My take: The end of the world as we know it

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve been aware of the doomsday prophecy that’ll be set to begin in roughly 24 hours. According to Harold Camping (who says he’s done a Da Vinci-style breakdown of numeric codes throughout the Bible), it’s a certainty: Those who are “the elect” will be raptured up to Heaven, leaving the rest of humanity to suffer through five months of torment before the real end of the world, slated for October.

So, there’s that. Sounds like a real sweet weekend.

What’s that, you say? Are you pulling out a Biblical reference to refute Mr. Camping’s hypothesis? Matthew 24:36, you say? Oh, apparently they’ve got that covered. There’s a lot of case-making from the Camping camp (heh) that doomsday prophecies weren’t meant to be known by those guys at that time, but we can know now. But, see, I maintain a weak little thought of my own, and it goes a little something like this:

As Christians, we’re called to be the hands and feet of Jesus. That’s our job while we’re here – to love one another, encourage one another, and demonstrate what Christ has done in our lives in the hopes that all could see what Christ can do in their own lives. Paul wrote in Romans 6 that we are to be slaves to righteousness – we are to serve God. Not to second-guess Him, not to try and figure out His plan. It’s a pretty sweet gig, honestly. We are to be faithful, to be obedient, and yes, to be ready for His return.

Could that return be on May 21, 2011? I’m not ruling it out. But I’m also not ruling out that it could happen on any other day – a day that no fallible human could have predicted.

[The following opinion is solely of Jacquie and not intended to be a reflection of what God’s intentions may or may not be:]

I can’t help but wonder, though, if God won’t allow it to happen on May 21. Why? Fulfilling this prediction would glorify Harold Camping for guessing the right numbers and NOT glorifying God, who is infinitely more deserving of any and all glory.

[End scandalous opinion.]

God is capable of anything and everything, regardless of whether it’s predicted or not. I’ll continue to trust Him and depend on Him. Whatever days God gives us are nothing short of a miraculous blessing, and whatever comes, we should take each moment as a wonderful gift – an opportunity to give thanks, be obedient to God, and love one another.

Perhaps that’s what can come out of all of this.

Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. – Proverbs 3:5

 

Suwanee Creek Greenway

There aren’t too many good photos of the Suwanee Creek Greenway (or so says Google Image Search), so I can only paint you a picture with my words. Oh goody.

The approach to the Greenway, at least from our apartment, isn’t too spectacular: just a hike along a wide strip of asphalt up and down the hills leading up to Buford Highway. Kind of unpleasant, really, especially when there’s an abundance of trucks that take that road and putt-putt-vrooom out toxic gases. If you’re not looking at the six-lane road, you can always peek over the overpass, where the railroad tracks churn out toward Old Town in a refreshing stretch. They could have been there forever for all I know, the way it’s made peace with the woods and Suwanee Creek.

Even when you get to the Greenway entrance, you probably wouldn’t find it remarkable. It’s kind of got a sterile, over-traveled, Parks-and-Rec feel when a lot of people use it. But somehow, in the two times I’ve gone, I’ve often had it all to myself.

When I have it all to myself, it’s so peaceful. The light filters in through the just-dense-enough trees, the path winds a little, there are occasional wooden footbridges crossing over marshy creek land.

Maybe you don’t know me, but I never run. Not ever. Somehow, though, the blend of my singular presence in such a tranquil place, where the breeze blew just enough to be refreshing, with my iPod playing my favorite film instrumentals… I don’t know, I just took off. And this is going to sound plenty lame, but I felt as though my soul were running. That I could just dart about like a deer.

[Side note: There actually were deer on my Greenway trip earlier today. One had crossed over the path just a few yards ahead of me to join her mate in the thicker woods to my left. Maybe some of you get sick of deer, but a city slicker like me was starry-eyed, let me tell you.]

Anyway, as I steadied into a walk-then-run-then-walk-then-run-again routine, I kept taking it all in and thought to myself, You know, I should totally blog about this when I get back.

So that’s what I’m doing. I just had to share the tranquility, serenity, and green-ity that I experienced, and also to share with the world that, believe it or not, I actually ran today.

I just hope there are nature paths in Heaven.

 

Sometimes you need one of these

Today is awesome because:

1. It’s Friday.
2. It’s three weeks until Christmas Eve.
3. I’m wearing a trendy vintage tweedy pencil skirt that I got at a Harrisonburg thrift store for $1.50.
4. I’m updating this from a plane.
(4a. FO FREE.)
5. There is no one in this row except yours truly. Hellooooo elbow room.
6. I’m still in the air. As opposed to the ground, or in a crater.
7. I had blueberry pancakes for dinner.
8. Mom dipped bacon in strawberry jam, and it was surprisingly not bad.
9. I didn’t have a baby and name him after a Malfoy.
10. I’ll see my fiancee/best friend/love of my life in about an hour.

:]

 

On Faith

There are many that simply can’t or won’t understand the concept of faith. For some, it might be something they’d like to grasp, but feel they can’t somehow. For others, no faith is good faith, specifically on a spiritual level – belief in a higher power is no better than belief in the Tooth Fairy.

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. – Hebrews 11:1

Faith, noun. Confidence or trust in a person or thing; belief that is not based on proof.

In some aggressive cases, those who profess to be staunchly atheistic or spiritually agnostic will condemn spiritual/religious/faithful people as ignorant, unintelligent, blind to reality, et cetera – that those with a belief in a higher power are socially inept, lacking essential common sense. Some atheists/agnostics (and I reiterate that such cases aren’t the norm) make it known that since they can’t understand faith’s value to people, it’s incomprehensible that it makes sense for anyone to subscribe to it.

I feel like to experience the spiritual, truth-based faith that is out there requires a special sense – like our usual 5. The sense to understand what we cannot see or explain in words isn’t something that we’re born with or without; it’s something that requires strengthening and commitment.

How would you explain color to someone who’s been blind from birth? Music to someone who’s never been able to hear? The tropics to someone who’s always known a life in ice and snow?

Maybe those of us with faith aren’t the ones who are missing out.

 

That’s it. Nothing but water and Ex-Lax until the prom.

I really want to lose 10 pounds. There. I said it.

And you know what? I feel so guilty about thinking it. I’m much better off than I’ve ever been. I’ve weighed less than I ever have, even (yes) better than I was at Disney. So why do I care? By all accounts, it doesn’t make sense.

Maybe it’s because, all my life, I’ve never felt quite content with the way I look. I kept thinking that my appearance was all part of a journey. And it kind of has been up until now. I went on Weight Watchers 3 years ago, lost about 40 pounds, and kept much of it off. I let some of that weight come back when I moved to Florida (figuring, hey I’m skinny minnie and can have McDonald’s three times a week and I’ll just burn it off at the parks), and by summer 2009, I’d gained about 15-20 pounds. So I went back on Weight Watchers, just to motivate myself again, lost my gained-back weight, and then went back to the tried and true method of regulating my caloric intake and exercising more, ditching the soda, etc.

All of that has brought me to May of 2010. Since then, I’ve (sort of) maintained a steady weight. The problem is… I’ve maintained it. I’ve lost a pound, gained it back, lost a few, gained a few – it’s been a 2-to-3 pound window. And, for the life of me, I can’t get past it. I’ve tried mixing up my exercise routine, eating different kinds of foods… I’ve even let myself “cheat” for a few days, thinking that maybe my metabolism would get confused and start burning things faster when I started “dieting” again. (Incidentally, I don’t like dieting. It’s too instant-gratification, and the only common denominator among all forms of dieting is that it’s a quick fix that doesn’t last, i.e., “oh em gee, I lost 5 pounds in 2 days by eating nothing but peanuts and Nesquik.”)

And hey – I know that at some point, one has to stop trying to lose weight and just has to try and maintain weight. I just don’t feel like I’m there yet. Maybe it’s because I know I can push myself just a little bit harder to get that number on the scale a little further down.

Maybe a good start would be to put down the half sleeve of graham crackers.

 

I’m pretty sure that

If I had to live on only one sweet food for the rest of my life, it’d be:

The jury’s still out on my preferred salty food of choice, but I’m thinking it’d be something with horseradish sauce.

Also, it’s embarrassing that I’m craving my sweets after consuming approximately half a Bloomin’ Onion.

 

Pesky little red book

Hey hey, my clamoring blogfans. (Or, more appropriately: Hi, Mom!)

It’s funny, you know: I absolutely love writing. I really do. Painting pictures with words is the only way I know how to make art. And yet… I let this blog fall by the wayside.

And you know what I blame for it? My 2010 New Year’s Resolution: to journal once a day in a tidy little Moleskine book that was just quirky enough to be red instead of the usual black. That little red book? Presently the bane of my existence. Writing is a daily chore for me now (“ungh, I have to write yet another page of how I sat at a desk until 5:00, went home, made dinner, showered, and went to bed”), and doggone it, I don’t like it.

Psst: Here’s a secret for you – I don’t journal in it every day. I’m more of a weekly kind of girl these days. But still. It’s a chore in the worst way. Fortunately, I’m nearing the end of those alluringly lined blank pages (a blank page in a tidy notebook is pretty much my Kryptonite, by the way – must… write… on… crisp… new… page…), so I’ll break free of it all pretty soon. In the meantime, I’ll be laboring through my mundane daily activities and chronicling them in that Moleskine abomination.

Not that all of my daily activities are mundane, mind you. There are quite a few that are Not So Very Mundane At All:

I travel sometimes. David’s first love has been and maybe will always be charting the uncharted, geographically speaking. And I love David. Therefore, by transitive property, I love traveling. We’ve gone to Chattanooga (yes, I saw the choo-choo), meandered about the Eastern Shore of Virginia, and even went to London, just to name a few. We’ll also be going to San Francisco next month to visit his family – we’ve never rocked the west coast before. And through it all, I’ve learned that I, too, love to travel and discover new places. Life is downright boring without it.

Zumba is fun. I’ve lost about 25 pounds in the past 12 months (small achievement for some, but just right for me). That’s been due largely in part to (a) eating my fruits and veggies, (b) laying off the Wendy’s, (c) eating Fiber One bars like they’re going out of style, and (d) shaking my groove thing in Zumba. If you haven’t tried it, you need to. You burn an obscene amount of calories, and it’s fun. There was a period of a few months where I went to the class held every Monday at my rec center, and now I’ve been slacking. I did buy a punch card to start classes up again, and I fully plan to do so starting this Monday.

Also, I’m getting married. I can’t imagine this will be the first time that anyone reading this blog has found that out, but yes – David and I are getting married! He proposed to me in May, and we’re tying the knot in March. Despite the fact that the wedding is now a daunting 6 months away, I’m remarkably calm. You know why? Because I’m going to be marrying the love of my life, my best friend, my traveling buddy, my shoulder to cry on, my everything. If anything, that makes me only more anxious to get married. But this wedding’s going to be lovely – the theme is slightly Jane Austen. We’ve got our venue, our photographer, ordered my gown, bought my shoes, booked the salon, and in process of booking music. Things are coming together, but I suppose I might have been a smidge distracted from the blogosphere as a result of wedding-planning.

That’s life at present, and it’s great.

 

“It’s Easter. That means I have to go to church.”

As we’re all well aware, it’s Easter Sunday. Also known in some circles as Resurrection Sunday, and in even lesser known circles, Technicolor Hard-Boiled Egg and Pastel Colored Peeps Sunday.

For many that observe this Sunday on even a remotely faith-based level, sometime this weekend, you’re making it to a church service. Mass, Eucharist, Singing And Clapping Your Hands In Choir Robes, or anywhere in between. Now I’m not one for statistics (and I don’t really have accurate ones), but I’m thinking at least fifty percent of churchgoers this weekend do not set foot in a house of worship the other 365 days of the year.

Which, of course, leads my wondering-prone mind to wonder some more: Why just Easter Sunday?

Without being courageous enough to go around asking folks why they only go to church on Easter, I’m left to my own devices. I’m sure that many people’s responses would fall along the lines of one of these statements:

• “It’s what we do on Easter Sunday. Right before brunch. Oh man, waffles + green beans = delish.”
• “I do it to make my parents/grandparents/aunts/uncles/little brother happy.”
• “If you’re a Christian, you go on Easter Sunday. God takes attendance.”
• “It’s the most important day in the Christian faith, so I feel like I should at least be here today.”

Let me just break each of these statements down with some of my own personal brand of insight.

“It’s what we do on Easter Sunday. Right before brunch. Oh man, waffles + green beans = delish.” Everyone has Easter Sunday traditions. Even if you’re hardcore Bible believers, we can celebrate many things around this time of year: springtime in itself is a time of resurrection – the earth is growing again after being dead all winter – and it’s no coincidence that we celebrate the greatest Resurrection of all around this season of rebirth. And okay, Americans have to have an abundance of food with every holiday. That’s fine. But where does your priority sit: with your tummy-rumbling desire for waffles, or with the fulfilled promise of everlasting life? Okay, that sounds like I’m your Bible-beating Aunt Mabel, but if you’re truly at church because you truly believe in what happened… that’s worth like ten stacks of waffles.

“I do it to make my parents/grandparents/aunts/uncles/little brother happy.” So I have heard this one from many people, especially my fellow twentysomethings: we don’t go to Easter services of our own accord, but out of appeasing our family member(s) that would consider our sitting in a pew as something that “would really mean a lot” to them. Most Sundays, you roll over in bed and mutter something about it being the day of rest, and snooze until noon. But see, when it’s Easter, you’re kind of obligated to make up for all the back-sassing you did on the other 51 Sundays out of the year. So you take up a pew, stand when you’re supposed to, sit when you’re supposed to, turn to the right pages in your Bible, listen to a possibly dry sermon, bow your head and pray and try not to doze off in the whole process. Food for thought: Could it be that there’s something beneath the pomp and circumstance that you’re not quite seeing yet?

“If you’re a Christian, you go on Easter Sunday. God takes attendance.” I say this with all the love in my heart, but I can’t help but wonder if real Christians – serious, faith-having, maybe not pious, believing, for-reals Christians – would really consider this logical. I for one don’t believe anything magical happens by sitting in a pew on Sunday morning. Sure, it’s part of Biblical instructions for believers to gather together publicly to worship God and study Scripture, but is it the cure-all for spiritual ailments? No. Not if you’re simply sitting on a bench with a preoccupied mind. You won’t “get it” spiritually just by sitting in church and singing some songs. That’s something between you and God, and God’s more than eager to let you see the true benefit of gathering to worship Him. All you have to do is let Him.

“It’s the most important day in the Christian faith, so I feel like I should at least be here today.” It’s kind of like the statement above. I think if you truly are someone who seeks to know God a little better each day, someone who wants to exhibit the love, mercy, and compassion of Jesus Christ… you’d know that attending church should never be out of obligation. If you’re throwing a party, for example, do you want your guests to come with genuine smiles and honestly have a great time, or would you rather have people there that are clearly at your party because someone guilted them into going? It’s remarkable how honesty shows on people. If you’re somewhere that you don’t want to be, it shows. If you do consider yourself Christian, would it please you to know that begrudgingly sitting through a time of worshipping God might actually hurt His feelings? Consider this God’s weekly get-together. If you don’t want to be there, maybe you should just stay home.

Now, by no means am I saying that people shouldn’t go to church on Easter Sunday, even if it’s their only time going this year. My prayer and my hope is simply that your hearts would be in it, maybe just a little. Keep in mind that, for me (and maybe for you as well), church services aren’t about seeing how long you can go without falling asleep, or about standing up and sitting down and getting all the moves right. They should be a means of celebration for what God’s abundant love, mercy and grace has done for all mankind, and that should especially ring true as today, we remember Christ’s triumphant defeat of the grave so that no one – no one – would taste the misery of death.

Better yet, let’s remember it every day.

 

Fan Fiction: A Personal History

Despite the lack of 24-year old girls that watch it, I find that Strong Bad said it best:

“Don’t get me wrong, fans are great. It’s the addition of ‘club’ that totally roons it. Which is the opposite of how it usually works.

(For instance: turkey = mrenh, turkey club = mmmMMRENHhhhh!)…

…So that’s fan clubs, the next worst word you can couple with the word ‘fan’ is, you guessed it, the word ‘fiction.'”

Seriously, though. Fan fiction is the worst. The absolute worst. If one’s diet were comprised of literature, fan fiction would be the triple-dipped-ginormous, fallin’-off-the-cone Haagen Dazs monstrosity that looks so bad it’s got to be good, so you figure, what the heck, you only live once, etc. Then, you indulge in a bite or two, and before you know it, you’re curled up on your bed with a stomach ache and a pillow over your head and whimpering that you should’ve read John Steinbeck instead (which is the literary/dietary equivalent of steamed broccoli: nutritious, and it keeps you regular).

Here’s the worst part: I used to pen a few fanfics in my day. I have notebooks hidden in super-secret locations that are chock full of different stories all scrawled out to improbable lengths about all sorts of fandoms I subscribed to, dating all the way back to elementary school. They were so zealously written into the wee hours of the night (well, of course the Backstreet Boys have to go into outer space! It only makes perfect sense!), and they were all so bad, you guys. So sappy and improbable and played for juvenile laughs that I’m still embarrassed to read through them.

And then, around high school, I discovered that not only did other teenage fangirls (and boys) write fiction about their favorite band/show/movie/candle, but they published them. It became immortalized in this greeeat big infinitely large book called The Internet.

Boy howdy. I just had to get me a piece of that pie.

By the time I was, say, sixteen or seventeen, I had immersed myself into a fandom that lasted a good few years: Newsies. (Yes, Virginia, the original Kenny Ortega cinematic endeavor that fizzled faster than you can say “I’m the king of New York.”) It’s such a lousy movie in so many ways, but man alive, if it doesn’t have a following that’ll rival HSM to its pom-poms. And it’s charming to those of us who like a little musical number sprinkled into our period-piece films about life as an impoverished New York City youth in 1899. That, and Christian Bale does his version of that solo dance Kevin Bacon did in Footloose, except Kevin Bacon did it better, and that’s not saying much. (Might also be the reason why Mr. Bale spends most of his time cussing out DPs to viral lengths these days, but that’s another discourse for another day.)

The thing with Newsies was… there were a lot of characters to work with. You had at least a dozen of the usual suspects (Jack “Cowboy” Kelly, David Jacobs, Les Jacobs, Spot Conlon, Racetrack, Kid Blink, Skittery, Pie Eater, Snoddy, Crutchy, Boots, Specs, Dutchy, Bumlets, Snipeshooter… a lot of rejected names for the seven dwarfs, seems like, or at least Lost Boys). And then you had other characters that served as other sorts of archetypes (Sarah Jacobs, for example, was rarely seen in a favorable light since she ended up with Christian Bale’s character in the end, and us girls never quite took to that). That was to say nothing of the characters we could create, and create we did. My favorite was a little mouse of a girl named Belle Malone. Didn’t model her as much after myself as other writers would do, but she was dear to me.

The point of this whole string of drivel is that, just yesterday, I re-stumbled across my old page on Fanfiction.net. Since then, all I can do is read my old stories with new eyes. Some of my stuff is just awful – lousy, script-style writing with lots of actions in between asterisks that are hard on the eyes. But there’s actually some good stuff – some stories I wrote based on Beatles songs, for example, and the origin story of Belle Malone… and you know what? It’s actually good. Better than Stephenie Meyer, and she’s making a killing on lousy writing. (I actually tolerate the Twilight saga, but let’s face it: she’s fanfic-ing it up and getting paid a stupid amount of money to be mediocre.)

So I just thought I’d share and otherwise bare my soul to scrutiny among friends that may not have known about this dirty little net-secret of mine. I haven’t written any stuff like that in like, five years (and that’s five years too close for comfort, really), and I won’t ever write that level of garbage ever again, but it’s still cute. And maybe, if I’m extra brave, I’ll even link you to this horrid collection. If you’re good and mind your manners.

 

The glories of mini-goals.

So last week, I set a goal: For that entire week, I was not to go near fast food. That meant no greasy hamburgers, no runs for the border, no goldeny-delicious fries, no crispy chicken nuggets…

And you know what? I kept that goal.

So I found myself wanting to try a new dietary goal this week: During this work week (and most of yesterday), I am not going to eat meat.

Not that I’m doing it for morality’s sake. Au contraire, folks. (You should know by now that I’m a selfish thing, although knowing my veggie burger saved a cow or something would be kinda gratifying.) I’m doing it to see if replacing meat-protein with healthier alternatives (soy protein) will help me shed a bit extra weight. For instance, I bought some Morningstar veggie burgers and veggie buffalo wings, and that veggie burger was darn good. Spruced it all up with spring mix lettuce and onion and a little cheddar… Well, anyway, time will tell – or at least the scale will tell, come Friday when I step on and hope for the best.

Confession: I do weigh myself once a week. I’m allllmost where I want to be, physically, but there’s just a few more things I need to tweak. And not in the Regina George “I really want to lose three pounds” way.