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Mi Abuelo

As some of you might know, I was called away to Puerto Rico due to my Grandpa's recently failing health. I have, since Wednesday, been back on the island and the next few posts will most likely be about my time here.

Her voice had cracked...

of all the things that brought the severity of my Abuelo's condition into reality it was this that began the journey.

My aunt has never been one to be completly forthcoming with her emotions. As the eldest in her family as well, she and I struggle with the same condition. For us, it is a matter of caring for the family and feelings must come later. At that very moment I knew...I knew that the following days would change my life forever.

Arriving at the hospital Abuela ushered my Aunt and I into his room, his bed was a mess of tubes and wires. I gingerly made my way to his side as though my steps might somehow add to the obvious pain he was in. There he was: Abuelo. Each breath a struggle and as his heart monitor did beat at an irregular pace I grabbed his hand to steady my own. I gazed upon a frail and tiny man, his body covered in sun spots and his skin appearing oddly yellow. When his eyes would open periodically to gaze at the ceiling I thought perhaps he was seeing Angels. Hanging upon every unintelligible word that he uttered we hoped he would emerge from the medicinal sleep he had been put under for his benefit.

I couldn't help myself, I began to cry. My Grandpa had been the one to hold my bicycle secure, he had clasped my hand in his as we crossed the street and he had been the one that, as I child, I had looked to for strength. He had never looked helpless in his life. Yet, here he was, weak and close to breakable and I was powerless to help him.

A story that Grandpa loved to tease me with came to mind and I share it now with you.

I had come to visit Puerto Rico when I was five years old and, at the time, loved to play house. What five year old doesn't? So, I had taken Grandpa to the bedroom, as it was way past his bedtime, and proceeded, in gustapo-like fashion, to refuse to let him get up. "Can I get up now?" He would plead. " No!" Would be my stern reply. This went on for a good few minuets; he would implore and I would similarly deny each request. Finally, daddy came in to distract me with ice cream and bedtime was soon forgotten.

As I sat studying my Grandpa as he slept. I couldn't deny the knawing throb at the back of my heart. The knowledge that there would be no such discussion this time. I would not be granted to gift of acquiescence.

If it was his time to go, it was his time to go... with or without my permission.

Right now Grandpa remains in ICU. Though his body is slowly improving his mind has not. He is in and out of lucidity. Please continue to pray for his increased health, body, heart and mind. I find great comfort in Psalms 147:1 & 3 and Psalms 34:1.

"Praise the LORD. How good it is to sing praises to our God...He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds."

"Taste and see that the Lord is good. 'I will bless the LORD at all times; his praise shall continually be in my mouth.'"

The Lord is the great physician and whether He calls my Grandpa home our heals him completely I know that in every circumstance He is good. Thank you for your prayers.

Recommedation #4

#4. Not trying to cut your own bangs.

For my fourth recommend I thought I'd switch it around a bit and rather then suggesting, I would not suggest cutting your own bangs. For most, the prior statement might be a no-brainer. I can barely cut in a straight line, why would I take that risk with something on my face?

Well, for me it wasn't that obvious and I eagerly took it upon myself to redeem the otherwise terrifying notion. I would cut my bangs and do a smashing job! My choice to attempt the alteration on my own was influenced mostly by my boredom and my pocketbook. Seeing as my mother had taken me to the hair salon not two weeks prior and paid for a trim of my swooshy side bangs, it seemed wasteful to pay another thirty dollars for my new desired look. Also, I was po' and had no monies. So, armed with my brothers comb and a pair of scissors, I absconded from my mothers sewing basket, I set out on the grand adventure of hairstyle(ary).

So far the only instruction I had received on the cutting of bangs was a brief, though thorough, lesson from a family friend last summer. I'm sorry to admit but I remembered very little of the seminar except that cutting bangs is a lot harder then it looks. I amended this misfortune by watching many a youtube video. I learned quite a bit. For instance, one should never cut straight across, remember the whole inability to cut a straight line deal? Turns out it applies to hair too. My favorite tutorial involved a charming Asian women warning of the dangers of bang alteration with: "Ma Sur tu cuh na tu fah, o you wi hae coconut head." Translation: If you cut too much hair you will look like Friar Tuck. I'll admit, this scared me a little. I surely did not want to walk around with hair resembling a tropical fruit, or a monk for that matter, so I made sure not to get too trigger happy. I would only cut what I needed to.

To be honest, the whole deal went on without a hitch. Other than getting hair everywhere and cutting off a piece of my eyelid we were smooth sailing. I made sure to cut whilst heeding every bit of instruction and was quite proud of the results. The problem, occured a day later. I was putting in my contacts in the morning and soon thereafter checked on the wounded eyelid. It was healing up nicely. Imagine my shock when I glanced above the cut and saw a wide gash in my eyebrow; I had sliced off the middle of it. As I mentioned before, because you are not advised to cut straight across, hairstylists encourage the vertical technique. This is where the sissors cut upward into the bangs rather than side to side. Seems I got a little over zealous and decided to trim my eyebrow as well.

I partially blame my mother's sewing scissors for my slip, they were unexpectedly sharp; even though it was either them or the scrapbooking option that would have made my hair look like lace. I don't even know if it would have been possible to use those anyway. Eh, it was a thought. So, really I had no alternative. Funny, eyebrows, though small, when missing makes one look almost inhuman. If anything, I can now sympathisize with dear Wormtounge from Lord of the Rings and that guy in Arrested Development who had that hair condition, though I'm sure I'm being dramatic. Anyone remember that guy's name by the way? To clarify, I still have both eyebrows. It's just that one looks a tad more devil may care. I'm bound to draw it in for the next four months it takes to regrow.

If you're willing to risk cutting your own bangs ladies, be my guest. In the wise words of my Asian friend: "Ma Sur tu cuh na tu fah"... or you will slice off your eyebrow.

Recommendation #3

"I take my Swiss Kriss, man, they keep you rollin'. Old Methuselah, he'd have been here with us if he had known about them."

— Louis Armstrong in [The Louis Armstrong Story] by Max Jones & John Chilton, pg. 220.

#3. Swiss Kriss

So, seeing the need for another recommendation, I present you with an item that has greatly enhanced the quality of my life. I will admit, I have been hesitant to confer this to you since the matter is a bit, shall I say, awkward? But since everyone poo's, I thought this product would be useful for all.

Yes, I know. There are so many other things, Nichole, that you could have expounded upon that are far less gross. Like toe-socks, Hewlett Packered and Blistix, but I will remind you that this blog is a collection of things that I have found to be laudable and none of those things fit the bill.

Now, I've thought this through and through and have wondered how I might present this delightful addage to anyone's medicine cabinet without resorting to the use of vulgarities; such as: bowels, regularity, fiber, smooth, hard and dare I say, watery. I commit to you that I will do my best, but seeing as pooping has never been an entirely "behind closed doors" kind of thing in my home I apologize before hand for any amount of discomfort that this post may cause. It might help you to know that I have already resigned myself to the idea that I will most likely not receive any comments.

Now, onto the very subject this post pertains to! Swiss Kriss: Natural Herbal Laxative. As it states on it's website, the product contains: "the gentle laxative effect of senna with the digestive benefits of papaya leaves and centaury herbs, the anti-spasmodic benefits of calendula and caraway, the anti-gas benefits of peppermint leaves, parsley and anise, the tonic benefit of lemon verbena, the mild diuretic benefit of dandelion leaves, the relaxing benefit of peach tree leaves and the natural flavoring of hibiscus flowers." In other words, it's homeopathic. Which, for my four younger brothers is code name for Hippie.

I came upon Swiss Kriss two summers ago while I was on Vacation in New York. My Aunts, with whom I was staying with, are both R.N.'s/homeopathic nurses and upon complaining of my uncooperative colon quickly prescribed two tablets of the stuff. I reluctantly chugged them down with a glass of water and took note of their grassy taste and hint of lemony flavor. I honestly, didn't think much of it since my Aunt's have also taken care of hurt knees by hanging crystals over them...I wasn't skeptical, I just wasn't expecting anything grandiose. Would you believe it but after 15 mins I felt like a fright train was about to explode out of my backside and sprinted to the bathroom. I was not to be disappointed. Swiss Kriss had struck gold. I have tried my fair share of "gentle stimulants" and all of them have either made my bum feel like I had a bad case of diaper rash or reduced my bowels to a watery mess that would go on for days. Not so with Swiss Kriss, it simply detoxes and cleans you out. Also, I am a big fan of the use of plants and not chemicals to treat my digestive issues.

I know that consistent constipation is not uncommon for people nowadays. It seems that the more we simplify our lives the more we cram stuff into them leaving very little time for the bare necessities. Eating, sleeping, fill in the blank and pooping. We are under an extreme amount of stress as well. A successful visit to the loo requires time and relaxation, both of which I have very little of in my life. To further complicate matters, I am often traveling. Routine is vital for regularity and with all the here and there'ing in my life, I would be lost and not to mention very backed up without the aid of my Swiss Kriss. Even good 'ole Louie Armstrong felt as I do!

So, I urge you to take a gander and try it out. You won't be disappointed.

You can find Swiss Kriss at any of your local health food stores, your friendly neighborhood GNC or you can purchase it online: Hippie Store. Also, since it is sure to work I wouldn't recommend taking it before a business meeting or boarding a plane.

P.S. Since guys have resolved to live in a fantasy world where girls do not poop, this, I realize, may have been difficult to accept for some. My hope is that the men who follow my blog feel more comfortable with the matter and have now graduated beyond this primitive viewpoint.

My Marianne

There is something far more bitter than a broken heart and that is the numbness that takes a hold soon thereafter.

In the very least the painful shards of heartache allow you the decency of feeling. Not so with the dullness. It weakens you in the deepest parts. There is suddenly no color left in the world, no flight of fancy or little joy to distract. Just him.

I can't say I think about him with regret now or remorse that things are as they're so. But I remember feeling. I remember the exhilaration of a word and that a hairsbreadth of movement would make me fall to his gaze; captured.

I remember those things.

There is solace in the memory that I once did feel love. If even unplanned for and with no future.

I am settled now. Ours was not to be.

I want to believe that it was simply part of a divine plan, one meant to lessen my delusions of romantic grandeur, to humble my heart to see reality as it were, as it is. All in order that I might see the true man ordained to have me. But I know of no reassurance.

For now, I feel nothing.

It's Cold

Snow outside my home in Texas

Oh, what's a girl to do?

I know I'm due another "recommend" but I suppose that'll have to wait. In the meantime on to my most recent dilemma. It's cold. I know that this is an obvious statement for most everyone as even folks in south Florida experienced 30 degree weather today. But this has compounded my already prevalent issue of lack of structure.

Let me explain.

Last June, whilst sitting at home doing mostly nothing, as I was off from work for the summer, I did what I usually do when I have too much time on my hands. I began to make a list of goals some ridiculous and very close to unattainable and enthusiastically set out on a course towards the acquisition of said goals. These were the two I made in June:

1) Run Half Marathon

2) Memorize Phillipians

How did I do? Well on December 11th I am proud to say that I ran and completed my first Half Marathon. I know. It really was an accomplishment and one that I had to push through many a "I just don't wanna dooo this" moments to get to. Since I hadn't ran, seriously at least, for about a year, I had to start slow. I was training for nearly six months... Make that ALOT of " I just don't wanna do this" moments.

I still haven't memorized Philipians. Maybe I'l re-tackle that one this summer.

Anyway, which brings us into my current quandary. The entire continental United States has been thrust into a crazy bit of a cold-spell and I frankly don't want to run in it. I know, some of you might be saying: "Well, comon Nichole. You already ran 13.1 miles! Give yourself a break." But I have...I've only ran a handful of times since running across the finish line that brisk Saturday morning.

I do want to run but I don't want to. Does that make sense? Of course not. I have a solution though: I will have to register for another Half Marathon.

Let me just be completly frank. Without goals I become a pitiful blob of undirected energy. Summers are a nightmare for me as I spend most of my time not doing anything and the rest of the time hating myself for not doing anything. I need structure. If it were a nice 60 degrees outside I think the issue would be far less pressing. I know some of you hardcore runners are thinking, " She's such a whimp." I am, but I do love to run. I actually enjoyed most of the six months of preparation I had pre-Marathon, and I DID run through rain, sleet and coldness. So I've earned my badge. However, now, with no structure and the warmth of my fireplace and blankets. I seem to have little to no motivation. I'm beginning to feel a bit lumpy dumpty. I really did fear this would happen. I would accomplish something monumental: My Half Marathon and completely lose my endurance and discipline two months later. My children later on passing on the story would answer their little ones questions of what did Grandma in with " Well, my son, it was her lack of goals."

Oh, what's a girl to do?

P.S. I do know that when I get home(in Texas) I'll have my lovely gym to run in. I'm just being a bit venty and dramatic. It's simply these next couple of weeks at home(in Florida) that will prove to be the test of my will. I might have to bite the bullet, run outside and/or otherwise deny any tendencies to self-deprecate.

George and John

It's an intriguing thing to be thought of as safe.

Tonight I was talking to a good friend of mine on Facebook chat (with which I have a love-hate relationship) and he made some off the wall comment; not unusual for him. He's one of those individuals that will say most anything just to get a rise out of you. I rarely ever know when he's in earnest and usually he knows to clarify with a " Just kidding!"

Well anyways. We'll call him "George." Here's our dialogue:

George: "Nichole, when I look at your ridiculous little smiling face, I feel like a child."

Nichole: "Ooo. That's so very poetic. What does that mean?"

George: "It means that you make me feel like, if anything were to ever happen to me, you would swoop down with your Jesus-power and save me."

They were both very sweet things for him to say and oddly enough I've heard them before from "John," although he used the words 'safe' and ' comfort,' not but two months prior. "John" will have to be discussed at a later time.

What kind of truths do these coincidental agreeances infer? I began to wonder:

Do I physically look safe? More specifically, does my appearance bear to mind the ability to swim someone ashore or rescue kittens out of a burning building? Well no, I thought, of course not. I just wrote about my diminutiveness in a prior post so I certainly cannot physically appear to be the bearer of safety. I can hardly lift my suitcase onto the scale at the airport.

Perhaps it is due to my mad survivor skills and mastery of the martial arts! Okay, I lie. I don't have mad skills or any skills really. All I know about surviving is what I have ascertained from my grade school readings of Hatchet. Although, I'm pretty good with a spatula...

So then, what is it?

All I know is feeling safe is to be comforted, to feel impervious to danger, a " all is right in the world" kind of impression. The way I feel when I'm hugging my dad. He's safe because I can trust him.

My hope is these two men believe I am safe, because they feel they can trust me, because they know they are loved.

If anything, it's an intriguing thought.

Recommendation #2

"...Palmer's Cocoa Butter enriched with VITAMIN E, in a soothing emollient base. Helps smooth and blend unattractive marks and scars. Tones skin. An excellent all-over-the-body moisturizer..."

— Back Label of Palmer's COCOA BUTTER FORMULA with Vitamin E.

#2. Palmer's Cocoa Butter Formula

As most of the continental US has been submersed in a winter wonderland of a cold spell it seems fitting to dedicate my second recommendation to an item that has made this tundra bearable: my cocoa butter.

Usually my hand-dermis is not that big of a downer since living in Florida for eight years has helped to infuse moisture into my otherwise crusty and crackly hands. It has been a genetic joy of mine to receive from my mother her incessantly dry skin. However, the south has decided to turn cold now-a-days and its been a difficult transition for mis manos. Thankfully, there is Palmers! It has been quite the Godsend because my hands have gotten( in the past, before my cocoa butter salvation,)so gnarly, that they have bled. No fun. I know, I should probably spare you the details.

Actually, I was a tad skeptical to try the lotion because the only recollection I had of the stuff was that my mother used it on her breastesis and tummy after she gave birth to my brothers. I didn't want to administer 'udder' spread to my digits. But I had a couple girlfriends practically worship it so I decided to give in, if only secretly. I planned to stash it under the sink and out of view of my house guests.

What a joy it was to find that it does exactly as it promises! Heals soothes and softens. I can say that my hands have never been happier.

Some concerns and/or questions you may have:

"Cocoa butter, isn't that oily?" You might think so but its definitely not. It's a thick, yellow creme that rubs in beautifully and doesn't leave a hint of grease.

"Cocoa butter; it's going to make me smell like a tube of sunblock." Although it does have a hit of tropical, dare I say, scent. I promise the lotion smells delightful and not at all like Banana Boat: another in trepidation of mine.

"Bah! But it's so expensive! Suave is like, half the price." Exactly! You get what you pay for. The 8.5 fl. oz. bottle I use was about $7.00 but because the lotion is thick, as I mentioned, the amount used and required to do the job is much less then any other over the counter I've tried. So, in that regard, it pays for itself.

Palmer's: makes for happy hands.

So, here it goes:

After visiting and re-visiting my blog an exorbitant amount of times today, which has, by the way, made me realize how completely narcissistic I am. I blame you Facebook! More on that some other time. I realized that I haven't actually taken the time to talk about me. The girl whose writing this blog. It might be a good idea to tell your "reader(s)" who the heck you are Nichole. Not that I really have readers yet but I say that in hope that one day in the future (when I figure out how to customize my own artwork, include "widgets," fork out the ten bucks for a domain name and have readers!) that someone will stumble upon my Archives and find this lil gem of an intro.

So, Hi. My name's Nichole, that's right, with an 'h'. For about thirteen years of my life I thought my name was completely unique. I had never met any Nicole's who spelled their names like mine and so I very much liked my name. I remember some jerk grocery store attendant dashing my dreams of exclusivity though as he explained that he had, in fact, never met a Nichole that spelled her name without an h. I don't even know how I would have gotten into this conversation with a grocery sales clerk but regardless, I was pretty bothered by it. Since then, I've discovered that there's more to the uniqueness of a person then a singular letter in one's name. Thankfully.

Interests. Does this question bother anyone else? I find that my interests are always changing and because of this, generalized questions always irritate me. I feel like I'm lying a bit when I answer questions like, what's your favorite color with... "Green." Because wasn't it just yesterday that it was red Nichole? See what I mean? It's difficult. I can tell you that there are things about me that will never, some fortunately and others unfortunately, fluctuate about me.

I, in fact, am Puerto Rican. This is often surprising to people as I don't speak with a Latina accent or wear chunky gold earrings. Actually, no, okay, I stereotype. It's mostly because I'm light-skinned and have green eyes. People usually beg me for an Italian.

I am 4 feet 10.5 inches( believe me, when your this short you count each millimeter.) I could pprobably alter this, as I've seen some documentaries on people who have had themselves surgically stretched but that really grosses me out and looks extremely painful. No thank you.

I was born to Rock and Roll. Really, not really, not a big Rock and Roll fan. I mean that more as as play on words to describe my affinity towards all things musical. True story: When I was nothing but an embryo my mother would put headphones on her belly, this was before baby Einstein, and play me Beethoven and Mozart.Once and awhile throw some Tito Puente in. She was set on having a musical genius baby. Well, she had me! I am musically inclined but far from musical genius. I majored in music at Florida State( Go Noles!) and currently spend my free time writing little ditties on my piano or guitar. Thanks Mom, you're the best.

More unchangables? ENFP. Home schooled. Jesus lover. Irrational fear of Tapioca Pudding.

Um... I'm the eldest of five? I have four brothers. Yes, it was hard but also so much fun. I doubt if I had four sisters that I would have gotten stuck in trees, pegged with snowballs until I cried and been involved in a stunning re-enactment of the Battle of Gettysburg. Aw, the memories.

So there you have it, though I really could have written more... See! I am so self-absorbed.

Recommendation #1

"...since 2001 jill has been selling her work directly to fans online or via indie boutiques around the world, along the way becoming an indie-business icon. transcending studio art, graphic design or craft culture, her name has become a lo-fi lifestyle brand - a grass-roots counterpart to martha stewart or ralph lauren."

— martin wong, giant robot magazine

#1. Jill Bliss Journals

I believe that my love for writing came into being upon the arrival of my eleventh Christmas. I received a dandy little spiraled notebook in my stocking. At first, the drudgery of this gift discouraged me. For writing was nothing more than a school-assigned sadness at the time. However, the cover, with it's cute button latch and victorian monologued paper proved to be enough of a convincer(never say you can't choose a book by it's cover.) I consented to it's blue lined pages and resolved not to be intimidated at the numbers on the bottom right hand corners. I would write and I would like it, otherwise it would quite the waste. Obviously enough I caught the bug and have been writing ever since. Which leads me to the point of this posting and my very first recommendation. Jill Bliss and her lovely, lovely journals.

I do love to write and have trialed many a writing book: round rung, "sketch", leather, suede and even toilet paper recyclables and I have found, that the best journal out there for the lady sort, specifically, are those that Jill so deftly puts together. A friend of mine introduced me to them three years ago and I have been hooked ever since.

For those less exposed to the journal world you may be asking yourself, " Well, what makes a journal great?" I would say this.

One that inspires and invites your thoughts. Not only do Jill's designs incite the imagination, the pages seem to tease your thoughts onto the paper with depiction's of rosy flowers and swirling leaves but these pages also vary in mode. One page may be a solid creme open for transcriptions whilst the other be covered in graph. To write in these journals is to go on an adventure and I'm absolutely in love!

Here is her website if you're interested in purchasing one for yourself: Jill's Land of Wonderment

Lunchtime Conversations

Today over lunch my best friend Whitney reminded me of why my heart aches to think of her being so far away from me. When I graduated Florida State I was taken to Texas whilst Whitney chose to stay in Tallahassee. What I think really catches my heart about her, well many things, but one so beautifully resurfaced today at lunch is what is revealed in one of our many conversations this afternoon. Here's a part of the dialogue:

Setting: That old hooters building transformed by some green and red paint and a stunning golden eagle into a less of a divey situation: El Jalisco #4... it's a Mexican restaurant if you haven't caught my drift.

Players: Whitney, old friend. Jen, old friend with wrist brace.

Script:

Whitney: Hey! What happened to your wrist?
Jen: Oh! I have a cyst on my wrist.
Whitney: Oh! Well, at least that rhymes.
Me: (hysteric laughter)---> Sorry, I forgot to add myself to the "players" list.

Honestly, Whitney has a way of bringing out the joy, of course, in the commonplace but her appreciation of poetic nuances is so wonderfully unique and her's completely. It makes sense as she was an English major. I would have never caught that the two words rhymed and she found the event to be quite funny which I then found funny.

To Whitney, my queen of the pentameter and prose.

Photos from Mexico

I'm not a professional by any means but sometimes I do get lucky. Below are some of my luckier shots from my summer trip to Mexico.
Enjoy!



I thought the detailed etching around this door was stunning.

This older gentleman was selling hats to the tourists riding the open double decker buses. I'm sure he made a killing.



One of the many churches in Monterrey.



Atop the bus.



1791


This monument was huge and in the middle of a busy intersection.

Street view



At the park.



Our tour guide was quite the character. He claimed to know five languages!



I liked the way the clouds seemed to open up above this building.



From left to right: Richie, Nichole(me), Jen.

My Mom makes me laugh

The other day my mom and I were having, what I thought to be a fascinating, conversation about the different groupings, cliques, social status(i) that her students seem to associate themselves with. Then she began to categorize me. The dialogue went as follows:

Mom: Hey Nichole, I know what you are.
Nichole: Really? What am I?
Mom: You are an indie!
Nichole: (Laughter)
Mom: And all you "indies" like to shop at that store. What is it...(Quite convincingly)... Archeology!
Nichole: (More laughter)...You mean Anthrolpolgie?

In the spirit of this post I thought I would include the website at the center of our convo: Indie Store( according to my mom)

Thoughts on Isaiah 51:1 ( Part 5 of 5)

"Listen to Me, you who follow after righteousness, You who seek the Lord; look to the rock from which you were hewn. And to the hole of the pit (quarry in NASB) from which you were dug..."

To the hole of the pit from which you were dug. As important as it is to recall the rock, it is equally as important to remember the quarry. Not only our heritage, but our past. For were we not all encased in hardened clay and soil? To the naked eye of the world there was nothing worth digging in the muck for but the Lord saw our unformed bodies (Psalm 139:13-16) and with his hands, feet and wounded side went elbow deep in sick, depraved, rotting sin to retrieve us. The hole remains; we can no easily erase our pasts as we can erase our memories. However, the hole is not there to be jumped into or that we might fall in again, as is the danger It is there to remind us of what we have come from. Not meant to destroy but to thrust us into the arms of Christ as we remember who we were and glance again at Christ, whose robes of white have been placed upon us.

Thoughts on Isaiah 51:1 ( Part 4 of 5)

"Listen to Me, you who follow after righteousness, You who seek the Lord; look to the rock from which you were hewn. And to the hole of the pit from which you were dug..."

Look to the rock from which you were hewn. Why does this prove to be so difficult? I can honestly say that I often feel less like a rock and more like jello. Yet, what literal strength is found in this charge and reminder. It is a recollection of our holy heritage. To some, this might sound like an odd thing to say, for aren't we made new and should focus on the work at hand? Our lives at the moment? No, we must never lose sight of the ancestry of our christian faith. Quite a sobering thought to recall that we are a part of the linage of Abraham but just as inspiring. In the thralls of this world do we not forget who we are?- Deuteronomy 4:9 " For you are co-heirs with Christ."- Romans 8:17.

To be hewn from something is to be cut out of, it is the equivalent of being a "chip off the old block." We come from a heritage of righteous men and women who let their homes, sacrificed their sons, sought Him night and day, proclaimed truth in the midst of persecution. These are our Holy Ancestors! This is the rock from which you were hewn, by the skilled hands of our maker have we been chipped away from it. Each of us is a stone, that we may be laid down for the foundations of many generations- Isiah 51:16.When I feel more like Jello then a part of a rock, these words revive my spineless spirit.

Thoughts on Isaiah 51:1 ( Part 3 of 5)

"Listen to Me, you who follow after righteousness, You who seek the Lord; look to the rock from which you were hewn. And to the hole of the pit from which you were dug..."

You who seek the Lord. It takes no scientist or devout Christ-follower to notice the God of all creation, to stumble upon the revelation of the existence of a creator. For is not all creation praising and worshiping God? Proof of His existence is everywhere. However, these words are not for the casual observer, they are for those who seek after God, those who seek the Lord. It is more than an acknowledgment, it is an exploration. It is the difference in seeing a person and having a conversation with them. Them who intentionally pursue the heart of God and desire to know Him and find Him. As multifaceted as a diamond so much more is the face of God and these facets cannot be revealed through simple observance but through persistence, through desire, through curiosity. And we serve a God who does not hide in pretense but honestly invites us: " You will seek me and find me, when you search for me with all your heart. I will be found by you..." - Jeremiah 29:13-14b

Thoughts on Isaiah 51:1 ( Part 2 of 5)

"Listen to Me, you who follow after righteousness, You who seek the Lord; look to the rock from which you were hewn. And to the hole of the pit from which you were dug..."

You who follow after righteousness: I love these words: " who follow after..." What a reminder that righteousness is always before us. For is not righteousness that is always growing? As one attribute of God is acquired one more is revealed as lacking in our lives. It is an ever present pursuit and process which is thusly noted as our sanctification.

I find great comfort in the statement. Although, at first it seems like a futile one; a never attainable. It reminds me of my humanity, my ever- present imperfection. For it is not until He returns that we will see Him as He is (John 3:2.) It is at our acceptance of this futility that we can truly grasp the power of God's grace and revel in the journey of Christ-likeness. How dull a sojourn it would be if righteousness was acquired at salvation. Holiness is placed upon us while righteousness is placed before us. What stories can be told as we traverse through the valley of the shadow of death alongside our Savior. Placing our hinds feet on high places, on mountain tops and making our bed at his feet. Follow after righteousness.

Thoughts on Isaiah 51:1 ( Part 1 of 5)

"Listen to Me, you who follow after righteousness, You who seek the Lord; look to the rock from which you were hewn. And to the hole of the pit from which you were dug..."

Listen to me: it is first required: a listening ear. That at the very beginning of our comfort (as is the theme for this chapter) we must incline our ears to listen. To listen not only reveals our ability to hear the Lord but also demonstrates our desire, As we silence our surroundings and dim out the voices of our own heart by leaning in towards Christ this reveals our longing for Christ and places our heart in a position of readiness and willingness to receive His message, His words of comfort.

The distinction is made: Listen to me. Quite the obvious statement but again, for one to listen to the Lord it takes a certain amount of intentionality, for the Lord is not in the roaring of waves, the shaking of the earth, but in a whisper (1st Kinds 19:12.) To place our ears on the ready means an active pursual of things above.