Sometimes you come to a place inside your head where you feel terribly small and helpless and forget that God is bigger and better than you.
It hits you at night after the house has fallen silent besides the whir of the fans and the faint breathing sounds, and you are lying there in bed, unable to sleep. In the lonely hours you begin to think about love and loss and all the genocides that have happened that you wish you didn’t know about, and you can’t see that God is really bigger than bombs and heartbreak.
You write a book in your head and it is called “The Book of Why.” It is a huge book. There are several chapters, titled, “But…,” “What?,” “How Come?,” and “How Could You?” Then you stand up in front of God (which is easier to do at this point because you cannot see Him) and insist on reading the book to Him, to see what He will have to say for Himself.
But the book is so hard to lift and your tears are so thick, and God is being so quiet, that you start to think that maybe there is something you don’t know. Even though you know so much, so much you wish you didn’t know, maybe God still knows something you don’t.
So, exhausted from the ordeal, you throw yourself back down among the tangled blankets and try, once more, to sleep.
And God says, I’m glad you wrestled with me.
And you say, But I’m limping.
And God says, It’s ok.
And you say, But it hurts.
And God says, I love you.
And in the morning, you find the twenty pieces of wadded tissue on the floor beside your bed, and your eyes are squinty. But outside it is raining quietly and in the kitchen your mother is making blackberry pies, and you think perhaps it will be alright after all.
Based on a true story.
“Therefore thus says the Lord God, ‘Behold, I am laying in Zion a stone, a tested stone, a costly cornerstone for the foundation, well-placed. He who believes in it will not be disturbed (i.e., in a hurry).'” Isaiah 28:16
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
A Family Adventure
The kitten incidents are far removed, but I am now seeking blog solace in yet another Texas town (besides my own.) Another adventure trip, this time with my family on a weekend adventure planned by our own private travel agent, Agent Dad. As usual, he braved hell and high water to get us out of town and find some hiking and good food—two ingredients to an enjoyable vacation.
Mom got the weekend off and the plan was a camping trip in Arkansas. But as it often happens with us, storm clouds caught wind of our sunny plans and gathered for miles around to settle in a steadily spinning system directly above every camp ground in Arkansas and Oklahoma, delivering a generous supply of wetness. Camping plans were squelched. Travel plans—not so much.
Camp grounds in Texas are reservation-only and this weekend the nearbyish ones were full. The Hilton sometimes runs rooms on Priceline.com for ridiculously low rates, thus luring unsuspecting bumpkins through its doors with Playmate coolers full of breakfast to be duped by their stupid internet fees. And consideration of these facts may explain why my family is presently camped out in the Hilton in Austin, within view of the airport and a pleasant show of airplane departures.
We don’t “belong” here, but this is, after all, a free society depending on how you look at it, but at least we gave the bellboy some entertainment.
This morning we ate our nutri-grain bars and drank some kind of fortified breakfast drink fortified with enough chocolate to wake us up, and then we drove to Enchanted Rock, a few hours from here.
This rock is enchanted because it is a solid granite dome-like formation that rises 425 feet in the air like a miniature Ayers Rock. Unlike Ayers Rock, you can walk up it because it curves gently on the sides. From a distance you can see the people moving around on top like little bugs.
As we came within sight of it, Dad explained to Ethan about climbing it. “And you have to be careful up there on top, that you don’t fall,” he said.
“Well, I’ve never fallen off a cliff before in my life,” Ethan replied matter-of-factly, as if to say how could you doubt me when I’ve always proved myself so responsible?
“In all your six years…” Dad added.
“But I did fall off the couch once.”
We climbed the rock, which was like a giant tombstone with prickly pear cactus sticking up in patches, which is surprising when I remember that it was a rock and had no soil to speak of. I ate a prickly pear fruit not long ago with taco salad for supper because I got curious while shopping with Dad and we bought a couple of them. It was full of seeds but otherwise very tasty. The skin is thick and green and slimy, and the insides are a watery, sort of green version of pomegranates. I could never decide whether I liked it, so I kept eating it until it was gone. (Other people helped.)
But when I saw bulbs of prickly pear fruit sticking off the cacti on top of Enchanted Rock, I suddenly decided I liked them and desperately wanted one. The only problem is that gathering fauna and flora in a state park is prohibited by law and I already have this problem with park rangers. Actually it is their problem. They’re the ones having heart attacks over innocent children idly plucking an oak leaf. But I have bad memories and there are better reasons to get thrown in jail, so I didn’t think I would pick a fruit.
Dad, however, found a prickly pear already plucked just sitting there on the ground like it was waiting for me. Last I had seen the Park Rangers, they were sitting in their cute little uniforms having lunch at a picnic table, and one of them was having a smoke, so I figured they were not after me and this particular prickly pear. So I sat my bum on the rather stony granite and started prying the thing open.
I forgot about the “prickly” part. The ones at the store were, as I always suspected of the other Walmart vegetation, genetically engineered for physical perfection rather than taste, and therefore had no prickles. This is what they would like to do to people too, but I doubt it is working.
But I found the prickles. Every prickle spot generously gave me seven or eight stickers. So I plucked them all out and then shaved the outside with my water bottle cap. Then I started prying again and got slime all over my fingers. My labor revealed a disappointingly small, hard lump of fruit, which tasted like most unripe fruit tastes. So I threw it in the little pool of water I was sitting by.
The rest of the afternoon I sat on the rock with Mom enjoying the view of Texas (well, you know, some of Texas since Texas is so big and you can’t see all of it even if you climb up on a very big piece of granite.) I was going to go hiking around the base of the rock with Dad and Mattie and Ethan (Connor stayed home and missed out.) But Mom and I don’t get to talk together much anymore when she is working and I am going to school, so we took advantage of that instead. And she said she was hoping to lay out on a sunny rock this weekend and just enjoy it, and look at the rock God gave her…a 425 foot tall one.
For supper we went to a German restaurant and ate outdoors on the porch. Mid-way through our meal some young guys came and set up speakers and instruments on the stage and we were waiting to see what kind of music they would play because they were wearing black t-shirts, and designer jeans with dew-rags and cowboy boots. They seemed like fellows too decent to play country music, and I wanted to hear what they had to sing for themselves, but they spent the rest of the time check-check-checking and 1-2-3ing while I chewed my half of weinerschnitzel and tried to hold my own with a stout batch of sauerkraut. And then we left.
It took one and a half hours to reach the hotel again, and it got dark, and I was reading an implausible but somewhat thrilling book called Blink, about a Saudi princess runaway who likes to wear jeans and a guy with an IQ of 193 who surfs (and will eventually save her and precipitously fall in love with her). And I must be getting tired because on the way home I misread a sign that said “Cap. of TX.” for “Cup of Tea,” and you can see where my mind really is.
Since I got back to the hotel I have showered and blogged this and I will have to post it in the morning in the atrium where internet is free, because I don’t want to pay $10.77 for room internet like I accidentally did last night. Ouch.
I really have it too good…
Mom got the weekend off and the plan was a camping trip in Arkansas. But as it often happens with us, storm clouds caught wind of our sunny plans and gathered for miles around to settle in a steadily spinning system directly above every camp ground in Arkansas and Oklahoma, delivering a generous supply of wetness. Camping plans were squelched. Travel plans—not so much.
Camp grounds in Texas are reservation-only and this weekend the nearbyish ones were full. The Hilton sometimes runs rooms on Priceline.com for ridiculously low rates, thus luring unsuspecting bumpkins through its doors with Playmate coolers full of breakfast to be duped by their stupid internet fees. And consideration of these facts may explain why my family is presently camped out in the Hilton in Austin, within view of the airport and a pleasant show of airplane departures.
We don’t “belong” here, but this is, after all, a free society depending on how you look at it, but at least we gave the bellboy some entertainment.
This morning we ate our nutri-grain bars and drank some kind of fortified breakfast drink fortified with enough chocolate to wake us up, and then we drove to Enchanted Rock, a few hours from here.
This rock is enchanted because it is a solid granite dome-like formation that rises 425 feet in the air like a miniature Ayers Rock. Unlike Ayers Rock, you can walk up it because it curves gently on the sides. From a distance you can see the people moving around on top like little bugs.
As we came within sight of it, Dad explained to Ethan about climbing it. “And you have to be careful up there on top, that you don’t fall,” he said.
“Well, I’ve never fallen off a cliff before in my life,” Ethan replied matter-of-factly, as if to say how could you doubt me when I’ve always proved myself so responsible?
“In all your six years…” Dad added.
“But I did fall off the couch once.”
We climbed the rock, which was like a giant tombstone with prickly pear cactus sticking up in patches, which is surprising when I remember that it was a rock and had no soil to speak of. I ate a prickly pear fruit not long ago with taco salad for supper because I got curious while shopping with Dad and we bought a couple of them. It was full of seeds but otherwise very tasty. The skin is thick and green and slimy, and the insides are a watery, sort of green version of pomegranates. I could never decide whether I liked it, so I kept eating it until it was gone. (Other people helped.)
But when I saw bulbs of prickly pear fruit sticking off the cacti on top of Enchanted Rock, I suddenly decided I liked them and desperately wanted one. The only problem is that gathering fauna and flora in a state park is prohibited by law and I already have this problem with park rangers. Actually it is their problem. They’re the ones having heart attacks over innocent children idly plucking an oak leaf. But I have bad memories and there are better reasons to get thrown in jail, so I didn’t think I would pick a fruit.
Dad, however, found a prickly pear already plucked just sitting there on the ground like it was waiting for me. Last I had seen the Park Rangers, they were sitting in their cute little uniforms having lunch at a picnic table, and one of them was having a smoke, so I figured they were not after me and this particular prickly pear. So I sat my bum on the rather stony granite and started prying the thing open.
I forgot about the “prickly” part. The ones at the store were, as I always suspected of the other Walmart vegetation, genetically engineered for physical perfection rather than taste, and therefore had no prickles. This is what they would like to do to people too, but I doubt it is working.
But I found the prickles. Every prickle spot generously gave me seven or eight stickers. So I plucked them all out and then shaved the outside with my water bottle cap. Then I started prying again and got slime all over my fingers. My labor revealed a disappointingly small, hard lump of fruit, which tasted like most unripe fruit tastes. So I threw it in the little pool of water I was sitting by.
The rest of the afternoon I sat on the rock with Mom enjoying the view of Texas (well, you know, some of Texas since Texas is so big and you can’t see all of it even if you climb up on a very big piece of granite.) I was going to go hiking around the base of the rock with Dad and Mattie and Ethan (Connor stayed home and missed out.) But Mom and I don’t get to talk together much anymore when she is working and I am going to school, so we took advantage of that instead. And she said she was hoping to lay out on a sunny rock this weekend and just enjoy it, and look at the rock God gave her…a 425 foot tall one.
For supper we went to a German restaurant and ate outdoors on the porch. Mid-way through our meal some young guys came and set up speakers and instruments on the stage and we were waiting to see what kind of music they would play because they were wearing black t-shirts, and designer jeans with dew-rags and cowboy boots. They seemed like fellows too decent to play country music, and I wanted to hear what they had to sing for themselves, but they spent the rest of the time check-check-checking and 1-2-3ing while I chewed my half of weinerschnitzel and tried to hold my own with a stout batch of sauerkraut. And then we left.
It took one and a half hours to reach the hotel again, and it got dark, and I was reading an implausible but somewhat thrilling book called Blink, about a Saudi princess runaway who likes to wear jeans and a guy with an IQ of 193 who surfs (and will eventually save her and precipitously fall in love with her). And I must be getting tired because on the way home I misread a sign that said “Cap. of TX.” for “Cup of Tea,” and you can see where my mind really is.
Since I got back to the hotel I have showered and blogged this and I will have to post it in the morning in the atrium where internet is free, because I don’t want to pay $10.77 for room internet like I accidentally did last night. Ouch.
I really have it too good…
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The Kitten From Paris
We found a kitten in Paris. Paris, TX, that is. In a moment of particular foolhardiness we pulled out and followed our lead to Paris, where a woman with three kittens lived in a small house we spent a good deal of time trying to find with an internet map on Lauren's computer. She and Gracie had sisterly disputes about the four points of the compass for a while as I stared out the window enjoying the scenic route through downtown Paris, which contained a lot of run-down buildings that seemed to have potential to look vintage, although I am still not sure what vintage looks like. Exactly.
We found the house by accident, after accidentally losing the map, and we knew it was the right house because a small curly headed, brown-eyed boy was standing behind the screen door, holding a resigned black kitten upside down in his chubby hands.
There were two additional more or less resigned kittens in a cardboard box begging in kitten eye language for us to rescue them from certain imminent death. So we promptly did. I commandeered the fuzzy black thing and he rode in my lap all the way home. Except for the time he spent burrowing against the seat behind my neck. He was silent as a shadow all the way home, never once mewing or showing any sign of purring. He didn't shake or tremble, just gazed imploringly up at me with round, blue-green eyes.
After all the deliberation of the morning, Gracie settled on Puddleglum, as the orange kitten's name (due to his melancholy propensity to complain) and Bagheera for the new kitten, because of his panther-like coloring. He is not the sleek stereotypical panther, having a bit of a wormy paunch, but he will most likely grow into it...
We found the house by accident, after accidentally losing the map, and we knew it was the right house because a small curly headed, brown-eyed boy was standing behind the screen door, holding a resigned black kitten upside down in his chubby hands.
There were two additional more or less resigned kittens in a cardboard box begging in kitten eye language for us to rescue them from certain imminent death. So we promptly did. I commandeered the fuzzy black thing and he rode in my lap all the way home. Except for the time he spent burrowing against the seat behind my neck. He was silent as a shadow all the way home, never once mewing or showing any sign of purring. He didn't shake or tremble, just gazed imploringly up at me with round, blue-green eyes.
After all the deliberation of the morning, Gracie settled on Puddleglum, as the orange kitten's name (due to his melancholy propensity to complain) and Bagheera for the new kitten, because of his panther-like coloring. He is not the sleek stereotypical panther, having a bit of a wormy paunch, but he will most likely grow into it...
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Kitten Hunting
It is a very good day today, because it is raining, and I am in a car with two very dear friends. I am also on a trip, which, however short, still qualifies as a trip because it took over two hours to get here and I am spending more than one night away from home. Which greatly buoys my spirits, even though I am such a home body and like to be home. I usually want to be completely home or completely not home, not just...busy.
Gracie and I came to visit Lauren in Bonham for her birthday, trying to surprise her, which we generally did, except that she walked out of the house too soon and we had to be quicker on the draw with the silly string than originally intended. She also had a surprise for Gracie: a striped orange kitten who was paranoid to breathe and spent the afternoon yelping and crying in his new mother's arms. He is very cute and still nameless, but he needs a sibling.
Hence us, in the car, in downtown Bonham, searching for free kittens on the internet. We tried sitting in McDonalds but they had no Wifi. So after an iced mocha and a large shared order of fries and half an important conversation we left and went searching for Wifi...and kittens.
No luck yet.
Gracie and I came to visit Lauren in Bonham for her birthday, trying to surprise her, which we generally did, except that she walked out of the house too soon and we had to be quicker on the draw with the silly string than originally intended. She also had a surprise for Gracie: a striped orange kitten who was paranoid to breathe and spent the afternoon yelping and crying in his new mother's arms. He is very cute and still nameless, but he needs a sibling.
Hence us, in the car, in downtown Bonham, searching for free kittens on the internet. We tried sitting in McDonalds but they had no Wifi. So after an iced mocha and a large shared order of fries and half an important conversation we left and went searching for Wifi...and kittens.
No luck yet.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A Wallfower on Mount Everest (Included: A Tribute to Guys)
Yesterday was a great day in the history of Cassie Walters. Yesterday I scaled my Mount Everest. Yesterday I found out that I can mingle with other human beings in a human being-ish manner…and survive. And be happy. This is a very good thing.
Yesterday was the lake party for college students at our church. And against all my hermitical inclinations, I went. I thought I might chicken out and go home after church because of a sudden onslaught of what I call the “social headache” a queer ailment I deal with whenever there are too many people around and I feel out of my league. I’ve left so many of these sort of gatherings so discouraged that I didn’t want to try any more.
But the good news is that God doesn’t desert His kids, and He changes them when they aren’t looking for it. I went to the lake party with my history of wallflowerism and left with confidence that even wallflowers sometimes sprout tendrils and reach for the sun. We played spoons and Frisbee and ate Mr. Hammond’s delicious brisket. I stayed out of the shell the whole time and managed to meet and talk to a number of people, and really appreciate them.
While on the subject of people, I have to give some sort of tribute to guys. Guys in general, God-following guys in particular. I don’t hang around very many guys very much of the time, but in a culture that attacks masculinity I guess somebody (in this case, me) needs to stand up and say that you guys are great.
You make much funnier jokes than most girls, you don’t tend to form clicks like girls do, and you can be really encouraging when you want to be. You have confidence that lends a certain amount of stability to the human race. I know girls complain all the time about how guys are clueless and don’t seem to remember a lot of things females deem vital to social existence…such as birthdays and anniversaries and what she was wearing the night they first went out…but that’s ok.
It’s nice if guys manage to get a handle on those things too, but basically I realize that most of you are too busy locating things without asking for directions, building contraptions that make our world run, and figuring out how to blaze a trail into the world where no other guy has actually gone before, whether spiritually, physically, or mentally. And I, as a girl, am personally ok with that. (My apologies to any girls who like to do all those things too, I’m just trying to make a point). Thanks guys, for being yourselves.
A lot of people were going around in the boat on the lake but I was satisfied with hanging around the deck on the porch swing and jumping off the roof into the water. The running leap…the sensation of flying and the plunge into the murky depths of Lake Cherokee...The moderate rush from jumping off the roof diminished the repulsive feeling of sludge at the bottom of the lake. I got more microbiotic friends out of the lake water than I ever wanted, but then, nothing can be too bad after swimming in the Dneipr river south of Chernobyl. All the locals say it’s no big deal. I haven’t grown an extra arm yet or anything.
The day was fine, and the breeze after a dip in the lake on a warm day…heavenly. I treaded water for maybe ten minutes maximum and then got out and just enjoyed the breeze and the porch swing. I felt so relaxed after treading water that I could have gone to sleep. I thought I should try treading water in public more often, seeing as it’s so therapeutic for the disturbed soul. I came up with an idea involving the church baptismal but decided it wasn’t one of my more brilliant ones.
By the end of the day I felt like the old me had melted and drained away like so many saccharine ice pops, and the sun had left me feeling either slightly delirious or maybe just relaxed to a normal human level. Dare I assume that I’m beginning to feel happy inside my own skin and at ease with this whole group of nice people?
Yesterday was the lake party for college students at our church. And against all my hermitical inclinations, I went. I thought I might chicken out and go home after church because of a sudden onslaught of what I call the “social headache” a queer ailment I deal with whenever there are too many people around and I feel out of my league. I’ve left so many of these sort of gatherings so discouraged that I didn’t want to try any more.
But the good news is that God doesn’t desert His kids, and He changes them when they aren’t looking for it. I went to the lake party with my history of wallflowerism and left with confidence that even wallflowers sometimes sprout tendrils and reach for the sun. We played spoons and Frisbee and ate Mr. Hammond’s delicious brisket. I stayed out of the shell the whole time and managed to meet and talk to a number of people, and really appreciate them.
While on the subject of people, I have to give some sort of tribute to guys. Guys in general, God-following guys in particular. I don’t hang around very many guys very much of the time, but in a culture that attacks masculinity I guess somebody (in this case, me) needs to stand up and say that you guys are great.
You make much funnier jokes than most girls, you don’t tend to form clicks like girls do, and you can be really encouraging when you want to be. You have confidence that lends a certain amount of stability to the human race. I know girls complain all the time about how guys are clueless and don’t seem to remember a lot of things females deem vital to social existence…such as birthdays and anniversaries and what she was wearing the night they first went out…but that’s ok.
It’s nice if guys manage to get a handle on those things too, but basically I realize that most of you are too busy locating things without asking for directions, building contraptions that make our world run, and figuring out how to blaze a trail into the world where no other guy has actually gone before, whether spiritually, physically, or mentally. And I, as a girl, am personally ok with that. (My apologies to any girls who like to do all those things too, I’m just trying to make a point). Thanks guys, for being yourselves.
A lot of people were going around in the boat on the lake but I was satisfied with hanging around the deck on the porch swing and jumping off the roof into the water. The running leap…the sensation of flying and the plunge into the murky depths of Lake Cherokee...The moderate rush from jumping off the roof diminished the repulsive feeling of sludge at the bottom of the lake. I got more microbiotic friends out of the lake water than I ever wanted, but then, nothing can be too bad after swimming in the Dneipr river south of Chernobyl. All the locals say it’s no big deal. I haven’t grown an extra arm yet or anything.
The day was fine, and the breeze after a dip in the lake on a warm day…heavenly. I treaded water for maybe ten minutes maximum and then got out and just enjoyed the breeze and the porch swing. I felt so relaxed after treading water that I could have gone to sleep. I thought I should try treading water in public more often, seeing as it’s so therapeutic for the disturbed soul. I came up with an idea involving the church baptismal but decided it wasn’t one of my more brilliant ones.
By the end of the day I felt like the old me had melted and drained away like so many saccharine ice pops, and the sun had left me feeling either slightly delirious or maybe just relaxed to a normal human level. Dare I assume that I’m beginning to feel happy inside my own skin and at ease with this whole group of nice people?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Squinting at Life
I suppose I am a little lost when it comes to blogging. What is this blog about again? Oh yes, a close up look at life. Let’s just say I’m having to squint.
I smell coffee. Mom is making it, because she just got home from work and it’s a rainyish day. I spent a lot of the day schooling and reading to Ethan. He seems to have the same interest in geography that the rest of us kids got from Dad. I showed him the seven continents and tried to demonstrate the world on an apple, which, because this apple was even less spherical than normal apples, was tricky.
I never thought of myself as a coffee drinker, but now I want it whenever I can get it. But not ice cream. My whole family swarms to the freezer for ice cream about half an hour before bed time, but I don't feel interested. Is it a bad sign to not want ice cream?
Although I dreamed of Rocky Road Blue Bell for months before I came home, and after I got back, I watched a whole carton be devoured before my very eyes without eating a single bite. It’s not that they wouldn’t share. They offered. But I just didn’t feel like eating it. No thanks, I said. Just make it an aspirin with a side of sledgehammer.
Squinting…squinting…
I drank my coffee.
I took a walk.
I got a shower because I tend to think better when I don’t stink.
Now I give up. I’ll try to write another day.
I smell coffee. Mom is making it, because she just got home from work and it’s a rainyish day. I spent a lot of the day schooling and reading to Ethan. He seems to have the same interest in geography that the rest of us kids got from Dad. I showed him the seven continents and tried to demonstrate the world on an apple, which, because this apple was even less spherical than normal apples, was tricky.
I never thought of myself as a coffee drinker, but now I want it whenever I can get it. But not ice cream. My whole family swarms to the freezer for ice cream about half an hour before bed time, but I don't feel interested. Is it a bad sign to not want ice cream?
Although I dreamed of Rocky Road Blue Bell for months before I came home, and after I got back, I watched a whole carton be devoured before my very eyes without eating a single bite. It’s not that they wouldn’t share. They offered. But I just didn’t feel like eating it. No thanks, I said. Just make it an aspirin with a side of sledgehammer.
Squinting…squinting…
I drank my coffee.
I took a walk.
I got a shower because I tend to think better when I don’t stink.
Now I give up. I’ll try to write another day.
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