πίστις
ἐλπίς
ἀγάπη
These three things are things that I always seem to have no matter what. I can't explain why I always have πίστις, but I do. I have lost so much. One would think that I would have lost it all and given up on it. πίστις is more easily explained than ἐλπίς or ἀγάπη; ἐλπίς and ἀγάπη are the reasons why I have πίστις. I certainly cannot explain why I have ἐλπίς. I grew up with it. I've doubted, of course, but never completely lost it. As for ἀγάπη... I just do. I've never lost it and never didn't have it.
Therefore, the greatest of these is ἀγάπη.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Speculation
It is a dreadful reality that I face. Before I face all to come, I should ask is this really a reality? I will receive no reply. I have received no reply.
I once wrote a prophecy of a man who enters the military after he realizes the death of his wife. Turns out that his wife did not die... but he doesn't discover this until much later. She thought he was dead, too.
So the haunting idea is that God has a sense of irony with which he turns a false prophet into a true one. Or not. But if he does... I've come to realize the death of my love, and am contemplating joining the military. And if the prophecy is true, I will enter and rediscover her later in a joyful reunion that is never ended. If it is not, then I will enter and risk becoming an empty soul. If I don't enter, then it is not true... but is it possible that I will still rediscover my love?
Don't worry... I don't have any hope. It is all simply interesting and I'm sure it's not true. Either way, the prospect of continuing on alone is daunting.
I once wrote a prophecy of a man who enters the military after he realizes the death of his wife. Turns out that his wife did not die... but he doesn't discover this until much later. She thought he was dead, too.
So the haunting idea is that God has a sense of irony with which he turns a false prophet into a true one. Or not. But if he does... I've come to realize the death of my love, and am contemplating joining the military. And if the prophecy is true, I will enter and rediscover her later in a joyful reunion that is never ended. If it is not, then I will enter and risk becoming an empty soul. If I don't enter, then it is not true... but is it possible that I will still rediscover my love?
Don't worry... I don't have any hope. It is all simply interesting and I'm sure it's not true. Either way, the prospect of continuing on alone is daunting.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Emotion
I feel as though I have run out of things to write on even though only one quarter of my life has been written. Perhaps not to its fullest extent is it written, but there is so much more to write of, which would be the latter part of my life so far lived. However, I am not so sure it is yet time to get to the "juicy stuff." Hell. . . the juicy stuff might not even be written for years, simply because of factors that affect people other than myself.
In fifth grade Steven left for Georgia. I didn't really care as much as most people would about their best friend leaving. I remember saying goodbye to him and his family; they were practically my own family. On the same day, one of my dog's pups died. I would swear I loved the thing before it was even born. She was the runt of the litter, I believe. I wrapped her up and put her in a shoe box that is now buried a couple feet adjacent to the oak tree in front of my house. I'm not sure why, but I named her Special. It was an odd name, but I was quite immature and the only thing that came to mind was how special she was to me, and I had no clue why. I cried that afternoon. My mom thought I was crying because of Steven's leave, but that wasn't the reason. I was crying because of the puppy; even still, she thought that was how I was hiding the truth. I didn't miss him, really. If I did, it was hardly at all.
My uncle Bobby died while I was in fifth grade as well. I don't recall as to whether he died before Steven and his family left or after. His life may as well be a story of its own, but I must tell what I know. I only saw him three times to my memory: once at a funeral for my great grandmother and twice when I was in New York visiting. I couldn't exactly see him whenever I was in New York, not because he lived away from where I visited or because he traveled a lot, but because he was in jail. He was drinking one day. He was drunk. He decided to do what many people decided upon and get away lucky with. He didn't come away lucky. With doubles of everything he saw, he couldn't help hitting the car. Two very unfortunate children died that day. They were both under a year old. . . He was supposed to get out jail during my fifth or sixth grade year; he would have been 49. But he didn't. He died from liver failure.
I hardly remember going to the funeral, but I do remember my emotions at the time. They were confusing emotions at that. I didn't know my uncle very well. According to most in my family, he's the guy whose looks I was born with. Anyway, I was confused as hell. I didn't miss him exactly, because I never knew him. I was quite apathetic about the whole thing because I didn't understand. It hit me sometime after everything that I was sad because I wish I had gotten to know him. I wish I had gotten to know him as well as my late grandmother who died before I was born. I was confused because I missed these people I didn't know. I loved these people I didn't know.
Sixth grade went by having been the year I first ever failed a test. It was a science test dealing with botany. To this day I hate botany. It was also the year I met some new friends like Scott Michael and Zach. Well, Zach wasn't a friend at the time... He was quite the jerk, actually. Anyway, sixth grade was the year I began writing. I wrote a story about machine-like aliens attacking earth. (Transformers had absolutely no influence. To tell the truth, Bionicles were my influence.) I also wrote a "poem." It was a rap song I made up. My mom went to get my books I left one day and found it in my desk. Apparently it was bad to write about such things...
In fifth grade Steven left for Georgia. I didn't really care as much as most people would about their best friend leaving. I remember saying goodbye to him and his family; they were practically my own family. On the same day, one of my dog's pups died. I would swear I loved the thing before it was even born. She was the runt of the litter, I believe. I wrapped her up and put her in a shoe box that is now buried a couple feet adjacent to the oak tree in front of my house. I'm not sure why, but I named her Special. It was an odd name, but I was quite immature and the only thing that came to mind was how special she was to me, and I had no clue why. I cried that afternoon. My mom thought I was crying because of Steven's leave, but that wasn't the reason. I was crying because of the puppy; even still, she thought that was how I was hiding the truth. I didn't miss him, really. If I did, it was hardly at all.
My uncle Bobby died while I was in fifth grade as well. I don't recall as to whether he died before Steven and his family left or after. His life may as well be a story of its own, but I must tell what I know. I only saw him three times to my memory: once at a funeral for my great grandmother and twice when I was in New York visiting. I couldn't exactly see him whenever I was in New York, not because he lived away from where I visited or because he traveled a lot, but because he was in jail. He was drinking one day. He was drunk. He decided to do what many people decided upon and get away lucky with. He didn't come away lucky. With doubles of everything he saw, he couldn't help hitting the car. Two very unfortunate children died that day. They were both under a year old. . . He was supposed to get out jail during my fifth or sixth grade year; he would have been 49. But he didn't. He died from liver failure.
I hardly remember going to the funeral, but I do remember my emotions at the time. They were confusing emotions at that. I didn't know my uncle very well. According to most in my family, he's the guy whose looks I was born with. Anyway, I was confused as hell. I didn't miss him exactly, because I never knew him. I was quite apathetic about the whole thing because I didn't understand. It hit me sometime after everything that I was sad because I wish I had gotten to know him. I wish I had gotten to know him as well as my late grandmother who died before I was born. I was confused because I missed these people I didn't know. I loved these people I didn't know.
Sixth grade went by having been the year I first ever failed a test. It was a science test dealing with botany. To this day I hate botany. It was also the year I met some new friends like Scott Michael and Zach. Well, Zach wasn't a friend at the time... He was quite the jerk, actually. Anyway, sixth grade was the year I began writing. I wrote a story about machine-like aliens attacking earth. (Transformers had absolutely no influence. To tell the truth, Bionicles were my influence.) I also wrote a "poem." It was a rap song I made up. My mom went to get my books I left one day and found it in my desk. Apparently it was bad to write about such things...
Brandon Malphrus, Scott Michael, and I all became good friends sixth grade year. Scott and I shared an interest in Star Wars; I would allow him to borrow my Star Wars books and we would both write fan fiction. Brandon and I just clicked; I don't know why.
Seventh grade was nothing special. This was the year that drama first found its home at Step of Faith. Kids getting in trouble for making out. Boys and girls weren't allowed to be too close to each other. The senior grade, which was the seventh, would get into trouble for things lower grades did because "fifth and sixth graders wouldn't do that." I also got my first pair of glasses that year.
I left Step of Faith to go to Patrick Henry for eighth grade. This was the grade drama presented itself directly in my life for the first time. I started to get into major trouble. I picked on the seventh grade and picked fights with my grade and the ninth. I really started paying attention to girls that year. Everyone was too old for me and I refused to date a girl that was beneath my grade. I had thought of dating, but I never really considered it. I was too shy to consider it. I wanted to play soccer, but I couldn't get a team together. There was no other sport I cared to play. Altogether, my classes weren't half that bad.
I had my first betrayal at Patrick Henry. The beginning of my trust issues all starts here. I made a cool friend, Chris Wilson. About halfway through the school year he realized the rest of our class didn't really like me, so he decided to not be my friend and make fun of me with everyone else. It sucked. After that I didn't have anyone at all. There was this one kid we all called Frank, but we weren't that great of friends.
My witnessing also began at Patrick Henry. I found out my science teacher wasn't in tune with God. I started talking to him everyday after school. We would talk about our beliefs and such. I can only hope I made some kind of impact on his life, but I may never know. I still have a map of Mars I borrowed from his class...
My writing skills continued to develop. I started writing a story, a book, titled: The Dark War. It's my favorite story of all time, and I have yet to complete it. I stopped because I felt my writing skills weren't up to the task. I decided I needed more experience before I could actually write it.
Ninth grade...
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Genesis
No one can really be sure why it happened, but it did. It wasn't easy for my mother to have children; I don't know much detail, but she wasn't very able to have kids. Not because she didn't like kids or anything of that sort. She wasn't physically able. Yet I am here. I wasn't adopted, for sure. I've seen the documents of my birth and even the video of me being born, oddly enough. And if all of that isn't enough, my appearance should tell all. They say I look like my mother mostly, and that I have my father's eyes. I myself do see my father's eyes, as well as his father's eyes. I'm not sure about the looking like my mother, though I do look like my mother's late brother. Of course, I'm speaking of my looks now as I enter late adolescence and early adulthood. Nevertheless, I am my mother's child.
I was born in New York (upstate, not the city). It is either unfortunate that I was born in New York or that I moved to a state of the South filled with people whose prejudice is flowing. Somewhere around the time I turned two, my parents decided to move to South Carolina. We lived on Hilton Head Island in an apartment adjacent to the beautiful Atlantic. More specifically, we lived at Beach and Tennis Resort where my father was part of security. It was in that apartment that I said my first swear word, learned how to spell my name, and dress up for Halloween as a character that affects my life to this day: Bamm Bamm. I don't remember much, but I do remember my first friend. Her name was Natalie. Her father was my mother's boss at a drug store that now no longer exists. I haven't seen her in years, and when I say years, I mean about 14 years.
Before I turned three, we moved to Ridgeland, South Carolina. My parents still worked on Hilton Head, but we had a house and property of our own. There's actually more to the story about the house and land we acquired, but it hadn't affected my life at that time. I didn't have any friends until sometime after I turned three. A family had moved across the street (if you could call it a street). My mother decided she and I would meet them. That was when I met my first best friend, Steven. For years to come, Steven and I would play at each other's house just about every day. We started kindergarten when I was four and when he was five, which is why I have been the youngest in my class every year of school of my life so far. We went to Agope Christian where I made a couple friends, one of which was my first crush. Before we graduated K5, my parents as well as Steven's took us out of Agope to be home schooled. Personally, I think it was because our parents were racist and didn't like that there was a black girl in my class; my mother swears she's not racist, but I don't believe her.
I was home schooled until third grade, switching back and forth between Steven's house and my own. My mother and Steven's came to us one day and asked us if we wanted to go to a real school. We were worried that we would have to take naps, but little did we know that it would have been great if we did actually have nap time. The school was Step of Faith Christian Academy, a school that had recently opened. When I began going to this new school, I also began going to the church that it was a part of, Great Swamp Baptist. I didn't like Great Swamp at first. I hated going to church in general, but my mother made me go to RA's on Wednesday nights. I was miserable there because all of the other kids picked on me. Some made fun of me because I was a Yankee and others did just because it was fun for them. They would always mess with me and physically abuse me, but it was the mental abuse that was a real issue. My mother didn't seem to care for my cries to not go to church. Even though I told her what they did, she didn't care, really.
My relationship with God began at an early age. I had grown up knowing He was in my life, thanks to my mother. That is at least one good thing my mother did for me; I'm not saying my mother never had good intentions, but the benefactors that came from her good intentions were rare and will be mentioned later in my story. I think God was like family to me when I was younger. I hadn't come close to understanding the Trinity, but I knew Jesus and God were the same person; I thought of Him more as a king than a savior. I saw Him as this ruler of the land, but I had no personal relationship with Him. God was like the President of the United States to me: important to my living, but no real relation to me. I hated going to church because I didn't think it was important. I didn't think I needed it, though I did.
I did great in school when I was younger. I made the headmaster's list each quarter in third and fourth grade. I didn't know how to keep my mouth shut though. I was a talkative little kid, like most, but I couldn't help myself. I'm sure it was for attention, which was something I did get enough of, but perhaps not quite enough for my tastes at that time. My mouth always got the best of me and I never thought before I spoke. My mother used to always get mad at me and so did my friends and teachers. Therefore I gave up on my attention. I figured that if I changed my habit of talking for attention I would receive even more attention and maybe they all wouldn't be mad at me. So I shut up. I don't recall what age I was when I started not-talking, but because I kept my mouth shut and didn't speak up I became a recluse and lost all social skills (or perhaps never developed any after having none in the first place).
My real story, the one that matters, actually starts here. It all begins with a dream...
I stand completely still in a trance at the sight around me. Everything is so dark, yet the day is bright and the sky as blue as it has ever been. I am in pain. I am suffering. But why? Everything is so perfect. I realize that I am standing in my back yard. I am behind my house and I see my swing set and club house behind it. The swing set is old and the color of the wood it was built from has faded since its creation. The club house that sits between two small trees beyond the swing set is dirty; dead leaves fill the inside and outside it begins to droop. My father built the club house with me. It was where I went to pretend and to dream. And so here I am, dreaming. I feel horrible. I feel like I am dead or dying. I ask God what is going on, and for once in my life, He answers me. He comes down from His heavenly post and speaks to me face to face. I can hear His beautiful voice. He tells me that I am in hell. He tells me that my sin has brought me here. He tells me I am dead. I want to cry. With Him so close to me I want to jump into His arms and beg His forgiveness. As if He could read my thoughts, He concludes His talk with me by telling me I have a second chance. He tells me that this doesn't have to be my end. With that He leaves and everything around me changes. The sky is as bright and as blue as it has ever been. My swing set is still sitting behind my house rotting, and the club house beyond that. I am standing in my back yard, and I am in heaven.
When I awoke, I prayed to God. I begged for His forgiveness. He accepted my apology and forgave me. He accepted me, like no one had before.
I was born in New York (upstate, not the city). It is either unfortunate that I was born in New York or that I moved to a state of the South filled with people whose prejudice is flowing. Somewhere around the time I turned two, my parents decided to move to South Carolina. We lived on Hilton Head Island in an apartment adjacent to the beautiful Atlantic. More specifically, we lived at Beach and Tennis Resort where my father was part of security. It was in that apartment that I said my first swear word, learned how to spell my name, and dress up for Halloween as a character that affects my life to this day: Bamm Bamm. I don't remember much, but I do remember my first friend. Her name was Natalie. Her father was my mother's boss at a drug store that now no longer exists. I haven't seen her in years, and when I say years, I mean about 14 years.
Before I turned three, we moved to Ridgeland, South Carolina. My parents still worked on Hilton Head, but we had a house and property of our own. There's actually more to the story about the house and land we acquired, but it hadn't affected my life at that time. I didn't have any friends until sometime after I turned three. A family had moved across the street (if you could call it a street). My mother decided she and I would meet them. That was when I met my first best friend, Steven. For years to come, Steven and I would play at each other's house just about every day. We started kindergarten when I was four and when he was five, which is why I have been the youngest in my class every year of school of my life so far. We went to Agope Christian where I made a couple friends, one of which was my first crush. Before we graduated K5, my parents as well as Steven's took us out of Agope to be home schooled. Personally, I think it was because our parents were racist and didn't like that there was a black girl in my class; my mother swears she's not racist, but I don't believe her.
I was home schooled until third grade, switching back and forth between Steven's house and my own. My mother and Steven's came to us one day and asked us if we wanted to go to a real school. We were worried that we would have to take naps, but little did we know that it would have been great if we did actually have nap time. The school was Step of Faith Christian Academy, a school that had recently opened. When I began going to this new school, I also began going to the church that it was a part of, Great Swamp Baptist. I didn't like Great Swamp at first. I hated going to church in general, but my mother made me go to RA's on Wednesday nights. I was miserable there because all of the other kids picked on me. Some made fun of me because I was a Yankee and others did just because it was fun for them. They would always mess with me and physically abuse me, but it was the mental abuse that was a real issue. My mother didn't seem to care for my cries to not go to church. Even though I told her what they did, she didn't care, really.
My relationship with God began at an early age. I had grown up knowing He was in my life, thanks to my mother. That is at least one good thing my mother did for me; I'm not saying my mother never had good intentions, but the benefactors that came from her good intentions were rare and will be mentioned later in my story. I think God was like family to me when I was younger. I hadn't come close to understanding the Trinity, but I knew Jesus and God were the same person; I thought of Him more as a king than a savior. I saw Him as this ruler of the land, but I had no personal relationship with Him. God was like the President of the United States to me: important to my living, but no real relation to me. I hated going to church because I didn't think it was important. I didn't think I needed it, though I did.
I did great in school when I was younger. I made the headmaster's list each quarter in third and fourth grade. I didn't know how to keep my mouth shut though. I was a talkative little kid, like most, but I couldn't help myself. I'm sure it was for attention, which was something I did get enough of, but perhaps not quite enough for my tastes at that time. My mouth always got the best of me and I never thought before I spoke. My mother used to always get mad at me and so did my friends and teachers. Therefore I gave up on my attention. I figured that if I changed my habit of talking for attention I would receive even more attention and maybe they all wouldn't be mad at me. So I shut up. I don't recall what age I was when I started not-talking, but because I kept my mouth shut and didn't speak up I became a recluse and lost all social skills (or perhaps never developed any after having none in the first place).
My real story, the one that matters, actually starts here. It all begins with a dream...
I stand completely still in a trance at the sight around me. Everything is so dark, yet the day is bright and the sky as blue as it has ever been. I am in pain. I am suffering. But why? Everything is so perfect. I realize that I am standing in my back yard. I am behind my house and I see my swing set and club house behind it. The swing set is old and the color of the wood it was built from has faded since its creation. The club house that sits between two small trees beyond the swing set is dirty; dead leaves fill the inside and outside it begins to droop. My father built the club house with me. It was where I went to pretend and to dream. And so here I am, dreaming. I feel horrible. I feel like I am dead or dying. I ask God what is going on, and for once in my life, He answers me. He comes down from His heavenly post and speaks to me face to face. I can hear His beautiful voice. He tells me that I am in hell. He tells me that my sin has brought me here. He tells me I am dead. I want to cry. With Him so close to me I want to jump into His arms and beg His forgiveness. As if He could read my thoughts, He concludes His talk with me by telling me I have a second chance. He tells me that this doesn't have to be my end. With that He leaves and everything around me changes. The sky is as bright and as blue as it has ever been. My swing set is still sitting behind my house rotting, and the club house beyond that. I am standing in my back yard, and I am in heaven.
When I awoke, I prayed to God. I begged for His forgiveness. He accepted my apology and forgave me. He accepted me, like no one had before.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Introduction to: The Story of My Life
I've always wanted to write the story of my life. I've heard that writing things out, especially personal happenings, helps reveal things about one's self. Recently, I read something that moved me to write this. I'm writing this for myself and for you, my audience. If there's one conclusion you can make as you read the following posts, it may just be that I am an attention-seeker. I want you to read these. I want your attention. I want some way to be noticed, but I will not lie. I will not change the story. Of course things won't be exact, but I will try me best to make them so. And so in order to ensure that I have a large audience, I will be posting "The Story of My Life" on Blogger, MySpace, and Facebook. Maybe it'll be an interesting read. Maybe it will help you somehow. Maybe you won't care. Perhaps there really is no point in writing this. I feel badly enough that 50 percent of the reason I'm writing is for the attention. It's sad really.
Note: Names will be changed to protect the reputation and identity of those involved.
[Edit: Names will not be changed.]
Note: Names will be changed to protect the reputation and identity of those involved.
[Edit: Names will not be changed.]
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