedroom.  

It's funny how other people, who never knew you, who aren't even talking about you, who lived long ago, can sometimes describe you better than you can yourself.  This is SO me, and when I saw it, I felt once again that satisfied feeling that I really only get from reading; the satisfied feeling of realizing I'm not that weird: someone, somewhere, long ago felt this too.  So here's the wonderful excerpt: 

"You'll probably have a good many more and worse disappointments than that before you get through life," said Marilla, who honestly thought she was making a comforting speech.  "It seems to me, Anne, that you are never going to outgrow your fashion of setting your heart so on things and then crashing down into despair because you don't get them."

"I know I'm too much inclined that way," agreed Anne ruefully.  "When I think something nice is going to happen I seem to fly right up on the wings of anticipation; and then the first thing I realize I drop down to earth with a thud.  But really, Marilla, the flying part is glorious as long as it lasts ... it's like soaring through a sunset.  I think it almost pays for the thud."

"Well, maybe it does," admitted Marilla.  "Id rather walk calmly along and do without both flying and thud.  But everybody has her own way of living ... I used to think there was only one right way ... but since I've had you and the twins to bring up I don't feel so sure of it." -Anne of Avonlea 

When God closes doors

Have you ever heard the expression, "Like a bull in a china shop"?  It basically means you're awkward.  But I think it means more than that.  A bull in a china shop is really in a fail-fail situation, unless the bull no longer remains true to its bull-like nature, it is going to knock something, if not everything, over.

Lately, I've felt a little like this.  What I mean is, God just keeps closing doors.  And he's not gently closing them, he's pretty much slamming them shut.  For the most part I'm thankful for this, I certainly don't want to invest in something that is not where I'm suppose to be, but in another way, I'm frustrated.  More than that though, I'm tired.  Tired of trying and failing.

There are huge blessings in my life: health, family, friendships, boyfriend, even my living situation, but my time is where it becomes tough.  I have so much of it, and every time I try to find a way to use it, God slams the door.  I've been on countless job interviews, and don't even get call backs, and I tried signing up for a summer class but was shot down because I don't have the prerequisite, yet the level that I do need it completely full.  I work a job that often forgets to pay me (don't worry, I eventually get paid), and barely gives me enough hours to pay my bills ...

Alright, enough venting: I know things will work out.  I am confident God is shutting these doors as a means of protecting me, and that he has another door -- a far better one -- waiting, somewhere around the bend.  Just pray that I can be patient and thankful for what I do have, because let's face it, when we're not in God's will, we are pretty much as unsuccessful as a bull in a china shop.

This piece of haphazard artwork is taken off some random blog.  Thank you, random blogger.  Yes, it looks like paint splattered meaninglessly on a canvas, and in its essence, that's what it is.  But -- I'm going to be honest with you -- that's exactly why I like it.

Tonight I went to see the Secretary of Education speak at Biola.  What I walked away with were four words: "Life is not linear."  It made me feel better.  A lot better, as I tend to be too linear. 

So, here's to messy paint; here's to a messier life (hmm ... well, maybe not quite "messy").

When it comes to love I have very high ideals.  It's not that I think love is perfect, that would be impossible in a world of imperfection, but I do desire for it to be perfect.  I have memorized the bulk on Shakespeare's Sonnet 116, because I think it's one of the most beautiful testimonies of love.  "Love is not love which alters when alteration finds," in other words, love cannot be altered.  "It is the star to every wandering bark," this verse being one I'm particularly infatuated with, as it paints love as even the guide to the wanderer.  Then there's my other favorite love poem (or a favorite), "Brown Penny."  In this poem Yeats says that man will always want to figure out love, for he will be thinking of love until "the starts have run away and the shadows swallowed the moon."  Yeats concluded that "one cannot begin [love] too soon."

Now, I'll be the first to admit poetry is beautiful, these words have been a comfort to me many of times.  Their very romantic nature and rhyme sparking my imagination and drawling me into the possibilities of such a noble love.  To be honest, I have been guilty of this philosophy in regards to many avenues of love: songs, books, movies, quotes.  The more epic  display of love, perhaps the better.

But really?

What about tangible love?  The kind that we can touch, not read about; the kind that why can make cry, not watch cry on a silvery screen; the kind that we can choose to treat how we must, not read words that tell us just how we should feel.  What about that love?  What is that suppose to look like?

Like most things it goes back to God.  Sometimes I forget that God has others love us as a means of showing us what God's love is like for us.  It has been through people that love me dearly that I have seen aspects of grace, service, and encouragement that has blown me away.  It makes me think: if others can only show me a fraction of God's love, how much does God really love me?  Wow.  He must love me a lot.  For it is only in him and through him that the words of those poems, or the lyrics in sentimental songs can even began to take flight.  It is only in him that we can really know love and, therefore, show love.

I close with 1 Cor. 13, and though it's been read many times, it's powerful.  More powerful than Shakespeare or Yeats, and something worth thinking about on a grey Tuesday like today.

Click on the link:

 http://www.blueletterbible.org/Bible.cfm?b=1Cr&c=13&v=1&t=NIV