// prayer for anxiety //

Prayer for Anxiety

You have not given me a spirit of fear,

But of power,

And love

And a sound mind.

In the name of Jesus Christ,

The name that went steadfastly to the cross,

That sweat blood in the garden to gain

Power over all powers,

Principality over all principalities-

I send you, spirit of fear and anxiety, behind me

Away to whence you came.

This trembling is not from God.

It is not based in reality,

But in lies that are but temptation to doubt,

Doubt that is but temptation to fear,

Fear that is not from you, but from one who is all deceit

And who seeks to deceive me.

I ask your clarity.

Your calm.

Your peace.

Your rest.

To fill my heart and mind and spirit.

Grant me faith to focus on you,

Grant me calm in every fibre of my flesh,

Grant me your peace that passeth all human understanding.

Give me rest so entirely in yourself

That there is no room for the anxiety that wishes to encircle and invade me

Send yourself through every neural pathway.

Fill my veins with the stillness of your love.

Quiet my heart and the foolish thoughts that draw my gaze into myself,

My self-estimation,

My pride,

And my fears.

You have not given the spirit of fear.

You do not ask, nor suggest, but

Command and empower me to be

Strong and of good courage.

I will not be afraid, or dismayed, by what man can do to me, or think of me.

In the name of Jesus I ask you, Father, to take over this vessel.

I confess the sin of mistrust,

I ask your Spirit to fill up, to cleanse, to cast out

The taint of my unbelief.

Do battle for me.
In this struggle that is not just flesh and blood.

I ask this in weak confidence

Knowing that in my weakness,

You will show yourself strong.

As you have before and before,

As you will again and again.

In the name of Jesus Christ,

Amen.

(Your will is for me, not against me,

And so I place my anxiety into your hands.)

This is an attempt to transcribe a general idea of the prayer that I usually repeat, in various orders, when I am struggling with a bout of anxiety. It's been born of more than 10 years of on and off struggles, particularly because I've been having a bad time of it lately, and is all rooted in either scripture itself or principles of scripture. The parts in italics are parts I tend to repeat several times, almost as a mantra if I can use that term. I firmly believe in the power of addressing besetting sins by name, because they are the work of Satan after all. In naming them, you can center your rejection of them as you claim the promise and power of God. I suggest saying it aloud, or at least under your breath- I find I mean it more that way. I hope this might be of some use or edification for others who struggle with the spirit of fear- feel free to print it or save it somehow if you think it can be helpful for you xx

// new series: psalm 51 //

After the incredibly busy spring/summer I had, I’m ashamed to admit that my Bible reading was largely gone by the wayside. One of my greatest character flaws is that I lack ‘stick-to-itiveness' in general, and as my tired little self grew more and more worn out, for some reason I set aside something very necessary. It requires immense mental effort for me to be out and about with people (don’t underestimate the work it takes for an introverted nerd to portray some semblance of ‘normalcy’) and concentrating on God’s word at the end of the day is harder than just looking through Instagram and going to sleep. It’s no excuse, of course, but that’s how it went.

  However, now all of that busyness is over and I’m trying to get started again, slowly, by reading one passage over and over. Don’t get me wrong, I still am working on getting it back into my routine, as much as my life can be called a routine. However, I’m hoping that by blogging about my thoughts on the passage, I will have an incentive to do better. 

 Psalm 51

 This is the great repentant psalm of David after his sin with Bathsheba. It’s such an emotional, but eloquent, lament for the transgression he’s committed against God. His plea for cleansing and renewal is one that should be echoed in our hearts today.

It’s ingrained in human nature to pass the blame, to look at other people’s problems before our own, to excuse our behavior by citing the sins of someone else. And this tendency is good at disguising itself in claims of righteous indignation, of telling the truth, of fighting for justice- of love, even. How many times have you thought about someone’s wrongdoing, out of genuine concern, but while ignoring the things that need to be fixed in your own heart and life? I do it All. The. Time. And I’m pretty sure you do too. Of course, we have a level of duty to help others recognize their sins too - but that means actively calling them out on things and mentoring them through the process, neither of which are particularly effective if your own life is kind of a mess.

And that is what struck me first in this psalm, as David is owning his sin and begging for forgiveness from God. 

  Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions. Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me. Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight: that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest.

Psalm 51:1-4

Look at the pronouns- ‘I’, ‘me’, ‘mine’, ‘my’, and ‘thy’, ‘thee’ ‘thou’. This is between David and God, no-one else. No-one to hide behind, no-one to blame. Keep in mind, my study bible notes that a year has passed since the incident occurred. I suspect David had done his fair share of blaming, of faking everything was fine, of acting as though his sin had never happened. But in the psalm, he’s reached the point where he’s ready to stand bare before the Almighty and say ‘I’ve sinned against you and I’m throwing myself on your mercy’. 

The Lord sent the prophet Nathan to David (in 2 Samuel 12) to deliver the now well-known story of a man who stole someone else’s only prized lamb. When David expressed outrage at the tale, Nathan indicted him- 

‘Thou art the Man.’. 

It was through the boldness of Nathan’s storytelling that David finally faced the reality of his wrongdoing. He’s reached a point where he’s ready beg the Lord for forgiveness and for help to go on. And it is this that leads to the rest of the Psalm. I hope you’ll join me as I plan to explore the rest over the next few weeks! 

// looking away //

As a writer, I cherish a desire to lighten this  dark world a bit, through words strung together as well as I can. Whether that’s to enlighten someone’s mind or to lighten the burden of their heart, I take the command to be a ‘light in the world’ seriously when it comes to the task that I think God has set for my life. Not as seriously as I should, maybe- but it guides my growth, and encourages me to try harder, to write more, to be… less lazy. Ahem.

However, as I watch the world spiral, I often become jaded. It’s an undeniable reality that goodness and light are hard to find in this planet we call home. We writers have an embarrassment of riches when it comes to inspiration for all that is cruel, dark and twisted. In the face of it, happy little stories seem trite. Sure, ‘Love What Matters’ and other places highlighting the simple acts of goodness that everyday people are doing are wonderful. They are doing something very, very necessary, in my opinion. But when I zoom out and think about the big picture, it’s easy to brush them aside. It’s beautiful, what people do for good. But it doesn’t seem to stop the darkness.

C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien are two of my role models, as Christians, as people and of course, as authors. Their burden is my burden… it’s a beautiful thing to know our work is all united in its common cause. However, when I begin focusing on what I see around me, the interconnectedness of the devil’s web, I begin to doubt their calling and mine. Tolkien’s high fantasy, insisting on the prevalence of good at the end of every desperate struggle, begins to seem näive. Lewis’ claim that, in the heart of image-bearing man is a thirst for truth, rings hollow in my ears. Even Solomon and Paul, telling me in scripture that God has set understanding in man, that they may be without excuse for their willful ignorance and depravity, just crushes me a little lower.

What good am I in the face of this? What good are my words and ideas, made over from words and ideas people of God have been spinning since the beginning of time?

Ah, there it is. Even in the beginning it was light against dark. It was Noah against the world, building not a story but an ark. It was the prophets, crying out. It was my very Savior, telling parables to the people gather round him while knowing they would shout for his death before they ever understood his meaning. And on and on, it’s always been so. Our time is not unique in it's struggle, not really. It’s always been a few against many. The word of God against deafened hearts. And ever it has been the few that hear and come. The tale of a life spent for God doesn’t have to be one of huge grandeur or scope, one of thousands coming and lives being turned upside down.

It could be one person who reads a book and begins to question, to search

It could be one person who can finally believe they aren’t alone, that their broken heart can mend.

It could even just be me, learning to know God so I can write Him into my stories and essays and heart. 

When Tolkien began his epic tales, I don’t think he had an idea that they would change the world. He just wanted to build the world he saw in his mind, and to tell it to his boys before bed. I don’t think it was meant to be a monumental work of literature, it was meant to be a story. A  story into which he poured the truth that framed his life. It was vastly important to him, but I doubt he expected it to be so important to the millions of people that have since read his tale of valor and baseness, vying in a death grip for the rule of Middle Earth. 

So was he naive to think it’s so simple? That the good actions of a tiny hobbit can really matter in the face of the mighty Mount Doom? Or isn’t that what the stories are that God chose to give us in his Word- stories of little people doing big things through and for Him?

So today, as yet another headline shoots us in the face, as the political clamor ceaselessly cudgels our ears, as your own heart begins to sink a little and doubt, like mine has-

Stop staring evil in the face and look up, away, to goodness. To the goodness for which our souls really do long. If you don’t have the answers, look to that truth. If you don’t have love, look to Christ on the cross. Why is it so hard to realize that our problem isn’t the evil we see, it’s the way we are looking at it? We see through a glass, and all that. We have to learn to stop trusting our own eyes so very much and to trust His, to do every little thing we can. The was my mind works is to see things in webs, so to speak- all the horrible things connecting and connecting until I get completely overwhelmed and apathetic, as though nothing can be done. But the good things do that too! They connect and grow and build on themselves. No-one is an island, and everything we do for good or ill can directly change the world.  Just as Samwise says, the good is there and it is worth fighting for.

I’m writing to myself, you know. I know all this in my head (clearly, since I’ve written it). But do I believe it? In other words, am I acting on it? Not really so much. But I want to. And I hope you do too. 

'For God has not given us a spirit of fear; 

but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.' 

2 Timothy 1:7

//in which the missing blogger magically reappears//

HI!

I am so sorry I've been gone for so long. I went to Europe this spring (!) Kentucky/the midwest this summer (!)  and am only now getting back into the swing of things. I think I want to try to get this blog up and running again, although I'm not 100% sure where I want to go with it. I would love to hear from you- what have you liked on my blog previously (As in, the far back, mist obscured past when I actually used to post)? What are some new things you think it would do me good to tackle? I've missed you, readers and I feel I've missed so much content on other peoples blogs, as well. Oh well- I can't catch up with all of those so I will just try to keep up better going forward. So, if you'll bear with me, I'm going to mess around on here again (hopefully), try to get posting again (possibly) and try to produce some content that might bless/give enjoyment to readers.  Xx Nina

// playlist: favorite sopranos+mezzos //

click here-playlist: favorite sopranos+mezzo-sopranos

my love for opera is no secret- but lately I've really been feeling inspired to try to share the love. so, here's a 2 hour playlist of some of my favorite sopranos/mezzo-sopranos singing well known arias. I'm no expert so I've most likely missed some important singers/songs, but these are ones that I know and love. I hope you enjoy and maybe even get your interest piqued to learn more about the songs! Look up lyric translations and synopsis' of the plot of the opera the aria is from. You'll find that hidden in the foreign languages and virtuosic singing are human emotions and messages, just like you'd find in indie-pop, or folk, or jazz, or... you name it!  I'm convinced a lot more people would like opera if they understood it- which is why I'm starting to learn more myself, not just because I'm interested in going into opera professionally, but also so I can share it with others!! I may start periodically posting a specific aria with a brief synopsis and explanation of the aria, and maybe explain in depth just why I'm so fond of opera- would anyone be interested in that or would it bore you? I'm just not sure where I'm going with this blog anymore and I want to get back into the swing of things and start posting again. anyways, enjoy the playlist!

https://www.instagram.com/skinny_wolf/

// flash fiction- the beginning of the end of the world //

The new moon hung low in the sky, a narrow yellow crescent in the dark like the slitted eye of a resting but ominously watchful cat. My breath hit the air in small explosions of smoke. I’d left the flashing lights far behind but I could still feel them in the frantic beat of my heart.

It was the beginning of the end of the world.

The strangest part (it occurred to my mind, slowly) that the oddest thing, the thing that was bothering me most, was the silence. No sirens, no screaming. Just a long, dead nothingness. I was standing in the dark, the edge of a tree branch jabbed into my shoulder. I moved aside a little, staring into the dark with confusion, my arms held out from my body. Then I remembered- I had bolted.

The lights, the men pouring from cars and tanks like beads from an overturned container, helicopters hovering and beating the air like giant hornets, the rush of people through doors and down halls and the rush of blood to my head. Mr. Lee - he’d pressed something into my hand. I clenched my fist onto an envelope. I hadn’t failed him yet, that was a relief. I began walking, slowly, continuing to piece together what had happened.

The lights, oh those lights- the darkness wasn’t a fear but a blessing after those lights. We’d been standing, the last of us, on the steps of the school and all the lights had gone dull as one light, brighter than them all, had suddenly leapt on us like a ghostly bird of prey from the sky. Mr. Lee had put the envelope in my hand, behind my back and then, unable to stand it, I had broken away, into woods where soldiers wouldn’t dare follow. A futile cry of halt, Mr. Lee’s voice calling my name, my own footsteps crunching through the snow as the darkness had welcomed me.

It suddenly struck me how hard my heart was throbbing. I hadn’t run like that since- it was bizarre in that moment to have a flash back to childhood. I could see Christy now- his hair flopping and damp on his forehead as he leapt after me. The sunlight and green, tender yet prickly grass… me laughing and gasping as my hands smashed against a tree-

My hand did collide with a tree, jerking me into the present again. A strange foreshadowing that had been. For it was true again, in some ways. Details changed- no sun, no laughter now. But Christy behind me, somewhere, threatening my victory. And me determined as I’d always been- to win.

xx this isn't inspired by world current events, although it probably would be more worthwhile to address those. anyways, it's inspired by (heartlessly enough) an accident scene earlier tonight that detoured us on the way home. the streetlights gave everything this extra, harsh drama, and then on the other side was that narrow-eyed moon. i transported, what can I say, and words started forming- so this happened xx

// q&a video (at last!!) //

(make sure you have your volume up because I talk softly and the audio is poor.)

blogs:

Aaliyah-https://growinginhisimage.blogspot.com

Jessica-http://jessicalg97.blogspot.com

Abby-https://chroniclesinbloom.wordpress.com

Sunset- http://firstsunsetskyblog.blogspot.com

Erin- http://acousticerin.blogspot.com

// untitled //

via pinterest

She stood still, frozen by the warmth of his nearness. She stared a desperate plea into the placid eyes of the painting she faced. Her thoughts darted to the statues in the next gallery and she envied them. Standing in elegant attitudes, sculpted in cool marble- what if they, too, were struck with the sudden breath of a certain cologne, or the way the air shifts and strokes you with a phantom touch when someone moves close by? As her heartbeat called her attention back, her last thought was that the graven images in the next room would surely fracture and melt if they were, like the living beings they represented, cursed with the blessing of sensation.  

He still stood, off to one side and just behind her, She didn’t know what to do- she felt as a bird must feel when it flies, all blithe and unsuspicious, into a closed area and cannot find a window again. He made no sign that he had ever noticed her, not now or ever before, in the hallways and class rooms they shared. She’d noticed him all right- fallen hopelessly and foolishly for his calm, sphinx-like face and dark, vaguely sardonic eyes observing the world from behind horn-rimmed glasses. For the way he held his pen, gracefully, as though it were the natural extension of his long, strongly veined hand as it carved firm script across the page. For the way his voice, quiet and self-assured, answered questions the other boys simply gaped at. Most of all for the time she’d seen him, curled knees to chest with a book (one she knew wasn’t for class, a book of old poems about Kind Arthur) balanced in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other. No, she hated him- almost- she hated herself for loving him, more. 

She was still outwardly studying the painting, but in her minds eye was only his slim form, in his coat and button down shirt. He was in her blind spot but she didn’t need sight to know, in detail, everything about his unwelcome? or was it welcome? presence. She thought sure he should be in class at this hour. She herself needed to be back in 15 minutes and it would take 10 minutes at a brisk walk 

Darn him! She thought half heartedly, knowing full well that this was not his fault, but hers alone. Was it really so hard to just turn and walk by him? Even- imagine- smile at him? The insistence of her own anxiety that any movement would make her stand out like a painted elephant, make her look like a fool, was nonsense and her rational mind knew it. Unfortunately, her mind wasn’t cooperating with itself. 

It struck her that she would most likely be late for class now, and have to face that conspicuous shame on top of the trial she was currently undergoing. Betwixt Scylla and Charybdis, she thought ruefully. She shut her eyes, trying to find a moment of courage. Now or never, she steeled herself and turned, flipping her long hair over her shoulder and facing him to find him turning at the same time. Their eyes met. Against her own realism she thought his face flickered, even show a trace of recognition, or something like it. Her courage failed her and she ducked her head, clutched her pocketbook and hurried away. 

He stood frozen, shocked by the sudden appearance and absence of her. He had seen her, maybe, knew her as a vague form from his familiar life. But never noticed her, really noticed her- until now. His thoughts spiraled as he trailed, hands in pockets, in the same direction she had gone. He, too, had a class to make. He had only come here for a moment of reflection and relaxation, something he did often and always with success. Until today, that is. 

The walk passed without his realizing and as he entered the building he was startled to see her again, slipping with a guilty movement into a class room, heavy book bag in hand. His heart quickened. In that moment it seemed he should have known she was there all along, that they should have been together somehow. Regardless, he knew now. And they would, they must, be together at last.

(what even is this) (I should have written in first person? I guess?) (I really don't know) (at least I posted) (bye)

// excerpt from a (non-fiction, actually) novel I'll most likely (because it's real and we can read it in the graffiti on walls and garbage dumpsters) never write //

...The tall fence cast fishnet shadows on her legs, her arms, her face. She was so trapped, and in so many ways. A fish in a ever-shrinking net, a girl enmeshed in the perverted cage of her surroundings. A kid stuck behind a chainlink fence at midnight, when the door is locked. But day doesn't come...

// the christmas ornaments //

The Christmas Ornaments

via pinterest 

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the holidays, it’s easy to miss little things. Seemingly unimportant things. To hurry by the displays of ornaments, tugging children away before they break something - is that little glass trinket really $12?!

Away you rush, leaving the sparkling trees behind without noticing a little white tulle clad, balletic fairy hanging and twirling on the limb of a silver, tinsel tree. Nor do you notice a handsome, bright nutcracker just across the aisle, standing-or dangling - at attention, on a green tree decked in festive color. It certainly would never cross your mind to look close enough to notice their tiny faces, frozen into wide-eyed stares that had been fixed on each other since the beginning of the season.

Until the day before Christmas Eve. A little old lady wrapped in a thick, warm sweater hobbled in from the frigid parking lot and paused at the dazzling display of trees. She had just found out that her daughter and grandchildren were coming home for Christmas and she wanted something special to brighten up the house. She selected a tube of bright, shiny balls, some tinsel and colorful lights and a twinkling yellow star. Then she looked around for something more- and her eyes fell on the fairy and the nutcracker. A smile split her soft, wrinkled face as she gently took them from their trees and went to make her purchases. Her grandson would surely love the soldierly nutcracker. And her little granddaughter would be entranced by the fairy, she just knew it. 

So, the nutcracker and the fairy went home with her. She lived in a little house on a quiet side street. In the living room, amidst bookshelves, squishy, comfy chairs and old rabbit-eared TV set, stood a little evergreen tree. She set down her bag of trimmings and dusted off her record player. It took her a little while to sort through her stack of old records but eventually she found her Christmas ones and started them spinning. Bing Crosby’s deep, homey voice filled the house as she began trimming the tree, humming along to the tunes in her crackly voice, worn like her records but still lovely. Slowly but surely, the tree was transformed into color. The nutcracker and the fairy went on last of all, side by side near the top of the tree. Satisfied, the old lady brewed some tea, and sat admiring the tree and watching a TV program before heading to bed.

The next day her daughter and grandchildren arrived in a whirl, with all the noise and bustle that holiday visits bring. Bags to be unpacked, presents to be set under the tree, treats to be eaten - but the tree didn’t go unnoticed. The little girl had scampered over to look up at it, reaching up to try to touch the fairy before darting away again. After the hubbub had died down, the grandmother led them over to admire the tree properly, showing them their special ornaments with pride. Even the daughters sad, lined face lightened a little as the tree unlocked memories of carefree childhood Christmases. Before long the sky grew dark and they all dressed up and headed off to the church for Christmas Eve service. Not a sound could be heard in the house. Outside, snow began to fall.

When the family returned, the little girl was asleep and the boy nearly so. They were both put to bed and the mother and daughter soon followed suit. The still, silent living room was filled with the blue light of the moon, peeking in fits through the clouds. The clock was ticking…tick…tick… until it was the last minute of Christmas Eve. Then the hand touched midnight.

We’ve all heard the tales of magical things happening on Christmas night. Animals gifted with speech, a fat jolly man and his reindeer traveling around the world in record time, or Christmas trees growing, wooden toys coming to life and mouse armies waging war in living rooms. And while it’s hard to say whether any such stories are true, it is certain that if any night in the year feels like something special is about to happen-could happen - it’s Christmas. Deep down we all sense the wonder of this night of nights when the supernatural really did touch earth, once upon a time. When stars and angels sang, when kings brought treasures. Is it any surprise, then, that so many stories have been told about fantastical adventures happening? Or that we, no matter what, always hold in our hearts a childlike belief in this ‘magic’ of Christmas? 

What happened as the clock struck twelve? No flash of light or chime of bells. If anything, only a deeper hush in the already silent night.  Then something stirred, barely audible even had there been anyone awake to hear. Like a breath, or the stir of a breeze, the tree seemed to quiver, inhale and exhale. Then, near the top of the tree- a movement. A glisten of moonlight on sparkling tulle. A flash from martial, golden trim. 

With a graceful gentle movement, the fairy stretched her arms to their fullest, then swooped them down like bird wings. The nutcracker briskly brought his gun from his shoulder and then held it across his chest. Both looked around, wondering and blinking, then turned toward each other. 

The strings that had held them captive had melted into nothing, like snow in spring. The warmth now was not that of the season, but of the heart. The nutcracker set aside his gun. The fairy smoothed her skirt. He held out his hand, and she took it. An old music box, sitting on a bric-a-brac shelf, began to play a Christmas Waltz. And, together, they began to dance. The tinsel glistened, a draft stirred the sheer, pale curtains. Outside, the sliver-edged snow clouds parted and the stars in the dark sky were like a mirror to the ice and the lights below. 

They didn’t speak. No words were needed, really. Just the moment- the music-the magic. This brief time would have to last for forever. It was their forever. Even when the gentle ring of the music box faded and they were held fast to the tree once more, even when they were tucked into darkness for another year- in their hearts they would dance together until the next Christmas Eve. And then the next. Just as the world, each year, seems to slow into a loving dance and become blanketed with peace and light, the ballerina and the nutcracker would find the promise of love each year. Just as people, trapped in our endless solar circuit, in wars and tears and darkness, can see- for one moment each year- the star’s eternal light, they would be able to remember what it means to be real. What it will be. What the angels really meant when they sang-

‘Peace on Earth’

xx merry christmas everyone. as a side note, I haven't been able to get out of my mind the awful contrast between our Christmas and that of the people of Aleppo. I can't put words to what this juxtaposition makes me think or feel- but pray for those people.  xx

// parable of the tiny kernel //

There was a man who searched for many years to find something that was worth his life's work. He began to grow jaded, disillusioned with what the world had to offer. In disgust, he moved to the country  taking a little, secluded farmhouse and completely abandoning the brilliant, scholarly world he had once inhabited.

While he was cleaning out the barn, deep within the feed bin he found one, tiny kernel. Seized by a sudden impulse, he took it out and planted it, placing markers around it so he would remember its location. He didn’t think much more about it but continued his labors, tending it occasionally when he found many weeds grown up or if the weather was dry. Later in the year, it sprouted and grew into a tall, vivid stalk of corn. He ate one piece and was astonished by the satisfaction he found in its flavor. He saved the rest to plant the next year.

When it rolled around he did so. Instead of just one plant, several grew. This went on over the years until his original kernel had multiplied into enough to feed a village. Then he had enough to spread across the countryside. Eventually, his variety of corn had become so well known it was in demand around the world.

By now, the man had grown old. And he realized that, at last, he had found the truth for which he had sought. 

A little kernel can grow and touch the world. Tiny bits of truth, kindness or corn can have an impact far beyond their size if one only takes the time to cultivate and spread them.

// shower thoughts (or, ''tis I, your friendly neighborhood AWOL blogger') //

John Singer Sargent

I was thinking about the medieval crusades, and how they relate to the modern crisis concerning Middle Eastern/Muslim immigrants and terrorists. You hear a lot, from the left particularly, about accepting Muslims, that they aren't all terrorists. And they have a point. Hateful attitudes and biases about those who adhere to Islam and are Middle Eastern are just as wrong as hateful attitudes and biases about anyone. There is a difference between caution and suspicion.  Christ died for everyone- in fact he did so wearing brown skin and the dust of the Middle East caught in his beard and on his feet. Something to think about, eh?

But anyways, here are two of my cents, for the consideration of folks on BOTH sides of the story.

Let's go back in time, shall we?

Throughout the Middle Ages, Western Europe staged many crusades against the Muslims in the East. For ostensibly religious reasons, knights rode into battle to reclaim the Holy Land, displacing those who lived there and disrupting their way of life. With them came peaceful merchants who were prepared to settle down and integrate with the culture. This-these people- was what the majority of Muslims knew about Western Europe.

Now, put yourself into the shoes of the Muslims- when you though of Western Europeans, would you automatically think of those peaceful merchants? I know I wouldn't. In fact, we still look back at the Crusades and our minds instantly create an image of knights fighting exotic warriors. Their mental reaction would be fear, suspicion, a natural distance from these foreigners who were well known for their destructive actions and their religious motivation against those who believe differently.

Sound familiar? Uh-huh.

'So what?' you might think. Well, so we need to learn something from this.

***(cue total digression. You know you've missed my digressions.)***

I think- in fact, I see all too often on FB etc.- that Americans in particular look at history through this weird, nationalistic lens. As if all 6,000 years of human history center around the United States. Maybe I'm misrepresenting- maybe people don't actually think this way. Maybe it's just me- maybe I'm more aware myself since taking a history class. But it just seems like there is a wide-spread tunnel vision among Americans that leads to the belief that America is the greatest country ever, that our experience is somehow unique among all other peoples and civilizations of the world. And if you study history at all, with an open and critical mind, you'll find that presupposition totally destroyed.

I've never been a patriotic, nationalistic type- I thought it was silly and idolatrous before seriously studying history. But when you look back at the broad sweep of human history, at the 'great' civilizations that rose and inevitably fell- they all sort of shrink. 'Great' loses it's meaning, in a way. What really is the measure of greatness when even that which we call 'great' is completely fallible? Is gone in a matter of centuries- spans of time that look so vast until they are put into perspective of millennia. Even smaller when compared to eternity. Great is an entirely subjective term. With too much thought it becomes a nearly meaningless term, humanly speaking.

Ok, all this to say that when we study history more objectively, we can gain insight into ourselves and others. We can apply lessons learned about human nature and political situations to our current experience. This example- looking at the way Westerners would have been viewed by the Muslims during the crusades- can help everybody. It can help us remember that individuals among any group vary greatly, and although we must use caution, we should still seek to inspect each person as a person even when we must keep their background in mind. It can help those who cry 'intolerance' to see that fear is a very natural reaction when any group causes a threat to any other group. And it helps us all to realize that our world, here and now, is not really so different from any other age. We're still human. We're still sinners in need of grace. Sinners that don't do what we should, most of the time, even when we've accepted grace.

We need to put ourselves in other's shoes in order to better understand how to live in our own.

So there you have it. I actually posted!! I don't know if this is coherent... I want your feedback and opinions! I am sorry I've not been active- truly sorry- but I'm not going to offer excuses. It's just life, you know? Perhaps on Christmas Break I'll even make the Q&A video!

// Meet Vincent Van Gogh //

I. The Life

1. Childhood
2. Teens
3. Adulthood II.The Legacy
1. Career
2. Goal
3. Influence
   III.The Legend
1. Popular Misunderstanding
2. Cultural Image

Vincent Van Gogh

                                                                                                                

Vincent Van Gogh is one of the most well known and easily recognizable artists in Western art history and also one of the most misunderstood artistic figures. He remains a major influence on other artists and the history of art in general. Furthermore, he was a unique and sensitive individual who was articulate and intelligent as a man and an artist. Yet, he is remembered by many as simply a mentally ill man who painted the few striking works that have entered pop culture and ultimately committed suicide. When we look at his life, we can better understand the legacy of his work and also evaluate the legend that he has become.

     Van Gogh was born in 1853, (Van Gogh Museum) in the Netherlands. Growing up as a minister’s son in the country shaped the sensitivity that would later become his trademark. In his teens, his job at an art dealership exposed him to new art, literature and life experience. Afterwards, he floated among professions. His parents began to worry about his lack of direction so he studied to go into the ministry. Although he was deeply spiritual, this path soon proved too studied and disciplined for him, and he became a missionary among the poor instead. Though this work suited him better and he was well loved, his lack of orthodoxy and ‘success’ resulted in

his dismissal (Schapiro 4-6). However, during this time he began sketching and realized that perhaps he was meant for another path.

   His career began in tentative steps as he began exploring artistically. He studied, practiced and improved (Schapiro 6). He knew what he wanted to achieve- what remained was to see if he was capable. Before long, he realized that he was. Although his style and vision evolved over the years, his goal shines through in all of his work. His goal was simply to touch others and express his deepest values and feelings through his paintings. Through his career and gradual torment by mental health problems, we can trace his urgent need to find his voice(Schapiro 4). He did, but very few could, or can, understand what he was saying. Artists of all fields remain influenced by Van Gogh (Wikipedia). Most harbor within their hearts a hope to approach the vivid expression that has made him into an icon- those sweeping strokes on canvas that seem, in their flashes of unexpected color, to brush the universal human heart.

What of his legend, the myth we have created to surround this man that simultaneously glamorizes and marginalizes his troubles and triumphs?  The problem is that not many know who he really was. Being separated by a gulf of time inevitably creates a disconnection from any historical figure. Van Gogh is no different. Films, books, and general misinformation have created a sensationalized image (Wikipedia), but when we study him through the lens of his own letters and the writings of those who were close to him, we find a more holistic, realistic picture (Van Gogh Museum). We meet a troubled but brilliant man, who even through the disappointments of life held desperately to his task of creating beauty that expressed his pain and his hope.  

Works Cited

“‘Cultural Depictions of Van Gogh’” Wikipedia  Wikimedia Foundation. Web. Nov. 8, 2016

Schapiro, Meyer. Vincent Van Gogh Portfolio Edition, Harry N. Abrams, New York. 1969. Out of Print

"Van Gogh's Life, 1853–1890 - Van Gogh Museum." Van Gogh's Life, 1853–1890 - Van Gogh Museum. Web. 08 Nov. 2016.

(Written for English class)