Land of the Free Because of the Brave.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." — John 15:13

Words cannot describe my gratitude to the soldiers who daily give of themselves for the sake of our freedoms in this country. They give up their own lives so that we can live in peace. They witness horrible things so that our lives may be filled with as many beautiful memories as possible. We are able to live in freedom and virtually say and do what we please only because there are soldiers fighting on the front lines in defense of those freedoms. They go weeks, months, even years without setting eyes on their loved ones. We can try, but we will never full understand how very selfless they are. And without them, our country would not be the same. The only reason we remain the land of the free is because of these brave men and women.

We may not be on the front lines, but we as Christians are also fighting a battle. The difference is that our battle is not physical, but spiritual. A good soldier will never go into open combat unprepared. Likewise, we should be constantly sharpening our swords by continual knowledge and study of the Word of God, so that we may be prepared when the enemy attacks. We also must be willing to selflessly give of ourselves for the sake of others. Jesus has set before us the greatest example of love in His death on the cross, and we should endeavor to follow His example in our lives. Our lifetime on this earth is but a brief shadow of the eternal life that is to come. 2 Corinthians 4:18 says that what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. Therefore, we should not be concerned with preserving our earthly existence, but instead choose to give up our own interests for the sake of others. That is the heart of life as a Christian man or woman.

"Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms." — Ephesians 6:10-12

I hope y'all have a blessed Memorial Day! May we never forget the reason for our celebration, nor those who make it possible.

Sunday Blessings

{via pinterest}

Day by day, and with each passing moment,

Strength I find, to meet my trials here;

Trusting in my Father's wise bestowment,

I've no cause for worry or for fear.

He whose heart is kind beyond all measure

Gives unto each day what He deems best

Lovingly, its part of pain and pleasure,

Mingling toil with peace and rest.

— Excerpt from "Day by Day" by Karolina Wilhelmina Sandell Berg

It is easy to be good in those wonderful, awe-inspiring moments of either great beauty or great sadness. One cannot help but feel obedient, helpful, and dutiful . . . it is in the days afterwards where we lag, the days that seem dull or too placid for our tastes, the days when we argue that being a little lax will not affect anything greatly. But that is where we are wrong. For it is in the formation of little, day-by-day habits that our lives are either turned gradually towards Christ or away from Him.

"For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relazed their praisworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into old ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many." — Little Women, Chapter 17: "Little Faithful"

I speak these words not because I myself am above them, but because I experience it every day. Far more often than I should like, I encourage little habits of not speaking respectfully to my parents, procrastinating, spending more time on the computer than I ought, ignoring my tasks, and just being stubborn. But the Father is ever loving and ever merciful, and I can see His hand in my life, slowly welcoming me, the wayward sheep, back into the fold. I know I will never achieve perfection — I will always be growing and have room for improvement — but it is my hope that I will learn to trust more in the Lord and ultimately choose His path over my own.

"I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." — Phillipians 3:14

Have a lovely afternoon, ladies! 

Poem of the Week: Life Sculpture by George Washington Doane

Carrie was frightened, too. Her eyes were very large in her thin face, and she whispered to herself, "Chisel in hand stood the sculptor boy," while Laura tied on her hair ribbon. — Little Town on the Prairie, Chapter 24: "The School Exhibition"

It's always fun to pull out old books that you haven't read for years and pour once more over their well-worn pages. In this case, "well worn" is a bit of an understatement, since we're speaking of the Little House books I have cherished since age five, and they threaten to fall apart when you breathe on them. Just last week I was reading Little Town on the Prairie — I've pretty much finished school for the summer and felt like some light, happy reading after studying for exams — and I came upon this dear little poem that Carrie Ingalls recited in the De Smet School Exhibition. Taken from the Independent Fifth Reader, it was penned by George Washington Doane, an American writer and Episcopal bishop. The poem is short, simple, and sweet, and altogether too good to pass up.

{via Google Images}

Life Sculpture

By George Washington Doane (1799 — 1859)

Chisel in hand stood a sculptor boy

With his marble block before him,

And his eyes lit up with a smile of joy,

As an angel-dream passed o’er him.

He carved the dream on that shapeless stone,

With many a sharp incision;

With heaven’s own flight the sculpture shone,

He’d caught that angel-vision.

Children of life are we, as we stand

With our lives uncarved before us,

Waiting the hour when, at God’s command,

Our life-dream shall pass o’er us.

If we carve it then on the yielding stone,

With many a sharp incision,

Its heavenly beauty shall be our own,

Our lives, that angel-vision.

And now it's time for me to remove myself from this electronic contraption known as a computer. ;) Love y'all!

"But now, O Lord, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand." — Isaiah 64:8

Sunday Blessings

{via pinterest}

"Now unto Him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of His glory with exceeding joy, to the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen."

— Jude 1:24-25

I hope y'all had a blessed Lord's Day!

Ponderings of a Dancer.

{all photos via pinterest}

Nervous excitement fills my stomach. I glance at my reflection in the mirror, not suprised at the purple bruise-like shadows that have appeared undearneath my eyes. I haven't gotten much sleep this week, and last night was no exception. My gaze turns from my reflection and flickers over to the clock. It reads 11:26 A.M. — only an hour and a half more to go. I tap my fingers anxiously, willing the hours to trip by on faerie wings. Just ninety minutes, and then I'll be liberally brushing my visage with alien powder and shadow. My hair will be slicked back, nearly a gallon of hairspray apparently not enough to keep the thick tresses under control. I glance back at the clock: 11:29. Three minutes have passed.

In no time at all, I'll be yanking on layers of clothing that hug my body and make it easier for me to dance. Tights and leotard, leggings, shorts, and the spangled top that is my first costume. The fabric feels homey and familiar — this will be the third time I've worn it this week. I can almost catch a whiff of the hairspray that will soon choke this room, and towels litter the normally-neat floor. I will be nervously going through the show in my head, making sure I have everything in my bag; my brush, jazz shoes, ballet shoes . . . the list is enough to exaust anyone.

"Have you seen my eyelashes?" Bree will ask nervously from the bathroom, and I will dart up from my position by the bed and hand the plastic package to her. The faux lashes stare back at me, too full and unnatural for normal wear, but the necessary evil when on stage and the audience's perception of you is that you are no taller than a Polly Pocket and have a face as pale and washed out as an ancient white-washed wall, the paint peeling off in uneven chips.

The clock will go faster than I want now that I am busy, and I will rush around frantically, hoping against hope that I am not forgetting anything. I can hear Momma calling from the kitchen as the clock viciously creeps toward 2:30. Only five more minutes, and then we'll have to be out of the house. I snatch up my dress bag that contains one of my ballet costumes, yanking the handle of the suitcase that holds all the other clothes I will don during the all too short performance, and trot as fast as I can to the door. Bree and I are the only ones following Momma down the steps, since our call time is much earlier than that of our siblings. The door slams behind us, a queer hollowness to its tone.

I am rarely able to enjoy the drive to the auditorium where we hold our recitals. The minutes drag by, and I stare out the window, attempting in vain to calm the nervous fluttering of my stomach. I bite my lips, knowing full well the evil practice will require another layer of lipstick once I am in the dressing room for girls in Levels 3 & 4. Momma taps her fingers on the steering wheel, humming along to the music that plays low on the radio. I will barely recognize the words, my mind preoccupied with other things.

Once we reach our destination, I'll spring from the car, a quick goodbye directed towards Momma as I get my things in order. Although she will not leave between now and the recital's end, I will not see her until it is all over. Instead, I will be backstage, feverishly pinning up the wispies, adding another layer of mascara to my unnaturally dark eyelashes, rubbing my clammy hands and waiting.

The dressing room is alight with friends near and dear, and I take my things and place them on a bench near the long mirror that takes up one whole wall. Above us, we can hear jumping and leaping, since Level 4 will be running some of their dances through again. Around me, girls ask for extra bobby pins, hairnets, and other such seemingly insignificant products that spell the difference between a perfect bun and a disaster in the history of hair. The room is a positive cloud of hairspray, and although the scent is choking, it brings back sweet memories of past recitals.

Moving up to the stage, some of the older girls will practice their dances once more, while others choose to stretch and warm up their muscles. They will slide easily into splits, then port de bra back in order to stretch further. Some dancers find that doing sets of simple sautés are more helpful, and their extended feet beat back and forth with surprising accuracy. Finally, our dance instructor will close the curtains and lead us in simple combinations across the stage. Tombe pas de bourree glissade grande jette! Then come pirrouttes, our eyes furiously spotting. The murmer of chatter on the other side of the curtain will rise in volume, only adding to the anxious mood of my stomach. My eyes blink much rapidly than usual, and I focus acutely on my steps.

Before the show begins, our dance instructor gathers all of us together in a big group, where she prays that the Lord will bless our show, that we won't forget any steps, and that most importantly, we will all dance to honor God and for His glory. The prayer sooths our frenzied moods somewhat, and we all exchange warm hugs, the excitement so tangible its almost visible. Finally, we are forced to go off into the wings and wait. The audience is welcomed, a prayer is said, and all the while, I stand in the wings on stage right, not knowing whether to laugh, jump up and down, or cry. Before we know it, the curtain will slowly glide open.

Softly, then growing in volume, the first strains of music will begin.

Poem of the Week: Here Runneth the Path of Fairy Feet by Rachel H.

A beautiful piece of faerie charm written by my dear friend, Rachel. I love how this girl writes poetry — imagery bends at her command, and the pictures can be so clearly seen in your head. A pen is her brush, a sheet of paper her canvas, and today y'all get to enjoy the masterpiece that results.

{picture via pinterest}

Here Runneth the Path of Fairy Feet

By Rachel Heffington

Where childhood fancy and twilight meet

Here runneth the path of fairy-feet;

On shadowed road and misty bend

Here coldsome facts of "real life" end,

And the simplest thing on earth would be

To find a dryad 'neath her tree.

She'd comb her locks like shimm'ring ferns

In that hour where the daylight turns.

And you'd never stop to blink your eyes

and say, (Because you're oh, so wise)

"Dryads aren't real--they're quite a myth"

If once you'd been in comp'ny with

A creature like her--lissom fair

With willowy limbs and leafy hair.

Where childhood fancy and twilight meet

Here runneth the path of fairy-feet.

In dusking woods at evenlong

You'll chance to hear an Elven song.

Like beads of dew on honeyed string

The notes, elusive, dip and sing.

And lamps we now call fire-flies

Can one more dazzle in our eyes.

Then we shall learn, as children do,

the things we thought we surely knew.

Fair beings that we'd long forgot

May weave with us a dreamy knot

Content, within this half-light time

To feed us with their storied rhyme.

Where childhood fancy and twilight meet

Here runneth the path of fairy feet

And those who spent the day in bed

Now tip-toe with their soft wings spread

And dance within the brilliant sheen

of moonlight and the summer's green.

The grown-up cares of life must fade

When pondered in that purple glade

Once more we change to half a child

Perfumed with scent of roses wild

And honeysuckle like a crown

That we'd been used to crushing down

Until twilight and fancy met

To tread with us this minuet. 

Have a lovely afternoon, dear ladies!

Book Review: Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins

Ahh . . . The Hunger Games. The source of much division among even the best circles. Some despise this genre completely, solely because of the stain they believe THG has placed upon it, and some would think seriously of drawing their sabers if I so much as give a half-hearted opinion on the subject. Having read the entire series and allowed myself some time to formulate an adequate perspective, I am now prepared to face this most fiery of topics once more. I'm afraid I might be opening the floodgates, but as I am a relatively decent swimmer, I maintain some shred of hope. ;)

Mockingjay

By Suzanne Collins

*Summary from Goodreads.com

Katniss Everdeen, girl on fire, has survived, even though her home has been destroyed. Gale has escaped. Katniss's family is safe. Peeta has been captured by the Capitol. District 13 really does exist. There are rebels. There are new leaders. A revolution is unfolding.

It is by design that Katniss was rescued from the arena in the cruel and haunting Quarter Quell, and it is by design that she has long been part of the revolution without knowing it. District 13 has come out of the shadows and is plotting to overthrow the Capitol. Everyone, it seems, has had a hand in the carefully laid plains — except Katniss.

The success of the rebellion hinges on Katniss's willingness to be a pawn, to accept responsibility for countless lives, and to change the course of the future of Panem. To do this, she must put aside her feelings of anger and distrust. She must become the rebels' Mockingjay — no matter what the personal cost.

My Thoughts: I still like the first book the best. *ducks and runs for cover* That has always been the case with me. Something about that first burst of creativity in the author pours itself entirely into the first book and cannot be replaced, no matter how many dozens of books s/he may write afterwards. But I think Suzanne Collins did a very good job of writing books #2 and #3. She kept my interest and remained true to her characters and their respective personalities, which is a more difficult task to undertake than most would assume. Mockingjay, although not what I would call light reading, was the necessary ending to this series, and I think the author drew the conclusion together nicely. Oh, and to those of you who are sitting at the edge of your seats in fear, the denouement was sweet and hopeful.

My general thoughts involving The Hunger Games remain the same. They are hard books to read, they contain a good bit of violence, and they are not exactly what I would call hopeful. However, there is a very blatant warning in them, and Suzanne Collins paints a realistic picture of what our future could hold if we continue to allow our government to contain total control. As Lord Acton so famously put it, "Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." However, these books are not for everyone. I do not recommend that any child under the age of 14 reads these books. I also think that a Christian who is firm in his or her faith will be able to get a lot more out of them than your average teen who is not a believer. I don't believe Suzanne Collins intends to encourage violence — that is the opposite of her stance in writing these books — but a young person who does not have a firm view of who he is in Christ Jesus could possibly misinterpret her words.

Pros: One benefit to this book was the lesser amount of romance between Katniss and Peeta. I know, I know. I just pierced the hearts of all the devoted girl on fire + boy with the bread fan clubs out there. My most humble apologies, but all the fake romance performed for the cameras got to be a bit much, leaving the sincere moments few and far between. Now, don't get me wrong, I sigh and smile just as much as any hopeless romantic during those heartfelt scenes . . . but the way Katniss felt it was her duty, almost like a chore, to play that she was in love with Peeta could be very disheartening at times.

Another pro? Every hint of conservatism that could be found in books one and two was made much more prominent in Mockingjay. One of my favorite scenes in the book is when Plutarch says that after the war with the Capitol is over, he plans on helping to make Panem a republic with representative government. He also made mention of the Latin term "panem et circenses" ("bread and circuses"), which was the basic Roman formula for appeasement and control. In essence, the term applies to how the Roman government offered their civilians food and cheap entertainment, in order to keep them quiet and not involved in the intricate workings of their government.

Cons: By far, Mockingjay was definitely the saddest book in Ms. Collins' trilogy. That's more of a fact than an opinion. It was a bit painful to read at times because of the level of emotion it contained, and it could grow very discouraging, leaving me wondering, "Is it ever going to get better?" I'm pretty sure it contains the most violence of all three books. Katniss also goes a little over the edge, mentally-speaking, towards the end. This is understandable when you take into account all she has expierenced, but still hard about which to read. Not a book for the faint of heart.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
I recommend this book for ages 14+

A Bit O' Reading for the Day:

“There's something else there as well, something entirely [Prim's] own. An ability to look into the confusing mess of life and see things for what they are.” — Mockingjay