Hello Again


This blog has been silent for a year and a half. A lot has gone on in my life that pulled me away from posting here (both in time to produce content and motivation) and a lot has changed. 

For one thing, last December I accidentally colored by hair bright neon orange. It pretty much glowed in the dark, y’all. I had made a slight miscalculation with the blonde to red ratio for my strawberry blonde. After many tears and panicked moments of “WHAT DID I DO TO MY HAIR??!” and the loving support of my family and church family, I became reconciled to the color. So many people loved it–with even strangers remarking on how much it “suited” me–and within a month I loved it too. 

So I kept it. With each fresh color the bright orange softened to a true red. I have embraced the red-headed persona albeit with the ironic acknowledgement that it was a blonde mistake that landed me a redhead. 

In March, my family and I took an 11 day cruise to Panama, and in June, I traveled to London and Scotland as a nanny then drove a car-full of friends a week later to the Building Tomorrow’s Church (BTC) Conference in Flagstaff, Arizona. In July, I began cosmetology school at Legacy Beauty Academy in Tomball, TX. I am now a full-time student. (If you’re in the area, stop by and ask for Emily!) In August, I had my hair cut short for the first time and began teaching music theory again with a co-op in Spring on one day a week.

I have read painfully little in the last year and a half. This is not only because my schedule is busier but also, I must admit with some chagrin, because I lack the focus. It’s much harder for me to get into books now. I procrastinate starting and often take months to finish, losing my interest in the story along the way. And then, when I do finally finish, I struggle to bring my thoughts on the book to a level of coherence fit for a review. 

This is partly due to that lack of focus I mentioned but it is more because I struggle with finding resolution to my questions on a personal level than I used to. While my doctrinal convictions have grown deeper and more defined, my perception of life has grown more complicated due to the painful and unresolved things I have gone through in this past year+. Things don’t fit into neat boxes anymore. I ask questions far easier than than I give answers. My tastes and perspectives have changed even while my convictions have stayed the same. I now love the vampire stories I used to abhor, I de-stress with Viking Death Metal, and I shoot my whiskey straight. I wrote this post on an impulse tonight and published it just three hours later instead of sitting on it for months of revisions as has been my pattern. Oh yeah, and I’m a redhead now.

I have a low tolerance for stories that have a simplistic, Hallmark-style view of the world. “Christian” films like The Redemption of Henry Myers are no longer merely “annoying” to me but completely and utterly unpalatable. You won’t see any more reviews of films of that kind here because I won’t watch them. I would not even be able to sit through something of that kind anymore. 

I crave hope and redemptive answers in the midst of a real and broken and confusing world. I want a story that is honest and doesn’t make light of the suffering this world has to give and offer me cliche answers devoid of any real healing. Heck, I don’t even like my own upbeat, overly idealistic title-giving essay for this blog anymore. I’ve taken it down in hopes of eventually replacing it.

But I’ve not been completely unproductive on the writing front. I’ve got a new About Me page up. After two years of working on a new stoem, I have a first draft that I’m sending to my beta readers. Through my personal Instagram account I have kept a traveler’s journal for my trips and am now turning them into a series of blog posts to share here. I have also been heavily involved as a beta reader for my friend Abby Jones over at A Gentle and Quiet Spirit and I drafted a 14-page social media marketing plan for the IRBS Seminary fundraising campaign when I was reached out to for feedback by the fundraiser coordinator.

My favorite books right now are: Dracula, The Fiddler’s Gun and The Fiddler’s Green, The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, Harry Potter, the Wingfeather Sagas, Anne of Green Gables, The Dun Cow, The Rise and Fall of Mt. Majestic, Hamlet, Much Ado About Nothing, and Abby’s WIP books.

My favorite tv shows are: BlueBloods, NCIS, Agent Carter, Sherlock, Band of Brothers, Firefly, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

My favorite films are: LOTR, Saving Mr. Banks, Bridge of Spies, Cinderella (2015), Forrest Gump, Secondhand Lions, Wonder Woman, The Monuments Men, The Village, A Beautiful Mind, The Dark Night trilogy, The Road to El Dorado, The Lion King, the Toy Story trilogy, and Inside Out.

My Favorite Podcasts are: Lore, Myths and Legends, and Mortification of Spin.

If you stopped by, I’d appreciate a comment below. I’d love to hear who all still has an interest in this blog of mine!

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A Quote Off My Shelf

These are more and longer quotes than I typically post but they were too beautiful to abbreviate or reduce. A.S. Peterson’s concluding sequel met and exceeded all of my expectations. The book will shatter your soul then gently, tenderly mend it together again.  The motif of music is strong throughout the book and captures best the book’s themes of redemption, of beauty coming out of suffering and sin, and of longing for home and a Love that conquers all.

“Turn it all to beauty.

She walked to the rail. When she turned and sat upon it, she heard a sailor in the crowd murmur that she might play them a tune. She hoped he was right. She needed the voices to be wrong. Fin raised the instrument to the cleft of her neck and closed her eyes. She emptied her mind and let herself be carried back to her earliest memory, the first pain she ever knew: the knowledge that her parents didn’t want her. The despair of rejection coursed through her. It fathered a knot of questions that bound her, enveloped her. Waves of uncertainty and frailty shook her to the bones. Her body quivered with anger and hopelessness. She reeled on the edge of a precipice. She wanted to scream or to throw her fists but she held it inside; she struggled to control it. She fought to subjugate her pain, but it grew. It welled up; it filled her mind. When she could hold it no more, exhausted by defiance and wearied by years of pretending not to care, Bartimaeus’s words surrounded her.

Got to turn it beautiful.

She dropped her defenses. She let weakness fill her. She accepted it. And the abyss yawned. She tottered over the edge and fell. The forces at war within her raced down her arms and set something extraordinary in motion; they became melody and harmony: rapturous, golden. Her fingers coaxed the long-silent fiddle to life. They danced across the strings without hesitation, molding beauty out of the miraculous combination of wood, vibration, and emotion. The music was so bright she felt she could see it. The poisonous voices were outsung. Notes raged out of her in a torrent. She had such music within her that her bones ached with it, the air around her trembled with it, her veins bled it. The men around fell still and silent. Some slipped to the deck and sat enraptured like children before a travelling bard.

…It throbbed and pulsed, channeled by elemental forces of fear, love, hope, and sadness. The bow stabbed and flitted across the strings in a violent whorl of creation; its hairs tore and split until it seemed the last strands would sever in a scrape of dissonance. Those who saw the last fragile remnants held their breath against the breaking. The music rippled across the ship like a spirit, like a thing alive and eldritch and pregnant with mystery. The song held. More than held, it deepened. It groaned. It resounded in the hollows of those who heard. Then it softened into tones long, slow, and patient and reminded men of the faintest stars trembling dimly in defiance of a ravening dark. At the last, when the golden hairs of the bow had given all the sound they knew, the music fled in a whisper. Fin was both emptied and filled, and the song sighed away on the wind.

Peterson, A. S. (2010-12-07). Fiddler’s Green (Fin’s Revolution) pgs. 79-81, Rabbit Room Press.

 

“What do you know of the Knights?” he asked.

Fin shrugged. “I thought knights were only in children’s stories until a few days ago.” Jeannot smiled.

“A man could do worse than to live in the stories of a child. There is, perhaps, no better remembrance.”

“Until the child grows up and finds out the stories aren’t true. You might be knights, but I don’t see any shining armor,” Fin said.

Jeannot stopped near the gate of the auberge and faced her. “Each time a story is told, the details and accuracies and facts are winnowed away until all that remains is the heart of the tale. If there is truth at the heart of it, a tale may live forever. As a knight, there is no dragon to slay, no maiden to rescue, and no miraculous grail to uncover. A knight seeks the truth beneath these things, seeks the heart. We call this the corso. The path set before us. The race we must run.

Peterson, A. S. (2010-12-07). Fiddler’s Green (Fin’s Revolution) pg. 147 Rabbit Room Press.

 

She chased the song like a hound fast upon a scent. She pursued it through a forest primeval: a dark land planted with musical staves and rests and grown thick with briars of annotation. On she went and on still until she caught sight of the song ahead of her, fleeting and sly. “I see it,” she said aloud, though she didn’t mean to.

…And then she caught the song. She fell upon it and music poured from the fiddle’s hollow, bright and liquid like fire out of the heart of the earth. Pierre-Jean drew back and stood mesmerized. The room around Fin stirred as every ear bent to the ring of heartsong. It rushed through Fin and spread to the outermost and tiniest capillary reaches of her body. Her flesh sang. The hairs of her arms and neck roused and stood. She sped the bow across the strings. Her fingers danced on the fingerboard quick as fat raindrops. Every man in the room that night would later swear that there was a wind within it. They would tell their children and lovers that a hurricane had filled the room, toppled chairs, driven papers and sheets before it and blew not merely around them but through them, taking fears, grudges, malice, and contempt with it, sending them spiraling out into the night where they vanished among the stars like embers rising from a bonfire.

And though the spirited cry of the fiddle’s song blew through others and around the room and everything in it, Fin sat at the heart of it. It poured into her. It found room in the closets and hollow places of her soul to settle and root. It planted seeds: courage, resolve, steadfastness. Fin gulped it in, seized it, held it fast. She needed it, had thirsted for it all her days. She saw the road ahead of her, and though she didn’t understand it or comprehend her part in it, she knew that she needed the ancient and reckless power of a holy song to endure it. She didn’t let the music loose. It buckled and swept and still she clung to it, defined it in notes and rhythm, channeled it like a river bound between mountain steeps. And a thing happened then so precious and strange that Fin would ever after remember it only in the formless manner of dreams. The song turned and spoke her name—her true name, intoned in a language of mysteries. Not her earthly name, but a secret word, defining her alone among all created things. The writhing song spoke it, and for the first time, she knew herself. She knew what it was to be separated out, held apart from every other breathing creature, and known. Though she’d never heard it before and wouldn’t recall it after, every stitch of her soul shook in the passage of the word, shuddered in the wake of it, and mourned as the sound sped away. In an instant, it was over. The song ended with the dissonant pluck of a broken string.

Peterson, A. S. (2010-12-07). Fiddler’s Green (Fin’s Revolution) pg. 174, 175 Rabbit Room Press.

I noticed that Goodreads only had one quote from this beautiful book. That simply wouldn’t do, so I added 22 more. 😉 You can see more quotes here. 

The Soul You Loved

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“I know a man in Hell now.” That’s what the Preacher should have said if he were honest. But no one wanted an honest preacher today. Instead he talked of the good parts of the man’s life, how generous, and kind and caring he was, and what a shame it was he died young–all the things everyone wanted to hear. Old women daubed their eyes and a young lady softly whimpered.

The funeral home was unbearably warm, the small room packed. The preacher loosened his neck tie for the third time and talked of heaven and angels, hoping no one noticed the abrupt transition. He didn’t say the man was there, exactly, but he didn’t say he wasn’t there either. Best to let people think he might be.

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Gratitude and Ann Voskamp

With the holidays rolling around again, especially Thanksgiving, the topic of gratitude is a hot topic. My Facebook feed is already flooded by posts and book recommendations on gratitude. One book in particular took the market by storm three years ago and its author has continued to hold a steady and devout following ever since. That book is “One Thousand Gifts” by Ann Voskamp. I published a review of it here before my blog went public and I thought it would be an appropriate time to repost it.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0310321913/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0310321913&linkCode=as2&tag=livinheassha-20

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A Balanced Look at “One Thousand Gifts”

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0310321913/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0310321913&linkCode=as2&tag=livinheassha-20

Even after over two years, I still don’t know how to rate this book. There were things I loved about the book and there were things that really disturbed me about the book. Even the writing style has a love/hate relationship with me. Her quasi-poetic style is unique, fresh, contemplative and often leaves you gasping at its beauty but at times borders upon the absurd and goes out of its way to be abstruse, frustrating my need for clarity and precision.

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The Problem of Pain –review

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0060652969/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0060652969&linkCode=as2&tag=livinheassha-20

 

Written in September 2012 when I was 17

As is often the case with C. S. Lewis, some chapters deserve a five star rating, while others a perplexing “1”.

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