The Dinosaur

A dinosaur, he sits beneath
A toppled chair, alone –
Abandoned by a little boy
For sake of ice cream cone.

Friend

I can’t breathe. The air I catch in scattered fragments enters my lungs sharp, cold, fast. My skin is hot.

It’s not real.

But I want to grab her hand and run, escape from the horror grasping at her ankles. It used to be her close friend, a boy. She trusted him, but obsession has twisted him, and he’s not even human anymore, not really, or maybe he’s all too human, all too real.

It’s a story, and I know before the door opens that the hero will save her. It’s not real; it’s just a story.

But I still can’t breathe. My eyes burn, but I can’t cry. I suck down water to douse the fire under my skin. I cry.

It wasn’t real.

My big sister finds me in our room, breathing too hard too fast.

I brokenly tell her, the unreal and the real. She understands. It’s July, and she’s known since last September when one Sunday afternoon I sat on my bed, bawling, for an hour, until all of my emotion mixed with salt had streamed from my eyes, leaving me numb and tired.

She waits until I’ve expelled most of my distress in carbon dioxide, pushed from my exhausted lungs. She distracts me, takes me to watch a show with her friends. She doesn’t like to be touched, but she lets me curl up against her.

He used to be my friend, someone I trusted.

I’m hollow again, numb.

In Which I Am Simply Human

Wind and leaves sway their lullaby above my head as I slowly wake up. The cygnets have drifted back to their mother on the island in the middle of the pond, no longer waiting by the fencing that encompasses their world for me to hand them clovers that grow out of their reach. I hear them faintly muttering to their mother and other siblings as I stretch a little, eyes still closed. Music continues to play through my earbuds, one of which has fallen out of my ear and into the grass I rest on.

The kingdom of the morning star
can pierce a cold and stony heart. 
Its grace went through me like a sword 
and came out like this song. 
Now I'm just waiting for the day 
in the shadows of the dawn.

Gray Havens' "Shadows of the Dawn." It's just after the song I was listening to when I drifted off. But has it only been the length of a song, or have I been asleep the whole album and it started playing again? I put the question from my mind and inhale deeply, the grass, dirt, pond, and gentle summer air, smell like sweet colors that fill my mind. The grass murmurs as someone leaves the concrete path and approaches. I know this pattern of steps, the soft chuckle.

I stretch, smiling, and open my eyes. Seeing him smiling down at me, my own smile broadens. "Hi."

"Hi." The laughter gracing his shining eyes tickles his voice as well. "Were you asleep?"

"Not just now. I was thinking."

"Sure you were."

"I might have been sleeping for a while beforehand."

He chuckles again, pulling a leaf out of my hair. "Let's get going, Silly Woman." Taking my hand, he helps me to my feet.

---

Evening autumn chills have wrapped themselves around my fingers like strips of cloth as I leave him at the door, worry prodding my heart with icy fingers. He's sick. Just a cold, but I still feel lost, unable to help him recover. Instead of going straight home, where I can make cocoa and wrap myself in a blanket, I wander along paved paths while the chapel bells sing songs. Eventually I make my way towards the glowing sunset. An illusion from the distance told me the sun had set the fog to a red glow, but no fog exists to greet me when I reach the cliff's edge. I lean on the fence and gaze down at the water, its strange surface a mix of dancing textures, waves that dissolve into the shore and ripples that resemble the wrinkles of a fluttering silk cloth.

I drift away with the breeze, back up the path, leaving behind the people hammocking, chatting among themselves. When I am behind the library, I pause. We've sat in the grass here together, he and I, talking about various universes. This evening, I see something I have repeatedly overlooked when the grass was green and vibrant: a well worn path. Without consciously coming to a decision, I find myself following it. I place one foot at a time, not rushing myself when it's even a little steep. I've learned caution from a childhood of running through fields and walking along ledges beside creeks. I gently lower myself down large rocks similar to the those at the cliff point I just left. At the end, I stand on a flat slab that overlooks the lake below. I feel different here, more myself than work has allowed me to be in a while. There is no fence here. No fence to protect me, but none to confine me.

I sit down, alone but for the occasional owl call and cricket symphony. The sun continues her near completed journey, settling ever so slowly behind the tree blanketed hills in the distance. As I trace senseless shapes and patterns in the red clay dust that covers the stone, I study the almost twinkling cities in the distance and the reflections of lanterns on the lakeside docks. Watching the water so late at night, I understand the writers who came back again and again to ink. It's so dark I can hardly imagine ever seeing through it clearly, but even as I accept the obsidian depths, remembering my mother's inks and pens with which she does not write, but draws, the words to paint the universe, I cannot help but notice how much clearer the reflection is in this black mirror. Eventually I take my camera out and try to capture a fragment, but none of the pictures satisfy me.

After a while, I return up the path again, find my way to my room, curl up with a blanket, and make cocoa for my roommate and myself. The night passes gently, and I fall asleep in a deep pile of blankets.

The next day, I wake in a cocoon of warmth but manage to force myself to get dressed and out. I see him at lunch, still miserably ill. He eats quickly, and I walk him back to his place again. Again I wander to the cliff behind the library. Today, I notice a path that enters the trees. Curious, I follow it until I find a place to sit. There I build a small fairy house in the base of a tree. Inside, I place a sun-bleached snail shell. The rest of my time on the path, I take pictures. There's something about light that touches the human soul. So many stories from all around the world, and light is almost always a force or symbol of good.

Before I go back to my room again, I sit on the stone slab for nearly half an hour, staring out at the lake and surrounding countryside, far away but somehow close enough to see. Despite the chilly weather of late, I am warm in the sunlight, warm and content. Absentmindedly, I reach up and touch my hair. My fingers encounter a stowaway there, a yellow leaf. Its edges are jagged and must have caught in my hair while I was hidden away along the forest path. Although I am not certain why, I give it a gentle kiss before I return it to the trees.

Standing, I stare out one more time at the vast segment of the enormous garden I am a part of. It's not the perfect garden, the Garden of Eden, but it's still a garden, brimming with life, beauty, and the fantastical. How wondrous. I brush the dirt from my jeans and sigh happily.

Our Call to Regift

It is Christmas eve. Well, it's not evening yet, but let's ignore that for a moment. Colorfully wrapped presents repose beneath a shimmering tree. Go ahead. Take a picture of the momentary splendor. In a handful of hours, the paper will be strewn across the floor, several of the candy canes will have mysteriously disappeared, and the spell of the unknown will be dispersed. You may receive clothes, books, games, and maybe even that new CD you've been dieing to get your hands on. Some of these  may not be quite to your taste, and that's okay, right? You can always regift it next year, and doesn't your cousin even have a birthday next month?

For the last few weeks, we've been hearing sermons about Jesus being sent to us as a child so that He could die on the cross, the perfect lamb, to save us from our sins. It's the ultimate gift, a Savior who loves us without restraint. What do we do with a gift like this, a gift that is valuable beyond compare? Many of us accept it gratefully, place it on the mantle, and gaze at it fondly from time to time. Being a Christian would be far easier if that was all that is required of us. Neither are we only called to be His servants. Christ is a Christmas gift like no other. He is a gift we must pass on with jubilation. In our culture, we regift what we don't want and greedily cling to what catches our fancy, but instead, Abba would have us give our greatest gift to others. In doing so, we do not lose it; rather, regifting the love of Christ enriches our lives as Christians. Not to mention, it's the best gift you can pass along, even if it isn't immediately received from your friend, family member, or acquaintance.

In this holiday season, we are called regift Christ, to share his limitless love with others.

I know this post isn't very long, but it's something I've been wanting to post since the fourteenth. Maybe it's something one of you needs this season, maybe not. Regardless, have a safe and merry Christmas. You are loved beyond comprehension and compare.

A Work of Art

All across the country, students are gritting their teeth, rolling their eyes, groaning, and generally doing decent zombie impressions as they begrudgingly return to school. The little ones seem to enjoy the entire education process more than about sixth grade and up. This is partly because so much of what they are exposed to is new and partly because they want to see their friends. They don't get to see their friends nearly as often during the summer as they do during school.

I have never quite fit into the "normal" category. In my beginning years of grade school, I was friends with almost everyone, but I would spend recess walking around the playground singing to myself. I was happy to be my own person by myself. Whatever factors allowed me to be that way (more than likely the A+ parenting I received) also allowed me to befriend all of my teachers. It was probably the end of my first grade year when I realized that I wanted to give presents to them before school let out. There were a few days left, but it was the last day that I would have art that year. When my teacher blew the whistle to summon us to our line that would dismally trail behind her, eventually being secured indoors once again, I quickly bent over and scooped a few pebbles into my hand.

After recess, we wound our way through the white washed halls, past cells in which crouched exuberant kindergarteners and world weary second graders. We were a prison line of excitement, a snake of wildly separate individuals. The art room door loomed above us all, and through it was a haven. Yes, we were still required to sit in our seats, raise our hands, and not scream, but it was here that our individuality could shine, even when we were told to do the same project as all the others. I adored the teacher. She had short white hair, but somehow we never saw her as old. My mother said that she had taught my uncle. It would not surprise me to learn that it was that endeavor which turned her hair white. Still, she always had a smile in her eyes. She loved art. More than a teacher, she was an artist. She ran an art studio, and still does, that my mother took my sister and me to once. No one else was there other than my teacher. She welcomed us in, gave us each a can of soda, and showed the two of us (my sister had her classes too) to a table where we could draw. The windows had art pieces standing in them so that light could shine through. I thought that it was one of the most beautiful places I had ever been, and entering her classroom for the last time as a first grader, I felt a full appreciation for her efforts with the snot nosed young of the human race in our little town. I waited until the other kids were busy with their work, then went up to her desk.

"This is my favorite rock, and I want you to have it." I handed her a little brown pebble, one of the few I had picked up only moments before on the playground. It was of an oval persuasion, brown and smooth. I told her it was my favorite because I wanted it to have the meaning for her that I intended for it to have. I felt horrid for not telling the truth, even if I had a good intention behind it.

Second grade started, and I was excited to see all of  my friends that I didn't really talk to all that much. The first day of art, I claimed a seat by myself and blissfully started on my assignment. Not long after, the art teacher walked up to me, smiled, and placed a gift on my desk. A sun-catcher of sorts, it was constructed of metal that had been melted and left to set around shards of glass.

Glass and metal, not unlike those large panels in the windows of her art studio. Here was a little piece of her that I would treasure for many years to come. I took it in my hands and felt all the changes in texture. There was a sea shell on the right side, just thin enough to let the light illuminate it the smallest bit. And then I noticed it. Above the shell was a smooth, brown, oval pebble. I had given it to her, and she had turned it into art.

She was the art teacher for elementary and the Jr. High. I had her for many more years, and she was always a friend. She didn't talk to me any more than the other students, but that was how it was with all of my teachers, all of which I considered friends. One year, I developed a loathing for water colors. I didn't have the control that I wanted. She introduced me to water color pencils, which fascinate me. She retired when I was in Jr. High. After she left, I didn't have time in my schedule to take art again until high school, so I never met the new art teacher. Art remains a releasing of energy for me, a directional flow.

The pebble is, in some ways, quite like my heart. It's a little thing, pretty in its own simple way. When I gave my heart to Father, He took it and polished it until it shone in the beauty He had always intended it to have. What is more, is that He set my heart in His plan, His plan being the most beautiful of all. Some days, we forget that, leaving it on the wall and allowing dust to slowly blanket the shimmering creation in our eyes, yet all it takes is the slightest glimmer of sunlight to remind us just how truly lovely His great art, His plan, really is.

Beautiful Encounters on a Walk

The weather has finally reached my favorite temperatures, mid-seventies to mid-eighties, with gentle whispers of wind. Windows are open throughout the house, and the area that I sit in is almost always caught in a pleasant cross breeze. I love early summer. Nearly every other day, I climb over the fence and walk in the field behind the house. The grasses reach my waist and brush against my wrists as I meander here and there. It could almost be a setting for one of those commercials that feature such settings, usually advertising hair products. However, low lying black berry briars, burrs, snakes, and other agents of nature make wearing skirts, shorts, sandals, or flip-flops horribly impractical. On one point I do have to agree with advertisers: a field in the summer is certainly beautiful.

I've started to take my camera with me almost any time I go outside. As a result, I have a lot of pictures, most of which are from Friday and Sunday. I generally go straight to the larger of our two ponds, take some pictures, and sit and think for a while. There is always a chorus of little frogs making big noises, a dance of water bugs and dragonflies, and the fleeing of tadpoles. When I was little, we lived in a house with a clear, shallow creek on either side of the property. I would wade in and catch tadpoles, feeling their slippery skin against my fingers before letting them back into the creek when the water ran out of my hands. Tadpoles give me a sense of calm, one that I can soak into my heart as I sit on the pond's bank, so, late Sunday afternoon, I decided to go to the pond again. Before I even left the yard, I came across someone who had visited the driveway that morning.

He was a particularly fearless three-toed box turtle. He had gone straight up to one of the cats and then my bare toes before changing directions in favor of a worm that was trying to keep from drowning in the light rain. The turtle was also munching on the dried out worms that had died a day or two before. I had always imagined the dried ones would be something like bacon bits but with more protein. It's actually surprising that I never tried eating them when I was little. When I saw him again that afternoon, he was on the other side of the yard

Looking up from visiting with my reptile acquaintance, I saw that my trip to the pond would be delayed. I had set out later than usual, and the cows had beaten me to my destination. Since they were there first, I sat on the fence for a while and took pictures of them with two of the cats nearby, one of which was my sister's cat, Shadow, previously referred to as Insta-purr.

Eventually, I hopped down on the other side and explored a part of the field that I had previously been uninterested in. The difference now is that the thistle there is in bloom. A large, yellow butterfly was perched on one of the blooms, and I was hopeful that I could get close enough to get a picture before it left. Because of the distraction tactics of Shadow and Sparkle, one of the sweetest felines I've ever come across, the butterfly was long gone when I reached the thistle. However, I did get a few good pictures of the two cats.

Taking pictures and playing with the cats, I realized that when I sat down, or even crouched, the grasses came up past my head. A field is a wonderful place to hide in the summer, so long as one keeps an eye out for cow patties.

Although the butterfly had left the thistle, two fat bees were busying themselves there when I arrived. They buzzed and hummed around the purple blooms. Bees really are such pretty insects; sometimes I am baffled by the fear held by many who are not allergic. The thistle was beautiful with or without bees or butterflies.

When I finished with the thistle, I went and sat on a part of the fence that overlooks the road we live on.  On the other side of the asphalt is a wood. There are pale trees that speak of age with their cracked trunks and reaching branches. I would hardly be surprised to learn that the door to Fairy Land was there. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that there was a door in our woods either. All forests and woods have a degree of magic to them. Why else would so many fairy tales from so many different countries take place in forests?

When the cows left the big pond, I scurried to its rocky banks. Most of it is surrounded by a steep incline that levels off at the top. On one side is the pond and on the other is the woods. 

I like to sit there and think or just listen to music. It is a safe place, a place where I can fill the sky and fields with thoughts and musings. I took some more pictures and mentally noted places that would be nice for pictures of people. I don't often get human subjects to work with, so I do my best when they are available.

Satisfied with the pictures I had taken, I left the pond. It was getting relatively late, but there was still enough light that I loathed the idea of returning to the house. Instead, I made my way to the smaller pond, following trails of trodden down grass that the cows had left behind. At one point I had to stop to pull a bur out of my sock. I reached the bank and plopped down. Unlike the larger pond, this one has hardly any slope to it's bank; the ground is almost level. I looked at the edges of the water and saw little black water snails moving about, climbing over each other and searching for food. It was then that I realized that someone was sitting next to me.

He was a little western ribbon snake, black with yellow stripes. Having grown up in the area, I knew he wasn't venomous. I slowly pulled my camera from its case and turned it on, careful not to startle him. He held perfectly still. I took several pictures of him, each time expecting him to dart to the water. When I finished taking pictures, I tried to encourage him to run away. I lightly touched the tip of his tail a few times, but he only curled the tip away a centimeter or two. Carefully, I stroked his middle, smooth scales sliding past my finger. He still made no move to leave. If he wanted to stay, I wouldn't argue. Turning my gaze from the sweet little reptile, I looked out across the pond.

I love reflections and light. The pond was quite simply lovely to see, and there was a slight breeze. An orange image of a battery blinked at me from my camera's screen. I had taken several pictures in the last few days, so it wasn't any surprise. I took a few more pictures and looked back at the snake. Slowly I reached toward him where he could see me then took pictures as he sped away across the water full of clouds, little head held high.

As I waded through the tall grass on my way home, I thought about Father. He takes such care with every little detail: each of the snake's scales, each whisker on my silly kitties, and each breath that I take. He doesn't do all of this out of obligation. He does this because He loves so entirely and so vastly. More beautiful to me than that which He creates is His love.

This morning, I looked up the western ribbon snake and something caught my attention: the eyes of the adult snake pictured. They were small in proportion to its head compared to the one I sat with on Sunday. I checked and there was the text to confirm my new suspicion. "The young are born from late June to September... At birth, young western ribbon snakes are from 230 to 250 mm (9 to 10 inches) in length." That was the right length and relative time of year, and it would explain why he has such large eyes. He's a baby. He didn't run from me immediately because he hasn't learned to be afraid of me. People are wrong when they say that ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is only frustration and uninformed mistakes. Innocence is bliss.

Valentine's Day 2014

Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you are the recipient of many hugs and much chocolate. In my life are many prominent couples: my grandparents, my mom and dad, my brother Ace and his fiancee, and my youngest brother and his girlfriend. These couples are horribly sweet, and I love them very much.

That being said, there are some pretty awesome singles in my life too: my three oldest brothers (as far as I know), my wonderful older sister, and some of my close friends. Some of those said friends are rather proud of being single and celebrate the fourteenth of February as Singles Awareness Day. I don't quite think that the word used should be awareness though. Celebration, that works better. Awareness is most often used for diseases. It makes it sound like we're going to die unless we get boyfriends (or girlfriends as the case may be). Please, enough with the melodrama. Being single is actually pretty awesome when it's all said and done.

• All the chocolate you buy can go to you (and deserving friends, but they don't have to know that you have chocolate, and what they don't know won't hurt them).

• So much time is freed up when you don't have to be in contact over text or social media all the time, let alone actually being with someone.

• You don't have to shave (to be quite frank that does apply to both genders).

• Money spent on gifts and dates can be spent another way, say books, video games, car or truck, or even chocolate. (There's no going wrong with chocolate.)

• You don't have to check with the boyfriend before you schedule something. It's really all about spontaneity.

• You can drop off of the grid of communication for a full week and no one would make a fuss. 

• Bacon.

• You can be as geeky or crazy as you want. No one will restrain you.

• There are no friends of the boyfriend that you really dislike that you have to put up with, when there is no boyfriend.

I thoroughly enjoy being single, but I won't bash couples. They have the gift of one another. Please don't complain about them being happy together. That doesn't speak well of you, even if you're otherwise awesome. 

So, happy Valentine's Day, dear couples. Enjoy each other. In your loved one you have a constant comfort and (hopefully) entertainment.

Happy Singles Celebration, dear singles. Don't worry about being a third wheel. Be a unicycle! Those are really cool and take a lot of talent.

Much love,
Kara
 

Fairy Tale Fathers

There are a lot of fathers in fairy tales. Most die pretty quickly, or their wives die, and they don't remarry very well; sometimes they'd remarry poorly and then die. Of the commonly known stories the best father I can think of is Hansel's and Grettel's. Taking into account that it is a fairy tale, one really can't hold him accountable for marrying a monster the second time around, but despite this common occurrence, he still stands out. He doesn't die or completely submit to his new wife's will. While he did eventually give in to her nagging, he resisted it for as long as he could, which is more than we're told the other fathers ever did, and when his children came home he embraced them with joyful tears. Depending on the version, he either kicked his spouse out or she died for unspecified reasons before the children returned, which I find a little suspicious, but either way, nothing would convince him to leave his darling children ever again. I assume that includes any charges of murder, vandalism, or theft that were never brought against the two little delinquents (in some versions they returned home with riches from the witch's house that ensured their financial security after that).

Here's a fairy tale, one that may be more true than you might believe it to be.

Once, not so terribly long ago, a youth fell in love with a beautiful young woman. He wasn't a prince, and she wasn't a princess. Neither one was the child of a poor woodsman or tailor, but the youth still saw her for the clever beauty that she was, and still is. He tirelessly wooed her, and one day they were wed. They lived happily for a few years and had a child, which did not dim their joy in the least. She was a golden haired little princess that was mostly quiet and observant. Not long after their daughter reached three years of age, they had her sister, who was a little bit louder to be perfectly frank. To this day the youth lives happily with his family. He works hard to support and feed them, and they love him as he loves them.

Happy Fathers' Day. I love you Dad.

My Wil-O-Wisp

It's national poetry month and I've finally written a poem. I don't know where it came from. It just... came. This poem is for all children who have left their parents early.

Whisper
and listen,
my little wil-o-wisp.
Can you hear
the tree frogs?
The night birds?
They're singing for you.
They sing
to welcome you
into their realm.

Gaze
at the stars.
See?
They wear their best
for you.
Will you dance?
Will you dance with them?

Go my child.
Dance among the stars
to the night music.
I will follow
in my time.

One day.
One day I will follow.
Till then
dance,
dance among the stars.

Siblings' Day 2013

Tada!

It's a blog post! In for-warning, the writing may not be like most of my posts. I normally make a point of not listening to music while I write. It messes with the rthym and emotion of my words. However, my brother, Ace, is listening to his music audibly, and if I must have slightly off writing, I'd rather have it because of my music. We have different tastes. While he likes much of my music, I don't really like a fair amount of his. It's the same way with my sister. I love all her music, but she doesn't like Owl City or Tenth Avenue North. While we all have our individual tastes, we still claim each other for whatever reason. Well, in my sister's case, we don't have a choice, but I think that if we did I'd still like her. What her choice would be is debateable.

Today is Siblings' Day, so I figured I would write about my sister. I might write about my brothers in following years. Ace would certainly be an interesting entry, but on to my sister. It's hard to think of what story to tell. When she possibly saved my life? When she almost killed me? I don't think a story is right for now.

She was my example growing up. I aspired to be as smart and beautiful as her. I'm sure she hated that, even though she did use it to her advantage since I could get away with more things than she could. She's three years older than me, and I bawled my eyes out once she was out of sight on the road to college. In a sense, she's a part of me. The reasonable part that has a few odd but much loved quirks.

So happy Siblings' Day, big sister. I love you, and your cat misses you a lot.

Readers other than my sister: Go. Go give a hug to your brother or sister. Hold him, her, or both close and apologize for that argument last week. If you don't have a sibling, hug a pet or your parents, your kids, your spouse, or even yourself, if you live totally alone, because time forces us all apart in one way or another, but we'll all meet again at some point.

Take care,
Kara

Struggle

She screamed,
a sound
raw with terror
and confusion.

Two wolves,
to which her heart
was leashed,
were running
different ways.

One of anger.
The other, remorse.
One rabid.
The other tame.

The strain
on her heart,
the angry snarls,
the pained yelps...

Her scream
echoed
from the trees
and although both loved her
neither paused.

At last the pain,
too great to bear,
woke her.

October

This is part true and part fictionalized and it's not very well written, just so you know.

October could smell the heat and the food, behind those white doors. Cautiously, he ascended the stairs, his full coat of fur soaking up the sun's heat. There were no sounds coming through the door, so he curled up in front of it to soak up the heat that leaked out. He heard another door open and shut then open and shut again. Silently, he pressed against his door and tried to be invisible. Footsteps rhythmically approached along the sidewalk, then stopped. October looked at the human.

"Hello." She had a green jacket, white shoes, and jeans.

October stood up, stretched, and started to descend the stairs. To his dismay, she started to climb the steps and stretch her arm towards him. He glanced towards the bush beside the church steps and took a defensive stance.

She stepped back down on the concrete, "Oh. Okay. I'll leave you alone. It's alright."

October walked down the steps towards her and stopped at her feet. Tentatively, she reached out and touched him. Something in October sparked. A memory. Curling up on a little girl's bed and being petted. His mother washing his tabby fur. He pushed into this human's touch and purred. It felt so nice. Her fingers touched the scar on his ear, and it didn't hurt. When was the last time he had been stroked by a human? He rubbed against the back of her legs. Warm and safe. How he'd missed being a human's cat.

Before he knew it, the human was apologizing for having to leave and walking away. He stared after her longingly. A few feet away, she stopped and turned around, "bye." She smiled fondly at him and left. He stayed there and watched her leave in her box on wheels. One day, he knew he'd travel in one to live in a large box with people, just as he had when he was a kitten. He wouldn't forget this female that had reminded him of the warm touch and love of humanity.


I met October today after church. I don't actually know if he was a boy or if he'd ever had a sound given to him, but he has one now. October. He was so friendly, and I hadn't expected it. I hope he does have a home, but even if he doesn't, God will care for him as he does all things.

October,

Thank you for letting me meet you. I'm blessed to be able to have spent time with you. You will be warm and safe in my heart. There will always be people willing to hurt you, but never forget that there are also those who will take you in and love you. Good-bye, sweet cat. I won't forget you.

Kara

My Loves

I'm afraid that I haven't been blogging as often as I should, so I decided to share this with you. I got the prompt from Build Creative Writing Ideas. Please forgive the formatting errors.

Prompt: You get a phone call from a strange number. The voice on the other line says he can reunite you with a lost love, forever. In return, he will take the life of someone close to you. He proves his power by giving you a full day with your lost love. Describe the day and your decision.

    
It was warm when I woke up, the same temperature outside the covers as within. Sun light poured through my window, and I blinked in its brilliance. Why had I woken up? My sister laughed in the room next to mine. Smiling, I stretched my arms above my head and straightened out my legs. Whoomp!    

“Grendel!” I jerked my blanket covered toes away from our furry fury. He jerked his head towards their new location and pounced before I could move. I kicked. He held on. In a last desperate effort, I rolled off the bed. Somehow he stayed on my mattress. My plan of staying in bed reading for an hour was now officially out the window. I shot a displeased glare at him before pushing myself off the floor. Red caught my eye. My feet were covered with red lines that weren’t there when I’d gone to bed; they stung too. Staying on the flat of my feet, I waddled to the bathroom and sat on the floor while applying band-aids. Dad poked his head through the door.  
   
 “What happened to you?” 

 “What happened was a sweet cuddle session with Grendel.” 

He chuckled and proceeded to the kitchen in search of coffee.
    
After a few more minutes I too went to the kitchen. Mom was sitting, slouched over the table; it had been three days since she’d returned form Murray.
    
The phone leaped to life; Ode to Joy resonated throughout the house. I snatched up the phone in the kitchen, so my mother wouldn’t have to.
   
 “Hello.” I smiled as I said it, and why not? The day was beautiful, other than the red stripes on my feet.
    
“Hello, may I speak with Miss Kara?” The voice was decidedly male, but I didn’t recognize it.
   
 “May I ask who is calling?” I turned and walked to my room.
   
 A short laugh was the response I received. “You may call me Green, Kara, and I can give you the world.”
   
 My voice deadened. “If you’re trying to sell me something…”
   
 “I am, but it’s not the normal kind of sale.”
   
 “No. One we are on a no call list. Two I am a minor. You should have asked for my parents.”
   
 “You’re the last one he remembers.”
  
  My silence was enough of a question for him to continue.
   
 “You see, I can reunite you with the love that you lost.”
   
 “I haven’t lost any-”
    
He cut me off. “All I’m asking for is a life, blood for blood, that sort of thing.”
    
“I would never trade the life of anyone. Goodbye.”
   
 “You get one day with him.”
   
 I hung up.
   
 That afternoon was beautiful. I lay down beneath a tree and fell asleep. The brush of fur woke me up. I smiled and reached towards it, my eyes still closed. Soft warm fur and a loud purr greeted me. The cat was too big to be Saffron, so it had to be Grendel. I blearily blinked my eyes open. The face I saw was not Grendel’s. It was black and white. We don’t have any black and white cats, and I was surprised that this stranger was so friendly.  I petted him for a few minutes before deciding to go inside. The cat followed me. I changed directions. It still followed me. I bent down and petted it. Purr. Purr. Purr. I walked all the way around the yard, followed by the cat. He hurried along behind me like a loyal puppy. I stopped, caught a sob in my throat, and blinked away the threat of tears. The last time I had thought something like that was with Cheerio. I sat down in the grass and stroked the muscular cat. He purred some more, a deep throaty purr, like a motor boat. He had a nick in his ear like Schuster, so had Cheerio. This cat had a slightly swollen front paw, bare patches near his rear, and green eyes, just like Cheerio.
    
“Baby?” I knew it was a stupid thing to do, and my eyes were all blurry after I said it, but I called him by Cheerio’s nickname. He purred louder. It was in that moment that I decided to do something, something only my Cheerio would do. I went inside and grabbed a glass of water and a towel before coming back outside. Slowly, I knelt down next to the dark and light cat. Then I gradually poured half of the water on it. He jumped up and ran away. That’s normal. I waited until he stopped and looked back at me before I held up the towel. He charged back and practically pushed himself into the towel, frantically purring. It was at that moment that I was entirely and utterly convinced that this was my Cheerio.
    

The following hours were spent in the woods. I climbed over fallen trees, and he squirmed under them. We chased each other down secret paths, and we cuddled beneath leaf canopies. I can’t thoroughly describe how happy I was; it was a little like seeing your best friend again in years and discovering that neither of you had changed or forgotten anything, only better. When he had disappeared I felt responsible. After all, I had been the last to see him, the last one he saw.

 “You’re the last one he remembers.”

I bolted upright from the grass, waking Cheerio up. No, please no.

     
“...I can reunite you with the love that you lost.”
    
Yes, I had always loved Cheerio, our little Chiaroscuro.
    
 “You get one day with him.”
    
I fell to my knees and cried. This time, when Cheerio rubbed against me, I only cried harder.
   
 It was seven o’clock when Green called again. I had prepared myself and sat on the back porch with the phone and Cheerio. As soon as Ode to Joy started up, I gave Cheerio a fond stroke and picked up the phone. I told myself I wouldn’t cry.

 “Green.” No need for me to say hello. I knew who it was.

“Kara.” I could hear the smile in his voice, and I hated him for it.
   
 “Cheerio.”
   
 “Yes. You remember my price?” How was it possible for anyone to sound that oily?
   
 I looked at my scratch covered feet.“‘Blood for blood’.”
   
 “What is your response?” He sounded hungry and all to eager.
   
 “I told you, I can’t do that.” I picked up Cheerio and held him close. Purr. Purr.
   
 “Then say good-bye.” It sounded almost like a threat. The line went dead, and I burst into tears.
   
 Cheerio and I sat in the woods in silence. I broke it. “I’ll miss you, Princeling.” I couldn’t say anymore; I didn’t need to. When the sun set, he was in my arms. He seemed more real with each passing second, but when the sun was gone he blinked out of existence.
   
I trudged home in the dark, took a shower, and curled up on my bed; I sobbed there for a few minutes. When I opened my eyes, I saw Schuster under my desk. Still sniffling, I picked him up and held him close. He didn’t complain or dig his claws in my shirt; he just hung limp. I held very still. I didn’t feel him breathing.
    
 “NO!” I screamed. No no no no no. No, I’d made the right choice. I’d let Cheerio go. I couldn’t lose Schuster now, not now. I heard three pairs of feet pounding down the hall to my room and concerned voices, but they seemed so far away. I held Schuster close and bawled.

Love: the Ultimate Truth

"So much of what really happens in this world can't be seen with those round balls in your eye sockets. You could pluck them out and still see bright as day. Or you could walk around with the prettiest blue eyes carved from the sky and be as blind as Black himself." -- Ted Dekker

I recently finished reading Sinner by Ted Dekker. I cried. I won't tell you at which part because that might spoil it for you. There is part of every one of Ted Dekker's books that rings true. That part is the same in each one. The most important part of Christ is love. He loves us.

He loves us. He loves us! He LOVES us!

It's true. If you look in the bible he does everything out of love for us. Even flooding the Earth was an act of love.Yes, he also punished us many many times, but parents punish their children because they love them and want them to learn. Sadly, humans tend to take a lot of time to learn.

Referring to the quote, there are a lot of blind people out there. They don't know Christ's love and power. I think all of us have the same power as Dekker's Johnny. We can all open others' eyes to the truth, though admittedly not as extravagantly. The world isn't black and white, though. Some of us can see, but it's a little hazy, blurred. Those of us need glasses. Our spectacles can be found in any book store, library, and even many many homes. The Bible. There are so many examples of His love and power .

It can be boring for some in the New Testament, when the first several books are the same story only a little different, but it's like in any learning experience. If the instructor, or book, goes over something more than once, it's probably very very important. The story of Jesus IS very very important. 

"For God so love the world that He gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life." -- John 3:16

God loves us. We are all his children. He is our Father. Therefore all of creation is our family, all of mankind is our siblings. We are family in Him.

I am a daughter of Christ.

Babies, Kittens, and Love

You probably recall my kitten Lil-Bit, a sweet little calico that I was able to adopt along with her living shadow with teeth of a brother. However, Insta-Purr is my sister's. I don't have to take the blame when he wakes people up in the mornings. He does. We used to let Lil-Bit and Insta-Purr sleep upstairs, until Insta-Purr started hitting the doors at night. There was once when he actually opened my door by throwing himself against it repeatedly because my door didn't latch that night. I would throw him in my sister's room or in the basement. The kittens sleep in the basement at night now, and now I can sleep at night. The little monster has something against letting me sleep; I'm sure of it.

I appear to have run off course. Lil-Bit has become an important part of my family. She will curl up with me to take a nap. All I have to do is pick her up and take her to wherever I have decided to lie down. I feed her before bed and she sleeps on my floor when she feels like it. Normally the floor is just fine, but recently she will jump on my lap and from there to my desk. She only does this when my computer is on though. When she was a little fuzz ball, she would walk all over the laptops of my mother and sister. She was quite talented at it too. It was within her grasp to pull up windows media player without even looking at the keys.

A few of the blogs I read are posted by mothers. They talk about the challenges, but mostly about the love they have for their children. In my eyes it's not that different than having a kitten. This in mind, I have complied some similarities and differences of kittens and children.


1.You change the diapers/litter box.

2.You feed them.

3.When Christmas comes, the breakable ornaments are moved to the top of the tree.

4.Valuables are moved out of their reach.

5.If they cry you feel bad for them.

6.They chew on things they shouldn't chew on.

7.They are adorable.

8.People will come if you ask them to see your baby/kitten.

9.They enjoy being out in nice weather.

10.Both can be frustrating.

11.Babies/Kittens are interesting to small children.

12.They look like perfect angels in their sleep.

See? They really are quite similar. No doubt I forgot some likenesses though. The following is a list of their differences.

1.Kittens are fluffy.

2.Litter box training is easier. Cats already have the instinct to bury their waste.

3.When babies get scared they cry. When kittens get scared they fluff their fur out and are adorable.

4.Kittens can climb the Christmas tree, so rearranging the ornaments doesn't help.

5.Kittens are born with sharp claws. These cause pain.

6.On average, cats are less expensive than babies.

They're similar and different, but in the end aren't we all something small that needs someone to take care of us? God made each of us different and similar. It's not that hard to see that with other animals too. He made us and He takes care of us. He gives many species' mothers the instinct to protect their babies. It's hard not to believe in His power and love when you see a baby of any species. Especially when it's a kitten, in my case.

Today I am content to sit by Lil-Bit, as she approaches the year old mark, and marvel at our Lord's power and love. Good night my sweet kitten. I'll see you in the morning.

A Sister And Three Brothers

I poke my head into the room next to mine. My sister is curled up under her covers, her fan off, and her blinds closed. Light still comes through the windows anyway. It doesn't really care if the blinds say no. Light does what it wants for the most part. I can't see her head, her blue comforter covers it. Quietly, I close her door and return to my room. I glance at the mirror. Jeans, t-shirt, wet hair pulled in a braid, and bare feet. Me. My hair, even when dry, is darker than my sister's. I pull back the bangs I grew out. She curls her's and lets them hang on her forehead. How do people think we look the same? I sit down on my bed and try not to cry, thinking about one days I have felt the worst about myself.

My sister had gone on a trip, so I went to church without her. When I walked in, about three or four people immediately told me that they thought that I wouldn't come because my sister wasn't there. I laughed with them and forced myself to maintain eye contact. Opening service went fine, and everyone went to designated rooms for sunday school. I hurried upstairs to the youth room, and waited while everyone else took their time. When we had all found seats, our leader had everyone introduce themselves. We had two visitors. They told us about how they traveled to different low income areas and spread the word to children that may not be able to go to church. We finished our lesson and went downstairs for service. After service, I went to the basement with the rest of the youth to help set things up for the picnic. The two girls I spend the most time with at church called me by my sister's name around ten times and didn't even notice. We sat at the middle picnic table, the whole, regular youth group minus three. My sister, one of my pseudo sisters, and my brother James. We talked and laughed. Well, to be more specific, everyone else talked and I laughed and responded appropriately when expected. After all the food that was going to be eaten was eaten, we set up for a game of capture the flag. When it comes to picking teams, I'm last, just like in elementary. It didn't help my self esteem that two of the players were half my size and age. Just a small fact about picking teams; it doesn't matter if you try your hardest and JoBob barely tries. If JoBob is better and doesn't care, he will be picked before you, even if you do your absolute best. This is because, even if the game is in the name of fun, people are competitive and want to win. It wasn't far into the game that I had to leave. I couldn't help but feel like our visitors disliked me. People give off vibes. Sometimes I pick them up. I cried myself to sleep that night.

I have always had trouble with people mixing me up with my sister. She had trouble too, in elementary, but never as bad as I had it. It never helped that we have the same talents, interests, and style. At home it's nice. We don't argue much, unless I go in her room without permission. I'm fine being so close with her, but it hurts when other people mistake me for her. I don't know if it's because I am an individual work of art by God, or because I know I'm not as good as her. She's patient, kind, a very talented writer, and loved by nearly everyone. I'm not very patient, I have a bit of a temper, I'm not nearly as good a writer as she is, and I read too much into the tone of voice people use when they speak to me. I don't make as good grades as her. One of my friends once said that he purposely made high grades so that people would always compare his younger sister to him. He doesn't understand how unfair that is. He has no older siblings to be compared to.

I'm the baby of the family. The only one that isn't firstborn. My mother was the eldest of three, my father of two, and my sister of the two of us. Even my closest honorary siblings are years older than me. Those are my three brothers: Justin, Jake, and James, in order of age. I see James the most, usually at church. I see Jake maybe once or twice every six months or so. Then I haven't seen Justin for what feels like a year. They weren't born my brothers, but somehow, I feel the need to prove that I'm good enough for the title of little sister that they have given me. I think I'm failing right now. James only talks to me when he sees me. Jake, who used to message me regularly on facebook, hasn't talked to me since he came over a few months ago. He has been texting my sister regularly though. I have heard nothing from Justin except for the fact that he called my sister a while ago. I think the older two might have forgotten about me.

I get off the bed and crouch on the floor, peering beneath. The Lady of Shed-Lots is underneath. I reach out and stroke her. "Will you come out? I need cuddles." I bite back tears. She yawns, stretches, and casually comes out. I pick her up, pressing her brown fur against my face. She lets me. Since I was little she has provided moral support. We call her the momma kitty sometimes. I sit down with her on my lap. It doesn't matter if she sheds on me at this point, I need her love.

To tell the truth, that one day was the only one that I haven't felt welcome at church. It was also the only one that I'd gone there without my sister. I didn't tell her about it. I told James. I needed to tell someone, and I knew he'd listen with open ears and heart. My boyfriend also weaseled it out of me, once he figured out something was wrong.

My cat jumps off my lap and goes back under my bed. It's her new spot. I turn my speakers up a little. Building 429. "Fearfully and wonderfully made. Don't you know that you and I were not a mistake." I bite back tears again. God is the only one that I have never doubted the love of. He has always been there for me. How else could I have made it this far in existence? I would probably be very miserable.

"You will lead us out of the desert. You will hold us when we are weak. Lord, we will rise up, we will rise up to follow our Great King." --Awaken Us by Building 429

The Importance of September

Friday was the ninth of September. If you have read this post then you should know what that means. TWO YEARS!!!! The boyfriend is something special. Two years ago we barely knew each other. I still feel like I know know him well enough, but I know more than I did then.

Ten years ago (from Sunday) was 9-11. People died. There were children that waited at home for mommys and daddys that never came returned, parents that tried to contact their children, and people who rushed into the chaos to save strangers.

Dear Americans,

We have survived so much. We are young compared to other places, but we are still strong. When we lost all those lives ten years ago, we ran in to help, cried for people we didn't know, and prayed that there were survivors. People still trudge to work, children still go to school, and life seems normal. We were never the same after 9-11. Security was raised and people still cry over or are at least saddened by a picture of the twin towers, whole and complete. We'll never think like we did before. As Americans we still stand.

Sincerely,
Kara Smith

This September, this special month, remember those we lost and celebrate the lives we have.

A Part of Love

A voice,
indistinct over the phone.
A calm,
flooding warmth through you.
A giggle,
bursting from you.
This
is only a part of love.

Growltiger

My sister was eleven and it was my eighth birthday. For almost a month, my sister had been locking herself in our play room and avoiding me. I had tried to go in with her, but she always made me leave. Needless to say, I was not happy with her, but that all changed when she gave me my birthday present from her. A stuffed kitty. It wasn't just any kitty either. It was a hand sewn and stuffed kitty with fabric that did not match. My very own sister had painstakingly created a friend for me from fabric, thread, cotton, and a piece of her heart.

His name was Growltiger. She had made him based on the description of Growltiger in the song sung about him in the musical Cats, a VHS that played at least once a month in our house. Fabric was bunched up where his short legs met the body to fit with, "he was baggy at the knees". One ear had a part cut out of it, because, "one ear was somewhat missing". Then he had a patch over his right eye for, "he scowl upon the hostile world from one forbidding eye". My sister had also tried to embroider a belt with a sword in it. Admittedly he wasn't the best made stuffed animal, but, for an eight year old, it was a work of art.

I loved him. Every night he slept with me and my panda. The panda had always been with me for as long as I could remember. Soon Growltiger had a story that tied into that of my panda. The panda was a waitress and Growltiger was a pirate that fell in love with her. She would have nothing to do with him, however, until he gave up being a pirate. Being deeply in love with her, he did give up piracy only to find that her family (I had a lot of stuffed pandas and they were all related to my favorite in some way) had engaged her to a tap dancing panda (a marionette). He then dueled the panda and, being an ex-pirate, won. Growltiger then married his love and helped her run the seafood restaurant.

Even when I reached the age that most people consider "too old" for stuffed animals, I slept with Growltiger and his panda love. My mother had often patched up his arms when the stitching came undone, so he had a few "scars". Growltiger still became an old cat. The paint rubbed off of his button nose, the eye under his eye patch came out and broke, his left eye lost some gold paint, and worst of all his fabric wore down, so that it had holes in it that could not be fixed. I still slept with him and the panda. Then one day, I woke up and found cotton in my bed from Growltiger's stuffing. I had two choices. I could throw him in the trash or put him somewhere safe. It was then that I put together my memory box that grows heavier with time. Growltiger had survived eight long years with me. I cried the night after he was put into the retirement in my closet. His girlfriend stayed with me where she always had been.

I took my box down from the shelf today and opened it. One button eye that had lost most of its paint stared up at me. I scoped him out of the box and held him in a hug. He stayed there, limp in my arms. I wanted to cry seeing how worn he was. I will always love this cat. He has been such a big part of my life.

HERE is a link to the poem Growltiger's Last Stand from Ole Possum's Book of Practical Cats, my sister's inspiration for my stuffed kitty.

The Boy Friend

     When it comes to love, everyone wants to put in their two cents worth. I don't care what they say. I know how love feels. They can try forever, but it is impossible to sum it up in mere words. To know love, is the only way to understand it. My acquaintances believe that they have found the one, then change their minds after two weeks. I might be their age, but I think differently. 
     September 9, 2009, The boy I had been thinking about asked me out. I accepted. It has been 1 year, 1 month, and 25 days. We have been together without a breakup or serious argument. My crazy friend said that my boyfriend and I are, "Ment to last." There is nothing that can describe how I feel about him.I love him. It is that simple, but at the same time complicated. He drives me up the wall, he makes me laugh when I want to cry, and care about me. There is no way that I could ever give him up. If I had to choose a song that comes close to describing how I feel it would be World Before Columbus  by Suzanna Vega. There is no limit to my love for him.