Behind the Ramparts.

The benefit of pen and paper rests in the fact that it is mostly available at all times. It happens on a regular occasion during the day that I find myself captured by my thoughts, but rarely do I reach for a pen and pad to jot it down.

I probably should start.

Today is Saturday, and it was a great Saturday. John and I took my car to the mechanics and we met up with my parents and little sister for breakfast. Sadly, we are almost never up for the most important meal of the day, and if by some chance we are, the norm is to neglect it due to our fast paced, "I'm running late" schedule.

After breakfast, we went to the bank and then to Barnes and Noble. John immediately snagged a few audio engineering (recording) magazines, and I restlessly browsed about in the fiction section. Book title after book title took me back to many reading assignments from Junior High into High School and even to more recent literature from college. I read a little from Geoffrey Chaucer, TS Elliot, and a few others. It was good to reminisce. I finally settled with a book I'd gotten wind of from a friend and nestled into a creaky chair beside John.

And we read.

We came home and watched a few episodes of Lost (of which I am now addicted to), and then I napped a little while watching a suggested Zombieland. I woke to John playing with my hair, moving it out of my face and whispering that he was ready to grab some late lunch. I smiled and submitted. I wasn't much hungry, but he was very convincing.

It's days like this that form this undeniable battle within me: it's my silver-spoon of a life vs. 2/3 of the world that face the realty of survival at each sunrise.
I read about it and gaze at the pictures oh-so conveniently from my yahoo.news homepage.

Every part of me knows that I am not worthy to live the life that I have. I am a rotten, self-centered person, yet God has given me so much. And I am haunted with the question of "why?" I could have easily been born on the other side of the Ramparts, but I wasn't.

One day, maybe soon... maybe years from now, John and I will take our first step onto the soil that rests outside the walls the American life. And we may never look back. Instead, we will look into the faces of those richer than I have ever seen. We will see into lives filled with pain, hopelessness, false promises, sickness, starvation, abuse, hypocrisy, and lies. The least of these.

And we will sit at their feet and listen and weep. We will walk with them. We will love.

Everyday, I pray this will happen.

Remember.

Worth the Fight.

Today, while daydreaming, I remembered a time in kindergarten when my teacher asked me to say a blessing before we went to lunch. I suppose this was before "they took prayer out of the schools" (which this statement never made sense to me, because who can take away something that happens in the soul?

This memory is special to me now because I can see God gently sweeping me into His story at a fragile age. I hardly ever attended church as a child, but my mom still told me about Jesus and about praying. I even had a bible that my grandma bought me when I was born. Sometimes, mom would read it to me.

I remember that everyday before lunch my teacher would ask someone to pray, and everyday someone would say prayer. It was always a rhyming prayer, almost like a poem, something that was taught in sunday school or something: "God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food...." and so on. This was the FIRST time I had ever heard this. I remember thinking, "this must be the right way to pray... I really hope I don't get asked to pray because I don't know how this goes."

Then one day, I was asked to "say the blessing."

I don't remember what I said, but I remember it was not the rhyming prayer. I took a deep breathe...

And prayed.

After the Amen, I looked up and my teacher had tears in her eyes. I don't know why. But she later told my mom how it was the sweetest prayer she had ever heard. (Then my mom wanted me to pray at every family function... I don't think my any of my prayers have ever lived up to that one I prayed in kindergarten.)

I'm not writing this to puff myself up at all, but I just remember this and think of how tender the heart of a child must be. How vulnerable our hearts can be in the days of our childhood... I'm sure at that moment, I was having a conversation with the Almighty... just me and my Daddy.
Yet, my heart saddens at the thought of how fast I ran from Him as I grew a little older.
But how thankful am I that He pursued me and wooed me back to His heart!
A little sappy... but, man, God just didn't let go... and I had no clue that He was fighting for my heart through all the hell that my childhood endured. Oh, what

When I had no daddy... He was holding my heart in his hands.
When I moved from house to house... He was making a home for me in eternity.

He thought I was worth the fight.
And you just can't compete with that kind of love...

Refrain.

Most of the time I refrain. Mostly out of fear, mostly out of self-esteem, mostly out of hind-sight. Sometimes, it is good to refrain. If I were to unleash every thought that came to mind, I'd probably stamp unfortunate destruction in the lives of those so dear to me. Words do cut so deep. But sometimes, it's dull to refrain. Life could be so very boring and "un-indulged". We should never refrain from Love.

I hope for wisdom to know when to refrain and when not to refrain.

But may I never refrain from Love.