A Short Story: Why Me? Part II

Part 2 of the short story. I hope you like the continuation. Once again, it's not over. There's one last part, so hold on.

Why Me? Part II

I was at the coffee shop where I'm a waitress. Just like I always am at that time on Saturdays. I was just refilling a customer's order when he came.

He was pale and haggard looking. There were dark rings under his eyes from lack of sleep and overworking. The name on his badge read John Jones. A common enough name, but one that will forever stick out in my memory from this day forward.

When he gave me the news, I dropped the mug I had been refilling. I didn't even hear it shatter as it hit the floor. Didn't see the pieces shoot out in all directions, covering the floor in spinning, razor sharp bits of glass.

I grabbed at the nearest table with my left hand, trying to get a hold of something that would give me support. The wild, jerky movement sent dark brown liquid sloshing over the rim of the almost-full pot of coffee that was in my other hand and all over the tweed jacket of the customer I was serving.

After swearing colorfully, the man yelled at me and grabbed for some napkins, hastily trying to clean up the mess.

All I could see was the flashing red and blue lights of the cop's car. It filled my vision, blocking out the rest of the world. Why, when we had so little, would God take away what little we had?

I gripped the table so tightly that my knuckles turned white. The customer with the tweed jacket was still yelling at me. John Jones, who had been standing by twirling his police hat nervously, finally stepped in and told the man to shut up, or he would incarcerate him.

“Does... does my husband know?” I asked, my whole world spinning crazily.

“I sent an officer to inform him at his work.” John Jones said, looking hesitantly at me as if I was a bomb about to explode.

Then the tears came. A tidal wave, a tsunami that could not be held back. “Take me to her!” I cried.

The ride there was short, but to me it seemed like an eternity. Each second was more painful than the last. It dragged on and on. Black dots danced across my vision, threatening to completely overwhelm me. I dearly wished to succumb to the darkness, but it was not the time for that; my family would need me.

I rushed through the halls, trying to get to my daughter. Everything was a blur of white, gray, and that sickly green color that nurses wear.

I burst through the double doors and into the emergency room. I was immediately descended upon by strong arms dragging me back. I was vaguely aware of lots of noise, but I could not comprehend any of it. My whole being was zoned in on the motionless figure that lay on the operating table. Zoned in on the blood, the color of it: the scarlet that shone almost like metal. There was so much of it.

It was like I was seeing the whole scene through a long, dark tunnel. Everything was surreal. I was pulled out of the room and thrust into the warm embrace of my husband's arms. I didn't even comprehend it. I was staring in complete unbelief through the small windows that looked in on the horror that was going on inside.

Doctors were rushing back and forth, with nurses handing them instruments and utilities as they asked for them. There was so much blood. My daughter's hair was covered in that thick, viscous liquid.

When the man in the blood-stained white coat told us that our daughter was dead, I didn't even acknowledge him. I had known it would be true when I first set my I eyes on her seemingly lifeless body.

Awhile later I regained control of myself somewhat. I was sitting in the emergency room–red eyes swollen and sore–on my husband's lap and in his arms, when my son came bursting through those same double doors that I had earlier.

His hair was plastered to his head in damp tendrils. His chest was heaving with exertion, sweat rolling down his face. He had apparently run here all the way from the library where he had first gotten the news.

In his hand he held the book Watership Down, a personal favorite of both him and his sister. He stared wildly at his dead sibling, his dead world. His eyes were large orbs of disbelief. Then he looked down at the book in his hand, and threw it with all his might across the room.

Turning and letting out a hoarse yell, he punched the wall. Then he punched it again, and again. I leapt to my feet to stop him, but my husband grabbed my wrist, preventing me.

As I looked at my son, purposefully putting himself through pain, I felt a searing pang go through my heart. It was as if a sword of cold steel had run me through. How would my son go on, when his sister had meant more to him than the whole galaxy?

When he had finally finished with the wall, there was blood all over his knuckles, and crimson streaks ran across the white paint. The splashes of color stood out in sharp contrast from the plain hospital dullness.

He turned, looking at me and his father. His eyes were completely blank and emotionless. It was as if a shutter had been dropped, blocking out the universe and everyone in it.

“How,” he gasped out, “could she do this?” his whole chest was heaving with emotion that he was desperately trying to contain. “How could she– LEAVE ME!” the last two words came out in a scream.

With one last display of anger, my son kicked over an empty cot, and sprinted out the door. I rose to go after him.

“Let him go,” my husband said.

“We need to comfort him, need to look after him! He could kill himself!” I was hysterical, and desperate to take care of my son.

“He knows we're here for him, and when he's ready, he'll come. But for now, we need to let him deal with it in his own way. If we try and stop him, he'll hate us for it. He won't kill himself, he knows his sister would not want that.”

I went and grabbed the beat-up copy of Watership Down. Rising I stared desperately at the double doors which were still swinging. The double doors that my son had disappeared through. “Will he ever recover from this?” I whispered, to scared to speak the words louder than that.

My husband was also staring after our son. “I don't know, I just don't know.”

A Short Story: Why Me? Part I

So this is a short story that I was just inspired to write while travelling across country in the van today. This is just part one of what will most likely be a three part story. I hope you enjoy it. Remember it's not over yet, this is just the beginning.

Why Me? Part I

My consciousness swam up from the murky depths of sleep, from the world of dreams. It had been a good dream, one about flying through the clouds. Wind whipping through my hair. My arms spread wide. The glorious freedom of soaring.

Morning light pulsed behind my eyelids, and I slowly pulled them open. The sight that greeted me was the same as always. The small, crowded room with its white walls. Various items of clothing lay all across the floor, here and there a book was mixed in. The only furniture in the room was the cot I was sleeping on, and the identical bed that my brother was laying on next to me. Nothing could be seen of his body, as he had the sheets pulled up over his head.

The light that had woken me came in through a lone, plain window that adorned the wall across from my bed. I inhaled deeply through my nose, searching for the smell I knew would be there. I love the smell of the hazelnut coffee that my dad brews at home on Saturday mornings. It's my favorite part of the week, waking up to that bitter fragrance.

“Good morning my dear brother!” I cried cheerily as I threw back my sheets. For some reason I couldn't explain I felt overwhelmingly happy today. I was generally a happy person, but today even more so than usual. Maybe it was because of the amazing dream I had had, or maybe it was from the anticipation of the coffee, or most likely it was a combination of both.

“Morn' sis.” Came my brother's muffled voice from beneath his bedclothes.

I leapt from my bed and swung my door wide, rushing into the kitchen. My dad was sitting at the table which was one of the room's few furnishings. He was reading the newspaper, but looked up when I entered and smiled. I swooped down and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“It's a beautiful morning.” he said.

“Yes daddy.” I said.

Next I ran up behind my mom and put my arms around her. “Morning mommy.” I said.

“Morning dear.” she said. She was standing at the kitchen's only counter, which contained the stove, and the house's sole sink. We didn't have an oven.

Mom was making pancakes, just like she did every Saturday.

I took the pitcher from the cabinet under the sink, filled it with water from the tap, and set it on the table while throwing myself into an empty seat.

My brother emerged from our bedroom blinking his sleepy eyes, shuffling his feet, and yawning widely. His rather dirty hair was standing on end, he wore a shirt that was too big for him, and a pair of faded, raggedy jeans. Giving me a pat on the head, he sat down in the chair next to me. “Coffee ready?” he asked.

“Yep, just now.” my dad answered, putting down his paper and getting out the mugs. “Why so tired son?” asked dad with curiosity.

“He stayed up late reading romance novels.” I accused, poking him in the arm.

“It was a mystery story.” he said irritably, crossing his arms across his chest.

I smiled at him. “I was just teasing, brother. I know, I know, you would never read a romance novel.”

We were interrupted by Mom descending on us with a large plate full of pancakes in one hand, and a jar of peanut butter in the other. We always ate pancakes with peanut butter, because we couldn't afford both peanut butter and syrup, and peanut butter was more useful on an every day basis. The only reason we could afford pancakes and hazelnut coffee was just because we only had them once a week, and never had treats any other time, ever.

We didn't even have individual plates to eat our pancakes off of. We would each take turns lathering a pancake with peanut butter, and then we would just use our fingers to shovel it into our mouths.

For several long minutes we too busy chowing down pancakes and gulping mug fulls of delicious coffee to talk. Gradually, as our eating slowed down, we started to talk again.

“What you two planning to do today?” asked Dad after a gulp of coffee.

“I was going to go to the library, see if I can find some good reads.” my brother said unsurprisingly. We spent half our time at the library. We were voracious readers and couldn't afford our own books so we were constantly borrowing books.

“And you daughter?” asked Dad, looking at me over the top of his mug.

“I was going to go biking for awhile.” I said. Our family owned one beaten down bicycle between us. We had found it luckily in the junkyard one day.

“Can you maybe get some more milk on your way back, beautiful daughter?” asked Mom. “We're almost out.”

“Of course.” I said, flashing her a smile. “Since you're going to the library, can you take back my two Stephen King books that I'm finished with?” I asked my brother.

“Yeah of course, anything for you sis.” said my brother, giving me a wide smile. We're a pretty smiley family, we love each other, and even though we're as poor as it gets, we're as happy as any family you'll find anywhere. My dad always says “We better be happy with each other, because it's all we got.” We've always been sure to listen to him.

After I had thrown on some clothes and gotten the couple of bucks from my dad that I needed for the milk, I went outside and took my bike from its spot leaning against the wall of our house and rolled it onto the road. My brother was already waiting there, the books he was returning under his arm.

He smiled at me. I always thought that his smile was like seeing the sun rising in the east early in the morning. It was a beautiful sight.

“You going to come on over to the library later today?” he asked.

“Yeah, but after I have a good long ride, and then I'll need to drop off the milk at home, but I'll eventually get there.”

“You promise?”

“Of course.” I said, smiling at him.

He gave me a quick hug. “Love ya sis.”

“Love you too brother.”

We headed in our separate directions: my brother to the library, me to the road that lead through the center of town.

I biked a good three hours. I loved biking. It was one of the few things that I could do and forgot about everything else. The only other escape was reading, or just being lost in blissful conversation with my brother. We were each others best friends. We were each others only friends. We were both blissfully happy in each others company. There was no tearing us apart. The bond we shared could never, ever be broken.

I entered the super market that we always used. We had found that it had the very best prices, and for us every cent counted. I walked over to where the milk was, pulling out a gallon jug of 2%.

Suddenly the door to the store burst open. Two men burst in, both holding guns. “Hit the floor!” one yelled.

I wasn't stupid; I hit the floor.

The two men emptied the cash register, but they didn't stop there. They demanded that everyone empty their pockets and give them everything. Of course I gave up the few cents I had on me, but they weren't satisfied with that.

“That can't be all you have missy.” said the man who had shouted originally. “You have to have more.”

“I don't, I promise, my family is dead poor.” I was shaking in fear. I was on my feet now, at their demand, and standing face to face with them.

“Well if you don't, you'll have to pay in something else then, won't you?” said the second man, making a grab at me.

I screamed, and turned and ran. There was a loud bang, a burst of pain, and the next thing I knew I was laying on the floor. The last thought that crossed my mind before my vision went black was, I promised my brother I would meet him at the library, what will he think when I don't show up?

Ode to Brendan, Well, Not Quite

Today we left Brendan off at the United States Coast Guard Academy. Brendan will be in the academy itself for four years. After the four years, Brendan has to serve in the Coast Guard for at least five years. When the five years are up, he has the choice to reapply for even longer. While he's in the Coast Guard he's busy pretty much the entire year. The longest amount of leave he has at one time is three weeks. I will be seeing very, very little of Brendan for at least nine years.

Brendan has been much more than just a brother to me. Brendan was a guardian, a rock, a role model, and one of my best friends, just to name a few. I've shared a bedroom with Brendan my entire life. Some people think that would be a pain, an incredible nuisance, but I loved it. Sure there were plenty of times I wished that I had my own room, but in the end I never would have traded the shared room for one of my own. Unlike Brendan, when I was young I was both short and small. Though in the end it really didn't matter that I was a little guy, because I always had Brendan there to look out for me. I remember playing watermelon football at camp one year. It was a form of football that you played in a lake. The watermelon or "football" was placed in the lake. A whistle was blown and then everyone would charge like mad into the water. The goal was to get the watermelon into the other team's end zone first. That was it. There were no other rules. It was my first year at camp, and I was eleven. Brendan was fourteen and it was his third year at camp, his second at this particular one. The ages at the camp ranged from eleven to eighteen, with the vast majority being fifteen or over, and with only me and one of my cousins being eleven. So the whistle was blown, and we all charged into the water. Are team had six players, against the other team's eight or so. On top of that, our team had three really small guys, and two that were on the smaller side. As everyone dove for the watermelon, chaos ensued. I made a try for the "football" but got taken under the water from a tackle by a big sixteen-year-old. Being only eleven, and a small eleven-year-old at that, I went down easily under his weight. I came up from the water spluttering and choking, just in time to see a flash of brown as my brother came shooting from out of the blue and completely bowled the sixteen-year-old over backwards. As I could never imagine pulling that off, I was rather in awe, and thankful to my brother for saving me from gagging on the rather green lake water. Before I hit my growth spurt and actually developed the ability to play sports with any skill, Brendan helped me out countless times. No joke, I always wanted to be on his team because I knew he would be there immediately when I got in a pinch.

I never had that many friends my age growing up, I had a few good ones, but really not that many. Brendan though, was the amazing older brother. Brendan would always, without exception, let me hang out with him and his friends. It seems to me that most older siblings don't like it when their annoying little brothers/sisters hang out with them and their friends. I can't say that Brendan always liked it, but the thing was that he let me. He would rather have me hang out with him and his friends than be lonely and all by myself. He still lets me to this day, and it has always meant so much to me. He treats me like I'm every bit as old, mature, and capable as him. Brendan has always treated me more fairly than anyone else, ever.

If I was ever lonely, or wanted someone to talk to, I could go to Brendan. He was always there for me, always the unfaltering role model, the rock I could count on. Whether it was playing sports, talking about video games, doing something crazy, or just discussing something in the dark, late at night, when we should have been sleeping: I would always have a blast being with my great older brother. I could always count on his advice, and he was always there to offer it. I would always want to take part of whatever he was doing because he was so enthusiastic about everything that he made the most boring tasks seem fun.

I miss Brendan all ready, and it'll only grow over the long time away from him. I'll most likely never be able to spend near as much time with him as I have to this day, and that thought sobers me more than almost anything that has ever crossed my mind. His quick, easy laugh, and his loud, booming voice are probably two of my very favorite sounds to hear in the world. His wide grin that is always on his face, and the twinkle in his eyes are two of my very favorite sights to see. Even though Brendan has always strongly disagreed with many things I do or think, he never thinks less of me for it. I could write so, so much more about how much he means to me, but I doubt anyone would want to hang around that long to read about it. So this was just a drop of water that came from a vast, vast ocean.

Plane Rides, Views, Delayed Flights, and Screaming Boys

I decided I strongly dislike plane rides. I'm not going to say hate, but I do dislike them. I love road trips, but I dislike plane rides. Road trips offer scenery, time just to think, and the sweet rhythmic motion of the vehicle. What do plane rides have to offer? Cramped legs, exhaustion, jet leg, and bad food. The main redeeming factor is that you can watch movies. Yet that's only worth it if you have individual screens, which isn't a guarantee most of the time. Okay, okay I'm being a little tough on plane rides. There are a few things I like about plane rides, but the physical discomfort can hardly be considered enjoyable under any circumstances.

The first plane ride to Rome was rather uneventful due to the fact that I slept through most of it. We were lucky enough to get emergency exit row seats which had a lot of leg room. Mmmm hmmm...that was nice. I woke up once halfway through the flight. I had the window seat, so I decided to take a look outside. I peered uninterestedly and rather groggily out the window at the dark blackish-blue mass of clouds. Turning around I looked out the window that was at the other side of the plane from me, and did a double take. The view outside the window seemed to be divided into little slivers of light. The bottom sliver was a pitch black, the second was a burning red, which faded to an orange, to a yellow, to a vivid green and finally to a light baby blue. It was a beautiful sight, and mainly very surprising. On one side of the plane was merely a massive dark blotch, while the other side of the plane gave way to a gorgeous combination of rainbow hues. It just strikes me as being a crazy thing when two very different sights can be seen just by looking out opposite sides of a plane. It was not the last breath-taking view God would give me that day. I went back to sleep after that pleasant experience, but woke up as we started to descend into Rome. I was greeted by an even more mind-blowing display of God's beauty and power. There wasn't a cloud to be seen in the vast light blue sky. The sun poured its brilliance and glory across the whole Italian countryside. Everything was illuminated to a glowing blaze. The sun's rays danced across the surface of the waves in the Mediterranean sea. The Italian farmland and little cottages shone under the sun's fire. It was one of the most amazing, mind-blowing and beautiful sights I've ever seen. To me it was a clear demonstration, not just of God's beauty, but more of his power. I don't know why it struck me like that, but I just had this overwhelming sense of his power. I also somehow got this feeling that this was a gift from God to me specifically, because I really needed it.

As we went to get our boarding passes at the Roman airport, we learned our flight had been delayed somewhere around seven hours. Immediately this quote ran through my head, "For every profit in one thing, payment in some other thing." God had given me an exit row seat, and two gorgeous views. Now I got a long layover because of a delayed flight. Layovers are obviously no one's friend, but I was in such a great mood after that first flight that it couldn't dampen my spirits. The layover passed fairly uneventfully, except for two events that stand out in my head. The first was our compensation meal from the airline. It wasn't amazing, but I was so starving by that time that I scarfed it down in seconds, and my stomach was very grateful. The second was a rather humorous relief. Just as I was leaving the men's restroom, a woman was taking (or should I say trying to take?) her son to the bathroom. I've always been pretty bad at guessing the ages of people, and this kid was no exception, he could have been anywhere between seven and ten for all I could tell. The woman could obviously not go into the men's restroom, so she was attempting to take her son into the woman's lavatory. Her son, however, was fully convinced that he was a man, and so he would enter no woman's bathroom, he was going to go into the men's restroom. An admirable fight ensued, with the son doing everything he could to try and get through the door with the little icon of a man on the front. The boy was putting up such a racket that I was sure Davy Jones would be coming up any minute from his locker to see what was going on. Eventually, after much hollering, pushing, shoving, and tugging, as well as a good bit of staring from some spectators, the boy was pulled into the woman's bathroom. I couldn't help but smile apologetically in his direction as his struggling form vanished behind the door to the woman's restroom. I could still hear his screams all the way back to my seat. Poor boy, probably scarred for life.

The second flight passed quickly, we got all of our luggage after standing in a massive line for passport control in the Boston airport, and we met up with a disgruntled Brendan who had been waiting for us for about ten hours at that point. We got our van and drove down to Rhode Island and tumbled into bed at about two in the morning instead of arriving in the middle of the day as we had hoped, but hey, that's life.

A Poem: What is Love?

Yet another poem I entered into the free category of the Whitman poetry contest. It's played off of what Gregg Speck said at the youth retreat about love being sacrifice. I think love is more than just sacrifice, but I think it is true that love is definitely a good part sacrifice, or at least shown by sacrifice. As I just read through this again I realize that the seventeenth line can be misunderstood. I did not intend for it to come across that I was saying to give up, as in accepting defeat, is love. What I mean is that giving up something, for somebody else, is love.

What is Love?

What is love?

Is love butterflies in my stomach?

Is love wanting to be in someone's presence?

Is love shown

By the pain I feel

When someone chooses to spend time

With another, and not me?

Is love the joy someone brings me?

Is love appreciation for a person?

Is love the desire

To touch someone?

No

I do not think

Love is any of these things

Love is not want

Love is not this happy feeling

Love is giving up

Love is giving with all your heart

If you desire something

But your friend does too

Make a gift of it

That is love

Love is sacrifice

Fingerprints

"You leave your fingerprints on the lives you touch."

As people wander through life they often go through bouts of depression. They'll wonder if they've made any impact on the world at all, if their existence means anything, if anyone would notice if they suddenly disappeared. In the end they probably come to the conclusion that no, nobody cares, nobody would wonder where they went if they got up and left, nobody would remember them for long after they died. It's true, it is often very hard to tell if you really matter at all to anyone around you, very hard to tell if they'll realize it once your gone. What people don't realize, is that people don't often tell other people how they've affected them or if they mean a lot to them. The other thing is that people often don't even realize how you've affected them or had an impact on them. With every little interaction, just by being you everyday, you affect those around you. Maybe in very small ways, but you do have an impact. It's like the quote above says, you leave your fingerprints on the lives you touch. There's no telling at all how many people would be different if you had simply never existed. Only God completely knows the extant of how you have influenced people and how you have touched their lives. I find it encouraging just to think about that and know that your life has more meaning than you could possibly understand. Every person matters, every person changes lives, every person would be missed, even if just unconsciously, if they were gone or if they never existed.

Above quote is from Remember Me, quoted by Robert Pattinson. Pattinson quotes Ghandi a lot through the movie, I can't remember if this particular one was a Ghandi quote, or if it was original.

Today is the Day

"There ain't no tomorrow that's quite as nice as today."

So I know this quote is from the movie The Open Road, the only problem is, I can't remember who says it, or when. All I can remember is hearing the quote, and then liking it so much that I grabbed out a notebook and jotted it down. There ain't no tomorrow that's quite as nice as today.... A great quote that needs to be spread around I feel like. It's so easy to procrastinate, so easy to put off that paper until the night before it's due, so easy to not do the dishes until right before bed. Procrastination isn't always bad, it can be perfectly harmless. But the thing is, how long are you going to put something off for? With school work, sure, you can put it off until right before it's due and do fine, though probably not your very highest quality work. With dishes you can do them right before bed, and it'll hardly affect anything at all. But there are far bigger things that people put off until later that should not be put off. For example, putting your relationship with Jesus off. "Oh I'll just wait until I'm in college, or all grown up before I really start trying to follow Jesus. I'll just goof around now, but when the time finally comes, then I'll start reading my bible every day, then I'll do everything I can to follow his commands, then I'll start loving him with all my heart." Or, for example, say someone struggles with addiction to pornography, they might say something like: "Just one more website, just one more day, then I'll quit for good." Or maybe you see some kid getting picked on, but all you do is think: "This time I'll just let it slide, but next time, I'll make sure to intervene and stick up for him." It just shouldn't work that way. We need to go ahead, and go for it. No more procrastinating, no more putting it off until later. Tomorrow isn't as great a chance as today, if you keep that philosophy in mind you'll get farther. You can't become the world's greatest piano player if you keep saying you'll start practicing tomorrow. The time is ripe. Now is opportune moment to go for it. Today is the day.

Who Are We Really?

"It is our choices, Harry, that show what we really are, far more than our abilities."

-Dumbledore

This is another blog post that is based on a Harry Potter quote. What can I say? Despite what you would think there are a lot of meaningful things in the Harry Potter series. This quote is given by Dumbledore to Harry at the end of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets when Harry is confessing his fear that he is like Voldemort, a dark wizard and the antagonist of the Harry Potter series. Harry is scared that because he can do various things that Voldemort can do, that he is like Voldemort. Dumbledore then assures him that no he isn't, because it doesn't matter that he can do things Voldemort can too, he makes very different choices than Voldemort. I really like this quote, because it is so powerful. It is so true. Everyone is blessed with different talents and skills, but that alone does not define who you are. The past few months I've been thinking about what makes a person unique. I think your abilities do define who you are, but only partly. I really agree with the quote in that I think that the main thing that defines who you are, is your choices. What you decide in certain situations. What you do with your lives and what is given to you. How you use the abilities you have. Do you use your talents for selfish reasons and personal gain, or do you use them to bless those around you? It's something to think about as your trying to figure out who you are, and what you want to be remembered as.

A Poem: Worth Dying For

This poem won second overall in the Whitman poetry contest for the free category. I got the idea for this poem while listening to a song. Just to clear things up, the main point of this poem is that some things are worth fighting for, but not everything is worth dying for. The point of this poem is not to be strongly anti-military. I am anti-war, I do not think war is a good thing in any way. I do believe that a military is necessary, but just for defense. I apologize for the poem being so spread out so it takes up so much space. Something weird happened with the formatting and it somehow became double spaced.

Worth Dying For

Lots of things are worth fighting for

Very few things are worth dying for

Do you know the difference?

The people are riled up

Words set them on fire

Their blood boils

They would go to hell and back

Just for your stupid cause

Because your words stir them up

What ho grab your guns!

What ho draw your swords!

What ho we’re off to war!

Did he even feel

The tug of his son

Trying to pull him back

Begging him not to go?

Did he even hear

His wife asking him, to think of the family?

Or did he feel his daughter’s kisses

As she asked him when he’d be back?

He turns his back

His mind induced with “glorious” causes

He doesn’t think of the life

He could have had

He could have seen his son grow tall

He could have grown old with his wife

He could have seen his daughter wed

But no

He follows a man into war

Too caught up in the persuasive speeches

He marches to his death

Oh war

Oh violence

The lives you end

The families you rip apart

The heartbreak you cause

The unnecessary lives lost

Some things

Are just not

Worth

Dying for

What

Ho

God Has Plans

John: Why couldn't God have made me Elvis?

Julia: Cos he was saving you for John Lennon.

On my flight back from Korea, I'm looking through the film selection and I find this film Nowhere Boy. The synopsis said that the film was about the early life of John Lennon back when he was in highschool. Being a livid Beatles fan and a musician myself, I immediately knew which movie I was going to watch. This was my first time watching a movie that was about any members of the Beatles, so I was going in pretty clueless of the actual life of John Lennon. It turns out, that when John Lennon was seventeen he hadn't ever played a guitar and he wasn't into music. He was a writer who wrote poems and stories. John's mom gets him into Elvis, which eventually leads her to teaching him how to play the banjo. John then switches to guitar, makes a band, eventually meets the other members of the Beatles we know and love today, and turns his own writing into songs. Now it's time to get to what this post is really about. Early on in the movie, before John has picked up guitar or made a band, he's spending a day with his mom and they're enjoying singing some Elvis and talking about him. This leads to the short dialogue that is stated at the start of the post. This dialogue was my favorite part of the movie. It's so ironic, that here John Lennon, one of the most famous musicians of our time, is wishing to be Elvis. Granted, Elvis was the king of rock and very famous as well, but John Lennon became someone who is arguably just as great and did just as much for the advancement of music. I feel like the mother's return in this quote needs to be shouted out across the world to everyone. Who doesn't wish that they were Elvis, or Babe Ruth, or Brad Pitt etc. You get my point. The thing is though, that God has plans for each one of individually. We're not all meant to be superstars. God can achieve great things through any of us though, and you can have no way of knowing his plans. Like if you look back at John Lennon, he just thought he was going to have an average life, so he wished he was Elvis, but then he went on and became an insanely popular singer. You may wish you were Gandhi so that you could have been this great person, but God might be planning even greater things for you. There's just no way of knowing. You need to be happy with who you are, and accept that maybe you won't be so famous, or amazingly talented. Obviously I sometimes wish I was these famous people too, I'm pretty sure most of us have at one point or another. Just realize, God's saving you to be you. He has a mission for everybody's life.

A Poem: Korea Sparkling

This is just a quick poem I whipped up after my short stay in Korea. It's just a bunch of things that I noticed that are pretty unique to Korea. I pretty much completely recommend Korea as a sweet place to visit, and I can safely say it is one of my five very favorite countries I've been too. I'll probably write a full length normal post about Korea in the days to come, so without further ado:

Korea Sparkling

Korea Sparkling

That is the motto

Of the wee Asian country

That holds so much wonder

Original

Amazing food

Thick-rimmed

Funky glasses

Shiny shoes

Huge and bright

Crazy hair

In so many designs

Shiny jewelry

All around

They maintain tradition

While sprinting towards the future

Utmost respect

Is lathered on the old

In the form of bows

And works of service

The youth are encouraged

To cling to their fashions

To be themselves

To be modern

They would kill themselves

For their honor

Their national pride

Means more than their life

Don't come

Between them and their Kim-chi

Or you'll find yourself

A foul way out

Korea

Korea

United they can conquer all

Who are they?

They are Korea Sparkling

Dwelling on Dreams

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that."

-Albus Dumbledore

This is my first real post that isn't just a poem, so we'll see how it goes. As I was packing for my trip to Korea, I realized that I needed a book for the plane ride, layover, etc. I looked through my bookshelf, trying to find the perfect book. Life had been pretty chaotic recently with all the goodbyes and end of the year activities, so I felt like reading a relaxing fantasy novel. My eyes immediately moved towards the Mortal Instruments trilogy. They were by my favorite author (Cassandra Clare), and they were some of my very favorite books. I decided against these books however. The main reason was that I thought it would be exhausting to read the whole trilogy again at this time, and also I had read them pretty recently. I looked towards the Harry Potter books on the next shelf, immediately my interest was caught. I had only read the first couple of novels in the series through once, and that had been several years ago when I was a wee lad of ten or so. I picked up the first two books in the series and stowed them in my bag. As I read through Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on the way to Korea, the quote at the beginning of this post lept out at me. It is a quote by Albus Dumbledore that is directed to Harry when Dumbledore finds him sitting in front of the mirror of Erised night after night, gazing at the reflection of his dead parents in the mirror. It's pretty debatable whether or not dreaming is good for you or not. I for one (speaking as a dreamer myself) have always thought that you could just dream away and it would be pretty much harmless. This quote awoke me to the realization that this is not always so. It's possible to be so caught up in your dreams and to spend so much time dreaming that everything around you just passes you by and you miss all of the joys of life. This is what Dumbledore is advising against in the quote. I definitely struggle with this a lot. I spend most of my time in a dream world. I often escape to this dream world when I'm doing something I'd rather not be doing or wasn't my choice to be doing. Because of this, I end up missing things and not really living through each experience as it should be lived through. I guess it's just another thing to be worked on. I don't think dreaming is always harmful, I actually think it can be really beneficial. Like anything though, it needs moderation, and like the quote says, it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Truly living should take place over dreaming. Dreams can be magical, but life can be even more so, after all, life is the real deal.