A mockingbird has made itself very comfortable outside my bedroom window. A bird that never sleeps, it sings endlessly. Many times I awaken, my internal clock telling me it’s time to arise, the sun is about to crest, while the mockingbird chatters. But it’s only 1 AM. The bird tricks me. If I could be as incessantly joyous as this nightbird sounds…

With a contented smile, I rest my head back on the pillow. The bird’s song is beautiful, and the energetic melody reminds me that somewhere on this blue planet the sun is always rising. Dawn is imminent, and so is the hope renewed in my heart for a fresh and glorious day.

“By day the LORD directs his love, at night his song is with me—a prayer to the God of my life.” Psalm 42:8

​Hope you have an UP day!

There is a natural order in the societal ring of life, even when it comes to purpose. When a person can rid themselves of a prideful heart and venture forward with a humble spirit, the journey becomes a little less arduous and a little more joyful. In my craft, I am better than a few others. Many more are better than me. Yet I shouldn’t fret about this pecking order, for my Creator said, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart….." (Jeremiah 1:5). In essence, he chose me for a particular task and to fulfill a specific role while on this earth. The Almighty knows what he’s doing. Yet at times, it’s also my human nature to be touched in varying degrees with inferiority or the idea that I’m not measuring up. If we put forth all our effort then leave the rest to Providence, he will fill us up the rest of the way thus enabling us to do exactly what we’re supposed to do. For me, while reaching out from a purpose-driven existence, I find in this thought process the ability to let go, relax about what everybody else is doing and be free to just be.

Several times, recently, I’ve been asked: “Why not share some pictures of your son on Facebook?” While I had in the past and still might do so on an infrequent occasion, I simply don’t wish to share my daily life with the entire world. To be a “friend” on social media means that we could have some things in common, might follow each other due to career paths, special interest groups, etc. But truth be told, a small percentage are people I truly know, are related to, or trust with my most precious treasure, my family.
 
I love this life, the diverse concepts, and the interesting people in it. It’s fun to connect! We can learn a thing or two about and from each other. But I’m not going to splatter much news on the internet about my family, or when I or my son sneezes.
 
Here’s something that humorously puts it into perspective. A friend shared the following with me, so I’m sharing it with you in the rare case you haven’t already seen it. Things posted on social media have a way of circulating in ways of which you might not even be aware – so, be wary! I’ve discovered some of my own author profile pictures having been unknowingly copied and used for certain non-writing advertising sites in other countries. (Regarding our children, we should be especially vigilant). So here I am sharing this popular short passage for which I don’t even know whom to give proper credit. I thank the “nameless” author for proving my point.

Over the years, I’ve lived here, there, and few places in between. I love where I grew up, and I’ve appreciated where I’ve resided. Yet, as I visit from afar these places are not quite the same. Things, milieus, change over time. Seven months ago marked another stout changeover from one pad to another. Rather than taking me across country the move deposited me across town. My old home became just a house. My new house is gradually becoming a home. It takes time to adjust. However, after adjusting, and even feeling grateful, comfort is relative. Frankly, when transitions stretch until they’re settled, and you find the time to view things in a pragmatic light, a house, any house, is just a house. “Home” is in the heart of worship.

There was an interesting experiment put forth by the novelists of ChiLibris about ten years ago.  The trial was launched from the common dreaded question: WHAT IF SOMEONE STEALS MY IDEA? The result grew into a collection of 21 short stories, one by each of the 21 participating writers, entitled, What the Wind Picked Up: Proof That a Single Idea Can Launch a Thousand Stories.
 
The novelists of this experiment used the same basic scheme, having to include five elements in their works of fiction.

1. 1. The wind was picking up, as the opening line
2. 2. Mistaken identity
3. 3. Pursuit at a noted landmark
4. 4. Unusual form of transportation
5. 5. So that’s exactly what she did, the final cap

 
Fascinated by this literary test, I’ve picked up the volume to reread recently. As someone submerged by the arts, I see all of those around me as creative beings made, gifted, and propelled by a creative maker. I recognize truth from Ecclesiastes 1:9, “What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” But what varies is how we execute our thoughts and what can revolve around a single idea. What transpired in this unified literary collection went far beyond expectation! Not one of these 21 stories resembles another, even though they each had developed around five exact, basic elements –and some of the writers came from similar backgrounds and/or education.
 
Even if someone had stolen an idea, the effect would materialize into something greatly different from who was considered the originator. We, as individuals, are diverse. A single story idea, yet 21 outcomes and styles prove poles apart. It makes one want to relax and focus on being productive, active, ongoing and positive, rather than wasting negative energy on the fear that someone might be stealing your labor of love. The world is big enough for everybody to do their very own thing in exactly how they want to do it – even in a shared corner. Although not unique, it’s a lovely, colorful, enriching, and freeing concept.
 
"They say all art— whether books, music, or visual— is a reaction to other art, and I believe that to be true." ~ Blake Crouch, Author

Jesus knew beforehand of Judas Iscariot’s betrayal, expected it, even waited for it, yet he still washes the man’s feet. Washing of feet was an act of servitude provided as an example to us of acceptance, of humility, of love, of forgiveness. I am both baffled and intrigued by the role of Judas – also, of how Christians view him. Most would say that Judas was possessed, for we are told the devil entered him, and lost forever. But Jesus, a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, in a single moment would be betrayed by ALL, washes the feet of the one people blame the most for perfidy.

Iscariot, indeed, had a weakness for silver. The treasurer for the disciples, he pilfered along the way. Jesus knew this, yet kept him as overseer of the money bag. Why?

My thought is that somebody had to play the role of Judas. If not Judas, then somebody else had to fulfill the prophecy of the messiah, his torture, his death, his resurrection – salvation, the avenue intended for every soul’s ultimate deliverance unto God. Maybe there’s a wider spot of clemency for the one chosen to fulfill an ugly yet necessary role.

Many would say that Judas was beyond help, uncaring, unfeeling and consumed with sinful nature. Yet after realizing what he had done, that is, was paid to identify his master to the Roman soldiers via the Sanhedrin by poetically placing a kiss on his cheek, scripture (Matthew 27:5) says that he threw down the pieces of silver he received as payment for the dirty deed, and went out and hanged himself. Does that sound like somebody who was uncaring and unfeeling?

The end appears hopeless. Judas hung himself – an act of desperation. And after the body had fried in the hot Jerusalem sun, bloated from bacterial gases, it fell to the ground and erupted. It’s a messy, distorted picture. It appears like he got what he deserved and this was his entrance to hell.

But who would really know, except God, if Judas Iscariot, an unconditionally loved child of God, in his last remorseful breath, had cried out in his weakened constitution, “Forgive me. Forgive me.” In that private, desperate moment, between him and his maker, who could honestly say?

Forgiveness driven or regret driven…is there even a difference?

Whatever happened to the value of solitude, simplicity, of being still? Seems I’ve examined the lives of others around me for years and, shaking my head, quietly whispered words of gratitude that I hadn’t run around as frantically as they do. You know…work, more work, even more work, appointments, obligations, juggling family needs, kid diversions, school, cleaning, renovations, getting ahead, jumping from place to place, event to event, constant stimuli everywhere one turns; the rat race. I’d once vouched never to subject my child to an ever-streaming deluge of entertainment-based activities. Once in a while is all right, maybe even special. Boredom once did a child good, served a purpose, propelled creativity and stretched independent thinking. I don’t know what happened, but I’m suddenly THAT person, the one I’d once, in a small way, pitied, who has tipped away the beautiful scales of balance. I’m overwhelmed with busyness. Life has grown too chaotic. Downtime is complicated. First, it’s hard to achieve. Second, when you actually make it happen, a rare pencil mark on the calendar, that moment arrives and doesn’t seem to be enough. You’re thirsty for more. At the same time, guilt has a way of wiggling in there telling you that it’s not okay to relax – as long as there are other things to do, and there are ALWAYS other things to be done. How did this all happen? I don’t like being this busy, when I can’t stop for a second to watch a bird teeter on a twig. Because I enjoy that…watching birds teeter on twigs. Indeed, daily life has grown chaotic. Like the structure of those around me in what has become the normal standard of life. Can I still breathe? Maybe I should freeze for a second to find out. I’m not sure this kind of frenzied lifestyle is great or healthy, but this seems to be the way it has become. As if there is a subliminal message in our culture that busyness equates to importance. Can we be too busy for our own good? For me, that’s a definite yes. I begin my rebellion today. Just after I take care of this one thing first.