That's a very small picture of our "Christmas tree". And my sister's knees. And the presents surrounding our tree. The tree is made of cardboard, in case you were wondering. Yeah. Told you we were cheap.
Nothing in me wants to get a mediocre joband work 9-5 and go home and crash because I'm exhausted.I want to crash because I'm exhausted from fighting for the oppressed.fighting for those who have no hope, no reason to exist.fighting for those who are so fragile that they need my protection.fighting for those who rarely receive positive human affection,who are begging for my embrace.fighting for those who are physically and spiritually starving.fighting for those who would sleep at the dump if I didn't pull them under my roof.I never thought I'd say this but I want to be a soccer mom.Not the typical American one...but the type that has so many kids that I can't remember who goes where when andevery morning packs unrighteous amounts of rice into lunch kits.That has kids under her roof from all walks of lifeall different experiencesbut come together as one.The idea makes my heart race because I finally have a passion that is outside of myself.It pumps me up.I know I must plan and prepare for this.. but:but what am I supposed to do in the meantime?There's only so many coffee shops I can take up residency atand so many janky thrift shops I can buy out.What good does that do me in the long run.
They met their first prisoner a few dozen paces beyond the staircase. As the light of the lantern glanced along another set of bars, a scrap of shadow shifted, scrambling up. Knobby knees stuck out under the remains of what might have once been trousers, a dirty shirt hanging off the top of his body. A massive beard twisted on his cheeks, falling halfway down his tunic. A thin hand came up, shaking as it tried to ward the light from its owners eyes, but at the same time, the man tried to catch a glimpse of the light.
In the next cell, there was another unfortunate, and another in the next with a few more beyond, all crowded into one cell. A woman was in the next one, her face thin in the light of the lantern. She squinted against the light, just as her fellow prisoners had done. Jakov stopped dead, staring at her.
Her hair was dark and tangled, her face pointed and, perhaps pretty once, her skin perhaps once darker. She extended a hand through the bars, a hand that had known privation before the prison. She was Yahafin. Jakov took a step toward her, hand fumbling for the key, hoping to find it, hoping to let her free, but a heavy hand landed on the back of his coat and pulled him back around.
“Ya can’t go lettin’ ‘em all out, boy.” Till growled. “We’re on a mission, ain’t we?”
“Kojnebi,” the woman called out as loudly as she could. It came out as little more than a whisper between her cracked lips. Her hand trembled as it stretched towards him, begging, pleading with him. “Kojnebi.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he murmured back as Till put him back on the path and gave him a none-too-gentle shove forward. He glanced back once, just as the light fell away—she had sunk down to the ground, her dark eyes still looking after him, pleading.
Jakov’s body felt empty as he walked through the dungeon. People looked up at him from their cells. Some had torches burning on the walls opposite, evidence of the guards they’d not yet seen. Some seemed newer to the prison, not yet completely broken, with enough energy to scramble up and try to attract the newcomers’ attention. Most just lay on the floor, managing to lift their heads or open their eyes. Some could summon only a weary twitch of their fingers.
Some lay still and cold, the pallor of their skin and the unnatural stillness of their forms evidence that they would never rise again.
Therefore will I give thanks unto thee, O LORD, among the heathen, and sing praises unto thy name.
Unto thee, O God, do we give thanks, unto thee do we give thanks: for that thy name is near thy wondrous works declare.So here, in no particular order:
In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.
1 Thessalonians 5:18
"At one of the Graveyards here in [my hometown], the officials in charge were asked by a group of Muslims, that they demanded a section just for Muslims. The officials told the Muzzies NO."
"Why don't they demand a free ride back to their country where they can get the respect they deserve."
"shudda told em for christains only"
"the christian graveyard would be decapitated heads and nothing else. We just need to NUKE THE SONSABITCHES."My heart hurts right now. The above conversation was carried out by one of my friends on Facebook and several of his friends. They all claim to be Christian. And they make me weep for what Christ's Church has become. They make me weep for all it was meant to be. They make me weep, because this is not what it is supposed to be.
But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them who despitefully use you, and persecute you...
Sona didn’t speak to him again until they reached a small hut on the edge of the village. It, unlike most of the other houses they’d passed, was much like the little house Jakob had woken up in: small, drafty, barely holding itself together, and what was sticking together was mainly there through some complicated combination of wind angle and prayer.If you'd like to read more, I'm posting it on Figment as I write! Feel free to tell me here what you think or create an account over at Figment. We love new people, and we don't bite. ;)
Sona stepped up to the door and gave a little knock. It promptly flew open, to reveal a rather wild-haired older woman. She glared first at Sona, then at Jakob, then grunted. “You’re the Princeling and his Warden, I suppose? Yes, o’ course ye are. I’ve known Jakob Isriel since he was a boy.” She narrowly stared at Jakob for a second, then extended one bony hand and crooked a finger at him. “Come ‘ere boy.”
Glancing at Sona, a bit surprised, Jakob stepped forward to stand before the old woman. She glared up at him, then lightly slapped him on the face. “She tells me you don’t remember who you are, nor where you came from. How careless, boy, to leave your whole life behind you. Useful, I’ll grant ye that, but careless. Look at ye, standin’ there starin’ at me. You and your cousin used ta’ look at me jus’ thataway. Poor Jakov. I figure he’s dead then?”
“We’re not sure where Jakov Isriel is, madam,” Sona said, speaking up for Jakob. “But the Kali are working as hard as they can to find him.”
“They’d better be,” the old woman grunted, then stepped backwards into her hut. “Come inside here. I’ve got your packs, those ones you wanted me to get you. They’re safe. Like I told you. No one ever bothers to come down and see Aunt Yutil. She’s just an old woman, they say…”
Jakob stepped into the hut behind Sona. It was dark inside, except for the beam of light coming in through the door. There were no windows, and he couldn’t see anything but the dim glowing of ashes that were the only remains of a fire in the corner. He could hear Aunt Yutil rooting about somewhere inside the room. Did she need light to see, or was there some sort of magical, mystical process that she used?
Finally, she reappeared in the beam of light, holding two rather old, dirty canvas packs. She thrust one at each of them. “There’s enough provisions and water here to get you to the boundary. No farther. I’m trusting you, Warden, to get him there safely. Watch out for birds. Goodbye.”
She practically shoved them out the doorway, and the wooden plank that served her for a door slammed against its frame. Jakob heard something slam down behind it, along with the rasp of a metal latch.
“She is somewhat paranoid,” Sona explained, throwing the pack over her shoulders.
June 6th - leave home for Christian Youth In Action training sessionsJune 9th - return home, put clothes through the was and pack for RomaniaJune 12th - depart for RomaniaJune 26th - return from Romania, put clothes through the wash and pack againJuly 1rst - depart for Zambia, AfricaSeptember 30th (or thereabouts) - return home, in time to start planning for a 2013 trip, hopefully to China.
Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men. For ye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called: But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; And base things of the world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to nought things that are: That no flesh should glory in his presence. But of him are ye in Christ Jesus, who of God is made unto us wisdom, and righteousness, and sanctification, and redemption: That, according as it is written, He that glorieth, let him glory in the Lord.
1 Corinthians 1:26-25-31
Not many wise after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called...
He that glorieth, let him glory in the Lord.