Here it comes...

Here it comes!

It's coming hard,
It's coming fast,
It never slows,
It won't stop,
It cannot be held back!

It waits for no one,
has much to say...
It's beautiful,
painful,
and, oh, so short!

Its love is life,
Its end, at times,
is death...
It cannot be bribed
or borrowed.

Can you see it?
Can you hear it?
It's the future!

My Christmas...

  When I was a little girl Christmas had a certain meaning, taste and feel. Snow and cold were usually there. A family party, Christmas shopping, turkey dinner, Christmas Eve Church service, and even Subway, all meant that Christmas was coming. I always knew what Christmas was really about, and loved singing Christmas carols. The mixed smell of pie and pine tree, or a yummy candle were always around as well. I never believed in Santa, but I saw him all around every year. And if there was enough snow, sledding was the best thing to do before or after or on Christmas day...especially since I didn't have to do school! I have fond memories of my childhood Christmases. They're special, they're a treasure. I remember being in a Christmas play one year when I was six or seven and how much fun I had. Pizza Hut for dinner before picking out a tree was something I loved...it meant I could have pop!

  There are lots of good memories in there...but this year I find myself comparing. The taste and feel are so different now. When someone says Christmas, the first thing that pops into my head is not snow or presents. It's not even a tree. I see great mounds of ripe, sweet tangerine's, and piles of sugar cane. Piñata's, the rush to finish up the Christmas play preparation, and lots of good hot punch are what come to mind. Turkey dinner, and the tree, are still there. But I have forgotten snow...if it were to snow here everyone would freeze...it would be awful! The cold winter frosted mornings and nights are enough around here. I don't dream of a white Christmas. I envision a bright, clear day with just enough chill in it to need a long sleeved shirt or a sweater. I see stall upon stall downtown filled with sparklers and "onions", and hear the grating music of Christmas lights. I see huge manger scenes in restaurants, on the street, or in the Catholic Church. And I see my Church. I see its stage. And I remember my very first Christmas I ever spent here. All of it. I can see year after year, and play after play acted out on that stage, but the first one...the first one is the dearest and the clearest.

  God has given me so much. And while I remember the biggest gift He gave me this year the same as the others...I remember everything else He's given me since then. I was given a toilet plunger as a joke one year (please don't ask why). Needless to say I didn't love that present. But as strange as it sounds, I'm thankful this year for all the toilet plungers that God has given me, in other words, all the presents I didn't want or enjoy, but needed. I've used that one many times, and it's been a great help. And so have all the others. We can ask for what we want, but it won't necessarily be what we need. Thankfully, God loves us. He puts us where we are for a reason. He lets things happen to us for a reason. Thankfully, He hasn't given me everything I've wanted, but much more than that. He's given me gifts that I didn't want or even like, because He knew I'd need them later on. And thankfully He continues to do so.

Merry Christmas everyone! Love you all!

~Ellen

A Picture

Peace in turmoil

so undeserved...

Company in loneliness

so lovely...

Laughter in tears

so surprising...

Calm in fear

so reassuring...

Beauty in pain

I never expected to see...

"Non-remembrance"

Slipping, delightfully, into non-remembrance

so easy to do

so tempting, it looks so fine...

But that moment of sweet misery: remembrance

so hard to do

not tempting, but much better...

I hold you close in my heart, dear and loved

where tears stay on

where joy causes pain and freedom...

I am truly blessed...

Mr. Incredible...not Mr. Perfect...

   I think we've all seen "The Incredibles". It's fun, it's funny, and it's not only for kids. I've seen it many times, but this time some things really stood out to me. I don't normally find deep meanings or life examples in movies. But this time, I think I did. So bear with me if it comes out a little corny!:)

  Superheroes are special. They have a power that no one else does, that no ordinary human could possibly have. It's a gift. Others can try to have this gift, or at least pretend to have it through tricks and creativity. This is what Syndrome tried to do, isn't it? But it was all a farse. His mask was fake and useless because it hid nothing of the real him...isn't that why superheroes wear masks? As a disguise? All of Syndrome's powers were self-made, defeatable, unnatural, and for purely selfish reasons. The only gift he had was great intelligence, and this he used for his own gain instead of as a means of helping others. The Incredibles and other "supers" however, did not work for merely their own gain. They worked towards protecting others and bringing hope and peace to the world. They had real and natural gifts, something truly special. Supers are not perfect however. They are merely super.

Bob has incredible strength and used it for good, but when hard times came a lot of what he did had to do with his ego and feeling good about himself.


Helen could stretch all over the place and punch anyone out, but she loved to criticize, argue over unimportant things, and pretend that super power was nothing.

Violet could disappear and create forcefields, but she was insecure and didn't quite know who she was.

Dash could run forever, even on water, but he was over curious and very disobedient.


And Jack-Jack? Well, he was a baby!:P



  I don't know if in all this writing you understand what I'm trying to get at. We, as Christians, are the supers. We are special and different from normal people in that we have the Holy Spirit dwelling inside of us. He is our power, our super power who enables us to do great things. And He gives us a gift, or several gifts (like Violet and Jack-Jack). Gifts for us to use. Gifts that no one else can have. They can copy and play at having them for a while (like Syndrome), but their plan and game eventually fall through. They lose. They lose everything they had gained for themselves. They even lose their life.
  And every super is different. No two are alike. Why? Because that's how God made us. He built us for community. He built us to compliment each other, to depend on each other, and to help each other. He didn't build us to work alone, because when you work alone you end up like Syndrome. When you work alone or try to, you end up like Bob: frustrated and scared of losing his family. But there's no fear in real love. Real love fights on, and real love fights alongside those around it. Why? Because together we're stronger. Alone Bob couldn't defeat the robot. Together they killed it.

  How many times though do we fall into doing things, and into using our gifts to make us feel good like Bob? How many times do we down-talk the power living within us and "poo-poo" (if you'll pardon the expression) the gifts we've been given like Helen? How often do we lose our identity and not communicate like Violet? How much curiosity do we allow to overcome us and so we disobey like Dash? I plead guilty, do you?
  We aren't perfect, but we are supers. We need the men to step up, lead, and "intervene" just like Helen asked Bob to! We need the women to stand beside the men and encourage the men like Helen does in the end, not be argumentative like Luscious' wife! And we need to all keep our focus on God, on Jesus and what He's done for us. Because without Him, we're nothing...even together. And through all the trials, even if we're scared or need stitches, we'll come out stronger from them in the end. Just like the Incredibles.
  So what are you waiting for? You've been given a wonderful gift, maybe more than one. Are you using it?

No Picture...

No picture can paint

the scene in my head.

Brushstrokes are to hard

paint is too thin.

No photographer could capture

the beauty of it.

The scene is too large

the lighting too impossible.

No drawing can do justice

to the scene behind my eyes.

Pencil marks would mar it

black and white do not describe it.

It's simple.

It's lovely.

It's perfect.

Much...

Much to say...but no words.

Much to think...but no real thoughts.

Much to see...but no time.

Much to feel...but no expression.

Much to hear...but no voice.

Much to love...but no human reason.

One of the Brave...

She's sat at death's door
heard it knock,
felt its breath.
And in the silence of her lips
her heart cried out,
it asked
for life.
When time was against her
when hope seemed
far and gone
the answer came
the freedom won
she's passed from death
to life.
She's one of the hero's,
one of the brave,
known by few
but well loved.
Every day she battles on
very few
understand the war.



Elo is 23 years old. She's had numerous health problems for as long as I've known her (about 4 years). Right now she needs a liver transplant. Her mother is the donor and has finally completed all the necessary testing. In July Elo got a cold, her body started to shut down and she had a stroke. Her whole right side became paralyzed and she almost died. She's in therapy and is getting better, but needs to be strong enough for the surgery and transplant. She needs lots of prayer...so please pray.

Sweet Sadness...

Where did those days go?
Locked in a cage
behind bars that will not bend
or move.

I can see them now
swarming and rushing,
trying to break free,
trying to escape.

Memories: they pound.
Hopes: they speak.
Troubles: they laugh
Dreams: they return.

But those days...
those days are gone forever.
What once was, is no more,
can never be again.

Simplicity...it may exist
but not like that,
it does not taste the same.
It has grown into something more...

Yet...there is no sorrow.
Memories, filled with love
may be filled with longing
but not sorrow, for sorrow holds regret.

There is sweet sadness, not bitter,
a joy in the remembrance
and letting go with tears
brings a smile to the heart.

Words...

  There are times when, despite my love of writing, words seem to become so shallow. Is it because we say too much, or not enough? In all the poetry, within all the songs, in all the stories and speeches...have we lost the meaning of what we're saying? Have such simple, powerful things such as words been over-used and over-emphasized? I can't help but think that so many words, so many expressive and powerful words, have been polluted and twisted into meaning something they were never created for. We've all heard, and we all know at least the first verse of the song "Joy to the World". But when we sing it, do we even think about what "Joy" actually means? Do we know how much feeling that word has been created to express? When I say the word "love", what do you think about? Does it strike anything deep and beyond expression in you, or do the thoughts of a lovely romance and a nice song come to mind? Do you really love chocolate, or do you just really like it? 

  Let's pull away from the most obvious words for a minute. If I were to call out "evil", what would you think of? Honestly. Can you actually pull together an exact meaning and feeling for that word? We live in a world and a society where things that are evil, are accepted as beautiful. Halloween rolls around and everyone hangs up skeletons, witches, and vampires. People long to see these things. Parents dress up there three year old as a witch and talk about how cute she looks. Whether you're a Christian, a Muslim, an Atheist, or anything else, you cannot deny that the word witch is associated with things such as "hag, she-devil, and sorceress". Whether you believe evil and sin exist in the world or that it's all just myth, why would you approve of something that symbolizes something so awful? What could possibly possess you to call it cute? It's simply this: words have lost their meaning. And we have lost ours...

These are the answers I believe most would give to each word without thinking:

Joy = happiness

Love = sexual romance

Evil = something bad

  So, I come back to one of my first questions: do we say too much, or not enough? I think, as confusing as it sounds, that we do both. We talk a great deal, but not usually about things that really matter. We use a great many deep words, but never think about what they actually mean. 

  And even now, who knows, maybe I'm talking away and making no sense to anyone but myself in my late night ramblings?!

Bilingualism...

For all you bilingual's out there, whether because you're an MK, one of your parents speaks another language, or you were born in a country that speaks more than one language, this is for you! It's an old essay that I've fixed up a little...hope you enjoy!



  There is a time in life when some of us realize that we are different. A time when words find a deeper meaning in our minds because we hear them as more than one word. It is a time when we realize that we understand and speak things perfectly in two different languages. This happened to me when I was 13 and it was confusing! There were times when someone would ask me a question and my mind would go into a panic. Were they talking to me in English or Spanish? Sometimes, without wanting to, I would answer in the wrong language. The person I was talking to would frown, put on a tight smile and ask: "What did you say dear?" Then I'd feel my face go hot all over. It was usually no good trying to explain what a jumble my mind was in. And it was no good trying to convince them that I wasn't showing off.

  A lot of times, without realizing it, bilingual people create their own language. If they can't find the word for something in one language then they throw in the word for it in the other. I plead guilty of this. Many of my sentences run like this: "Miguel couldn't find the pandero so Chio didn't play tonight." And of course, unless the person I'm talking to knows what a pandero is, their face shows one big blank and I have to rack my brain for the right word.

  There are also times when I forget names or words all together. A friend will ask me how to say "alabanza" in English, or "engrossed" in Spanish, and my powers of speech leave me. In my mind "alabanza" is "alabanza" and "engrossed" is "engrossed". I will even have a complete brain freeze sometimes. I will look at a piece of clothing on the stairs and stare at it blankly while my mind panics because it cannot find the name for it in either language...it simply is what it is!

  Growing up bilingual can be confusing, but it can also have its advantages and laughs. I love walking into a Wal-Mart where the majority of the people are speaking Spanish. I feel guilty sometimes, like I'm some sort of spy, but I also feel a certain kind of power...and it's so much fun! I understand everything and no one knows that I do! I also love the times that I walk up to some unsuspecting someone and start jabbering away in Spanish. They look at my blond hair and blue eyes incredulously, ask a few questions, and then look partly amazed, partly impressed, and quite confused.

  When I was seventeen I went to a summer camp. It made me realize just how normal it has become for me to speak two languages. I take it for granted. But the kids around me thought I was something special. I became some kind of hero or celebrity in their eyes. And while it was nice to feel so important, in the end it was still nothing incredible to me to speak two languages. It's a part of me. I am who I am. I've grown up bilingual and I wouldn't have it any other way...even if it meant I could think more clearly!

Give me everything...

I heard a whisper
it would not go away
it told me of secrets
and asked for something dear...I hid.

I heard a shout
it would not be quieted
it told me it loved me
and asked for something dear...I ran.

I came upon
a soft, firm hand
it knocked out my breath
and asked for something dear...I cried.

So gently,
so extremely loving and kind
but firm and unwavering
the request was made again...I wept.

Something inside me
seemed to rip, my heart was now in two
and everything I had was gone
I'd relented, surrendered all.

He smiled.
At me.
I stopped.
And I stared.
At Him.
I was free!

The Train

I hear the brakes, the wheels screech
Slowly, slowly, I come to a halt.
I look around, I know this place.
My heart beats faster, my breath grows short.
It's love. Not at first sight, but without a doubt.

Where did it come from?
When did it start?
See that street? I know it. I walk it.
See those flowers and that roof?
I'll never forget them, it's not even possible.
See those drains, those stains?
One for water, the other from fire.

Here secrets were told.
Here secrets were made.
Here secrets were kept.

And then, as if in a dream,
I lean out the window of memory
And my open eyes deny the truth.

Faded, but still clear, walls disappear.
Trees shrink, and I see something else...
Beautiful, yet gray, bright and far away
Old laughs and jokes, tears and suffering.

They're all there
They'll always be there.
No matter what might change.

And now I hear the whistle call
The engine starts
The conductor shouts
I jump at the sound of his voice!
Slowly, as the wheels turn
My head creeps back in
My train is off again!

What's next? I know not.
But it was nice to stay, nice to see
It was nice to whisper: I love you...

I do.

Do you remember those days,
when life was young and bright?
Do you remember those faces,
when decisions were not your own?
When minds were innocent,
but not ignorant?

When eyes were not so blind?
When ears weren't quite so deaf?
Do you remember those hearts
that laughed and dreamed so clear?

Do you remember?

I do.

And I must admit
that sometimes
I miss those days...

Rip Van Winkle...

  Most people only see him in books. Some might see him in a movie, or dream about him, or see him in their imagination. I saw him in the library...
  It was a hot day. Even though it was nearing night, the heat hit me as I left the Church. From the corner of my eye I noticed the library across the street. Should I go? Should I skip it? I thought about it for a second, stopped, and walked back to the corner. Cars passed by. I looked left, then right, then left again...and stared! An old car approached slowly. The only one in sight. On the outside it was tarnished and bronze. It crept slowly to the library entrance. The entire back seat was filled with books. Old books, new books, used books...no way to possibly tell what they all were. There were so many that even the front passenger seat was covered in them.
  But the most interesting thing of all was the driver. He bent cautiously over the steering wheel, peering through the front window, trying to decide what he wanted to do. His hat looked like an old felt cowboy hat, bent and torn to perfection. His full, white beard drifted down over his face, covering every part of his chin and neck, but starting to thin out. His round, silver spectacles (for these were no ordinary glasses), added character and a deepness to the face. And his wrinkled skin fit in perfectly with his soft, red and black, checkered shirt. All he lacked, to make the picture perfect, was an old shotgun at his side, and a piece of straw in his mouth.
  I crossed the street, resisting the urge to turn and stare over my shoulder as I did. He made an awkward turn right in front of the library street entrance, and headed back the other way. There was no doubt he was going to the library. He must have simply decided on another parking place though. I walked through the well known doors and went to the book sale that they hold all year, almost forgetting about the man I'd just seen. I began to skim the books. Next thing I knew, the old man was beside me, standing at the bookshelf right next to mine. I knelt down to look at some books between us. His face was bent the same way. I studied it carefully as I pretended to look at the books. He never looked up. Never noticed me. His spectacles were held in one wrinkled hand, his face was intent on a book in the matching hand. His pants were old and faded. His shoes fit in perfectly with everything else. Old, black, lace up shoes. Then he moved on and, finally, escaped my scrutiny.
  Whether I ever see him again or not, I couldn't help but smile as I watched him. I think I can honestly say that he was one of the best things I saw that day. Why? Because, he made writing and reading so real!
  Whether you believe me or not doesn't really matter, because I know that I saw Rip Van Winkle in the library! He was generous enough to step out of his book, out of his time, and show up in mine! Not only that, but he likes the library too...so never think twice about going there, you never know who might show up! ;)

(Picture is not mine, it is taken from a book cover of the story of Rip Van Winkle. And if you've never read his story, go read it!)

A Dance

(Kind of a girly taste to this post...hope people don't mind. I was looking through my journals and found it...)


  Life is like a dance. So step up, take His hand, and let God lead. All you have to do is listen to the music and follow...and that is quite enough! Sway back and forth, and focus on Him. When He starts to spin you, don't close your eyes, don't hold your breath, focus on Him! Focus so you don't get dizzy and fall. Look into His eyes. Look deeper. What color are they? What are they saying?
  Look at Him! What is He telling you? Look, it's so intense! Are you blinking? Are you laughing? Are you crying? I can promise you'll do all three, but don't look away. At times you might almost throw up. When the spinning won't stop, you might stumble. At times your hand might start to slip, but don't be afraid, and don't let go! Cry out to Him, refocus, stare deeper still, and cling with all your might. And then the music will begin to slow, and His strong hand will pull you gently in again, and carry you while you rest calmly, quietly, securely in His loving strength.
  Focus. Look into His eyes. Is He blinking? Is He crying? Is He laughing? Look! Look deeper! What color are His eyes? What are they saying, what is He trying to tell you? Listen as His music guides the dance, listen, focus, and don't look away.
  It's so intense!

Welcome to My World

  Imagine this: You are yourself. You think, you breathe, you eat, you sleep. You have your own taste in clothing, books, music and work. You have your fears, your hopes, your dreams, your weaknesses, and your strengths. You choose what you're going to do, what you're going to wear, and what you're going to believe. And those beliefs shape the foundations of your life. You live in your world.
  Now you walk to the train station. Your eyes are down, focused on the pavement as you walk determinately towards work. You reach the platform and walk past all the blurred faces, all the same-colored suits, all the different colors of hair, and look up at the machine in front of you. Having reached your first stop, you raise your eyes to the buttons, you press them, you insert your money, and the little plastic door at the bottom clicks as you grab your ticket and move on to stand and wait for your train. One last phone call, one last text before the train arrives.
  The sound of wheels in the distance, the rush of wind, the squeal of brakes, and the doors open. You step on. You sit down. The doors close. You stare out the window, the train starts forward and something catches your eye. It's your own reflection in the glass. You look at yourself with and through your own eyes. Your thoughts fly to a million different places. Your mind goes through events, plans, hopes, and memories. This is your world. This is your story. This train, these thoughts, these smells, these sounds, and the sight before you are a part of this story, this world. 
  Something else catches your eye. It's the reflection of everyone else in the train. What was before a blur of faces, a blur of sameness, seems to separate. The hair, the faces, the eyes start to change, start to shine as individuals. One short, one tall; one young, and one old. Different skin, different hair, different eye colors. The train slows at the next stop. More people board, some get off, some stay on the platform outside: waiting. You're fully awake now, fully looking, and fully curious. Expressions begin to stand out. Each serious face has something more to it: anger, sadness, peace...the list goes on. Each serious face tells a different story. Each serious face lives in a different world, their world. 
  And the laughter? The smiles? Each one of them says something different too. Each one hides and conceals, or shines forth without a single worry. Each face, each and every one, changes you. You feel you're seeing for the first time, feeling more than you've ever felt before. One glance at a face and you want to shrink, to laugh, or to cry. One long look and you find yourself taking a deep breath. 
  A voice comes out over the speakers. The train begins to slow. This is your stop. As people stand you rise slowly to your feet. Everything around you slows down as you take it in. The noise around you seems to fade as you step out onto the platform, and you stop...you stop as a voice somewhere within your head seems to whisper: "Welcome to my world..."
  Eyes go past you, faces, expressions, people, stories, and worlds. Each one different. Each one unique. And your spirit screams at you in desperation as the train moves on. It's never felt this much before, never known this much before, never seen this much before.
  Don't ever put people in a box. Don't ever blur them together. 
  Stop looking down, look up! Stop looking in, look out! 
  Who are you? Who's around you? 
  What's their story? What's yours? 
  Welcome to my world...