Currently Reading My Name Is Asher Lev By Chaim Potok see related

A Flea on a Bear's Back

Since I rarely post, I doubt anyone reads this anymore. But here is the (extremely) revised version of the essay from my last post.

For a six-month span during my senior year in high school, I settled into a blue funk. My dad had lost his job, and two weeks later my boyfriend broke up with me. A couple of months later, I learned that my family could not afford two of my top three college choices. So, circumstances determined where I would spend the next four years. Then the time came to audition to speak at my graduation—something I had wanted my entire high school career. But when I sat down to write a speech, I couldn’t think of anything positive to say or imagine why I had wanted to be the speaker in the first place. Everything I wrote was about the pain and darkness of life. I had forgotten what mattered, what was true. I had forgotten that God is good.

To begin Ecclesiastes, King Solomon writes despairingly, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” By this time, his search for wisdom, knowledge, and riches has brought him to a dead end, because everything pales in comparison to God, the infinite artist-deity. He writes, “And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind. There was no profit under the sun” (2:11). He knows that the things of this world cannot amount to anything lasting. Since high school, I have found this book to be oddly comforting, because I often come to the same place as Solomon, like I did my senior year: why does any of this matter? I become too wrapped up in my tasks, my goals, my life.

However, a person of extremes, I sometimes swing from considering my troubles paramount to thinking them trivial. Solomon also sees a contrast between the vanities of earthly life and the infinite, eternal nature of the Lord. He writes, “I know that whatever God does, it shall be forever. Nothing can be added to it, and nothing taken from it” (3:14). I cannot measure up; my feeble attempts to create meaning hardly exist in comparison to the reality of the triune God. Casting Crowns describes this smallness in the song, “Who am I?”: “I am a flower quickly fading / Here today and gone tomorrow / A wave tossed in the ocean / Vapor in the wind.” This makes me feel insignificant and useless, like I spin my wheels but never progress on my own, or like a flea on the back of a bear: miniscule, weak, and likely to be annihilated, not worthy of the bear’s consideration. My whole world seems trivial in contrast to God’s ultimate meaning.

But during these identity mini-crises I must tell myself the truth. Genesis says, for instance, that God made the whole world, declared it good, and after making man (me!), He said it was very good. It would be inconsistent with the fullness of His nature for God to create a world without meaning. Although the universe seems meaningless when divorced from the context of God, He fills it with goodness and purpose. Because of His enormity, the world—and my life—have meaning.

God is ultimately eminent; I am not. But I’m not supposed to be. In recognizing my relative insignificance, yet accepting that He has given me a measure of meaning simply by creating and sustaining me, I adopt the right frame of mind. In spite of his earlier frustration, Solomon comes to a similar conclusion:

Here is what I have seen: It is good and fitting for one to eat and drink, and to enjoy the good of all his labor in which he toils under the sun all the days of his life which God gives him; for it is his heritage. As for every man to whom God has given riches and wealth, and given him power to eat of it, to receive his heritage and rejoice in his labor—this is the gift of God. For he will not dwell unduly on the days of his life, because God keeps him busy with the joy of his heart.” (5:18-20)

Even though Solomon calls all vanity, later in the book he tells me to enjoy temporal things, recognizing that they have been given by God, who has ordained this earthly context.

Because I serve a God who in creating infused me with meaning, I refuse to give in to the temptation to despair over what appears chaotic. H.G. Wells said, “If there is no god, nothing matters. If there is a god, nothing else matters.” I would make the statement look like this: “If there is no God, nothing matters. If there is God, nothing else matters—and yet everything matters.” If I weren’t a Christian I would be a nihilist—but I believe in the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. I worship the God of Solomon, and “I will praise [Him], for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Marvelous are [His] works” (Ps. 139:14).

I finally wrote a speech about abundant life, and delivered it at my commencement. But God had to shift my focus toward His good character instead of my inadequacy and self-pity. I still cared about my circumstances, but realized they weren’t as important—or as terrible—as I had thought. Now I must follow Solomon’s closing advice to “Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is man’s all” (12:13). I have a long way to go in taking this admonition to heart, but I must continue, for what am I to do but worship and obey the God who brought me into existence and proclaimed me good?

Currently Reading On Writing Well, 30th Anniversary Edition: The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction (On Writing Well) By William K. Zinsser see related

This is the draft of the first essay for my Advanced Prose Composition class. It is a personal meditation on Scripture.

A Spiritual Spanking

If I were not a Christian I would be a nihilist. I might express it in petty ways: I could be a walking piece of charcoal, with dark clothing and rough demeanor; I might trace my eyes with a thick expression of my sorrow. My nihilism would not be something I put on, however; rather, I could not take it off, or out, of me. So I do not make fun of the “gothic” teenagers I see at the mall who see no meaning in the world, nor do I pretend that those who choose to end their lives have no reason to despair. I understand a little of their thinking. In fact, I see only two options for myself: Christianity or nihilism, and my attempt to communicate to you should indicate what I have chosen. H.G. Wells said, “If there is no god, nothing matters. If there is a god, nothing else matters.” While I agree with Wells’ statement, my beliefs will not allow me to stop there; I would make the statement look like this: “If there is no god, nothing matters. If there is a god, nothing else matters—and yet everything matters.” 

Consistent with my melancholic nature, Ecclesiastes is one of my favorite books of the Bible. It is oddly comforting to me when I feel bogged down by the cares of this world. Solomon, like H.G. Wells, acknowledged that everything pales in comparison to the artist-deity of the Bible, the infinite being who created and rules over everything. The famous opening words to the book of Ecclesiastes communicate both despair and frustration: “‘Vanity of vanities,’ says the Preacher; ‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.’” I read on and find that Solomon’s search for wisdom, knowledge, and riches led him to a dead end. He writes, “And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind. There was no profit under the sun” (2.11). All the efforts of man and the things of this world cannot satisfy for long nor amount to anything lasting. When I become too wrapped up in myself, my tasks, my goals, my life, forgetting the why (which is really a who), I come to the same place where Solomon was: what’s it all for? Is any of this really worth anything? Why do I even care, and what good is it for me to go through the motions of life from day to day? Why does any of this matter?

For about a six-month period during my senior year in high school, I asked questions like these. I was in a blue funk. I forgot what mattered, what was true. All I could see was that my life wasn’t going as I’d planned. My dad had lost his job, and my boyfriend had broken up with me within the same two-week span. With my dad out of work, I decided to get a part-time job, which was my first experience in the “real world.” Before this, I had no idea the world was full of broken people searching for meaning. A couple of months later, I learned that my family could not afford for me to attend two of my top three college choices. So, my college decision was determined by circumstances. Although I had not yet rated those three options, I was bitter that I did not make the choice myself—even though I would have agonized over it. As graduation drew close, it was time to audition to be the student speaker—something I had hoped for my entire high school career. But when I sat down to write a speech, I could think of nothing positive to say nor could I imagine why I had wanted to be the speaker in the first place. Everything I wrote down focused on the pain and darkness of life, even though my original idea had been to write about the abundant life Jesus came to offer. I was so focused on my bitterness and hardship that I had forgotten who God was.

But when I consider God’s character I tend to swing from thinking my troubles are paramount to the opposite extreme. They are trivial. Solomon contrasts his earlier statement concerning the vanities of man and earthly life with the infinite and eternal nature of the Lord. He writes, in Ecclesiastes 3:14, “I know that whatever God does, it shall be forever. Nothing can be added to it, and nothing taken from it.” We cannot measure up—our feeble attempts to create meaning hardly exist in comparison to the reality of the triune God. Casting Crowns describes this smallness in relation to God’s nature in the song, “Who am I?”: “I am a flower quickly fading / Here today and gone tomorrow / A wave tossed in the ocean / Vapor in the wind.” This contrast makes a part of me feel insignificant and useless, like I spin my wheels but never progress on my own, or like a flea on the back of a bear: miniscule, weak, and likely to get squished—not because the bear’s out to get me, but because I’m not worth his consideration. My whole world seems trivial against his enormity.

Since high school I have learned that during these identity mini-crises I must tell myself the truth. Genesis says, for instance, that God made the whole world with his Word, declared it good, and that after making man (me!) he said it was very good. It would be inconsistent with the fullness of his nature for God to create a world without meaning. Although the things of this world seem meaningless when divorced from the context of God, he fills with goodness and purpose what would otherwise be the vacuum of the universe. It is because of God’s enormity that my life—and the world—have meaning. In spite of his earlier frustration and despair, Solomon comes to a similar conclusion: that God’s creation of the world and his gifting humans with it are good, and that God made his creation purposefully. Although I still cannot compete with God’s character, I am not intended to do so. It is in recognizing my relative insignificance, yet accepting that God has given me a measure of meaning simply by creating and sustaining me, that I adopt the right frame of mind. Solomon says,

Here is what I have seen: It is good and fitting for one to eat and drink, and to enjoy the good of all his labor in which he toils under the sun all the days of his life which God gives him; for it is his heritage. As for every man to whom God has given riches and wealth, and given him power to eat of it, to receive his heritage and rejoice in his labor—this is the gift of God. For he will not dwell unduly on the days of his life, because God keeps him busy with the joy of his heart” (Ecc. 5:18-20).

Even though he says earlier in the book that all is vanity, I gather from what Solomon says here that I should enjoy the temporal things, recognizing that they have been given to me by the Lord. He also writes that for now the earthly context is good and has been ordained by God. I still know that in comparison to God’s infinite nature I’m finite and that while he is eternal I am fleeting, but I should also remember that God made me that way—and he does not fashion futility!

I finally did write a speech about abundant life, and I delivered it the next month at commencement. God had to use a few key people as well as a few well-placed spiritual swats to my hind-end to shift my focus more toward his good character instead of my inadequacy and self-pity. I still cared about my circumstances, but realized they weren’t as important—or as terrible—as I had thought. Since then, reading Ecclesiastes has helped me to learn that God has bestowed some of his meaning on me. Now the challenge is, as Solomon concludes, to “Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is man’s all” (12.13). I have a long way to go in taking this admonition to heart, but I must continue, for what am I to do but worship and obey the God who brought me into existence and infused me with meaning?

Currently Reading Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (Wheaton Literary Series) By Madeleine L'Engle see related

I performed a recitation of the following poem in my high school speech class. I still like it: it's humbling and makes me think about the way I treat others.

The Fool's Prayer

THE royal feast was done; the King

Sought some new sport to banish care,

And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,

Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"

The jester doffed his cap and bells,

And stood the mocking court before;

They could not see the bitter smile

Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee

Upon the monarch's silken stool;

His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,

Be merciful to me, a fool!

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart

From red with wrong to white as wool;

The rod must heal the sin; but Lord,

Be merciful to me, a fool!

" 'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep

Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;

'Tis by our follies that so long

We hold the earth from heaven away.

"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,

Go crushing blossoms without end;

These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust

Among the heart-strings of a friend.

"The ill-timed truth we might have kept-

Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?

The word we had not sense to say-

Who knows how grandly it had rung?

"Our faults no tenderness should ask,

The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;

But for our blunders-oh, in shame

Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;

Men crown the knave, and scourge the fool

That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,

Be merciful to me, a fool!"

The room was hushed; in silence rose

The King, and sought his gardens cool,

And walked apart, and murmured low,

"Be merciful to me, a fool!"

- Sir Edward Rowland Sill

           -William Shakespeare

Currently Reading Restoring the Constitution, 1787-1987: Essays in Celebration of the Bicentennial see related

The Good Ol' Days

I've been in a contemplative mood the last couple of days, and for the moment I'm feeling reminiscent. So, I decided to post some essays I was looking at recently that I wrote my freshman year of high school. As I read them, I could practically hear myself speaking the words I wrote--and yet, so much has changed and so much of me has changed. Anyway, I hope you enjoy them--and remember that I wrote them 5 years ago and I may not feel or believe the same things now. They tend to be exaggerated and dramatic--and just for clarification, "The Saints" is a fictional representation of a personal struggle and learning process I went through, not a recounting of actual events.

Hayley M. Gleason
Basic Composition
September 8, 2001

Untitled

"Who am I?" I ask myself as I write this. Of course, I know that I'm fourteen-year old Hayley Gleason, a resident of ___________. But what does that mean? Ultimately, that means nothing. I could be nameless, homeless, and unaware of my exact age, but none of that would mean anything. That's not who I really am.

I am a little girl again as I ride my horse and get an adrenaline rush that cannot be experienced in any other way. My horse and I sail over jumps, and for a split second, I am flying! My heart swells when I go to fetch my horse from the paddock, and he comes to me before I have a chance to get to him. It breaks my heart when he is disobedient and I must discipline him. And my eyes mist when I see the trust that he places in me. When he is nervous as a result of his surroundings, he continues to trust that I will not put him in a dangerous situation. His eyes shine with trust, love, and pure innocence, and I can’t help but give him a kiss on his nose.

This is me! Such things define who one is—not one’s name, location, age, looks, or anything else.

I am filled with inexplicable emotions as I play my hopelessly out-of-tune piano, and the music sounds beautiful anyway because it is coming from my soul. My body sways with the melody, and my eyes close in peace. This is who I am! My out-of-tune piano becomes God’s instrument as He allows me to praise Him with music that is not worthy, but it sounds beautiful because it is a joyful noise until God!

I am a creation of the Almighty God, “fearfully and wonderfully made,” and I am totally unlike any of the other six billion people in this world (Psalm 139:14). I am a unique individual with a passion for sharing my thoughts, feelings, and opinions. As I ask myself the question “Who am I?” and find the answer, I can tell the world if only I can utilize the power that literally lies at my fingertips!

Because of who I am, I have a strong desire to share with the world the sensation of my horse soaring over the jump and the feeling of flying! I want people who read something that I have written to hear the music of my out-of-tune piano and enjoy it anyway because of the message it contains. For these and other reasons, I am taking this class. To be able to express what I feel as I jump my horse or play the piano and to have people enjoy it with me must be a wonderful feeling!

Because of my background as a home schooler, I do not have extensive experience in the composition of essays. Hopefully, I will be able to glean from this course many of the things that I lack in my understanding of the basic principles of writing. After putting into practice these principles, perhaps I will then be able to share my viewpoints with the world. Although I do intend to pursue a career in writing, I would very much appreciate the knowledge that I will gain that can be applied to my life.

Despite the fact that I am but a freshman in high school, I am concerned as to whether I will be ready for college when the time comes. I believe that my learning to communicate efficiently is essential to the advancement of my education, and possibly will benefit me in things that I can’t even imagine at this time. Hopefully, this class will provide the solid foundation that I need for college. As I begin this course, I am fearful of embarrassing myself and making mistakes. At the same time, I am confident of the long-term benefits of the knowledge that I will gain from this class, and I am excited about being able to communicate more clearly and efficiently.

So, swallowing my fear, I write this paper, praying that I will benefit from this class and that I will be able to accomplish my best possible work. I know that God will not let me down!

Hayley M. Gleason
Basic Composition
Descriptive Essay
February 15, 2002

The Barn

Delicate rays of sunlight peep through a knot in the warped wooden walls, making visible the minute particles of dust that fill the air. The cool darkness of the barn provides a welcome sanctuary from the scorching summer sun. A stiff breeze makes its way through the hallway, bringing with it the stray tendrils of straw that were strewn across the ground. With that tuft of wind comes the rich, heady scent of hay and oats from the horses’ feed buckets.

Suddenly my senses are awakened by the steady clip-clop rhythm of steel-shod hooves hitting the pavement. As horse and rider pass by, I’m overwhelmed by the rich, musty scent of leather.

The barn’s lighting (or lack thereof) casts eerie shadows on the rough wood planks that make up the front of the stalls. Dark stains on the wood give it a weathered, well-used look, and the pockmarks and scratches that cover it are a testament to the harsh elements it’s withstood.

Nameplates adorn each stall, personalized for the occupant. The green metal of the doors is a sharp contrast to the sun-bleached pine boards that encase the huge mammals.

The cracked concrete that was once a blinding white is now a sort of dirty gray, with dark water stains in the grooves. Cedar shavings have escaped the stalls only to lie still on the rough concrete surface where they are trampled by both man and beast.

Suddenly things start rattling, and I hear a low rumble in the distance. I rush out of the barn to see what all of the ruckus is about, and I can’t help but grin when I discover the cause. The low rumble—now a rolling thunder—is the echo of about twenty horses’ hooves pounding the earth.

People all over the farm stop what they’re doing and take a moment to enjoy the beautiful scene before them. The long, flowing manes and tails of chestnuts, sorrels, bays, and blacks whip in the wind as the group gallops as one down the steep bank.

The horses in the surrounding paddocks sense the excitement and energy of their neighbors, and they bolt in a dozen different directions, bucking and kicking, and enjoying the chance to goof off with their pals.

All of these things and more make the barn a peaceful, yet exciting place to be. I love the sights, sounds, and, yes, even the smells of the barn.

Hayley M. Gleason
Basic Composition
Essay that shows rather than tells
October 19, 2001

Our Angel

Looking into dark, liquid eyes that get a little duller every day, a lump forms in my throat. The fuzzy ears that come to attention when I speak don’t perk up quite as quickly as they once did. Paws that are no larger than the petals of a rose blossom make considerably more noise now, as he walks, than they did in the golden years of his youth.

His fur, though still a glossy chocolate color, is no longer as thick as sheep’s wool. The leg joints that were once so delicate are now lumpy and deformed, their function hindered by arthritis. The bushy tail that once wagged so freely now wags in short, choppy movements. The large tumor on his hip, though not cancerous, is a constant reminder that nothing on this earth will last forever.

However, the little heart in his swollen chest still pumps rhythmically and firmly. His eyes, though dulled and deteriorating rapidly, are like bottomless pools of wisdom that reflect the loyalty for which dogs are known. His mind, unlike the rest of his body, is as sharp as ever. Whenever he hears the word outside or pills, he jumps up in anticipation of what’s to come. Every time I forget to give him pills, he walks to the laundry room, stands under the drawer in which we keep them, and lets me know that he needs them. If we are getting ready to go for a walk, as soon as he sees his leash, he runs circles around me.

Every breath that he pulls into his aged lungs is for his family. He lives to make us happy and to be the companion that will never leave us. I know that he keeps a constant vigil over my family and me and would never allow anyone to hurt us.

As I watch his chest rise and fall, I realize that every breath he takes must be a struggle for him. Like a pirate with a peg-leg, he wobbles painfully through the house. Seeing him walk toward me, I feel a sharp pain in my heart. As I witness the spectacle of his struggle, I feel as if an invisible wall keeps me from helping him. My heart aches with hopelessness and compassion for him, but I don’t know what to do to ease his pain. His death is imminent; yet, despite the excruciating pain that plagues my heart, I know that he has lived as full a life as a dog can lead.

He has influenced my whole family in unimaginable ways. I know that we all feel a particular tugging on our heartstrings when we see him. Every time he rings his bell to tell me that he wants to go outside, I can’t help but smile. I find it funny that a dog would be smart enough literally to tell me that he wants to go outside. I also can’t help but giggle when I find his head in my lap at the dinner table.

He’s a Shetland Sheepdog, so, naturally, he has to “herd” his family. I remember when we used to take him for walks through our neighborhood. If any member of my family lagged behind, he would fight his leash, almost choking himself, attempting to get that person back with the rest of the “flock.”

He’s continually sticking his aristocratic nose where it doesn’t belong: in the doorway when a door is ajar, underneath my hand, even on my lap as I eat dinner. His triangular ears never stop listening, and he seems to know just when I’m talking to him.

Not only is his personality unique, but also his physical characteristics are. His white mane makes him look like a lion, and his tiny feet feel as light as a feather when he jumps on me. He is a Goliath in contrast to the average Sheltie (as his breed is sometimes called), but his size fits him perfectly. He is not awkward, but comfortable, kind of like a professional football player who has learned to manage his size.

His personality, unlike his physical characteristics, has not changed at all over the years. I remember how excited he used to get when he heard the song “Wild Thing.” My brother would sing it for him, and before long, the whole family was chasing him around the house. And although he is no longer able to fly through the house at the speed of light, his pulse still pounds when he hears that song.

Although he is now old and gray, he still possesses the lively spirit of a puppy. In spite of having legs that can hardly move, he still loves to chase a Frisbee or a stray ball. The jowls that now sag like those of a bulldog still flap continuously as he announces to the world that there’s a car in the driveway. His movements, though suspiciously like those of a drunken sailor, are light and graceful (or as graceful as a drunken sailor’s). Regardless of the stiffness he encounters upon rising, he will sit attentively for hours on end (as long as there is food around). His fur still shines healthily, and it is as soft as a baby’s first hairs.

When I walk into my house, his excitement is comparable to that of a small child on Christmas day. Every time I see evidence of this devotion in his eyes, my heart sings. He is such a blessing to my whole family, and I know that when he dies, there will be a gaping chasm in our midst.

I do realize, however, that no earthly thing lasts forever, so if I spend my time grieving for that which I am going to lose, I will forever be grieving. I think that this is an applicable example, because I know that I need to be enjoying my dog as long as he is still here. So, I have decided to drink of my “overflowing cup” (Psalm 23:5). I will rejoice in the life that he is living as long as he is alive. My parents have never regretted giving him to meand my two brothers. For these reasons and many more, nine years ago on Christmas day, we decided to name him “Gideon.” He’s our angel.

Hayley M. Gleason
Basic Composition
Essay incorporating effective dialogue
November 16, 2001

The Saints

My bed sheet was a useless lump at the bottom of the bed from the restless tossing, turning, and kicking that I had been doing all night long. My body was covered in sweat, causing my pajamas to stick to me as though they were glued on. My hair was matted almost to the point of being in knots.

It had been a rough night, to say the least. Something was weighing heavily on my mind that night, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. Even in my sleep (shallow as it was), my heart felt heavy.

Suddenly, out of the black void that surrounded me came a voice. The Voice didn’t come from the lips of someone in my bedroom. It was not an audible voice, but it was so powerful that my bed shook with the force.

“Be still, Beloved.”

Immediately, the storm that had been raging inside me all night quieted.

The Voice came again, “What are you worried about, My love?”

“Oh, God!” I cried out from the deepest part of my being, “How can you possibly love me? I feel so unworthy!” The storm may have been over, but the deck of my boat was still flooded with water.

Silence reined for moments that seemed like hours.

“Beloved, it is enough that you are Mine.” The force of the Voice after such silence made me tremble. I couldn’t help it.

I croaked out a hoarse reply. “I’m so horrible, Lord. I thought that I had You in my heart, but it seems that all I do is sin!”

“Of ye of little faith! Did I not just tell you that you are Mine?” The Voice was loving, even gentle this time, but the honest reprimand hurt more than words can express.

My brow wrinkled in confusion. “I don’t understand.” It was more of a plea than a statement.

Then the Voice came again: “Beloved, I never said it would be easy.”

My heart raced wildly, and my mouth suddenly took on a mind of its own. Words began pouring out of my mouth. It was like an out-of-body experience because I was expressing the very feelings that, moments before, I hadn’t been able to identify. “Lord, I feel so lost, and useless! I—I feel like I don’t belong in Your kingdom.”

“Get thee behind Me, Satan!” This time it was no gentle little voice. It was a roar that tore at my soul, causing me great pain. But, suddenly, the pain was gone. Satan had lost his grip on my heart, and I was finally able to breathe a bit easier.

But it seemed that although Satan no longer had a hold on my heart, he did have a grip on my mind.

“Lord, I still feel like a failure.”

The Voice came again, softer, calmer, and it served as a balm for my chapped soul. “Beloved you are important to Me. You aren’t a failure. You cannot fail as long as you are on My team.”

Still my logical, orderly brain fought this illogical answer.

I countered, “But am I really on Your team, Lord? Am I really a part of the bigger picture?”

I’m sure that if I could go back to that moment, I would have heard Satan snickering.

Incredibly, though, there wasn’t even a hint of impatience in the Voice. “You have been washed clean by the blood of My Son, Beloved. You are on My team, now and forever. Nothing can change that.”

Those soft-spoken words rocked my world and my boat that was perilously sailing in an ocean of doubt.

Suddenly, a scream tore the air. The sound was not produced by my vocal chords, however, for it was not I who feel into the water, but Satan who fell overboard!

The realization that I was free from Satan’s grasp and wrapped in God’s arms instead was wonderful! I felt like a completely new person (which I was), and I suddenly knew that I’m wasn’t just a mere player on God’s team but a key player!

It seemed that I had not yet mastered the art of giving myself completely over to God, though, because a sharp pain penetrated my being once again. Satan was clinging to the side of the boat, and one more doubt plagued my conscience.

“Lord,” I asked timidly, “aren’t I a sinner? I mean, I still sin. Sometimes I feel like I just don’t have enough strength to resist the temptations with which I’m faced.”

“Beloved,” the Voice whispered, “just because you sin occasionally doesn’t mean that you are a sinner. You’re My follower, a Christian who still sins. Just ask some of your teammates if they sin, and they will confirm for you that no man is perfect. As for your weakness, you will forever be weak if you do not surrender your will to Me. You must allow Me to be your strength.”

The corners of my mouth lifted in a joyous smile. Finally my breathing was slow and rhythmic, and my furiously pounding heart had slowed its pace.

But there was one more question to ask.

“Lord, I just have one more question.” I paused, waiting for a reaction of exasperation or anger. There was none.

“What is the name of our team, Father?” I queried.

“Don’t you know, My child? We are the Saints!”

Looking in the Mirror

I recently wrote this letter for an Intro. to Lit. assignment on the explication of poetry. I was supposed to write a letter to someone (preferrably a real person) and use the explication of two poems (or song lyrics) on a similar theme or idea and use those to make a point to the letter's recipient. I'm not going to tell you to whom I wrote the letter, but I'm sharing it because I think the ideas in these poems are important. The poems precede the letter.

Sylvia Plath

Mirror
 
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
 
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Mirror

Mirror, Mirror on the wall; Have I got it?
'Cause Mirror you've always told me who I am
I’m finding It’s not easy to be perfect
So sorry, you won’t define me
Sorry, you don’t own me
 
Chorus
Who are you to tell me
that I’m less than what I should be?
Who are you?  Who are you?
I don’t need to listen
to the list of things I should do
I won’t try;  I won’t try
You don’t define me; You don’t define me

Mirror I am seeing a new reflection
I’m looking into the eyes of He who made me
To Him I have beauty beyond compare
I know He defines me
 
Chorus

Dear ------ ,

You shared with me recently that you’ve been wishing that you could be comfortable with how you look. I want you to know that I really relate to what you’re going through and I also want to share some thoughts I have on the matter in conjunction with a couple of poems on a similar idea. The first poem is "Mirror" by Sylvia Plath, and the second is actually the lyrics from a Barlow Girl song also titled "Mirror." You have told me that you put too much weight on your appearance, or allow it to shape your perception of self and your sense of self-worth to an unhealthy degree. The Plath poem talks about dependence and idolization of the mirror. It presents the theme in a way that makes the mirror look a lot less like a villain than most girls perceive it to be, and instead draws attention to the woman’s destructive focus on–and dissatisfaction with–her physical appearance. The song, like the Plath poem, personifies the mirror; however, instead of speaking from the mirror’s perspective, it is addressed to the mirror, almost as a rejection of it. The speaker denies the mirror the power to tell her who she is and what she should look like, then looks to God to tell her these things and to affirm her beauty.

The speaker in Sylvia Plath’s poem sort of introduces himself to start the poem. He declares himself to be objective: "I have no preconceptions" (line 1). In the next several lines, the personified mirror removes all basis for the reader–or his owner–to blame him for the reflection he gives. In line 2, he says that he "swallow[s]" the image in front of him, then in line 3 adds that he imposes no sentiment on the object or person. The first alert to any emotion in the poem is the mirror’s assertion, "I am not cruel, only truthful," which carries with it the implication that someone dislikes or judges unfair the mirror’s reflection (line 4). This is the first hint that there may be an unhealthy relationship in the poem between a person and the mirror. The very next line reinforces this sense when the mirror claims to have "The eye of a little god, four-cornered" (line 5). In this one line, Plath encompasses the idea that the entire poem is trying to convey. An inanimate, objective instrument for reflection is put on a pedestal, or even idolized. By using the phrase "four-cornered" she is, ironically, using the voice of the personified mirror to remind the reader that it is a thing–and a thing with very real, very physical limitations.

In the second half of the first stanza, the mirror describes its resting place–across from a wall that "is pink, with speckles" (line 7). Through the personified mirror’s description of itself and its surroundings, the reader connects with the mirror–even empathizes, if that’s possible. In line 8, for instance, the mirror says that the wall it looks at and reflects most of the time "is a part of [its] heart." The mirror is getting old and the tone of the last two lines of the first stanza is almost reminiscent when he says of his relationship to the wall that "Faces and darkness separate us over and over" (line 9).

In the second stanza, the speaker again takes an ironic tone as he describes the woman’s search for her identity in his depths, or "reaches" (ll. 10-11). This shows the disconnect between what the mirror really is, as well as that of which it is capable, and how the woman perceives these things. She is "searching [. . .] for what she really is" (line 11). At this point, the mirror has already established its objectivity, yet the woman is searching for the mirror to tell her something more than simply what she looks like. She’s not even content with its representation of how she truly looks, either, as seen in line 13 when "she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon" to tell her those things. Again it is clear that the woman is not pleased with the mirror’s reflection of her because he says that "she rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands" (line 14). In the very next line, however, the mirror bluntly acknowledges that the woman puts great value on it and its reflection of her (line 15), and she continues to come "each morning" to peer into the mirror (line 16).

In the last two lines of the poem, the mirror finally makes an explicit judgement of the woman’s attitude toward it. "In me she has drowned a young girl," the mirror intones in acknowledgment of the destructive consequences of the woman’s use of the it (line 17). In the last line, he reinforces this idea by saying that in replacement of the young girl, "an old woman / Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish" (line 18). In this line the mirror is referring to the beginning of the second stanza in which he calls himself "a lake" (line 10). The last two lines of the poem drive home the overall message, because we see that the woman looked into the mirror in order for it to tell her who she was–but since what she perceived in its imaginary depths was an unsatisfactory reflection of her outward appearance, in actuality she killed a part of herself.

The song, "Mirror," starts off by isolating the issue of identity first thing. The mirror is personified in this piece, as well, but instead of being the speaker, it is confronted by the speaker: "Mirror, Mirror on the wall; Have I got it? / ‘Cause Mirror you’ve always told me who I / am" (ll. 1-3). The speaker rejects the mirror as the source of her identity, though; in the fourth line she acknowledges that the standards that the mirror (as a representation of society) has for her physical appearance are impossible to achieve, then tells it, "So sorry, you won’t define me / Sorry, you don’t own me" (ll. 5-6).

There’s almost an in-your-face tone as the song moves into the chorus or refrain. The speaker essentially challenges the mirror’s authority or right to cast judgement on or determine her identity. The challenge is presented in the repeated question, "Who are you to tell me / that I’m less than what I should be? / Who are you? Who are you?" (ll. 7-9). There is yet another allusion to society and the accepted or popular standards for physical appearance when the speaker asserts that she will not have imposed upon her "the list of things I should do / I won’t try; I won’t try" (ll. 11-12).The use of the mirror as a representation of society’s expectations is very effective when in the second verse the speaker contrasts her reflection in the mirror (the way she stands up to society’s views) and her reflection in the very eyes of God. There’s a change of tone and a sense of grounding when she makes this contrast in the beginning of the second verse: "Mirror I am seeing a new reflection / I’m looking into the eyes of He who made / me" (ll. 14-16). At this point in the song, the question that the speaker asks in relation to her looks and her identity is not how she compares the standards of the time and the culture, but rather how she stands up to the standards of her Lord. How does He view her? In lines 17-18, she answers this question: "To Him I have beauty beyond compare / I know He defines me."

By repeating the refrain, the song then reinforces the idea that the mirror should have no power to tell the speaker who she is–and even that the physical expectations are not necessarily reasonable. The reiteration that "You don’t define me; You don’t define me," is powerful, and signals her development from dejected and full of frustration to released and in the process of grasping and owning the truth about the source of her identity (line 13).

I have shared my explanation of the meanings of these two poems with you so that you could also begin to grasp some of the important truths they convey. The first one shows the destructiveness of idolizing the mirror or one’s looks, and the second serves as a rejection of that attitude or misplacement of priorities. Please don’t think that in my presentation of them that I believe I have this issue all figured out, or that I have no trouble understanding and claiming my own identity in Christ. Instead, I am sharing this with you because: first, you are important to me, and second, I empathize and share in the struggle, too. I have days in which I feel like a less-valuable human being because I’m not this and I don’t look like that, or I’ve got too much of this and I don’t dress like that. But I’ve been learning–and am still learning–that I must look to Christ to tell me who I am and what I’m worth.

I hope that somehow these poems have been an encouragement to you, and I pray that you will be able to speak the truths contained within them to yourself and to others. I am daily fighting against Satan’s lies concerning my identity; perhaps we can fight this battle together.

           Hayley