Don't Want To Be Famous....anymore.

As I sat in my living room, only the sound of air conditioning buzzing through the walls and a comfy pillow to lean on, I sat down with my guitar and began to hum a random noise from the back of my throat.

...I could sense a song ensuing.

Over the past 6 years, a lot of people have asked me where the ability to write music comes from. I can answer with complete honesty that its just a gift from God. Plain and simple. I usually respond to that question with, "Its God--I just happen to be in the room."

I don't say this in an ambiguous, super-religious way as others may. I say this with total awareness that my talents are not my own. They belong to Jesus. They don't belong to me to market, exploit, or receive self-seeking praise from people. They are a gift, of which I am humbled to have been given.

And talent is not a mystery. Its simply evidence of a creative God, who likes to express himself through his very own creation, by continuing the cycle of creativity. Talents are really simple if you let them be.

I can attest to many years not fully understanding the beauty of being given the talent of music---of worship. I've always been able to sing. My earliest memories are sitting at the foot of a platform, watching my family sing and play music in God's house. My family is full of musicians, artists, and creators. I remember my Dad putting me on his lap and showing me the different instruments that they played on a worship team. He would humor me by letting me sit in during practice and "play" the instruments along with them. Sometimes I'd sit on the floor next to the drummer with a couple of pencils as my drumsticks and bang on my lap as my drum set. Other times I'd stand near the bassist and copy his rhythmic head-bobbing and "stank face" expression. I remember sitting next to my dad at the piano and watch him lead everyone in worship and stare at his fingers in complete wonder. The way they moved magically across every key, creating the most wonderful sounds....mesmerizing.

You see, my dad never knew how to read music, but he could write songs that were so beautiful. And he could sing to the Lord with such amazing passion--it was unlike anything I had ever seen. My grandmother often reminisces with me about my earliest years. When asked the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" my answer was always " I want to sing in God's house." I remember many times, all under the age of 7 years old, being encouraged by my dad to sing for the church. He would have me pick out a song and I'd sing in service. He always encouraged the gift. Always nurtured, always praised. Its because of my father that I had a passion for music and for worship.

During my teen years, the need for guidance and attention, mixed with the need for approval of every kind by everyone, quickly made way for my passion of worship to slowly become a passion for applause. I joined the school choir and eventually the theater company through a random audition that I had heard about in class one day. That one audition soon opened a door to a whole other world:

The stage.

Oh, that stage knew how to sing just sweetly enough to seduce me into the throws of passionate, life-breathing theatre. And yes. When you are a big-headed, American goon you spell 'theater' with British snobbery and change the 'er' to 're'. THE-A-TRE. (I imagine you pronouncing this to yourself in a Shakespearean accent and a dainty hand gesture.)

Now, don't misunderstand. The recognition, self-gratification, and adoring 9th grader fans weren't the only reason why I loved performing. The fancy makeup, costumes, and the pretending to be anyone but myself was also a huge plus. For two hours, I got to live in a make-believe world, where I could think, talk, and act like someone else. And I got to walk away at the end of the night being doted on by various audience members for my "breathtaking" and "leave em in tears" performances. There was also something strangely fulfilling about auditioning and getting a role that everyone wanted and getting the big stamp of approval that came with it saying, "YES, Jordan! They like you! They really like you!"

Maybe what compelled me was the desperate need to know that I had what it took? Or maybe the need to prove that I had what it took? Maybe a little bit of both. All I know is that the adrenaline rush faded rather quickly once my senior year in high school came around. I practically had my bags packed, ready to move to New York and follow my life-long dream of Broadway and the bright lights, when the afterglow of the stage somehow disappeared and I was left realizing that the audience only liked who I pretended to be--not who I really was.

To the insecure and unwise, fame seemed to be a one-way ticket to happiness for many of the kids I performed with. Sadly, it still is for some of them. But before I graduated high school, I had a first hand glimpse of what seeking fame and the spotlight would bring you by watching other friends "make it" in the entertainment business. I have concluded these are one of three things:

Lots of insecurity. Lots of instability. Lots of alcohol.

I remember one day, I was sitting in the costume room in the theater department, rummaging for an outfit for a pending performance, when I was hit with immense sadness. I didn't want to put on a dress and pretend to be anyone else anymore. I wanted to be me. I didn't want to sing for applause. I didn't want to be a performing monkey. I didn't care that I was the president of the Thespian troupe at school and I definitely didn't care who cared that I didn't care. I just didn't care! It was all meaningless entertainment. It was all so...empty?

So I sat there, staring at the costumes and began to ask myself,

"Is this it? Is this all there is?

If it is, then why do I feel so empty?

Why doesn't this make me happy anymore??

What is my purpose in life?!?!?!

What am I going to do?!!?!?!?!??!!?!?!!"



All of a sudden a huge wave of revelation hit me, and, in an instant, shattered my world of plastic emotions. As the tears fell, I began to think, for the first time, that all these years of striving and trying to prove myself were all for a waste. Every audition, every day long rehearsal, every time I let my grades purposely slip because I "wouldn't need college, anyway" were all for nothing. But before even an ounce of mourning set it and before I could even look up into the sky and scream in misdirected blame, I heard a voice speak clearly and tenderly to my heart:

"You were created to worship."

Wow. I remember my reaction not being surprised or taken back by this. I calmly closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and smiled in childlike remembrance saying to myself,

"Yes. Yes I was."

From that day forward, my entire life changed. I graduated feeling a little directionless, but nonetheless content with my decision to pursue God again and not my own created version of success. I just kept trusting that wherever I was supposed to go in this big world and whatever I was supposed to do with my life, it would all be directed by God's leading. I just needed to trust.

So flash forward a year or so and I was doing music again, just this time in a local church. It was almost like re-learning a language, I have to admit. I had become so accustom to performing that to be handed a microphone, put on a platform, and told to sing for people was a real learning experience. Everything around me looked familiar but was the exact opposite of all that I had grown accustom to. However, through trial and error, I immediately re-learned that music God's way is entirely different than the world's, and there is no way of intermixing them both. You either sing for His glory, or you sing for your own.

One thing is for sure: there is no room for performance, especially when it comes to worship. In fact, playing music and worshiping God can't even be put in the same category. They are completely separate and have nothing in common. Playing music can evoke emotion and passion, but the heat of the Holy Spirit lighting your heart on fire is something completely different. Sure, playing music can evoke happiness and joy, but the joy that comes from the Lord brings wholeness and is lasting. Playing music can give goosebumps and bring someone to tears, but worship is what will cleanse their soul of contaminating thoughts, emotions, and torment. Worshiping God is what lifts you up from your dark place.

Worship isn't a pretty melody that leaves you with shackles still on your feet.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that through the last 5 years, God has been drawing me deeper and deeper into what I was created for, which is worship. I believe we were all created to worship. But those who were marked and detailed with the talent of music were meant to lead others, and not just with their songs, but with their lives.

So I guess, from starting out as that elementary kid who would stare at the contorted faces of worship leaders and think they were constipated because of their intense and focused expressions, to now being a semi-adult and having elementary kids looking at me that way, it is wild to look back and see how far I've come.

And it is all because of His wonderful, undeserved, and immaculate grace.

I Like This Story...

Here we are again, folks. I have nothing interesting to write to you, but I do want to post this amazing story about this guy who went through a six year wait for the one that God told him that he would marry. Its amazing, inspiring, and just so so so special. ;)

Enjoy!

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"A Nice Story For You"

by Steven Foster

When I was about 10 yrs old, I went to NY city for a weekend (from Cleveland, OH) and we visited a small church. We joined their church group for the day to visit the Statue of Liberty, and some other sites. When we got into a group for a photo, I noticed a little girl on the opposite side, who was bundled up just as I was, because it must have been late fall. After I saw her, I thought to myself-this is going to be my wife. (I was saved and had a very strong relationship with the Lord)

We left NY and went back home to Cleveland. I prayed that God would let me have her for a wife when the time came. I also felt that it was His will. From the first time I saw her and the first time I prayed; I didn't even have a doubt in my mind. I still didn't know her name or even if I would even recognize her out of a lineup, since I only saw part of her face and never even heard her voice, but God gave me assurance about the matter.

Soon after this; our church became affiliated with this church in NY, and the two churches would plan summer activities for the youth, and the churches. (Don't know the details of how this worked.)

About two years later, our church along with some others, planned a gathering and I was very interested in seeing if I was going to have my future bride show up. I was looking around the cafeteria really confused; when I noticed a little girl across the table from staring into my eyes. Sure enough it was her; but, she was way too pretty for me. I was one of the oddest looking kids, and I never thought I would be able to get anyone to like me. (Was small, skinny, way too mature for my age, hung out with old people, large broken glasses with only one side hanging to my ears, and dressed like it was still 1959. Even my cousins and my brother made fun of me. And for my serious love for the Lord-they would call me little Jesus. Which I didn't mind.)

Very shortly I found out she wasn't looking into my eyes but rather looking at my odd looking glasses. She spoke to me very nicely (she was very talkative) and asked me some questions. I found out a little later that she liked a boy and was very serious about him. (We were 12) Well, the boy wasn't me; it was someone from her school, which was no surprise to me. But I thought to myself-she must not yet be saved, because if she was; God would have told her who her husband is going to be-ME.

That was the extent of our conversation. All the boys circled her, but I thought to myself-"they just don't know." I was never worried or jealous, but just trusted in the Lord. After this trip, I did wonder if I will ever hit a growth spurt and if my looks will improve a bit; I wanted her to one day be very happy and comfortable with my looks, and be happy, and like the person God gives her- all around.

Well, some time passed again-about a year that I saw her again (13). She had changed so much, and I was about the same. I remember that she was already hanging out with some older kids, some even had cars. I didn't get to speak with her much during this time; but she was already my wife, except she didn't know it. I didn't have to spend time with her, or even talk to her to reassure me-because God was already doing that. Ever since I saw her for the first time, I had probably prayed for her almost everyday. I always prayed for her salvation and her physical well being.

I saw her once more about a year later, (we were about 14) and I got to talk to her for about two minutes; and she told me that she has a serious boyfriend, and he is 16. She seemed like she was real popular with everyone, and she was much like a young woman. I can't say I was really happy that she was dating a cool 16 year old-but I knew that the God who measured out the Universe with the span of His hand, had everything under control.

After this last time that I saw her; and the next time I would see her again, about 2 years passed. I was nearly 16, and we were actually going to move to the deep south, which would mean that these visits would stop. There were also other changes in my life that I would like to mention. Back when I was about 6 years old, an eye doctor told my mom that I would most likely loose my eyesight by the age of 14. I have to say that through the years, my parents would take me to change the lens in my glasses about two times a year for my eyes were getting gradually worse. It was two weeks before my 14th birthday, the last week of school, and I was sitting in class looking at the board when I noticed that I was having a hard time seeing again. Just like many times before. (It was probably time to change my glasses again.) By the end of the day I was getting light headed, and as I got home I couldn’t wait to take off my glasses and just close my eyes. When I took my glasses off I noticed that I could see everything just perfectly. GOD HAD HEALED MY EYES.

During the two years that I did not see her; my eyes had been healed. Not only that but I grew about 9 inches in the 2 yrs and put on about 50 pounds. I kid you not; I became a super athlete, with amazing strength and speed, my voice changed and I would have been unrecognizable to most people who didn't see me every six months, let alone two years. And yes, most girls would have wanted to date me if I weren't so serious. (I became what some called, eye candy.) It was an interesting two years, but I was still as serious as before. I was fascinated by my changes, but not overcome by them.

So, right before my sixteenth birthday our youth group and the youth group of the church she attended, went to a youth conference held in another city. I had not seen her the first day that we were there, but the second night we went to eat pizza and there she sat facing me with her two friends about 3 or 4 tables down. I sat with one of my cousins, and with as many girls that could fit at the table. (Most of these girls who sat down didn't even recognize me from years past, and thought I was someone who they never met before-so they were all eager to talk with me.)

I noticed that my future bride was feeling sad, and I would occasionally see her lay her head on her friend. I had no idea what was going on, but I was praying for her. I wanted to go over to say something but I just wasn't sure what to tell her. There were too many people around her, and even though between God and I, she was my wife- I just didn’t know what I was going to say.

A few minutes of this and someone came to our table and started chatting with me. After a couple of minutes he asked me if I would go outside for a minute. I said sure, and as we walked towards the door, I noticed that my bride was no longer at her table either. I was a bit nervous because even though I prayed about her; I just wasn't sure if would say the right things.

Sure enough as I stepped out the door, there she was with her friend. I stopped about two steps away from her and looked straight into her eyes- and couldn't say a single word. We just stared at each other, and I was just fine with that. Than her friend said-"well, aren't you going to say anything to her!" The first thing I said, was for her and the guy who asked me to come outside to leave. After they went inside, she just broke down and started crying- as I was still just staring at her. The first thing she told me was that she gave her heart to Christ about six months ago. Then she told me that she couldn't stop thinking about me for the last six months, and that she believes that God wants her to become my bride one day! The girl who could talk to anyone, had a really hard time talking to me. (We were both just before our 16th B-days.)

My response to that was, "I am not surprised!" As conceited as that sounded, I told her that I have been praying for her for about six years, and I knew she was my gift from God. As you could imagine, she was very happy, and shocked at the same time.

After that night we shared addresses, and we decided that we would write, and wait for further instruction from God. I moved to the South that summer, so I didn't see her much for the next four years, until when we got married at the age of 20.

Those four years were not as hard to bear as many would think. God's peace was with us, and He was with us. He was and is the centerpiece of our lives. When my friends would ask me; what does she looked like; I couldn't even describe her. I wasn't sure how tall she was, or any of her physical features, because I only remembered her eyes. Not even the color of her eyes; but what I saw in them.

God has blessed our marriage, and our lives. We have four children; and are serving the Lord to this day!!

God Bless!!!

-Steven Fanto

None Lost. All Saved.

I have been reading Beth Moore's devotional on the Apostle John. I came to a really beautiful, thought-provoking chapter that I find to be so moving that I want to spend the next few moments rewriting her words in my blog. This is so others can read and be challenged with the story, but more so that I can let these words seep into my heart and never put limits on the amount of mercy I should extend to people or how much effort I should put into bringing them back into the arms of Jesus.



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"STRAYING LAMBS"

by Beth Moore

My favorite account from the early church fathers concerning John was preserved by Clement. It begins with the statement, "Listen to a story which is not a story but a true tradition of John the Apostle preserved in memory."

While visiting a new bishop and his congregation in Smyrna, John "saw a young man of strong body, beautiful appearance, and warm heart. 'I commend this man to you,' John said, 'with all diligence in the face of the church, and with Christ as my witness."

John returned to Ephesus and, as promised, the bishop took the young man under his wing and baptized him. Time passed, and the bishop "relaxed his great care and watchfulness. . . . but some idle and dissolute youths, familiar with evil, corrupted him in his premature freedom." Before long, the young man had given himself entirely to a life of sin, committed crimes, and even renounced his salvation. Eventually John was summoned back to Smyrna and asked for a report of the young man. Somewhat taken aback, the bishop answered, "He has died"--meaning he had abandoned his faith.

John replied,"Well, it was a fine guardian whom I left for the soul of our brother. But let me have a horse, and someone to show me the way." When the elderly John found the young man, he started to flee. John called out to him, "Why do you run away from me, child, your own father, unarmed and old? Pity me, child, do not fear me! You have still hope of life. I will account to Christ for you. If it must be, I will willingly suffer your death, as the Lord suffered for us; for your life, I will give my own. Stay, believe; Christ sent me."

The young man wept bitterly, embraced the old man, and pleaded for forgiveness. The account says that John led the young man back and "baptized him a second time in his tears. . . . he brought him to the church, he prayed with many supplications, he joined with him in the struggle of continuous fasting, he worked on his mind by various addresses and did not leave him, so they say, until he restored him to the church, and thus gave a great example of true repentance and a great testimony of regeneration, the trophy of a visible resurrection." Truly, John practiced what he preached.

A Lil' Wisdom From a Dreamer...

With a personality like mine, its always hard to make the decision to be content.

I am the type, I guess, that you would call more of a "visionary" personality. I rarely ever see things in the present. I'm constantly thinking about the future, seeing what could be versus what already is.

I think this has served me well in many areas of my life. It definitely has helped me when it comes to creativity. For some reason, since childhood, I have always thought about the future. Always thinking about where I want to be, what I want to be doing, who I want to be doing those things with. Throughout my life, I have met many other people who think this way. The people that I am drawn to are always the type who tend to dream big and come up with ideas from unique, insightful perspectives that most other people don't naturally think of first. I guess you could call all of us dreamers? The words "you can't" or "impossible" never really go through our minds. If anything the words, "what if" always seem to be the common theme in our thoughts. A wild, unbound imagination is easily recognized when having a conversation with a dreamer. But I am learning, after 22 years of experience, it can also one of our biggest downfalls.

The downside of being a dreamer is that you are seldom ever content with where you are or what you have. Being so "future-minded", I have an issue with being satisfied with the present. There is always more that I want to be. More intelligent, savvy, successful. Be a better friend, worker, server. Sing a little higher, jog a little faster, talk a little more clever, be a bit thinner...

Love a little deeper, obey a little easier, say the right thing, do the right thing, dress a little nicer...

Whether its regarding my personal performance as a person or a self-inflicted negative evaluation of my exterior, I always seem to come up short. There's always MORE that I want. More that I wish I had. If only I could get past the "now" and get to where I want to be then, at last, I could be content. At last, I could finally have a great life. The life I've always wanted. The life I always dreamed of...

Don't get me wrong. Being a dreamer has many positive traits. You are able to think out of the box. You accept change easier. You even tend to work harder than others, always knowing there will be a payoff one day, even if it isn't close by. I've seen, first hand, how special it can be to have a mind that thinks this way. Since grade school, I've always been placed in positions of leadership and I think that having a visionary mentality may have something to do with it. People usually want to be around other people who have a clear vision. We tend to want to be led by people who know where they are going. However, I'm learning that being a dreaming "visionary" can sometimes be hard, especially when you lack some of the necessary disciplines that go along with it. Like putting a plan together to actually get somewhere.


1.) I tend to be so "future" driven, that I don't seem to focus on the "now" in order to come up with a plan to get there. I cannot tell you how many people I have encountered throughout my life that struggle with this very issue. From these fellow dreamers, myself included, I've heard quotes very similar to these:

"I've got the talent to make in on Broadway. One day, I'm going to be a dancer in a Tony-award winning show!"

"I have the drive to start my own business, like, own a boutique--full of rare trinkets from all over the world. Stuff that you'd never see anywhere else."

"I have the heart to one day move overseas and open an orphanage. I can see it now, me---still single---with tons of children all around me. They'd call me 'mama' and I'd have cute nicknames for all 127 of them. Who needs to get married and have kids of your own? This is what I really want."

"One day, I see myself traveling all over the world, ministering to thousands of people. Literally, thousands. Preaching with a traveling ministry. That is my dream."

Now, all of these dreams are great. They are imaginative, full of inspiration, were most likely given by a Divine creativity, and cause a certain excitement to rise within you as you listen to these dreamers lavish their deepest wishes and hopes for their future onto your lap. It is always exciting to hear new ideas and "pitches", if you will. But the one thing I've noticed the most from being a dreamer myself, and observing others, is that there is rarely ever a plan outlined to get us out of the parking lot of our dreams on to the highway of reality. We could be great dancers, but have no real training or experience in professional showbiz. We could have great business ideas and street smarts, but lack the education and licensing to be able to open our own shops. We may have the heart for people and deep compassion, but lack the obedience to leave home or the servant hood required to be a missionary. We could even have a great call to ministry and have pastors from all over the world see the anointing on us, but don't have the discipline and character needed to be a shepard worthy of flock that accepts our guidance and teachings.

I think anytime you put ordinary people together with an extraordinarily creative God, dreams and visions are bound to erupt forth in the hundreds, full of power and newness. However, I've taken notice how so many of us dreamers and visionaries sometimes spend so much time dreaming about the future that we have a tendency of wasting time by not putting forth the work that is needed to see these dreams come forth.

What about schooling and education? What about discipline and serving? What about taking one day at a time and being the best you can be with what you have now? What about being content with today and making the most of it so that tomorrow can be even greater?


Another problem that I find while being a dream is that:

2.) Fresh ideas and new visions seem to have an never ending supply, but when it comes to actually following through and seeing these things come to reality, well, that's a whole other story.

Maybe I could blame it on a cop-out disorder like ADD, but I tend to excuse my lack of accomplishment to me being so full of new ideas that by the time I get started with something, a whole other project, event, or insight comes into my mind causing all of my focus and attention to be turned away. I can't seem to divide my mind when it comes to multiple projects. Almost as if each new thought needs my 100% devotion and energy, leaving out the possibility of anything else being in the picture.

This makes a lot of sense when it comes to my relationship habits as well. Be it a friendship, new hobby, or newly found passion for work, I tend to lack the discipline of delegation. I seem to have a hard time putting priorities in place. When something, or someone, catches my attention, it is rare of me to be able to balance other things, or other someones, in my world. Throughout the years, I became somewhat of a "one person, one dream" kind of woman. That leaves little room for anything or anyone else. This is not good. This leaves a lot of people out of the equation and keeps a lot of good qualities from being obtained from all the "others" that I left behind for my new "one person" or new "one dream".

I also notice that when it seems to take too much time, energy, and brain work to make a dream come to reality, I tend to give up. Its easy to accept new things when the old things become too much too hand. When I sort of lose control and are out of ways to complete the older things, its much easier to run to something else to make myself feel fresh again. The old also seems to lose its flavor after a while, and a dreamer like me is always after tasting something new. This is probably why I dream so much in the first place. Again, always discontent.

Whether its a song idea, book idea, video idea, ministry idea, choreography idea, painting idea, community event idea, work idea---they all seem to get pushed aside when the latest and greatest "idea" pops in my mind. This probably explains why I have notebooks full of half-finished songs---I just get bored.

Anyways, I guess you could say that these questions and thoughts have been circulating in my brain these past couple of months. I am learning that you can have all the vision you want, but if you waste your time by not putting forth the work to get there, then all you are going to be is a big pile of dreams with no future.

But even in the midst of my deep thinking, the most amazing realization I have had is that, although it takes determination and a made up mind to have it, there IS a way to have perfect balance. There is a way to be able to sort things out and have focus and put in the work, little by little, to see your dreams come to reality. I've seen this in some of the greatest leaders around me, two of them being my pastors. I've witnessed their walk with God for enough years to be able to say that I've seen two people be the greatest examples of determination, hard work, reliance, and surrender. I realize that God gives us these dreams, but he also requires us to do something in the mean time. We have to to be determined, we have to work hard, we have to rely on him, and then at the end of the day, surrender everything.

This is the only way our dreams ever come to reality. Its a choice that we make. I'm finding that as a dreamer, the most important priority in my life has to be a close, real relationship with God. Otherwise, I'm a jumbled mess with no direction.

If my heart is close to God's, then I don't ever have to worry about where I should be, or where I should go. He will tell me. It is up to me to listen to Him and be content with where I am today.

I have to choose to be content.

Quail...

His eyes were as giant as big, brown tootsie rolls. His bottom lip trembled and the look on his face could only mean that I was on to something. Victory. Complete victory.

Seconds before, a light bulb had went off in my mind and suddenly my entire life, my entire approach to life, changed in an instant.

"QUAIL! I mean, really! Can you believe it?!?!?", I exclaimed as I made my residence known in the Borders cafe. I think the lady next to us stopped whatever she was doing on her computer half-way into my monologue and listened to my insightful revelation of life and Hebrew people...and quail. I could sense her scooting closer to us, her ears itching to hear something momentous and spectacular.

When Brandon finally digested the grandeur of the moment and all the craziness I just dropped onto his lap, his entire face contorted as if his life made a little more sense too and with a nod of approval and a smirk he replied,



" Quail."



"Quail?"



"QUAIL!!!!!! Yes!"


He then shook his head in the Brandon-like way that he does sometimes when he is enjoying his own thoughts, and didn't say anything for a solid 10 seconds. I was as giddy as a school girl who had just received the latest Tiger Beat magazine in the mail--Hanson addition--and had to control the giant voice inside of me that wanted to burst out into song and fervent tap dancing. The people surrounding us, I'm sure, wouldn't have appreciated my revised rendition of the Hallelujah chorus that was now spinning through the wheels of my brain, but something tells me that the weird Asian lady in mismatching clothes--she kept walking around and talking to herself--would have really understood me in that moment. Who knows? Maybe she would have joined me and we both could have partaken in the happiness together and serenaded each other atop the cafe counter, joyously harmonizing to the tunes of hearts with choreographed dances and perfectly timed hand motions. She would shimmy; I would yodel. She would hum to the baristas and I would interpret in sign language. It could have been amazing. And we could have been taken out of the Borders lounge by the police...together. The way I figure, public outbursts of insanity are never quite as sweet alone as they are with company. I think she would have enjoyed this very much. Something about the color of her mismatched socks told me so.

Needless to say, this week has been an experience full of so much discovery, I just don't think words can give it justice. It is mostly why I have not written in this thing lately; there is just so much I have been taking in and thinking about, I haven't been able to do anything but let the current take me wherever it leads and listen to the thrashing waters of revelation. That sucker came 100mph dead beat into the streets of Jordan and knocked me over with lightning speed force until I was left splashing around in its waves, screaming for my friends to come and join me. The things I've been learning...

It is almost as if the heavens opened up and an angel spilled some of her holy, anointed apple juice from a royal goblet onto my forehead, splashing me with glory and mystical insight into higher ways.

It has been really great. I have a feeling that this portion of time is something that doesn't come around frequently in one's life. Kind of like milestones that are few and far between. Even if they aren't, I'm really liking this season. I could get used to it. But I don't want to. I'm happy to keep riding the waves.

I promise to write more later...

Oh, Gloria Aleluya...

(NOTE: I found this entry from a long time ago. It was fun to read and completely describes how I feel today. And its about trees. How suiting. Grammar and wording have been edited.)

I have a close friend. Her name is Gloria.

Gloria is a tree.

She is not just any tree. Gloria is a mighty tree. An unmovable tree. An unstoppable tree. A tree that forces you to hug it.

I came to know Great Gloria on a day that was very unhappy. You know those type of days? The unhappy ones. Yes. It was one of those. I just knew things would be so much better if I could just find a tree and sit in it...

Low and behold, there she was. Perfectly shaped, wonderfully made, donning a brilliantly large happy face carved into her most enormous branch.

---If that is not a sign of a joyful tree, then I don't know what is!---

Every time I climb into Gloria, I'm greeted with a smile. Mmm. Lovely. And every time I sit with Gloria, forgetting the pedestrians around me and their looks of confusion and secret longing, the breeze blows in this way that cannot be described by any other word than...

Breathtaking.

I am met with the kind of silky air that literally takes your breath away when I rest my head on the bosom of dearest Gloria. I will be in the middle of a sentence or spooning ice cream into my mouth, typically accompanied with a friend who shares a common interest in trees or food of any sort, and I can't help myself. I have to stop everything I'm doing, stretch out my arms as wide as I can, close my eyes, and let it rush over like a warm, welcoming hug.

Its quite laughable. This experience can only be explained by saying that its almost as if God, Himself, interrupts me with prettiness. And prettiness just can't be denied, it can't be ignored, it can't be put aside--you HAVE to stop and submerge yourself in it, be captured by it, give it your full attention!

So this is my point: I went on a long bike ride today and while I rode past the dozens of landmarks of my childhood, one being my small hand prints in the cement of my neighbor's driveway, the birds were singing to me--literally, singing to me. And I knew they were singing to ME. Not to you, not to my neighbors, not to the mail man who kept trying to run me over...

...but to me.

As I rode further, I was overwhelemd when I realized there are lots of trees all throughout my neighborhood, which I seem to only notice when I am making it a point to take notice, and ya know something? Almost always trees come in twos. Its really mysterious to me. I wonder what the point of that is? Its very rare that you see trees of different groups sitting singularly, with their lonesome. Really, take a look for yourself.

Threes are almost always accompanied by another one of its same kind.

While I cycled on, my short legs scurrying round and round, all of my attention was drawn to the sun-kissed beauties that were the tallest. I noticed these two pine trees as the highest of all the trees in the forest, the mightiest kings of the castle. These pine trees were stripped of almost all their leaves except a small bundle, fluttering at the very top, branches prostrate, almost as if in surrendered worship. As for the rest of the trees around them, it just seems they just didn't have it in them to keep growing, to keep going higher.

No. Only these two trees made it. Its like these trees were determined to reach the sky and wouldn't settle for anything less. They had their mind set on submerging themselves into the light. It costs them their time. It costs them their beauty. It costs them closeness with other trees...

Still, they grew taller. They're kinda awkward, they sorta stick out and seem out of place, yet their height is incomparable to any others.

It was today that I realized I want to be like those trees.

Motherhood...

"I like this..." I thought to myself as I sat there, in my bright purple sea-horse sweater and gray shorts, a million pillows surrounding me and a crick in my neck from leaning on one side too long. It was the end of my night, and where else would I be but in my over sized bed, reading my self-help book that I purchased at the Christian bookstore for $14.99 in the "your-life-sucks-you-will-find-the-answers-here" section.

The past few weeks have been very long. Alone time and rest were much needed. For almost a month, it feels like I've been in perpetual labor and at one point I think the baby got stuck half-way out. All I could do was helplessly lay there in pain, beads of sweat gracing my forehead, hoping a doctor would come by, grab it by the neck, and shout a big "One more push, Jordan!" to finally put an end to the nightmare. That's graphic, but its the only way I can describe my experiences as of lately.

I will say, however, that I am now in the happy, transitional stages of motherhood. I named my imaginary child "Healing", I thought it was most appropriate. Healing is a tender little girl, peaceful, full of surprises. She smiles and laughs at the simplest things, brings joy to all who see her, and makes me proud to call her my own. Her skin is so new and fresh and pure and...

Innocent.

She is vulnerable to the elements and is in need of protection from all outside predators. She requires nurturing and gentle care. She needs a place to be safe to grow and be healthy. As her mother, I will watch her take her first steps, lose her first tooth, eat peas for the first time and make that weird scrunchy face that only children make when eating something healthy and flavorless.

Nothing is going to come between me and dear, little Healing. Nothing. Like a mother bear protecting her cubs, I will allow no person, place, or thing to harm my child. And I will not allow distractions and interruptions to take away these precious, irreplaceable moments of peace and joy.

Nothing.

Descendant of Shem...

I just sat at the red light, ignorant to the world bustling around me, in complete awe of the gigantic trees dressing the sidewalk. I had no choice but to take in their robust leaves and branches one at a time.

"Jordan, you drive past these beauties everyday. Why haven't you stopped and appreciated them before?" my Friend asked me.

Jaw-dropped and wide-eyed with wonder,

"I'm a criminal...and a nature-hater..." was my reply.

I stared and stared and stared until a gigantic smile slowly crept across my face. I couldn't help myself but laugh at the fact that to any normal observer this would appear as though I was talking to myself. Its ok, you too, can believe that I'm nothing more than a tree-hugging crazo. I don't mind one bit. Neither does my Friend.

I continued to watch creation dance before me and daydreamed about the history of these trees. Who planted them? For what purpose? These trees look like they've seen so much during their reign of state road 436. To how many passerbyers did they become a comfy shadow place; a quiet resting spot for the everyday man? How many children played and laughed under their branches, climbed their stalky arms and legs like wild apes in the amazon, shared a snack pack at the bottom of their overflowing roots on the ground, played hide-and-seek in the richness of their leaves? I wonder if there are girl trees and boy trees? Mommy trees and Daddy trees? Do trees get married? I think I need to get a book on trees. Are these trees friends with each other? I mean, I hope so. They happen to be planted next to each other and will remain there for years and years, they might as well find each other a little bit dandy.

Can trees be sad?

I thoroughly enjoyed these sites as the wind blew through every limb, caressing their shiny, greened jewels of splendor, tousling them to and fro at the very whim of God's breath...

Heavenly.

And then I heard the car behind me honk a loud, impatient reminder that I was fantasizing about snack packs and emotional trees in the middle of a highway and needed to pay attention. They must have been in a hurry to drop off little Tommy at school so they could make it back home to catch the last segment of Regis and Kelly. This only makes sense.

The start of my day has since set me up on a quest to learn my own personal history. The kind that involves my origin and ancestry. So I voyaged into the only history book worth reading.

My bible.

I knew that when I named this blog "Planting Trees" I would come to understand the meaning behind that title more and more as the days go by, as the stories come forth. But as I begin to plant the tree of my own life, my own story, I know that I am digging into something lasting (Andrew Peterson, you're a rock star!) and I'm finding out where I come from and why I am the way that I am. This is highly important if I want to plant trees. I don't think the trees of my life--my character and abundance of love--should be haphazardly planted.

So I found out, in the great Book, that I am a distant relative of Shem, one of Noah's three sons. Yes, I'm talking "Noah's Ark" kind of Noah. That one. Yes. We are related. Pretty gnarly. I know that Adam and Eve are my parents from the way-back-original days of old, but to know that SHEM is a family member of mine totally blows me away. His name means "name" in Hebrew. That's awesome. I wonder how many jokes his brothers Ham and Japheth made...

"Hey you! Whats your......NAME?" bahahaha

This is where my mind goes.

But what is uber fantastic is that his son, Terah, was the father of Abraham, whom we are all descendants of. Just like the promise that God gave to Abraham, that he would be blessed with children as countless as the stars--for the Bible illiterate--we are now living out that promise. You and me. Whoa.

We are his many trees. We are the lasting evidence of a promise that was and will be...forever. How incredible!

Now my question is, how are we planting our own trees? I believe our trees consist of the character, abundance of love, and beauty that we allow to flow out of us unto all mankind. A steadfast monument, a never ending promise...something lasting.

Those trees are worth planting.

Have you started planting your own?

If You Smell Gas, Its Me...

It started as any other day normally would. Woke up with my pillows surrounding me from all directions, opened up my dark gray curtains to let the happy sun awaken my day, and headed towards to the bathroom to be relieved...

----Yes. We will become that acquainted with each other, its part of the deal. 'Member?----

...and then I begin my normal observation of myself by staring at my reflection in the mirror, completely natural thinking, "Yep, this is as good as its gonna get". I then continue to my room to hang out with Joyce Meyer for a little bit while I get dressed for work, all while hearing my brother squeal like a banshee as he burns his forehead with a flat iron.

A typical day, nothing special.

Except, today was a little different. Because of an unexpected dream that left me somewhat unsettled, I just had a sense that things would be a little off today. Sometimes I can feel it coming. Like when bad weather would be festering in the atmosphere and my dog would lay on the floor and not move even if I prodded her with a treat; she just knew that something was up and if it meant instinctively ducking on the ground like a bank robbery was about to take place then she'd do it.

Yes. Just like that.

This morning, I could just feel the wind moving in such a way that my spidey-senses went on full alert and I could do nothing but wait, in uncomfortable anticipation, of what ever strange things were coming my way. But I continued with my normal routine and decided that if I was going to have to kung fu my way through the next 24 hours, then I might as well splash an extra helping of Dior on my neck and wear some heels for extra leverage. We've previously established that smelling nice makes me feel good, but I will say that I sprayed a little too liberally and left the house not wanting to be around myself for a while until the power of the potion faded. I hopped in my car, with Confidence in the passengers seat, and exited my neighborhood to find the nearest gas station to fill her up.

And there it was.

I arrived at the local Race Trac, awkwardly got out of my car (heels are no fun), check card in hand, and discovered that I was too far from the pump to actually reach the nozzle into my tank.

So...

I awkwardly got back into my driver's seat just as awkwardly as I had originally gotten out and drove up a bit to allow the nozzle to make friendly with my car, all the while not paying attention to the truck load of laborers watching me the entire time, having a lovely view up my dress--which was now flying wildly all over the place in the wind.

Hmmph.

I proceeded to use my check card, only to discover that I had no idea how to operate the particular gas pump I was at. Every button seemed to be stuck, and no matter how many times I click 'enter' the stinking debit wouldn't go through.

Finally my card approved and I began to feed 'old Betsy with highly expensive love juice known as gasoline. Now me and gasoline go way back. I remember being a child and loving the smell so much that I asked my mom if I could have my own perfume made to smelled like it. I was a strange child. I also enjoyed the smell of sharpie's. As of recently, however, maybe I've just been around one too many landscapers to find the smell utterly revolting and dislike filling my tank so much that I avoid it at all costs.

Lets get back to my story before I lose you.

I was nearly finished, hispanic men whistling away, when I decided to make the sorry mistake of tipping off my tank. I do this occasionally and was fully aware of the risk that I would be taking. Low and behold, you guessed it, a gushing tidal wave of highly flammable liquid shot out right at me onto my pretty new dress and all over the side of my car, while the man filling up across from me couldn't help himself but shoot a "you're such a girl/I want to help you but I'm not going to" look as I screamed in disbelief of my now wreaking predicament.

Whats worse is that my skin started to tingle in a very unhappy way, making me react even more helplessly, thus confirming the disapproving glances from the not-so-gentlemanly gentleman that got into his car and drove off, leaving me soaked and hormonal.

My first reaction was to call my mom. For all I knew, I was about to catch on fire at the slightest movement and if it meant saying my last goodbye's, then now was the time to do so. But, alas, she did not answer. And neither did any of the other individuals that I called to see if friction on the seat of my car could cause me to spontaneously combust. I finally came to the conclusion that I could not die from having gasoline on my clothes. That is, unless, I lit myself up with a match or ran past the smoking section of the parking lot, purposely catching cigarette embers with my skirt. That type of suicide would be impossible. And if it were, then completely ridiculous.

So now I am sitting in my office. My new co-worker friend, JR, didn't seem to mind my funk too bad as we chatted about life and love and God and stuff. But now I am trapped in a smelly dress that causes me to apologize to every person that comes within 10 feet of me. I have now got it down pat:

"If you smell gas. Its me."

Only When Your Armpits Smell Good...

I'm watching a magnificent storm come towards me. It is quite a moment to capture, as I sip my cup of chilled water, now causing a frozen tundra to shoot down my esophagus into the abyss of my digestive system.

Water is a mystery to behold. I can't get my mind wrapped around it. It has a way of touching things and clearing them out. Its like all of the world gets a nice, warm, bubble bath when it rains. Minus the bubbles.

Let me backtrack a little bit.

The first words that I heard when I woke up today were, "JORDAN!! You're going to be late for work! Get your butt up and take a shower!!!". I know that doesn't seem like a restful start to the day, but its what I heard. Was this the voice of my mother? No. A sibling? No. Myself? No. But it was a voice and I heard it. Now, was it an audible voice? No. Call me crazy, I really think that my special Friend speaks to me through my thoughts, and I'm finding that it is mostly telling me to just do whats responsible, whats right. What an adult should be doing.

Like brushing my teeth, for instance. Let me tell you, I consider myself a pretty decent human being when it comes to personal hygiene. I enjoy the freshness of a hot shower and smelling like the mixed potion of lavender and chamomile--all with the secret knowing that my powder fresh armpits are ready to triumphantly march full force into the battle of the day. It is quite delightful. I feel better when I smell good. Fair enough? But let us not discuss my armpits.

Teeth.

My parents always instilled in me to brush my teeth. They did. All the time. But I will say that I got into the habit of not brushing my teeth before bed, only in the morning. Lets be real, I don't want to knock anyone out on my way up the elevator to my office by, in all good intentions, chirping a swift "Hey, how ya doin?" and killing them with severe dragon breath. That would not make me any friends. And being the hippie, youngster on my floor I need as many congeniality points as I can muster. I've considered it, and I think hygiene is a good start.

So my Friend has been really thoughtful by making some reasonable suggestions in the hopes that I will listen and better my life. For instance, like whispering a nice "Brush your teeth, please.." just as I'm about to doze off into the land of dreamsical mountains and unicorns. Each time, I tell you, I grumble at this lovely encouragement, peel myself out of my new Ikea sheets, and head for the bathroom.

But as the days go by, I'm finding that being disciplined in the small stuff is exactly what being an adult is supposed to be and I'm beginning to make wise choices in the handling of the small stuff. And for past two nights, I've beat the Voice at its game, by reaching down for my sparkly gray toothbrush and scrubbing away--before I'm beckoned.

Now, I've always been the "stick it to the man" type of person. My goodness, the words"kiss it" were what I painted as the summary of who I was in high school. Literally. My senior classmates and I were all given the opportunity to write on a wall in our school, with our finger-painted hand prints included. We were encouraged to write whatever we wanted to leave as a lasting impression of who we were, what we were about, etc...a memo, if you will, of what the "best years of our lives" looked like for the coming generations. And what did I write?

"Kiss It."

Oh, yes. I did.

I think that if I had a little more chutzpa I would have included a photograph of my middle finger shooting off all innocent bystanders. I was a rebel with a true cause. My cause was to let everyone know how little I considered their opinions, view of me, like of me even. I didn't care what you thought and, you better believe, I was gonna let you know it.

----I'm so glad that I met God----

So let me get back to my point. I'm finding that obedience in the smallest stuff is what makes my life so much more rich and colorful. Doing whats right, I'm finding, is the most freeing experience. No matter how much I dislike being corrected, waking up with a clean mouth (and heart) feels, well, really good. Its like that toothpaste flavor in your mouth that lingers all day long. Even when I eat something to cover that taste, it will still be there when the clouds depart. That's my comparison to obedience. Even if I screw up a little, trip on my feet, step on a kitten, my obedience in the small stuff refreshes me all day long. I have a clean conscience, a clear mind, and my armpits are still ready to wage war...

But only when they smell good.

Hmm...

A blog.

Hmm...

As I sit here, staring at this computer screen wondering to myself "why on earth a blog, Jordan?", I have to recount my earlier experiences in the blog-world to fully be able to express the amount of disbelief and complete uncertainty that I face as I contemplate if writing to random people--who I may never know read this--is actually necessary. Will this add anything to my life, or even yours for that matter? Will this make a difference at all in the grand scheme of things if I leave things as are and never write at all? Is this necessary.

Well, I gave it a go-around and have finally come to terms with myself that, no, this is not necessary. Nope. Not at all. Whatsoever.

However, I am finding that being a 22 year old, not-a-girl-but-not-yet-a-woman kind of a person (thanks britney!) has been quite eventful,to say the very least, and I think that it might be refreshing and dare I say "interesting" to share my life in such a way that it is utterly transparent and will shatter the world-renowned cement walls of my heart--which got a little claustrophobic, might I add--thus making it impossible to mask my right to be human by calling myself a "private person". What is a private person anyway? Poser.


So now I will reminisce with you my former years of blog life. I hear MXPX playing in the backround...

The countless days, mindlessly wandering through cyberspace, writing about my everyday mishaps and victories--everything from spilling chocolate milk on my favorite Rufio t-shirt and praying for John Puchelt to get struck by lightning. To landing a lead role in a musical of epic proportions and sticking it to the dean of students. To jumping into a fountain with all of my clothes on and almost getting arrested by the Winter Park police department. To failing math class and promising to dedicate my first album to my teacher to get bonus work---it didn't fly. To singing my heart out to a Dion Warwick song in a Mcdonald's french fry costume infront of the entire faculty and student body. To obtaining life-long bragging rights for kissing the cutest guy in the whole entire school district. On the mouth. Twice.

Yes.

...those were the days.

I never, and when I say never, I mean NEVER thought I'd ever do this again. For realz, homeboy, I meant it. I didn't stutter. I promised to NEVER expose my life to people again. Not this way, anyhow.

But now that I'm a little bit stronger, a little bit wiser, and I work a little bit harder (thanks christina!--btw, do you sense the girl-power theme in this blog? omgosh)...I have come to terms that I'm free to be me. And you're free to be you (francesca, girl, you know me too well!). And thats just as good as it can get.

I can't promise to make you laugh, make you cry, make my life sound like a Billy Joel song...

All I can promise is to be me. Thats it. Nothing else.

Now, be forewarned, if you read this and think you know "me" pretty well...you might be a little terrorized at first. I'm not as perfect as I try to appear to be. I think my life has been full of a whole lot of trying...and not enough living.

...and thats exactly why I'm blogging.

Its time to live.

Its time to be me...and not be sorry for it.