that's crazy talk

Hey all, how's it going?  I am taking an introduction course online - Introduction to Microsoft Word  2010 - so not having too much time to write.  But here are some thoughts for today. 

Psalm 14:1  The fool says in his heart, "There is no God."

Kind of a touchy topic to write about today, huh?  But I've been thinking about creation versus evolution for awhile now.  Main thoughts go something like this . . . I really, really believe in my heart that it takes more faith to believe in evolution than creation.  Seriously, look at the world around us.  How is it that this all came from a big bang?  Really?  I don't want to get into an argument with anyone, but I just don't get it.  I really don't.  As I type this it is a beautiful, sunny day.  Big, white, puffy clouds float across a brilliant blue sky.  The birds are chirping in the trees.  Plants are growing.  Grass is green.  It's beautiful, a beautiful day - and all of this just came out of nothing?  Things just happened to fall into place on their own?  That's crazy talk.

Next to me, stands my little girl waiting impatiently for me to finish my work so we can play ponies together.  Every night after she goes to bed, I sneak into her room and stand over her bed in awe of the beautiful one-of-a-kind girl she is; her own little personality intact, her face unique only to her.  What an awesome miracle.  And every day I look at my little boy as he walks bravely to school even on the days he doesn't want to.  I think about all the information and knowledge he's gained in ONE year of school - kindergarten, no less, and I am in awe, simply and utterly in awe.  They are miracles and no one's going to convince me that they just "happened" to turn out to be the beautiful, special, amazing kids that I love. They evolved from apes?  C'mon people, really?

As for me, I sit here typing this and thinking about the systems in my body all working together in a beautiful symphony; my heart pounding away, the lungs that fill with oxygen everytime I breath, my muscles, making it possible to even write this, my brain, responding to the signals from the rest of my body - all of this without me even having to think about it.  I ponder the unique, special ways that God has made me, my personality, my thoughts, my ideas - and all of it just came out of nothing?  No, I can't accept that.  You could talk to me 'til you were blue in the face, and I'm sorry, but I could not for one minute take the leap of faith that is a belief in evolution.

I don't even begin to grasp creation, and, if I had all the time in the world to list how this planet and all its inhabitants are amazing, one-of-a-kind, complex in their own way, there wouldn't be enough time nor  pages to even scratch the surface of all that God's done.  Even in a fallen state, the world is beautiful, and, if we stop and think about it, we are beautiful too - beautiful creatures meant to spend an eternity soaking in the love of God, loving him back, and walking with him each and everyday of our lives. 

We are special for many reasons.  But the most important reason is because we were handmade by God - miracles of epic proportion.  Even when we were in our mother's wombs, we were meant to play a special role in this miracle of life.  We were made for better things.  We were made to be smarter than the apes.  I'll finish off with this closing thought - two verses that sum up all I've been trying to say in four paragraphs. 

Psalm 139: 13-14.  For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.  I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

Value yourself more highly than a good majority of people on earth do.  Who wants to believe that they evolved from an ape anyway?

that crazy hair

An excerpt from Pools of Blessing

When I was a child my mother kept my hair short.  I don’t think she liked to mess with either my sister’s or my hair.  Consequently,  I never had those beautiful girlhood tresses hanging down my back like so many of my friends did.  Not only was our hair kept short, but it was also permed every three months. The outcome was anything but desirable.   Because my hair looked eerily similar to the character, Estelle’s, from the TV show, “The Golden Girls”, my husband, when he sees pictures of me from back then, refers to me as Stella.  And I have to say that minus the gray hair, he’s pretty much right.  The eighties were not good to me hair-wise. 

Mom not only kept our hair short, but she wore hers short as well.  Having thin, fine, hair Mom always seemed to struggle with how to fix it.  Every morning she painstakingly dried, curled, and combed her hair until it was, in her mind, at least presentable.  Sometimes I would watch her getting ready and think to myself, ‘Why is Mom so obsessed with how her hair looks?  Why can’t she just go out without all of the fuss?  Does she really think she’ll be judged if it’s not perfect?’

But sometimes the words you say, or in this case, think, have a way of coming back to bite you.  Because, ironically enough, I’ve always hated my hair, too.  Whether it’s cut short, or hangs long around my shoulders, worn up, or curled down, it never seems to be quite good enough.  Still I try.  I get my haircut and think, ‘Oh they fixed it so nicely, I can’t wait to get home and play with it.’  But inevitably, no matter how good the cut is, I can never make my hair look good enough.  Someone else always does it better. 

I never really understood all this drama over hair until, one day, Mom shared a story about her own mother.  Mom’s grandma, my great-grandma, Ella Pokorney, tended to be a stern, rigid person.  If something was done, then it needed to be done well.  Consequently, the year my grandma turned fourteen, Ella, her mother, began to take her to the beauty shop once a week to have her hair done.  Up to that point, Grandma had been an avid and enthusiastic swimmer, but from then on she was forbidden to swim or participate in any “sweaty activities”. 

After that my grandmother never washed or “did up” her own hair.  As an adult, she would visit her favorite beautician, Jewel Chappell, once a week on Fridays with an appointment scheduled for 4:00pm. 

Mind you now, this is all a theory, but doesn’t it seem a little crazy to you that we all, my great-grandmother, grandmother, mother and I have been so obsessed with our hair?   It’s like the “I hate my hair gene” has been passed down through the generations.  And, sad to say, this gene lives on brilliantly in me.   My hair hangs down to my shoulders, but even now I am considering cutting it short.  It just doesn’t look good enough.  It’s not perfectly perfect. 

Sadder still, I keep my little girl’s hair short too.  I don’t want to have to fix long hair because I feel so inept at fixing my own.   Yes, the “I hate my hair” gene is alive and well in me. 

But, as I write this it occurs to me that someone needs to stop the madness.   Maybe that somebody needs to be me.  There is a sane part of me that’s learned  this; sometimes you need to do things for the pure pleasure of trying.  Failure isn’t something to be avoided at all costs, it’s a stepping stone to learning how to do things well.  If perfection isn’t achieved, that’s ok.  The process is more important than the outcome.  

So, for my daughter’s sake, and the sake of my granddaughters and great-granddaughters to come, I will bring an end to this vicious cycle.  I will let my daughter grow her hair long if she wishes.  Even now, while her hair is chin length, I practice by putting bows and ribbons in it.  Perfect or not, I have to try.  I have to learn to let my hair down a bit.  No pun intended.