some people come into our lives and quickly go.
some people move our souls to dance. they awaken our souls to new understanding with the passing whisper of their wisdom.
some people make the sky more beautiful to gaze upon. they stay in our lives awhile, leave footprints in our hearts, and we are never, ever, the same.
friends are like walls. sometimes you lean on them,
and sometimes it's enough just to know they're there.
every faith journey begins with God knocking on the door to our heart.
that knock can take on many forms:
a spiritual hunger, an inspiring person, or a loving friend.
our faith journey continues with God walking with us every step of the way.
God lights our path when it grows dark.
God lifts our spirit when it wanes.
God helps us up when we stumble and fall.
God's grace embraces us every step of the way.
but God respects our freedom. He does not force us.
this means that if God's grace is to touch and transform us,
we must open ourselves to it.
we must work as if it all depends on us, but trust as if it all depends on God.
the price of hating others is loving oneself less.
50 THINGS ADMISSIONS NEVER TOLD YOU ABOUT COLLEGE
1. Quarters are gold.
2. Two meals per day is the standard.
3. Road trip whenever possible.
4. Going to the mailbox was never an ego booster/breaker before.
5. You will begin to nap again.
6. Your bookstore bill will almost equal tuition.
7. Squirt guns = Stress relief.
8. Instant messenger becomes an addiction.
9. E-mail becomes your second language
10. College students throw paper airplanes too.
11. You never realized that so many people were smarter than you.
12. College football is the coolest thing on the planet.
13. Western Europe could be wiped out by a horrible plague and you wouldn't know, but you can recite last week's re-run of The Simpsons verbatim.
14. Cartoons are for all ages, especially Scooby Doo.
15. Disney movies are more than just classics.
16. You will never rent more movies in your life.
17. No one is too old for video games.
18. Procrastination is an art form.
19. SNOOD is more addicting than pot.
20. Thanks to Kazaa/Audiogalaxy/Morpheus, you will never listen to one of your CDs ever again.
21. It never hurt so much to get sick.
22. The health service nurses are there because they couldn't make it at a real hospital.
23. Care packages are right up there with birthdays.
24. Campus is only clean for Family Weekend and Freshman Orientation.
25. Nothing you want to register for will be open.
26. Classes... the later the better.
27. You are no longer thankful that the fire alarms are here to protect you.
28. Jeans may be worn as many times as the wearer desires.
29. The only time to dress up is when your jeans are dirty.
30. Showers become less important; sleep becomes more important.
31. Asleep by 2:30 am is an early night.
32. Creativity in the dining halls is key...
33. The freshman 15 is NOT a myth!!!
34. If it's snowing out, the only reason you will leave your room is for food.
35. Dishes smell after days of piling up.
36. Cereal makes a meal any time of the day.
37. You will eat anywhere that is a buffet.
38. You will eat anything that is free.
39.New additions to food groups: ramen and pizza.
40. Stealing from the dining hall will become second nature.
41. ATM's are the devils advocate. ATM= Another Twenty Missing.
42. Keys have never been so important, yet you seem to lose them or lock yourself out of the room even more.
43. Duct tape heals all wounds.
44. If they say you can't have it in your dorm, they are just kidding.
45. You will come to hate hallways/elevators with a passion.
46. Those ugly cinder blocks are not sound proof.
47. Pictures, posters, emails or anything else to cover the ugly cell we live in will be transformed into wallpaper.
48. Everyone is only nice for the first week. After that, no matter how nice you are, some people just won't smile back. Get used to it.
49. You are never alone!
50. You realize college is the ideal lifestyle, except for those pesky classes
*
TOP 10 REASONS THAT COLLEGE IS LIKE PRESCHOOL
10. You cry for your mother.
9. You cross the street without looking for cars.
8. Snack time is a necessity.
7. You bundle up for the outdoors without caring what you look like (because it's frickin' cold at 8:15am!).
6. You stay at home and play games with your friends.
5. You wear your backpack on both shoulders.
4. You wear big mittens.
3. Playing in the snow is a legitimate activity.
2. You look forward to grilled cheese sandwiches.
1. You take naps!!!
*
"she was teaching me about true friendship. through her eyes, I came to know a quality of friendship that bore little resemblance to the casualness of our relationships back home. the mountain kind of friendship was a tie of substance between people with a sort of gallant fealty about it. it had to do with a time in the past in which there was no more final bond than a man's pledged word; when every connection of blood and family was firm and strong, forged in the past, stretching into the future.
and so this kind of friendship was for life -- yes, and for eternity too. one would never decieve or defraud a friend, nor allow him to be in need so long as you had one coin, one garment, or one meal to share with him. his sorrow was your sorrow; his joy your joy; his joy your cause for rejoicing too." -- Catherine Marshall
shoot for the moon.
even if you miss it, you will land among the stars.
Please Listen
when i ask you to listen to me and you start giving me advice,
you have not done what i asked.
when i ask you to listen to me and you begin to tell me why i shouldn't feel that way, you are trampling on my feelings.
when i ask you to listen to me and you feel you have to do something to solve my problem, you have failed me, strange as it may seem.
listen!
all i ask is that you listen!
don't talk or do -- just hear me.
advice is cheap;
20 cents will get you both dear abby and billy graham in the same paper.
and i can do for myself; i am not helpless.
when you do something for me that i can do for myself, you contribute to my fear.
but when you accept as a simple fact that i feel the way i feel, no matter how irrational, then i can stop trying to convince you and get about this business of understanding what's behind this irrational feeling.
and when that's clear, the answers are obvious and i don't need advice.
irrational feelings make sense when we understand what's behind them.
perhaps that's why prayer works, sometimes, for some people.
because God is mute. God just listens and lets you work it out for yourself.
so please listen, and just hear me.
and if you want to talk, wait a minute for your turn,
and i will listen to you.
those who bring sunshine into the lives of others
cannot keep it from themselves.
The Parable of the Twins
once, twins were concieved. weeks passed, and they developed. as they grew, they sang for joy. "isn't it great to be alive!"
together, they explored the womb. when they found their mother's life cord, they shouted for joy. "how great is our mother's love, that she shares her very life with us!"
as weeks passed, the twins began to change. "what does this mean?" said the one.
"it means that our life in the womb is coming to an end." said the second.
"but i don't want to leave the womb! iwant to stay here forever," said the first.
"we have no choice," said the second. "besides, maybe there is life after birth."
"how can that be?" said the first. "we will shed our mother's life cord, and how is life possible without it? besides, there is evidence that there were others in the womb before us, and none of them has ever come back to tell us there is life after birth. no, this is the end." and so the first twin fell into deep dispair, saying "if life in the womb ends in death, what is the purpose? it's meaningless! maybe we don't even have a mother. maybe we made her up."
"but we must have a mother!" said the second twin. "how else did we get here? how else do we stay alive?"
and so the last days in the womb were filled with deep questioning and fear. finally, the moment of birth arrived. when the twins opened their eyes, they cried for joy. for what they saw exceeded their wildest dreams.
"What no one ever saw or heard,
what no one ever thought could happen,
is the very thing God prepared for those who love him."
1 Corinthians 2:9
Subject: Newer, Simpler Technology
MAJOR TECHNOLOGICAL BREAKTHROUGH!
Announcing the new Built-in Orderly Organized Knowledge device (BOOK).
The BOOK is a revolutionary breakthrough in technology. No wires, no electric circuits, no batteries, nothing to be connected or switched on. It's so easy even a child can operate it. Just lift its cover!
Compact and portible, it can be used anywhere - even sitting in an armchair by the fire - yet it is powerful enough to hold as much information as a CD-ROM disc. Here's how it works:
Each BOOK is constructed of sequentially-numbered sheets of paper (recyclable), each capable of holding thousands of bits of information. These pages are locked together with a custom-fit device called a binder which keeps the sheets in their corect sequence. Opaque Paper Technology (OPT) allows manufacturers to use both sides of the sheet, doubling the information density and cutting costs in half.
Experts are divided on the prospects for further increases in information density; for now BOOKs with more information simply use more pages. This makes them thicker and harder to carry, and has drawn some criticism from the mobile computing crowd.
Each sheet is scanned optically, registering information directly into your brain. A flick of the finger takes you to the next sheet. The BOOK may be taken up at any time and used by merely opening it.
The BOOK never crashes and never needs rebooting, although like other display devices it can be unusable if dropped overboard. The "browse" feature allows you to move instantly to any sheet, and move forward or backward as you wish. Many come with an "index" feature, which pinpoints the exact location of any selected information for instant retrieval.
An optional "BOOKmark" accessory allows you to open the BOOK in the exact place you left it in a previous session - even if the BOOK has been closed. BOOKmarks fit universal design standards; thus, a single BOOKmark can be used in BOOKs by various manufacturers. Conversely, numerous BOOKmarks can be used in a single BOOK if the user wants to store numerous views at once. The number is limited only by the number of pages in the BOOK.
You can also make personal notes next to BOOK text entries with an optional programming tool, the Portable Erasable Nib Cryptic Intercommunication Language Stylus (PENCILS).
Portable, durable and affordable, the BOOK is being hailed as the entertainment wave of the future. The BOOK's appeal seems so certain that thousands of content creators have committed to the platform. Look for a flood of new titles soon.
just because everything is different
doesn't mean anything has changed.
in my young years, i took pride in the fact that luck was called a lady. in fact, there were so few public acknowledgements of the female presence that i felt personally honored whenever nature and large ships were referred to as feminine. but as i matured, i began to resent being considered a sister to a changelng as fickle as luck, as aloof as an ocean, and as frivolous as nature. the phrase "a woman always has the right to change her mind" played so aptly into the negative image of the female that i made myself a victim to an unwavering decision. even if i made an inane and stupid choice, i stuck by it rather than "be like a woman and change my mind."
being a woman is hard work. not without joy and even ecstasy, but still relentless, unending work. becoming an old female may require only being born with certain genetalia, inheriting long-living genes, and the fortune not to be run over by an out-of-control truck, but to become a woman command the existence and employment of genius.
the woman who survives intact and happy must be at once tender and tough. she must have convinced herself, or be in the unending process of convincing herself, that she, her values, and her choices are important. in a time and world where males hold sway and control, the pressure upon women to yield their rights-of-way is tremendous. and it is under those very circumstances that the woman's toughness must be in evidence.
she must resist considering herself a lesser version of her male counterpart. she is not a sculptress, poetess, authoress, Jewess, or Negress. if she is the thing, then for her own sense of self and for the education of the ill-informed she must insist with rectitude in being the thing and in being called the thing.
a rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but a woman called by a devaluing name will only be weakened by the misnomer. she will need to prize her tenderness and be able to display it at appropriate times in order to prevent toughness from gaining total authority and to avoid becoming a mirror image of those men who value power above life, and control over love.
it is imperative that a woman keep her sense of humor intact and at the ready. she must see, even if only in secret, that she is the funniest, looniest woman in her world, which she should also see as being the most absurd world of all times. it has been said that laughter is theraputic and amiability lengthens the life span. women should be tough, tender, laugh as much as possible, and live long lives. the struggle for equality continues unabated, and the woman warrior who is armed with wit and courage will be among the first to celebrate victory. -- maya angelou
-- for heights and depths
no man can reach,
God gave man music --
the soul's own speech.
-from tolstoy.
Masks
don't be fooled by me.
don't be fooled by the face i wear, for i wear a mask. i wear a thousand masks, masks that i am afraid to take off, and none of them are me. pretending is an art that is second nature to me.
but don't be fooled.
i give you the impression that i am secure, that all is sunny and unruffled with me. within as well as without. that confidence is my name and coolness is my game. that the water's calm and i'm in command, and that i need no one.
but don't believe me. please.
my surface may be smooth, but my surface is my mask. beneath it dwells the real me, in confusion and fear, in loneliness.
but i hide this. i don't want anybody to know this. i panic at the thoughts of my weakness and the fear of being exposed;
that's why i frantically create a mask to hide behind.
a nonchalant, sophisticated facade, to help me pretend.
to shield me from the glance that knows.
but such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only salvation.
and i know, that is, if it is followed by acceptance, if it is followed by love, it is the only thing that can liberate me;
from myself,
from my self-built prison walls,
from the barriers that i so painstakingly erect.
it is the only thing that will assure me of what i can't assure myself:
that i am really something.
but i don't tell you this. i don't dare. i'm afraid to.
i'm afraid that your glance will not be followed by love.
i'm afraid it won't be followed by acceptance. i'm afraid that you'll think less of me, that you'll laugh;
and your laugh will kill me.
i'm afraid down deep that i'm nothing, that i'm just no good, and that you will see this and reject me.
so i play my game, with the facade of assurance without and trembling child within. and so begins my parade of masks.
i idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.
i tell you everything that is nothing, and nothing that is everything, of what is crying within me.
so when i'm going through my routine, don't be fooled by what i'm saying. please listen carefully, and hear not what i'm saying, but what i'd like to be able to say;
what for survival i need to say but i can't say.
honestly, i dislike the superficial, phony game.
i'd really like to be genuine and spontaneous, and me,
but you've got to hold out your hand.
even when that is the last thing I want, or need.
only you can wipe away from my eyes that blank stare of the breathing dead. only you can call me into aliveness.
each time you're kind, gentle, and encouraging, each time you're soft and understanding because you really care,
my heart begins to grow wings.
very small wings, but wings.
with your sympathy and sensitivity, and your power of understanding, you can breathe life into me.
i want you to know that.
i want you to know how important you are to me, how you can be a creator of the person that is me, if you choose to.
please choose to.
you alone can relase me from my show world of panic and uncertainty, from my lonely prison.
so don't pass me by.
it will not be easy for you. a long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
the nearer you approach to me, the blinder i strike back.
it's irrational, but despite what the book says about me, i am irrational. i fight against the very thing i cry out for, but i am told that love is stronger than strong walls.
in this lies my hope; my only hope.
please try to beat down those walls with firm but gentle hands, for a child is very sensitive, after all.
who am i, you may wonder?
i'm someone you know very well.
i pass you on the street.
i am sitting beside you.
i am every boy and girl.
i am every man and woman you meet.
**
a well-known speaker started off his seminar by holding up a $20.00 bill.
in the room of 200, he asked, "who would like this $20 bill?"
hands started going up.
he said, "i am going to give this $20 to one of you but first, let me do
this." he proceeded to crumple the dollar bill up. he then asked, "who
still wants it?"
still the hands went up in the air.
"well," he replied, "what if I do this?" and he dropped it on the ground and
started to grind it into the floor with his shoe. he picked it up, now all
crumpled and dirty. "now who still wants it?"
still the hands went into the air.
"my friends, you have all learned a very valuable lesson. no matter what i
did to the money, you still wanted it because it did not decrease in value.
it was still worth $20. many times in our lives, we are dropped,
crumpled, and ground into the dirt by the decisions we make and the
circumstances that come our way. we feel as though we are worthless. but
no matter what has happened or what will happen, you will never lose your
value. dirty or clean, crumpled or finely creased, you are still
priceless."
Author Unknown
**
procrastinating as usual, 17-year-old brian moore had only a short time to write something for the fellowship of christian athletes meeting. It was his turn to lead the discussion. so he sat down and wrote. he showed the essay titled "the room" to his mother, beth, before he headed out the door. "i wowed 'em," he later told his father bruce. "it's a killer. it's the bomb. it's the best thing I ever wrote!"
it also was the last. brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at teays valley high school. brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them: the crepe paper that had adorned his locker during his senior football season, notes from classmates and teachers, his homework.
only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life. but it was only after brian's death that beth and bruce boore realized that their son had described his view of heaven. "it makes such an impact that people want to share it. you feel like you are there," mr. moore said.
brian moore died may 27, 1997-the day after memorial day. he was driving home from a friend's house when his car went off bulen-pierce road in pickaway county and struck a utility pole. he emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.
brian seemed to excel at everything he did. he was an honor student. he told his parents he loved them "a hundred times a day", mrs. moore said. he was a star wide receiver for the teays valley football team and had earned a four-year scholarship to capital university in columbus because of his athletic and academic abilities. he took it upon himself to learn how to help a fellow student who used a wheelchair at school. during one homecoming ceremony, brian walked on his tiptoes so the girl he was escorting wouldn't be embarrassed about being taller than he is.
two years after his death, his family still struggles to understand why brian was taken from them. they find comfort at the cemetery where brian is buried, just a few blocks from their home. they visit daily. a candle and dozens of silk and real flowers keep vigil over the gravesite. the moores framed a copy of brian's essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room. "i think God used him to make a point. i think we were meant to find it and make something out of it, mrs. moore said of the essay. she and her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death.
"i'm happy for brian. i know he's in heaven. i know i'll see him again someday." mrs. moore said. "i just hurt so bad now."
THE ROOM by Brian Keith Moore
in that place between wakefulness and dreams, i found myself in The Room.
there were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index card files. they were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. but these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and right to left as far as the eye could see, had very different headings. as i walked up to the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read, "people i have liked." i opened it and began flipping through the cards. i quickly shut it, shocked to realize that i recognized the names written on each one. and then, without being told, u knew exactly where u was. this lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my entire life.
the actions of my every moment, big and small, were written in a detail my memory couldn't match. a sense of wonder and curiosity, mixed with horror, stirred within me as i began randomly opening files and exploring their content. some brought joy and sweet memories, others a sense of shame and regret so intense that i would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. a file named "friends" was next to one marked "friends i have betrayed". the titles ranged from common, everyday things to the not so common "books i have read", "lies i have told", "comfort i have given", "jokes i have laughed at". some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "things i have yelled at my brothers and sisters." others i couldn't laugh at: "things i have done in anger", "things i have muttered under my breath at my parents". i never ceased to be surprised by the contents.
often there were many more cards than i expected. sometimes less than i had hoped. the sheer volume of the life i had lived overwhelmed me. could it be possible that i had time in my 17 years to write each of these thousands or millions of cards? but each card confirmed the truth. each card was written in my own handwriting. each card was signed with my signature. when i pulled out the file marked "songs i have listened to", i realized the files grew to contain their contents. the cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, i hadn't found the end of the file. i shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time i knew that file represented.
when I came to the file marked "lustful thoughts", i felt a chill run through my body. i pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. i shuddered at its detailed content. i felt sick to think such a moment had been recorded. a feeling of humiliation and anger ran through my body. one thought dominated my mind: "no one must ever see these cards! no one must ever see this room! i have to destroy them!
in an insane frenzy, i yanked the file out. its size didn't matter now. i had to empty it and burn the cards. but as i took the file at one end and began pounding it on the floor, i could not dislodge a single card. i became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when i tried to tear it. defeated and utterly helpless, i returned the file to its slot. leaning my forehead against the wall, i let out a long, self-pitying sigh.
that was when i saw it. the file bore "people i have shared the gospel with". the handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. i pulled on its handle and a small box not more than 3 inches long fell into my hands. i could count the cards it contained on one hand. and then the tears came. i began to weep. sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. i fell on my knees and cried. i cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. the rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes.
no one must ever, ever know of this room. i must lock it up and hide the key. then as I looked up through my tears, i saw Him enter the room. no, please, not Him. not here. anyone but Jesus. i watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. i couldn't bear to watch His response. the few times i looked at His face i saw such sadness that it tore at my heart. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. why did he have to read every one?
finally, He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. but this was a pity that didn't anger me. i dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put his arm around me. He could have said so many things.
but He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.
then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. starting at one end of the room, He took out a file, and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "no!" i shouted, rushing to Him. all i could find to say was "no, no" as i pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. but there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. the name of Jesus covered mine.
**
