Wordless...

To you, I know not what time has done,
Mistakes, dark pages mixed with burst of gold,
Stories that are eager, but slowly told.
Time wears me, my thoughts, before I’ve begun.

Begun to see what had been given,
Begun to see what I hold inside
Remorse, crashing, thundering, dead tide.
Consumed by the flippant joy of living.

You I left waiting, holding the best,
Ignoring, while you wait day after day.
While I wandered, groping my selfish way,
Struggling, striving, and finding no rest.

Till you gave me a mountain unseen,
And my eyes were opened to my neglect,
My selfish consumption of life I regret.
Neither hot nor cold, but in between.

Love me. Love me still. Love me always.
I am hurting, I am broken. I cry.
Mistakes are marching, marching always by.
Hold me. Help me. Restore my lost days.

Capture. Redeem. Transform. Make brand new.
My life as a symphony soaring aloud.
My heart is humbled, it stands poorly bowed.

Let it stand yet to sing, only for you.

But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect. No, I worked harder than all of them—yet not I, but the grace of God that was with me. (I Corinthians 15:10)

If I had an office mate, they would probably express their "appreciation" of my talents by duct-taping my mouth shut to avoid pulling their hair out

Today an incredibly high spurt of giddyness bubbled over while sitting at my desk, diligently working...

I started creating my own dance (while sitting in my chair and typing) singing (complete with electric guitar sound-effects),

"Hey, now, you're an all-star, get the game on, go play!"
**bowow-chicka-bowow-chicka-bowow-wowow!** (those would be my sound-effects...)

I'm sure my co-workers feel a great fondness for me right now.

I can also rap the verses... But I'll refrain... (heehee! Did you get the pun!?!?)

I think I need to cut back on my coffee intake.

I am... contented and happy

I really have nothing to blog about... Nothing hilarious. (Well, maybe several, but not enough time to do them justice), nothing traumatic. Just life. And I'm enjoying it. Sure, in some places it gets a little hum-drum, but God is keeping it from being too boring by pointing out my many areas of sin. But He's also helping me grow, which is what makes Him so wonderful. Right now I'm learning, growing (hopefully!), and enjoying the simple pleasures...

making rice crispies with "Bear", teaching Julie-Bop to tango, washing my car, girl night at the coffee house, random texts from my Bunny, scrap-booking with Dawn, vacuuming, making blueberry muffins (that burned!), going to Bible study, doing laundry...

Praise God that He gives normal, routine days. Praise God that He helps me grow through it all, and even though the growth may often be hard- praise God that he never leaves me and continues to give me joy.

Yes, I am very happy, very contented, very convicted, very growing (hopefully), and very, very glad to have such a loving heavenly Father.

I get an unholy glee watching cocky guys, in huge trucks, pull despondently out of gas stations with $4.29/gallon advertised.

II Peter 1:3-11

His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires.

For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness; and to godliness, brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness, love. For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. But if anyone does not have them, he is nearsighted and blind, and has forgotten that he has been cleansed from his past sins.

Therefore, my brothers, be all the more eager to make your calling and election sure. For if you do these things, you will never fall, and you will receive a rich welcome into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

My Arch Nemesis- My Mailbox

From previous posts, it's probably pretty safe to say that all my readers know by now that I'm not the brightest bulb in the socket. I am, in all reality, often very slow. This would be a horrible thing to live with were it not for the fact that my stupidity usually reveals itself in abjectly hilarious ways...

So, I moved into my new place. I'm ecstatic. Someday I'll have to write a blog post about my battles with the utility companies. I became slightly less ecstatic. I locked myself out. More of a damper on my enthusiasm. I didn't have hot water. My enthusiasm grows still more feeble. By the time I trudged out to get the mail, my confidence in my own abilities and my excitement about my new condo were but paltry flickers.

It was dark. Incredibly steamy. I was barefoot because I had been wearing high heels all day. I was tired. Achy. All I wanted to do was harvest a new set of bills from the mailbox and return to my air conditioning. Now, I had no idea which mailbox was mine. I had a key. And the number 7 scratched on a paper by a realtor who was trying to be helpful. I assumed my mailbox was number 7, and I assumed that my key would open it. There are two boxes situated down the street which must house my mail. Or so I think.

I approach the two doors a little warily. I'm very bad with locks. (See reference to general stupidity in first paragraph.) In front of me I see a door, with one key hole down in the right corner. I try to insert my key. It won't go. I try the box next to it. Same deal. Both boxes have two large doors, locked by only one key hole and my key doesn't fit in either one.

I'm stubborn. I stand on my tip-toes and push. I angle the key from below, crouching in the street trying to find the right angle. Several times the key goes in, but it can't do anything once it's there. Finally, I stuff it in, wrap one arm around the side of the mailbox, dig my toes into the grass by the side of the road. My toes get squished in the mud, I get a cramp in my arm. And the key does not move. Frustrated, I give up and go inside.

Several days later I decide to try again. I've decided I'll give myself one more chance before I go and ask my elderly neighbors how I open the mailbox. But given my neighbors' general consensus on the ignorance and foolishness of youth (they're all about 70), I decided to have one more try before drinking from that cup of humility.

I go through the same ordeal as last time. Same result. The difference being that this time about 7 cars drove by while I was attempting. I blushed- mortified that my senior citizen neighbors could watch me wrestle with an inanimate object while they gaze at me from their Buicks.

I was talking on the phone to Bunny, when I suddenly snorted with exasperation, kicked the mailbox, and yelled, "Arrrgh! I can't figure this thing out!" (Yes, I was sinfully angry. No, at the time I didn't care.) When I told Bunny what was going on she, without a pause, said,

"Don't mailboxes have two sides?" Pulling my feet out of the dirt, unwrapping my arm, jerking my key out of the lock, I walked around to the other side of the mailbox...

And there were 30, neatly marked, individual tiny doors. One of them had a number 7 on it.

Like I said, not the brightest bulb in the socket...

WHOO-HOO!!!

Recently, Drew and I have been working on his letters. On his last visit to the optometrist, he was told (to the surprise of his parents, teachers, and me!) that his optic nerve was actually growing. (For those of you who don't know... he's always been able to see out of his left eye, but to such a small extent that it serves no purpose.) The optometrist recommended glasses.

Needless to say, we've been doing eye exercises ever since (we did some before, but they had more meaning now!). We looked at picture cards, we looked at colors, and recently I've been trying to teach him what the letters of the alphabet look like. He knows the ABC song, but he has no idea what the physical representation of each letter is.

Well, today we had learned all the way through letter J. (That's almost half!) I wrote the letters thick, large, and dark on pieces of white paper, and he can tell me (with about 85% accuracy- yes, I actually calculated that) what the letter is. Each of the letters stands for something to help him remember, visually, what it is. ("D" is for a big cream-filled "Donut," and "B" is for two "bunk-beds"- the letters are supposed to look like their cue words.) Today he was doing so well, and had mastered so many letters that I had an idea...

"Bear, here. Look at these three letters together. What are these?"

"C."

"Right... next one?"

"A."

"Okay. And the last one?"

"B."

"All right. Can you sound it out for me?"

"C-A-B. Cab!"

MY BEAR CAN READ WITH HIS EYES! WHOO-HOO!!!

Confession... one of so many faults...

I have a horrible, all-consuming, awful habit.

I want people to be happy.

I know. It sounds good, doesn't it? It sounds wonderful. It sounds self-less.

It's not. At least not entirely.

Back underneath this desire for everyone to be happy, is a little black, nasty, moldy sin. It's called people-pleasing. It's really people worship. It's idolatry. It just sits there. It's unobtrusive. It doesn't peek it's head out very often, and (as stated above) it's covered by a very, very good thing. But it's still there. And it's still nasty.

I, deep down, want to please people more than I want to please God.

If you walked right up to me and asked me, "Courtney, do you want to make someone other than God happy?" I would look horrified. "What!?! Want to please anyone other than my heavenly Father? What can you possibly be thinking? Of course not!" But it's true.

The problem with this particular sin is that it's morphing. In high school it was all-engrossing. In the early years of my college I battled it- fought it. Hated it. I struggled with wanting everyone to like me. Everyone to approve. Everyone to be happy with me. The problem with that is that there are too many everyones. And I shouldn't want some of them to be happy with me. So I beat it. I hated it. And (I thought) conquered it.

But all it did was creep further back into a corner of my personality, it changed its shape, and gradually crept into the crevices- entrenching itself in my life. Insidiously. Now, while I really want everyone to be happy- I realize the impossibility of that. It's not an all-engrossing goal. And I realize that it's never going to happen. But as I said, it's not gone. It just shifted from the majority to a select minority. And it grew stronger.

The shocking realization (which really shouldn't be that shocking) is how much I value others' opinions, (and how much my life shows that value) versus how much I value God's opinion, His judgment. This skews my perspective, my purpose, my passion, my life.

What can I plead to my Heavenly Father? What can I beg? That my focus, my all-consuming passion be Christ. That He be the only thing in my sights. That His glory be the only thing I'm striving for. That pleasing Him, making the man who hung in torture on slabs of wood, his life's blood rushing out of him in painful, slow agony- He who felt the wrath of God- who felt the worst sense of displeasure- pleasing him should be the one and only focus of my life.

Help me, God.

How great is our God.

"Because he loves me," says the LORD, "I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation."

(Psalm 91)

Musings...

Sometimes I wonder if I like myself. (Oh, I know I love myself. The Bible says so. I believe it. But sometimes I wonder if I like the person I love...)

I wonder at what age I'll pass as "senior" at the bread store. $.44 a loaf is good...

Whatever happened to some of my best friends? And why didn't I appreciate them more when they were here?

I need to find my lighter so I can burn my new candles.

Making a torte sounds like fun right now.

I should probably not get so distracted at work...

My Quest

It should be noted, that I'm not an artistic person. In fact, I lack common sense in regards to color, combination, texture, and depth- all of which (I am convinced) are necessary to achieve a pulled-together, elegantly furnished, tasteful room. I have friends who excel in these areas, but I, sadly, am lacking in such skills.

However, I lack a lot of skills, and I rarely let that keep me from doing anything. If I only attempted the areas I am skilled in, I would be confined to a large easy chair, sipping Diet Coke, and reading 19th century female authors. I am incredibly good at that.

So today I attempted to decorate. I say "attempted" because my first few feeble fumbles have just been taken. I say "feeble", because they were small steps in a certain direction, and I say "fumbles" because those few small steps were probably wrong according to every decorating, interior design law and mantra that has ever been known. Yes. But I tried...

I bought candles.

Don't pooh-pooh my purchase. I know you're sniffing. I just heard you mentally deride the agony I've gone through to select three pillar candles. Yes. Only three. But you must understand the process...

Firstly, they must go on my mantle, so, to look adequate in that space they must be substantial. On a long aisle, with nothing but mounds of scented, dyed wax, one begins to think that anything over three inches is substantial, but this is not so.

Second, color must come into consideration. I now have a red wall. Do you have any idea how many different colors of red there are? I'm sure Markus didn't until he was forced to hold twelve different variations of the same hue up at seven different angles to determine which would be best suited to my new abode. However, this leaves me with a very particular color red. How is one to know if the candle I hold in my hands matches the shade of my wall? God forbid that it be one shade off! Could my future guests stand to be in a house with glaringly mismatched candles? I think not! So I walked down the entire aisle and pulled off every single red candle. I then lined up in a row and compared. The orange-red tints were discarded, the purply reds were tossed aside, until the perfect crimson candle was discovered and placed safely in my cart. After that work, it was guarded jealously.

Third, one must consider texture and shape. There are square, round, pillar, balled, rough, and smooth candles. You may find the perfect height. You may determine the correct shade. But if you have made an erroneous judgment on texture and shape- you might as well have not even commenced the quest for candles. I was forced, during this period of my search, to lie flat on my stomach, in the middle of the aisle, in order to reach the best cream candle on the bottom shelf. (I kept my purse on my shoulder to prevent my credit card and driver's license from being stolen, but then I also kept a foot hooked around my shopping cart to keep an infamous villain from absconding with my previously discovered "perfect" crimson candle. I'm sure I looked amusing...)

Fourth, and lastly, one must look at the whole picture. If one has found the best crimson, the best cream, and the best sienna, then one must make sure that all these bests look best together. Such a thing is not always possible. I'm still mourning the loss of a beautiful chocolate brown candle. But what could I do? Its rough, dark exterior marred the appearance of the cream pillar (and after scrambling all over the floor, I wasn't about to put that one back.)

Some people might council paying attention to scent, in addition to color, texture, shape, and size. While this is optimal, and preferred, it is not always possible unless you have 45 minutes to spend on the candle aisle, and unless (unfazed by the glares of store personnel) you can glibly, without shame pull every candle off the shelves and replace them all in different locations. Apparently I have too much time, and not enough shame... My hands smell like 37 different cream candles.

I think I might be obsessively compulsive...

Note to Self: Blind Boys Don't Care About The Color or Style of Your Car

I went to pick up Drew the other morning. Because of my accident I've been driving my family's minivan. It's green-ish, taupe-ish, and very economical and middle-aged looking. It was either that or my brother's motorcycle, and since I was deemed "unable" to drive the bike, I got stuck with the mommy-mobile. (Actually, in our family it's the daddy-mobile, since Mom likes the Cadillac, and my dad is very self-sacrificing.)

Anyway, I'm driving through town, ruing the day that I neglected to learn how to drive a motorcycle, and feeling incredibly mature and matronly- emotions I can only attribute to my vehicle.

I pull into the Viars.

Drew clambers in. It's much easier for him to get into than my little compact and he exclaims, with incredible awe,

"Whew! Court! You've got a sweeEEt ride!"

I'll have to let my father know... He's got a "sweeEEt ride."

If you know anything about decorating with style and economy, I would greatly appreciate your tips and secrets. I'm kinda new to all this...

A Series of Unfortunate Events

As a general rule, I am not an incredibly graceful or lucky person. In fact, I may even be characterized by unnatural klutziness. Entirely without intention, I tend to wind up in the worst possible situations, which I myself create or encourage. It's like a disease they haven't invented a vaccination for. I'm completely helpless to help myself. I rely almost entirely on luck and the goodwill of others. Unfortunately, my luck ran out this week...

Friday morning. I was in an accident. See post below. It was horrible. But little did I know it was only the beginning...

Several hours later, I learned my car would cost me $3,400 to repair, and that three of my friends were struggling- one's husband was going to jail, one needed intense medication for a health problem, and one had a possible brain tumor.

I was also set to move into my new home in less than 12 hours, and I had packed nothing. Nothing. (Except my winter sweaters...)

I prayed. And got to packing. Halfway through my packing I started crying. No, I was not distressed, my eyes were just watering uncontrollably. I ran to the mirror and was distressed to see my right eye red and swollen. Tears were streaming out of it. (If you've ever cried with just one eye, you know how odd it feels.) I was distraught. I have very large eyes. (Bug eyes, I believe they've been called.) And when one is even slightly red it's very noticeable. This one resembled a cherry tomato more than anything else. Resolutely I wiped my tears and kept on packing.

Fully packed, 11 hours later (yes, I'm superwoman! And also incredibly poor and belongingless...) I was ready to conquer the world. Or at least my small corner of it- 203 T---- T--- in West Lafayette...

I moved in. I was proud. The only furniture other than my bed was my bookshelf. My movers were happy (Thanks Dad and Markus!) but my new abode still looks un-lived in. (Except for the kitchen. Kitchen goods I have!) After everyone had gone, I went outside to pull weeds. I am such a good home owner.

And I locked myself out. No phone. No keys. No garage code. No shoes.

At 10:00 at night I had to go meet my next door neighbors (Jim and Charlotte) and ask to use their phone. They were very nice. Grandparent-like. We sat on the porch (waiting for the locksmith who was going to charge me $100 to open my own door) and chatted. He used to be the Director of Human Resources at Purdue. I know! I was impressed too.

About 11:00 p.m., realizing the expensive locksmith was a total loser (apologies to all other locksmiths), I called my dad. He had spent all day moving me. But he drove back across town and broke into my house with a credit card. I had no idea my father had a criminal past...

Sunday was fairly uneventful except for the fact that I was told my insurance deductible was $1,000. I did not handle my new-found poverty with complete grace. Yes, I cried out of my still puffy eye. And, while crying, realized that my other eye (the left eye) had begun to itch and turn red.

By 8 p.m. both eyes were fiery red. And the left eyes was so swollen that I could barely see out of it.

Monday I had a doctor's appointment. My new medicine and antibiotics for my eyes cost me a whopping $566.34. (My parents are currently transferring health insurance...) My eyes watering (now from shock, and from illness), I stumbled out of Target. I could probably have been declared legally blind...

Tuesday the water company confused my request to turn-on my water, and instead they turned my water off. To make matters worse, when I discovered this I had just spent a good hour in my flower gardens ripping out rocks and digging- I was covered in mud. And shower-less.

I just sat down on my stairs (remember, I'm chair-less, couch-less, table-less, and all round furniture-less) and howled with laughter.

Someday I'm going to write a book about my life... and this will make a great chapter.