June 17, 2016

Second Anniversary

Dear Story Girl Readers,

I owe you an apology.

I am sorry because I have not been faithfully telling you about the mysteries of the written word, or sharing with you the exciting books I have read. I am not investing in your lives, dear Readers, and for that I am truly sorry. Life has been difficult and crazy in the last several months, but nevertheless, my hope for this blog was to inspire my readers to write, read, and dream for themselves. How can I inspire you if I never tell you about my work-in-progress, or the books I have loved, or what plans I am making for my future?

Two years ago, I started this blog. My first post went up on this very day. I have been pretty hit and miss throughout that time, but I am so thankful for those of you who are faithful to read my posts. It shows me that if I ever dare peek my head out of my shell and offer the world something I have created, there are people who might even be excited to see it. 

I want to hear from you, Readers. What are your interests in life, in reading? Ask me questions, send requests. As I continue to practice the art of poetry and prose, I want to know from you what you like to read. Do you like to write, as well? What stirs your soul?

Do you want book reviews and suggestions? Do you crave poetry, or non-fiction research? As my dad once said, "I'm picking up what you're laying down." So lay it down. Don't be afraid.

I've opened a contact page where you can get a hold of me, or you can comment below on this page. May the storytelling commence!

March 28, 2016

Fly

Sometimes…sometimes, I just wish I could fly. 

I wish I could get up above the city lights and dance in the clouds. I don’t want to be on this earth, because it’s too heavy. There are too many things in this world that clamor and clang. I want to listen to the orchestra of the heavens. I imagine that the stars sing, but they play instruments too, heavenly instruments that no mortal being has ever seen or dreamed up. To be free to dance in a world without any sound but beautiful, celestial music is too much to dream. 
I get so tired of everything that happens. Writing is the only way I can escape. I can drown myself in a sea of words, visions, and landscapes that have never come to pass. My soul seems trapped by the challenges of every day life, even though mine is relatively easy. People come and go, chores that must be done, tasks that make up life. But to be free…oh, to be seized by that wonderful break from the chaos, to dance in a world where nothing but love and light live, would be divine. I think that is what Heaven must be, to have a world where spinning and dancing and making music and flying among the stars is acceptable, because they are worshipping God. We’ll sing and raise our voices and give all glory to God in the highest. And the stars will be a tangible landscape. It’s not so distant after all. 

How can I cut free here on earth? How can I escape? My head feels full of do’s and don’ts, lists of memories, questions, and unconquerable tasks. It’s not that I mind this place…no, I guess I do mind. I don’t even understand what I’m longing for, but I know that nothing on this earth will satisfy it forever. There’s only so close I can get to Heaven from earth. Only so high I can reach. 

As I look about me, I see the details of an ordinary, comfortable life, but there must be more. I am sure there is. Can laundry and cleaning and school and cooking be all there is to life? Isn’t there more? How does one find it? How can I seize it? Can’t I dance among the stars now? Why do I have to wait? 

I want to find purpose. I’ve never thought of this before, I have only gone through my whole life thinking about me, but it’s not about me. The stars don’t shine for their own glory, they shine to magnify each other. They can’t shine alone. If I shine only for myself and on my own, I’ll never learn to dance. Somehow, I have to learn the steps as I watch the others around me. When I watch my own feet I fail. Show me then, the men and women who have learned the steps so that I may learn, and then show me enough, that I can show others the steps to the eternal dance. Show me that I may fly through the stars and be carried away by the music for my LORD, for that is the only reason I exist. Why am I here but to serve the master who breathed life into my nostrils. This is my song of prayer and praise. Teach me the steps, oh, LORD, I want to know them. 

My purpose in life? To love God. To Love people. To deny myself. I want to be a shining star in the universe, but I can’t do that unless I am kindled by the SUN of the universe. There’s only one Sun, it gives us life. There’s only one Son and he gave me mine. 

So here I am, Oh Lord. Teach me your ways. I dance at your feet, but I don’t know the steps. Show me. Lead me. Let me see when all is too dark around me. Raise my head from this clouded earth and let me walk among the starlight. Will you let me dance for you? Help me, God. I give you all I have. My words, my music, my hands, my feet, my eyes, my tongue, my ears, my song. I lay them before you. I will dance. 

The music is a whirling tapestry of motion and color. I want to be the thread. Will you use me to create an image of yourself? Will you let me bind a wound, or set the captive free? My life will not be my own. Nothing I do will be but for your Glory. Renew in me a clean heart, God. Meet me in this place. Teach me to dance. I come before you with broken feet and deaf ears. Teach me to hear the music of your Word, Your Breath, and lead me through the dance. Lead me through your beautiful world. Let me fly in the stars.

March 1, 2016

First Move

First Move
Janelle Spiers 

Out of sight, out of mind,
But would you please look behind,
You’ve moved on without me
Now it’s dark, I can’t see. 
Would you throw me a rope,
Because it’s all I can hope.
Could you make the first move,
Show me light, won’t you prove
That I’m not by myself in this strange new world. 

Out of light, out of shine,
I’ve been doing just fine
But you’ve moved on without me
Now it’s dark. I can’t see.
I’m too proud to shout,
Won’t you help me get out?
Could you make the first move,
Show me light, won’t you prove
That I’m not by myself in this cold new world. 

Out of sight, out of mind,
Maybe we’re blind.
You’ve moved on without me
It’s so dark. I can’t see.
If I stretch out my hand
Will you help me to stand?
Could you make the first move,
Show me light, won’t you prove
That I’m not by myself in this dark new world. 


February 16, 2016

A Character Sketch ~ Jean Valjean

A Character Sketch ~ Jean Valjean

From the Book, ‘Les Miserables
Work by Victor Hugo, translated by Norman Denny
Sketch Written by Janelle A. Spiers


In the year 1862, Victor Hugo released one of the most anticipated novels of the French culture.  A volume twenty years in the making, Les Miserables shook the world with its pathos for the rich history of France, the poverty of the working people, and the political revolutions that stamped their names in the foundations of Paris and Waterloo. Hugo wrote about the common people, placing them in the hardships of the early 1800s and surrounding them with visions of love and revolution. From the street urchin Garoche, to the prostitute Fantine, to the well-spoken Enjorlas, Hugo swept the streets of Paris for his characters. His main protagonist, Jean Valjean, is no exception to the common life of 19th century France, in fact, he is so average, he almost blends right into the seams of Paris’ history.   
There are two kinds of characters when it comes to their impressions of Jean Valjean, those who like him, and those who do not. Seldom is there a lukewarm spirit when Jean Valjean comes into question, although most of them would admit that he is quiet and odd. Jean Valjean is not accustomed to speaking more words that he needs, but it doesn’t mean that he is unintelligent. His mind is always turning in contemplation and deep thoughts that cannot be expressed in words, but the people do not know this. All that those around him know is that he is quiet, reserved, shy, perhaps, but above all, very strange. He has an air of mystery that entrances and turns away people who come into contact with him. Jean Valjean commands an authoritative presence, but at the same time, a gentle, humble spirit. He has been nicknamed ‘the beggar who gives alms.’ But when men meddle with him, Jean Valjean becomes a menacing, powerful man and can throw a good punch and disappear like a phantom. Men and women alike either come to him with their troubles or cower and sneer at his coming.
Jean Valjean appears to be a very poor man. He is dressed in rags and old torn clothes, and he has no carriage or permanent establishment.  He carries everything he owns in a small valise wherever he goes; the little case earned the name ‘his inseparables’ because they are never to be parted from his side. He is famous for an old yellow coat, which most dismiss him as a shabby scamp, but on further inspection, to the astonishment of one nosy old woman, a vast sum of money and disguises are hidden in the lining of his coat, adding further to his aura of mystery. He is neither an attractive nor an ugly man, and his eyes are drawn in thought and alluded sorrow. Jean Valjean has brilliantly white hair from an early age and it is often used to identify him. He has a pensive face and rarely smiles, but there is a strength in his eyes that is not easily missed.
The more acquaintances Jean Valjean acquires, the more they come to depend on him in some way or another. He is recognized as a generous man that gives money away easily, and without much question. Those who love him come to him in their need, but make an effort to repay him for his kindness. Those who despise him come with open palms, waiting to take what the old man will offer them with no thought for the giver himself. People see his actions as generous, albeit strange, and there is no doubt that though Jean Valjean is quiet and aloof, he has a loud heart. His actions speak far louder than his words and even the poorest men can recognize this about Jean Valjean.

After his father died when he was a boy, Jean Valjean was left orphaned and in the care of his older sister. He helped to provide for his sister and her children as he grew older, but despite his hard work, the children continued to starve. One night, Jean Valjean was arrested for stealing bread for his nieces and nephews. What would have been five years in prison for the felony became nineteen after four attempted escapes and additional sentences. When Jean Valjean was finally released from prison, he was required to carry a yellow passport informing anyone who wanted to see his papers that he was an ex-convict.
It is at this point that Jean Valjean is introduced into the story of Les Miserables. After being turned away from every inn on the road, Valjean is finally offered shelter by a bishop named Myriel, a highly devout and kind man.  Valjean steals the bishop’s silverware in the night and runs away, but he is caught by the police and returned to the bishop’s house. Bishop Myriel admonishes Valjean in front of the police for forgetting the silver candlesticks on the mantle, which he claimed to have given Valjean as a gift. To Jean Valjean’s utter astonishment, he is released and posses not only the silver, but also the entreaty to use the gift for good and not for evil. Bishop Myriel pleads Valjean to turn from darkness into light and claims he now belongs to God.
Three years pass and Jean Valjean, who has taken up the alias of Monsieur Madeleine, is a wealthy and influential businessman that has just been elected for mayor. He has followed the Bishop’s wishes and seeks to make up for what he has done. When an impoverished young woman named Fantine is hurled into Valjean’s life, he tends her and tries to comfort the forlorn woman. In her anguish and sickness, Fantine tells Valjean about her young daughter whom she had to give up. She entreats Valjean to bring the girl to her so that she can care for her daughter. But before he can do so, an astonishing event occurs. Monsieur Madeleine is informed that Jean Valjean has been arrested, tried, and found guilty and sentenced to death. The real Valjean rushes to court and gives himself up for the wrongly accused man, but everyone finds his story so crazy he is not arrested at that moment. An officer named Javert, a man who has been hunting Valjean for his entire career, arrests him upon his return to his city. Fantine dies from shock when the man who had saved her is pronounced a criminal.
After faking his death in an accident aboard a prison ship, Valjean makes good on his promise to Fantine to take care of her daughter, Cosette. He takes her away from the Thenardiers, the cruel family Cosette has been forced to live with, and he tends to her like his own daughter. They live in sundry different places throughout the city of Paris, because Javert is unwilling to believe that the notorious Jean Valjean is dead and continues to hunt him. For many years, Valjean and Cosette hide in a convent until Javert loses his trail completely. Cosette grows up completely unaware of her true parentage and any history of her father, because she was too young to remember a time without Valjean.
When they finally move to a tenement house in Paris, Cosette is a lovely and attractive young woman. Hardly any time passes before she has caught the eye of a gentleman named Marius, and he hers. Valjean is unaware that Cosette and Marius are madly in love and that Marius sneaks into his garden to talk with Cosette until several suspicious incidents compel him to move. As the Revolution swells and rallies the French to action, he moves to another part of Paris, only to discover how much the two love each other.  When he receives a letter intended for Cosette, Valjean discovers that Marius plans to go to the blockade and die in glory and in heartbreak because of their sundered love. Valjean also goes to fight at the blockade, but it is uncertain if he planned to save Marius, or let him die, for he is jealous of the affection that Cosette has for Marius; it used to all belong to him.
At the blockade, two important events shape the rest of Valjean’s history. The first is that Javert, the police officer, has been caught as a spy and Valjean is given permission to kill him upon his own request. But when he takes Javert out to shoot him, he releases the man and gives him his life and freedom, knowing full well that he might be arrested later. The second important moment is that Marius, wounded and unconscious, is rescued by Valjean and taken through the sewers to freedom. But before Valjean can make it to safety, Javert finds him again and demands his arrest. Valjean asks to take Marius back to his family first, and then return to tell Cosette goodbye, and afterwards allow himself to be arrested. Javert honors his request and lets Valjean go up to his apartment to speak to Cosette, but when Valjean returns, Javert is gone. Troubled by the conflict of conscience and law, Javert lets Valjean go free, but finds himself so disgraced as a man of the law that he commits suicide by jumping into the Seine.
Valjean permits Cosette to marry Marius, who lives despite his injuries. But after the wedding he tells Marius of his history, his life as a convict, and Marius is appalled. He tries to limit the amount of time Valjean spends with Cosette, until Jean Valjean stops coming entirely. At this time, Marius realizes that he had made a grave misunderstanding about what crimes Jean Valjean had actually committed and discovered that Valjean had in reality saved his own life. Hurrying to his apartment, Marius and Cosette find Valjean sick and dying; they are too late to save him.  In his final hour, Valjean and Marius are reconciled and Valjean tells Cosette her mother’s name. He dies in their embrace, under the light of the Bishop’s candlesticks.

Valjean is constantly haunted by his guilt. After repenting and reshaping his life because of Bishop Myriel’s mercy, Valjean strives earnestly to do good. However, he is hounded by his past life; he cannot escape his past even if he can escape the law. Valjean’s two faults are a lack of self-esteem and a guilty motive for some of his generosity.  He lacks the freedom to accept his forgiveness and pardon so that he can be separated from the chains of his past. Instead, he is a slave to what he witnessed in prison and how he got there. In addition, he is motivated to do better than he had in the past, but his motive is one of coercion more than out of love.
However, because of his guilt Jean Valjean has a powerful moral compass. His conscience refused to let him be silent when another man was accused of his crimes. It would have been very easy for Valjean to let the man be punished for his own actions, but he chose to give himself up and not make him pay the price for his own sins. Another result of this is when Valjean told Marius about his life. He could have hidden his secrets, no one would have known him as he truly was, but he was so haunted by his guilt and conscience that he chose to tell Marius. Another merit of Valjean’s was his heart. It’s uncertain if he gave away money, sacrificed time and resources, and made good on his word because of his guilty conscience and he felt that it would redeem him, or if after the bishop’s commission he honestly sought to help others. Knowing the character of Valjean, it is likely that both factors played into the actions of Jean Valjean.
            And then there is the power of Valjean’s love. He so earnestly loved Cosette as his own that to be separated from her was to die. Having never known the embrace of a woman, or the love of a mother, or the friendliness of a sister, Cosette was to him all those things.  It physically pained him to be removed from her and he physically diminished. His death was hurried by his separation from Cosette. It is certain that no guilty conscience was the cause of his great love for her.  In his compassion for her mother, Jean Valjean took in a tiny waif that would prove to be the best thing that had ever happened to him.  His jealousy may be understood when Marius began stealing parts of Cosette’s affection away from him.

            Victor Hugo’s, Les Miserables, paints a gripping picture of the hardships of the 19th century in the slums of Paris.  Jean Valjean’s troubled past is rippled into a troubled future, where poverty and political overthrow take the freedom and privilege of every man, woman, and child. Written for the people, Hugo left them a memoir of prestigious influence that still affects the world as we know it.  From the orphan Cosette, abused and mistreated, to the wicked Thenardier and his greed, Hugo captures a picture of days gone by, but certainly not days we can not relapse into.  With his main character, Jean Valjean at the heart of this story, Hugo does not leave his troubled characters in despair; he gives them the chance of redemption. Like Jean Valjean, we must learn from our past and let it inspire our future, because in a world such as this, what have we but life? In the words of Jean Valjean, “It is nothing to die. It is frightful not to live.” (1197)

October 8, 2015

National Poetry Day

October 8 is National Poetry Day!

There are just too many poems to share to celebrate this momentous occasion. We could spend hours upon hours reading Keats, Byron, Emerson, Longfellow, Silverstein, and that's the tiniest list of poets I've ever seen! Imagine how long it could take to share all those poems!

Instead, I'll share something that I've written. I may not be as famous as Emily Dickinson or E.E. Cummings, but that's all right, because anyone can be a poet. Anyone who says the words that are written on their heart is a poet. Good thing there are so many forms to choose from, we can be our own poets.

And so without further ado, here is a series of poems I wrote. Happy National Poetry Day!

"Trees" 
by Janelle Spiers

I.
They cut the trees with merciless ease
Felling the stories and rings.
With shattering sighs and gasps for breath
They leveled the growing things.

The dryads screamed for mercy
But they were drowned out by the roar
Of the mighty machine with its teeth like knives
Hungrily gnawing for more.

Green leaves fell down like salty tears
And watered the broken ground
As the spirits in the trees
Were crushed without a sound.

They cut the trees with merciless ease
To thin the verdure, green
Such sight and sound I now have heard,
But I wish it hadn’t been.


II.
In a wood they stood
Tall and proud
But now they lay
In aching shroud.

They used to sing
And tell us tales
But now I hear
Only pitiful wails.

Where once was beauty
Now is dying
Like worn out washing
Hung for drying.

Like corpses laid
On a funeral pyre
They wait for the end.
It will end in fire.
  

III.
All things must come to an end.
All things must come to pass.
Even fallen bodies lying
Cold upon the grass.

Drenched in oil, lit with sparks
But nary a word or tear.
Dancing flame upon the wood
And those who listen, hear:

Crying voices, all in pain
Shrieking from the heat.
Their moaning turns to whispers
As they suffer such defeat.

Death creeps close along the logs
Reveling in his feast
His orange tongue licks achingly
Over the deceased.


IV.
Burning snowflakes fall to earth
And land in drifts of dust.
The whispers of voices float around
And speak of fire’s lust.

Gentle ashes touch the ground
And darken up the soil.
A tiny touch on any piece
And the shape will surely spoil.

The memories of root and bark
Are floating through the sky
And when they touch the ground again
Their memory will die.

Burning snowflakes fall to earth
And sing their final song.
They tell of days when life was green,
Before their life was gone.


October 7, 2015

What We Wish We Weren't

A friend of mine recently asked the question, 'What is a body?' and then proceeded to answer it in the most beautiful and poetic way imaginable. It caught my attention and I asked if I could share it with all of you, because it's a message that needs to be shared and contemplated. It rings with truth and purity; that's hard to find nowadays.

"What is a body? A literal reflection of our inner selves? A walking organ that functions based off of the whims of some unseen soul? A prison? We become so consumed with the outer appearance of a shell, of the case that protects the vibrant life that resides inside. We color it and paint it, putting on airs and dressing it up telling the world "this is me! Look at my clothes and my skin and my hair. Look at the way I walk and talk and move. This is me." Lies. This is a disguise. A clever trick of the world that allows us to present to our fellow beings exactly what we wish. But what is the point? Who are you trying to impress? They do not live inside your head, they do not spend everyday trapped within the confines of your mind, listening to the endless torrent of thoughts and emotions never ceasing, never letting you rest. We are forced to face ourselves everyday, and often we do not like what we see, because we see what is real. The true being behind the disguise. But what of the world? It cannot handle what resides behind my eyes. Luckily I need not let them see what hides inside. For I have been given a mannequin that I can dress and change to fit my whims. I can make it say what I like and do what I want while I hide within, playing a game with the outside world, waiting to see who will see the cracks in my disguise. My body has become a prison, I have trapped myself with the ideas of what I should be. But is that the function of a body? Is that it's role in the design of the world? To be a cage? I highly doubt it. Our bodies are what we present to the world, merely because we cannot show them what is inside. Therefore what we portray on our outer shell should be a reflection of the inside. Not of the pain and anger. And not of the joy and peace. But a mixture of both. Only then will we be fair to ourselves and say to the world "this is me. Broken and fragile. Sin filled and prideful. But still beautiful." It's time to turn this prison into a home, to build and fix it because it is our residence, to love it because it is a gift, a dwelling to house who we really are, even if only for a short time. It's time to set the captive free and stop hiding away in fear of what we wish we weren't." ~ Caresse N. Hassoldt


Challenge yourself today, dear Reader, wherever you are and whatever your story may be to discover, What is your body? Is it your prison? Complicated machinery? What are you doing with it? Is it meant to impress, is it meant to hide? How can you set yourself free and live the full life? 

 "It's time to set the captive free and stop hiding away in fear of what we wish we weren't."

September 15, 2015

Adventure is out There!

Once upon a time, a well-to-do Hobbit was asked to go on an Adventure.

His name was Bilbo Baggins, and the idea of Adventure was alarming. He was very comfortable in his cozy house, he had good friends, a lovely corner of the world to dwell in, and a beautiful place to call home. He believed, and he was right in thinking so, that Adventures were nasty, uncomfortable affairs that made one late for dinner.

But as time went on, his curiosity and excitement proved stronger than his determination to stay put. Bilbo realized that he needed to go on the Adventure, not only for his sake, but for the sake of others. He decided he was willing to face his fear, challenge the danger, and run pel-mel into the midst of the unknown, even if he would miss some supper or have to sleep on the ground instead of his nice little feather bed. He was a courageous Hobbit, whose small strength and bravery seemed hardly capable of penetrating the looming darkness, but he was willing, after a lot of fretting and worrying, to do his very best!

Bilbo answered the calling Adventure, and when he returned, he found that he was forever changed. He saw through eyes of experience and trial the hidden paths and unknown places that had always been beyond his reach, and his hands were rough from fighting and hard work. He no longer fit in among his peers because he had so drastically gone out, but Bilbo never lacked friends, they were only different to the sort of company he used to have.

Bilbo Baggins became known as one of the most famous Hobbits in all the history of Hobbits, and the world would have been a very different place had he declined his Adventure, because of course, all of us are called for some kind of Adventure. Some are great and some are small, but none, not even the smallest, is less important than the most epic of Adventures. The quiet ones are most comfortable, but Bilbo's Adventure molded him into better shape, as we all must try to do.

Once upon a time, in another world and time, a young teenager was asked to go on an Adventure, and, well, you get the picture...

This summer I took the Adventure of my lifetime and moved from my home in Colorado across the country to a new home in Tennessee. There have been mountains to move, rivers to cross, and valleys to climb, with some blood, sweat, and a lot of tears throughout. Like Bilbo Baggins, I'm learning to face the challenges and meet it with trembling courage. He made it seem so much easier.

I've learned a lot through these past months, and I'm only at the beginning of the Adventure. There's so much more to come and I'm ready to face it, come what may. I hope that someday, I shall return, go 'there and back again', as Bilbo did, but for now, I'm taking one step forward toward the right direction. It's the least I can do. I'm on an Adventure, after all.


P.S. Bilbo was right, Adventures make you late for dinner...

June 1, 2015

The Jigsaw People of this Puzzle World

Life is a puzzle and we are all jigsaw pieces, trying to make something of the world.

Each of us have our own little life-puzzle that we have to fit together every day. A child's is simple and has fewer pieces to deal with. It makes more sense to put together because there is a surplus of youthful innocence and eagerness to work with the few pieces they have.  The colors are bright, the picture is appealing, the edges are smooth and straight, and they enjoy everything about them in their little puzzle world.

But as we get older and begin to have more doubts and loves and fears, responsibilities, chaos, and joy, the picture starts to change. What was once clear and defined becomes more confusing, since it has a lot more pieces that need a place, and the edges are rough; there are no more straight lines.  The colors darken with our deeper understanding of a messed up, scary world, and the picture no longer makes any sense. No matter how you tilt your head, you can't see what the picture is, but you still have to add pieces and pieces to the jumbled pile, hoping that something beautiful will turn out.

As we struggle valiantly to make sense of it all, little do we realize that right next door, or across the street, there's another person with a puzzle of their own.  Everywhere you look, each person has a life that needs to be sorted out, put together, and built up, one piece at a time.  Some of us have lives that are bright and cheery, the colors on the jigsaw tiles are bold and beautiful, even tough there's still not a complete picture. Others are shunned because of their puzzle.  Their puzzle-life is so dark and obscure that they feel that their whole world is an abyss without a trace of color, no picture, no beauty, no light, love, or passion. Their's is a puzzle far darker than yours, and the edges are rougher than a jagged cliff where it seems that no beauty can ever penetrate.

But what if we were to put all the pieces together?  All the pieces from everyone's puzzle, could we combine our rough edges with a smooth one, and connect them so that they all fit?  The world is made up of individuals, with individual stories or puzzles. But in reality, if you step back and let it all shrink into proportion, we are all one piece of a greater picture. Each piece in our story that seems so huge or monumental is a tiny drop of color in one sea of paint.


When we combine our puzzles with someone else's, we see the formation of a picture, more clear and interesting than our isolated one. The colors blend and the chaos doesn't seem so glaring. As more and more individuals come together all the bleak pasts and hopeful futures merge into a larger, brighter story. There are dark spots, but they line up and blend beautifully with another colorful life.  The woman down the street who was abused, with dark, ugly colors in her puzzle, found a woman with gentle hands to help her, whose own puzzle has a dark streak, but learned to find the color in the world.

We need each other, we humans. Life would look so drab and impossible without them. Of course, some people can't fit together like others. It will take a lifetime of rearranging, turning, and moving to find a place where we fit beautifully with another soul. That's what families are meant for; even in the searching and scrambling to fit in, there should always be a place to call home and know that you belong.

And we all belong. No piece is not meant to fit in the puzzle of life. Jigsaw tiles will forever be added to the edges, increasing the size and picture. The old ones will fade and lose their color over time, but they're no less important after they are dead, because they're still part of the bigger picture. While we are living, breathing, jigsaw tiles, we should never give up or give in, because just when all things seem utterly desperate and impossible, we'll be ushered into a place where we fit with other souls who know our pain, with souls who can heal and help us, and other jigsaw pieces that fill our empty spots. We are never useless, because if we live the full life, we'll find that even though we need help, we help others too, because no jigsaw in this life is cut with all holes, but with circles or squares to fill another person up.

Life is a puzzle, a mystery, and an awful mess sometimes, but we are the pieces that make a great picture. We're the jigsaw people of this puzzle world, and we create a story of passion, beauty, sorrow, and ultimately, the greatest picture that this world can know.  We fit together, despite our wounds, despite our colors, despite our differences to paint the perfect picture of the Maker's love. We see it on a small scale when we step back and enjoy the view, but every day, every circumstance adds another piece to our lives and another's until the end of time when we will finally have a bird's eye view of the place we called home. The puzzle will be completed and we'll take a sigh and shed a few tears; all the work, good and bad, has led to the moment when we are enveloped, wholly and holy in the love of the Maker, who created the ultimate picture, who hand made every piece, and even when we kicked and screamed, pushed us into the places we best belong.

May 9, 2015

Tribute to Ellie

Tribute To Ellie

I didn't know you well, dear girl,
But I knew your precious heart.
Your smile, your grace,
Your beautiful face
Reflected who you are;
Reflected who you were. 

I wish I'd known you better, friend,
But from what I'd seen of you
You're kind, you're smart,
You're a work of art
And it shines with a light like gold;
It shone with a light like gold.

When first you met me smiling,
I saw beauty sharp and clear.
When last I saw you smiling, 
There was love, and never fear. 
I saw a glow that shone through you
With pure and radiate light.
You showered love like rain
And you fought the hardest fight. 

I think I know you now, dear girl,
I've seen your precious heart. 
Your joy, your grace, 
Your beautiful face
Reflected how you love;
Reflected how you loved. 

I wish I'd known you better, friend,
But from what I know of you
You were sweet, you were smart
You're a work of art
And it shines with the brightest light;
It shone with the brightest light. 

When first you met me smiling,
I saw beauty sharp and clear. 
Now we're left with a vision
A shadow of you, dear.
We see the light that shone in you
That will never cease to gleam.
You've changed the world in a gentle way;
You're the sweetest, brightest beam. 

April 30, 2015

A Flight of Fancy III

A Flight of Fancy III
Janelle Spiers

The Flight Of Fancy: A Collection of Short Story Samples All Based On This Beginning Sentence...

"The brilliant blaze was burning my eyes, but I couldn't tell where it was coming from..."

'The brilliant blaze was burning my eyes, but I couldn't tell where it was coming from.  As I forced my body to sit up, I was able to discern that I was on a sandy beach and the lapping of ocean waves was audible. The sun was overhead, must have been why I couldn't see anything, it was so bright.  My throat was thick and my tongue felt parched, so I struggled to my feet. I needed a drink of water, then I would figure out what I was going to do; I remembered through the beating pulses of my headache the fire on deck, the explosion, and being flung headlong into the ocean. I felt weak at the thought of my comrades, all of whom were undoubtedly lost...'

'The brilliant blaze was burning my eyes, but I couldn't tell where it was coming from, so I shut the door and stopped to catch my nervous breath. Instantly, the light disappeared from the cracks around the old steel door.  
'What did you see, Hemlock? Was it a ghost?' 
'No, Sheila, I don't think so. I don't know what it was.' I felt my knees tremble and I couldn't let her know that I was as terrified as she was. 'Come on, doll face, let's get back to your grandfather. He'll want us back before tea-time; I think we've done enough exploring for one day.' 
She agreed, as so we turned to go back up the stairs, but though I was nervous, my curiosity was still piqued enough by the light in the safe. 'One more look, Sheila. Just one more.' I felt for the handle and pulled the door open just a crack. 
Instantly, two things happened which I will never be able to forget, no matter how old or aged I become; the events that followed will haunt me forever, because they shaped my future. First, I opened the door slightly, and the light flooded back into the room, but a heavy force pushed the safe all the way open, shoving me to the floor. and second, Sheila screamed so piercingly I felt the blood in my heart freeze as I turned to see a dark shadow gliding down the stairs towards us...'

"The brilliant blaze was burning my eyes, but I couldn't tell where it was coming from. The smoke was intense and it was billowing upwards in the sky.  As the villagers ran away from the blaze, I slid my feet into my boots and ran towards the epicenter of panic. 
'Haldrim, do something!' The people pleaded as I ran through their midst. 
'I will if you will let me through!' I shouted as I pushed my way through the mob of frightened citizens. Once I broke through the sooty masses, I unfurled my wings and glided over the abandoned homes and desecrated livelihoods. This must be the work of the Gahool. Only they could wreak such damage on the innocents.  I thought to myself as I soared towards the capitol. 
Suddenly, arrows whizzed through the air in front of me and I dived to the ground, but not swiftly enough. An arrow pierced my forearm, and I lost balance; plummeting harshly to the ground. I barely had time to get to my feet, much less remove the arrow and bind my wounds before three archers came running with their weapons at the ready. 
'Stand down, creature.' They called in bold voices, but I could read the fear in their eyes like poetry; they were terrified, and I found that beautiful. 
'Nay, fiends. Why should I bow down to my assailants? If you want me, you'll have to come and get me...'
...A Flight of Fancy... 

April 28, 2015

Fruit of the Spirit: Peace

The Fruit of the Spirit Study: Peace

~ We must fight for Peace

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things." Philippians 4:6-9

When we choose to give God the troubles in our life, in exchange for His perfect peace, it leaves our minds open and empty of that worry, which is perfect room for lies and deception to come seeping through the cracks. That is why we must strive to think of the goodness in life and dwell on the Love of God, for if we forget to remember, we will think of anything. 

~ We must make Peace

     Definition of Peace:     freedom from disturbance; quiet and tranquility     freedom from or the cessation of war or violence freedom from civil disorder freedom from dispute or dissension between individuals or groupsNew Oxford American Dictionary

Peace is freedom from bad things.  Peace is freedom from bothersome noises, from horrible bloodshed, or angry arguments.  As children of God, we are called to live at peace with everyone (Hebrews 12:12) and to help to bring that freedom to the world. We must come ready to the battleground, having fought for our own peace, now prepared to bring about peace to the world. It's not world peace that we should strive for, that's an impossible task; we must look to offer a gentle serenity to the furious dissension around us.  

~ We must find Peace in every place

A king commissioned the finest artists in his land to paint him a picture of peace. One artist brought the king a beautiful painting of lush grass, blue sky, and gentle rolling landscapes.  Another artist brought a painting of lovely colors, gentle tones, and a quiet landscape in a little glen.  The last artist's painting was very different to the others, it was grey and rough, with a huge waterfall pouring down with much foam and rock.  But in the corner, tucked back behind the turbulent waterfall, was a mother bird on her nest...

We see peace in the first and second paintings, lovely, quiet...free from difficulty. But the third picture is the better choice for our own peace. We must teach ourselves to rely on God's infinite peace, no matter where we are or why. Peace is calm in the midst of trouble, and in the midst of trouble, we most need peace. It is like the eye of a hurricane; all about you is shrieking chaos and destruction, but in the eye, if you look up, you can see blue sky and gentle life. If God himself created the storm, we must trust him that there is peace in its midst. 

~ Peace in the midst of conflict

A man had a wife and four daughters.  He was a very successful businessman and he had everything he needed to provide for his family, but a fire was kindled and it burned his investments and property. With nothing in America, he decided to relocate back to his family in England. The night before they were to depart, the man was called to a business matter, so he sent his wife and daughters ahead. However, the ship that bore his family towards their new home was struck by another ship and many lives were lost, including all four of the man's daughters. His wife alone survived the journey and she sent her husband a telegram saying, "Saved alone."  

The man was devastated and he sailed to meet his wife with great sorrow. His own ship sailed over the wreckage of his daughters's watery grave and while on the boat, the man penned a famous hymn that has inspired and touched many today.  He wrote, "When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll. Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, 'It is well, it is well, with my soul.' "

This is the true story of Horatio Gates Spafford, a man most remembered for his beautiful song. Despite all that had happened to his wealth and family, Horatio didn't blame God, but looked to him for his peace and strength. He relied on God's love and plan for him, he praised God, despite the pain, and he found peace in the midst of conflict and sorrow.

...It is well, it is well, with my soul...


April 23, 2015

The Road Not Taken

The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both 
And be one traveler, long I stood 
And looked down one as far as I could 
To where it bent in the undergrowth;  



Then took the other, as just as fair, 
And having perhaps the better claim, 
Because it was grassy and wanted wear; 
Though as for that the passing there 
Had worn them really about the same,  



And both that morning equally lay 
In leaves no step had trodden black. 
Oh, I kept the first for another day! 
Yet knowing how way leads on to way, 
I doubted if I should ever come back.  



I shall be telling this with a sigh 
Somewhere ages and ages hence: 
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— 
I took the one less traveled by, 
And that has made all the difference.