At the Superbowl last year, I was rooting for the Seahawks because I wasn't going to root for the Broncos. This year, I'm rooting for the Seahawks because I like to make enemies (My dad is rooting for the Patriots), and because the Seahawks know what it's about.
For the Seahawks it's not about the wins, it's not about the fame, and it's not just about the football. It's about bringing glory to God in whatever they do, and about doing what God made them for. Just what life is about. It's not about the success, it's not about the fame, or the money. It's about doing what you were made to do, and giving God the glory.
Now, I understand that just because a couple players and two coaches profess to be Christians doesn't mean that the whole team is Christian, but for those members of the team that do... Rooting for and cheering on my brothers in Christ - the ones who are willing to make a stand and openly share their faith - is enough of a reason for me.
Go Seahawks!
~The Random Rambler
Random: Made, done, happening or chosen without method or conscious decision. Rambling: Of writing or speech; lengthy and confused or inconsequential. Maybe I'll make sense, maybe I won't. Maybe something I write will change someone's life, and if it doesn't, it was worth the try.
Friday, January 30, 2015
Saturday, January 17, 2015
A Message to Girls
To girls and women everywhere:
(And if you're a male, it's the same for you too.)
You are priceless.
No worldly cost could ever amount to the price you are worth. No number of pounds or even tons of diamonds, silver or gold could ever add up to the price of you.
Because you,
you
are not just another girl.
You aren't just one in a million.
You aren't invisible.
You were made by God.
You are special.
You were made to shine.
You are God's handiwork;
meaning He made you with His hands.
He didn't just throw some hair, eyes, bones, and muscles together so that there was another human on the earth.
He picked you to have your big, bright eyes.
He picked you to have your big, bushy eyebrows.
He gave you your freckles,
and your un-perfect skin.
He gave you your adorable laugh,
and your lanky legs,
and your clumsy tendencies.
He picked out your frizzy hair,
and placed it over your sticking-out ears.
He dipped His finger in His people paint and gave you that funny colored patch of skin.
And then He gave you life.
No.
You are not perfect.
But neither is anyone else.
God made you unique.
You are unlike anyone else.
And you are beautiful, because God said you are.
Go tell the world.
~ The Random Rambler
Friday, January 2, 2015
The Struggle
I want to write. But I don't know what to write about. I know that soon, words will come. But will they make sense? Will they suffice? Will they meet the standards I have for them? Will they speak to others, and inspire them to change? Will the words that come bear meaning and significance? Or will they be just that? Words.
I want to write. But I don't know if now is the time. There are always other things to do. Will the idea come to mind? Will a small thought in my brain stay for more than a few seconds so that it can take root and grow? If it does, will that growth soon be halted? Or will it bloom into something breathtaking?
I want to write. I want the jumbled scattered thoughts to mold together to form words that flow. I want to master the power of inspirational, motivating, life-changing words. I know the words are more likely to flow from a pen in my hand onto paper, then to flow through my hands onto a screen. Both actions are so easy, so thoughtless, so normal, yet one works better than the other the majority of the time.
I want to write. With a pen in my hand, my hand practically flies over the pages! But when I sit and stare the screen in the face, the result is slow, and agonizing. With a pen, no matter what I've written, the damage is done. There is no un-writing the words on the page. The only way to destroy the evidence is to burn the paper to ashes with a flame. But with a screen, all that needs to be done to exterminate the words is press one button, and the work vanishes.
With a pen and paper, it's easy. It's as if the thoughts in my head know when to become words. They know they are only going to show on a paper that will never be seen by anyone else unless the writer shows it to someone. And they also know when they are expected to be shared on the internet for tens, hundreds, even thousands or millions to see, so they hide.
But maybe it's not the words who are afraid. Maybe it's the thoughts. The thoughts that are so fast and powerful, and yet so hidden and weak. The thoughts that tell you how to break the person, or how to make the person. But maybe that's the key. Maybe it's not the words or the thoughts that are hesitant or afraid. Maybe it's the person.
I want to write. But the words don't come. The words don't come because I won't let them come. I hide them, and I bottle them inside. I quiet them, and shield them from the mocking eyes of the world. I protect them, so that I feel that I protect me. I lock them in a cage, so they can't get out, so that no one will know what they are. But when I let the words loose? What happens then?
What will they say? What insecurity and hurt will they reveal? What stand will they take? What lives will they change? What if they fail? What if they are so jumbled and scrambled and disorganized that they don't make sense to anyone? What if they don't change someone's life, and instead continue to twist it down a dark path? What if the words aren't the right words? What if the ideas aren't the right ideas? What if they cause more hurt than healing, and more pain than relief? What if they don't live up to my standards? Or the world's standards? What if the words turn back around and hurt me? What beautiful picture will they paint? What thoughts will form in the mind of the reader? What difference will they make? What wonder and beauty will they show? What then?
What if I let myself loose? What happens then?
What will I say? What insecurity and hurt will I reveal? What stand will I take? What lives will I change? What if I fail? What if I am so jumbled and scrambled and disorganized that I don't make sense to anyone? What if I don't change someone's life, and instead continue to twist it down a dark path? What if I am not the right person? What if my ideas aren't the right ideas? What if I cause more hurt than healing, and more pain than relief? What if I don't live up to my standards? Or the world's standards? What if I turn back around and hurt myself? What beautiful picture will I paint? What thoughts will form in the mind of the viewer? What difference will I make? What wonder and beauty will I show? What then?
I want to write. The words are scattered and scrambled. They're disorganized and out of order. They're far from perfect, and far from making sense. They're hard to get out, and they just won't flow. But I sit down, and I type, and I save and hit the publish button anyway.
~The Random Rambler
I want to write. But I don't know if now is the time. There are always other things to do. Will the idea come to mind? Will a small thought in my brain stay for more than a few seconds so that it can take root and grow? If it does, will that growth soon be halted? Or will it bloom into something breathtaking?
I want to write. I want the jumbled scattered thoughts to mold together to form words that flow. I want to master the power of inspirational, motivating, life-changing words. I know the words are more likely to flow from a pen in my hand onto paper, then to flow through my hands onto a screen. Both actions are so easy, so thoughtless, so normal, yet one works better than the other the majority of the time.
I want to write. With a pen in my hand, my hand practically flies over the pages! But when I sit and stare the screen in the face, the result is slow, and agonizing. With a pen, no matter what I've written, the damage is done. There is no un-writing the words on the page. The only way to destroy the evidence is to burn the paper to ashes with a flame. But with a screen, all that needs to be done to exterminate the words is press one button, and the work vanishes.
With a pen and paper, it's easy. It's as if the thoughts in my head know when to become words. They know they are only going to show on a paper that will never be seen by anyone else unless the writer shows it to someone. And they also know when they are expected to be shared on the internet for tens, hundreds, even thousands or millions to see, so they hide.
But maybe it's not the words who are afraid. Maybe it's the thoughts. The thoughts that are so fast and powerful, and yet so hidden and weak. The thoughts that tell you how to break the person, or how to make the person. But maybe that's the key. Maybe it's not the words or the thoughts that are hesitant or afraid. Maybe it's the person.
I want to write. But the words don't come. The words don't come because I won't let them come. I hide them, and I bottle them inside. I quiet them, and shield them from the mocking eyes of the world. I protect them, so that I feel that I protect me. I lock them in a cage, so they can't get out, so that no one will know what they are. But when I let the words loose? What happens then?
What will they say? What insecurity and hurt will they reveal? What stand will they take? What lives will they change? What if they fail? What if they are so jumbled and scrambled and disorganized that they don't make sense to anyone? What if they don't change someone's life, and instead continue to twist it down a dark path? What if the words aren't the right words? What if the ideas aren't the right ideas? What if they cause more hurt than healing, and more pain than relief? What if they don't live up to my standards? Or the world's standards? What if the words turn back around and hurt me? What beautiful picture will they paint? What thoughts will form in the mind of the reader? What difference will they make? What wonder and beauty will they show? What then?
What if I let myself loose? What happens then?
What will I say? What insecurity and hurt will I reveal? What stand will I take? What lives will I change? What if I fail? What if I am so jumbled and scrambled and disorganized that I don't make sense to anyone? What if I don't change someone's life, and instead continue to twist it down a dark path? What if I am not the right person? What if my ideas aren't the right ideas? What if I cause more hurt than healing, and more pain than relief? What if I don't live up to my standards? Or the world's standards? What if I turn back around and hurt myself? What beautiful picture will I paint? What thoughts will form in the mind of the viewer? What difference will I make? What wonder and beauty will I show? What then?
I want to write. The words are scattered and scrambled. They're disorganized and out of order. They're far from perfect, and far from making sense. They're hard to get out, and they just won't flow. But I sit down, and I type, and I save and hit the publish button anyway.
~The Random Rambler
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