God Even Uses Candy Conversation Hearts

          Sometimes, life is a bummer.
          It’s like when you open a box of those candy hearts (the ones that I’m told taste like cardboard and sadness where there should be unicorns) and the first one that falls out is orange, your least favorite flavor, and says “miss you.”
          But then again, sometimes the next one that comes out is yellow, your favorite, and says “love you” on it, which kind of makes you smile at the irony, if you compare it to the last one you got.
          That is, until you promptly proceed to drop it and it falls beneath your dresser with the dust bunnies and you can’t find it for the life of you, and all the while you look ridiculous down on your hands and knees searching for this stupid candy heart beneath your dresser.
          And then, of course, just as you’ve given up, told yourself this is dumb and begun to get up off the floor, you discover it’s bounced out from beneath your dresser, and you couldn’t find it because you were looking for it where it wasn’t.
          Funny the way these things work, isn’t it?

deeper and deeper...

Found in a post by James Kostelyk in the FYF Facebook group.

Lately I've felt like
Jonah

I've been in a pit
engulfing waters
drowning in an ocean
seaweed wrapped around my head
barred in

forever?

deeper
and deeper…

Hey GOD!
Where are you?
I asked you to help me!
Are you going to let me die?
Don't you care about me?
Is this it?

drowning
alone
scared

and you had me
eaten?
…really?

the LORD provided
salvation
is a giant fish?
a giant nasty fish?
…really?

[my child
just wait
you'll see
I LOVE YOU]

take a deep breath…
let it go…

I'll
run
strive
reach out

I'll talk to God
he knows what he's doing
he will never let me go
he will NEVER FORGET about me
EVER

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

he is here
above below behind in front next to
always

I'll fall in love with him

deeper
and deeper...

Once, There Was a Place

A speak aloud poem, or a prosetry, really. Written during our first FYF Space for God time.

Once, there was a place,

a long time ago,

where the sun still shines

like it hasn't shone before and

where the stones sometimes laugh

as if they've only just discovered

the earth while the cattails pretend

they are bulrushes and bulrushes

play hide-and-seek with the

cattails outside on a bright

summer's day.

And in that place, where starlight

runs like a river and colors

waltz between the trees, where

daffodils wave at passing clouds

and the ocean's waters taste

sweet to the touch, there was

a girl who used to find pebbles

on the shore of the sea and

paint them with the morning dew.

She would rise with the sun

and fly among the clouds, and

she would laugh with the stones

and play with the rushes and

the colors taught her how to dance.

At night she would bathe in the

starlight and wrap herself in a blanket

of fog before falling asleep to the sound

of the pebbles in her pocket saying,

"wish, wish, wish."

And far away, there was a wish,

a wish of a man who had never

seen cattails or fallen asleep beneath

a foggy blanket or found a place

where daffodils still grow.

So one day he got onto his feet

and started walking wherever they

might lead, and wouldn't you know

it, but that young man stumbled across

a mountainside where he ran into

a girl looking out across the way

and they both went tumbling and rolling

down the valley until they landed with

a snap in a pool filled with spring.

And the boy had only just gotten to his

feet and held out his hand to help the

girl up when he realized that his stuttered

apology had turned into a bird, which

the girl took from his outstretched hand

and threw into the air, and it flew away

to the mountaintop where snow was falling

like wisps of cotton candy and turning

into toadstools just as it hit the ground.

The girl took him by the hand and led him up

the starlight stream to where he could feel

the sun across his face even while the

clouds were racing in the sky above,

and he learned how to laugh with the

stones and play with the rushes, and

the colors taught him how to dance together.

And after a time, the two of them took the

pebbles they had painted with the morning

dew and set out for the mountain where

the girl had first wished for a dancing

partner and where the toadstools smelled like

freshly fallen snow, and they took those

pebbles and they threw them, one

by one, farther and farther until

they couldn't reach any more, and

then they ran down the mountain to

that pool filled with spring and climbed

onto their raft and sailed down the

river of starlight and out over the

ocean where the waters taste sweet to

the touch, because they knew that

there was something waiting to be

found over the horizon.

So if, one day, you ever find

that place, where the sun still shines

like it hasn't shone before and where

the stones sometimes laugh as if they've

only just discovered the earth while

the cattails pretend they are bulrushes

and the bulrushes play hide-and-seek

with the cattails outside on a

bright summer's day, let me know,

and we'll go there, you and

I, and we'll rise with the sun and

fly among the clouds, and we'll laugh

with the stones and play with the

rushes, and maybe, the colors will

teach us how to dance.

Nagging Doubts

Written for the physics blog I kept during an independent research project my junior year of high school.

is it okay
that I think more

than I read and

that I write less

than I think and

that I even have

these doubts about

those silly things?

spearmint clouds

I think I am green today

with a hint of brown

or maybe blue

the color of my gmail page

when it hasn't quite loaded

or spearmint

maybe a pine forest

today I am a cloud

floating idly along

sometimes rushing

sometimes raining

(but the best thing is

I have a silver lining)

Child of the King

It's been suggested to me more than once that this is chapter one. I've thought several times about turning it into a full-length novel, but I don't have the inspiration now, and I think it stands alone all right. So, someday. Maybe. Anyway, it's some kind of fantasy setting, but I really don't know anything about it myself beyond this. Written for Calvin College's Youth Writing Festival. Unfortunately, I don't know the exact date it was written, but I'm pretty sure it was some time in February.

          “Come to me, my Child.”

          She froze, her legs trembling beneath the outstretched skirt of her handmaiden's dress. She could not move, could not manage the words that she knew she must speak. It was as though time had ceased, the crowd holding its collective breath, and she, bent in the delicate pose, several paces in front of them. She could feel the disappointment of a thousand hopefuls radiating behind her like a sigh of a fading sun.

          “Come to me, my Child.”

          The words each one so longed to hear had been spoken for her; why could she not take up their sweet offering? Each of them had come for that reason, to hear those words, to be the one, the Child. They were ranged behind her now, each with his or her private thoughts, dismay, anger, envy, loss. Why? Why not me?

          She also wondered, silently, in that space of a moment, why? Why me? They all wondered. Why such a lowly servant girl? Why? How they had all wanted it, longed for it! The chosen one was not one of them, not the beautiful, rich nobles or proud, strong citizens, but a handmaiden. A handmaiden who was even too tall and slim to be a proper maiden was the chosen one, the Child.

          “Come to me, my Child.”

          Five words, five simple words that they had all so hoped to hear. They were words that held power and meaning, words that could bring joy and responsibility and could cure poverty and despair. The people had travelled from distant reaches of the kingdom in the hope of hearing those words, only to be disappointed by the choosing of a humble maid.

          They traveled every year for the ritual, and every year most left in regret. They had made the journey in anticipation of the ritual every year, as long as anyone could remember. It marked the coming of age of all who had turned sixteen in the past year and the choosing of the Child.

          “Come to me, my Child.”

          She had never indulged in the fanciful dreams of the other girls, to wear the elegant gowns of the rich, to have her red-gold hair trimmed to sweep her shoulders, to be treated as one of the Royal Family. She had never thought of change to the dress of a handmaiden, to her hair coiled in its braid on her head that marked her as a commoner, to being shown her place as a servant of those above her. She had never hoped to be chosen to enter the service of the king as the others had dreamed of.

          They were called forward, one at a time, a tedious process that would take hours, even days, just to be presented to the king. The name was read, then a bow or a curtsy and a nod in return was all. So it was for all but one. The one to whom the words were spoken, the one who would join the ranks of the Royal Family and govern the kingdom.

          The man had read her name, one of the ay-rens and arr-ens that everyone tried. She had taken the careful steps forward, one, two, three, four, then lowered herself into the graceful curtsy, head respectfully bowed. She had waited for the nod, the signal to rise, return the four steps to the crowd, and await the choosing of another. It was not so.

          “Aeren.” The one word held her in shock; he, the king, had spoken to her, had said her name. He had pronounced it correctly, the graceful, flowing aye-rin that she had thought only she knew. “Come to me, my Child.”

          She knew what the ritual required of her; she knew what she was compelled to do. She wondered what would happen if she simply refused, turned back to join the crowd and wait for the choosing. She was certain it was not allowed, for the privilege that was granted to one young man or maiden upon that day was irrevocable. Unalterable. Unchangeable.

          Slowly, she stood, brought herself up to stand on unwilling, unsteady legs, and raised her head, only slightly, as all those her age had been taught. She knew the response she had to give and knew she did not want to give it.

          “If it pleases my king, I will come.”

          The words slid softly from her lips, yet they seemed to reach every corner of the spacious throne room. She did not believe she was worthy of this honor; she was merely a stable girl who spent her days in the midst of animals and manure. She was not dressed in the fancy gowns of the rich, but the simple garb of the servant. She had not been taught at an expensive school, had not learned more than how to read and write. But she was chosen.

          She walked forward, exactly seven more steps as she had been taught, and performed the curtsy again. Five more steps brought her to the foot of the throne. Four from the crowd, seven to the curtsy, five to throne. Sixteen paces that were the longest moments she could remember, sixteen paces that were watched by the entire kingdom, sixteen paces that reflected on sixteen years of life.

          The king stood and descended from his throne as he had when she had watched many times in years gone past. This time it was she who knelt before him to take on the responsibilities of the Family. He placed his hands on her shoulders, either side of her bowed head, and she knew as he spoke that this was what she must do.

          “You are a Child of the king.”