Whimsical Wednesdays

"Sadness is almost always some form of fatigue."
                                                        - Unknown

Perhaps sadness is not a feeling, 

but rather a lack of another feeling. 

As silence is the absence of  sound, 

Sadness is the absence of joy. 

Fatigue, the lack of energy. 

There is just a chance that sadness is not the rich, deep well that it seems, 

It could, in fact, be a depleted well, that is in desperate want of renewal. 

LIFE IS A GAME OF REPLACEMENT. 

Your sadness will not depart until joy take's its place. 

Your worry will not leave you alone until peace comes to stay with you. 

Fatigue will always comfort you until energy walks with you. 

The two simply don't coexist. 

For all those who cannot pinpoint the reason for the sadness or depression, 

It is fatigue dressed up like futility. 

You must relinquish it. 

Give your burdens to him that will replace it with a lighter one. 

Perhaps the shoulders that were formed from the substance of the world were never meant to carry it.

                    

                                                                                - Riley Rose

"Just a Thought"

" The idea of time passing by, 

it's melancholy moments turning to nothing but breathless, lifeless memories, 

is intoxicating to the poetic soul. 

The intrigue lies within the idea that there are a million feelings in existence that flit through the shadows of your mind and echo in the depths of your heart that cannot be sculpted into words. 

It is not from lack of ability, rather, that no language can quite has the capacity to contain the melancholic idea of time."

                                                                -  Riley Rose

Whimsical Wednesdays

           “There

~Are only~

-two ways-

 to live your life.

 One is as though nothing is a miracle.

The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

                                                                                                                                     ~ Albert Einstein                                                                                                                                    

Many in our society today would propose the idea of miracles intertwined in the scientific world is absolutely absurd. On the topic of miracles, there seems to be a line defining the two seemingly opposing sides.

On one side resides the skeptic. They believe that miracles simply do not exist, and that science is the only answer for the goings on in the world we live in.

In the other camp stands the eager. Not only do they believe in miracles, they would at times consider science to be the enemy, and show it bitterness for its respected standing, and foreboding presence in our society.

I have often found myself in in somewhat of a drift between the two rather strong beliefs.  I absolutely believe in miracles, but at times I tend to view seemingly unbelievable events with a skeptical eye, and a doubting heart.

It was not until I recently saw the above quote by Albert Einstein that I was able to  find a firm balance situated between the two worldviews that turned out not to be in opposition after all. Science is not the enemy of miracles, rather science supports the makings of miracles.

Just because science can explain how I take a breath, does not make it any less a miracle that I actually take a breath. Science often explains the “how” to something, while a miracle anticipates the “why.” In truth every breath is a God-given miracle.

One of my favorite songs is “Ordinary Miracles” by Sarah McLachlan. In it she says, “It’s not that unusual, when everything is beautiful, it’s just another ordinary miracle today.”

Color, taste, scent, the changing of seasons, all of these are miracles that are not fully appreciated because they are considered “ordinary”, and often cast off without a thought. I submit to you that ordinary, often time’s turns out to be extraordinary.

Every breath, every step every leaf flitting across your path in the cooling breeze is a miracle. I can see the very hand of God in everything around me. I can see the breath of God in every human soul. God is still very much present in our world today, and He is moving.

My cousin once wrote something to my mother that I thought profound, and inspiring. He said something the effect that he chose to be a conduit for miracles. That is what I aspire to be. I long to miraculously touch someone’s life, simply by giving them cause to smile. I want to make someone’s day every day. In short, I desperately want to embody the grace of God to someone who needs it.

Today, I choose to view everything as a miracle. There are miracle’s happening all around us, if we just take the time to look for them. It is the ordinary happenings that form the extraordinary lifetimes.  Will you set out with me to be a conduit for miracles today?

                                            Ordinary Miracles, By Sarah McLachlan 

Forgotten Hands

Doubt is a struggle for many people, often I find myself doubting nearly everything, the love of God, mercy, hope, and forgiveness. The disciple of Jesus that is given a bad rap is "Doubting Thomas." He is often judged for insisting that in order to believe in the resurrection of Jesus, He would have to touch the- scars in his hands. I believe that there is a grain of doubting Thomas in each of us, the end of the story is that Jesus came to Thomas, and had him feel the scars in his hands. He gave him a hope, he gave him proof. It seems that God knew, what no one could, and granted Thomas the proof that his heart desired. God did the same for me, he saw my weak heart, and knew that through struggles I may in fact doubt the work of his hands, so he gave me two sets of his hands to reassure me at any point I need it. My mother's hands have cared for and loved me for as long as I can remember, and my father, well my father has shown me the love of my heavenly father in the absolute best way, From the time I was five and learning to ride my bike, he held my handle bars to make sure I wouldn't fall. to the first time he helped me ride a horse and guided me around the arena, Until I can stand at the throne of God in Heaven, and touch my Savior's hands, and erase all struggle and doubt, until that day, I can look at the hands of my Mother, and the hands of my Father for that God kind of love that my heart desires, much like Thomas, Proof. The poem below was written under the idea that often the hands that give the most, are most easily forgotten. I would like to Thank my Father today, he truly is the best father in the world, he is involved loving caring, and to me a very good human example of the love of the Heavenly Father. This is for you dad, Happy Father's Day!!!

Forgotten Hands

Hardened hands, from working long, 

Wishing the hours to be gone, 

And every day, it's the same old song

Yet he pushes past the misery,

And thinks only of his family,

Even though it's more than he can stand, 

He tells himself this is what it is to be a working man, 

Even though they make me who I am, his are the forgotten hands, 

Hands of Patience 

Hands of Hope 

Strong hands to say I'll never be alone

Hands of promise, Hands from above, 

These are the hands of God's love. 

Soft hands 

A softer heart

Together they work the day from the start

Planning, Cleaning, Dreaming, and Doing. 

Packing, and Saving, Hugging, and Holding

Pushing past the weariness  

Thinking only of us. 

Sometimes it's more than she can bear 

But she's reminded of all those who need her there, 

And even though they make me who I am, 

But hers are the forgotten hands. 

Hands of Patience

Hands of Hope 

Strong hands to say I'll never be alone

Hands of Promise 

Hands from above, 

These are the hands of God's love. 

Bloodied hands 

A shattered heart

 With each breath his soul and body beg to part. 

He grits his teeth, and bears sins load, 

Surrendering Himself to death's demand, 

He just wants to go home, 

But He will save the world as a whole. 

Pressing through the separation of Father and son, 

He sends a victory cry to the sky, 

Battle Won. 

And though they make me who I am,

His are the forgotten hands. 

Hands of Patience

Hands of love 

Strong Hands to say I'll never be alone. 

Hands of promise

Hands from above

These are the hands of God's love.

Remember the Forgotten Hands

Whimsical Wednesdays

“~When you ~

-         FIND YOURSELF -

        On the side of

THE MAJORITY,

YOU SHOULD ALWAYS

Pause and Reflect.”

                                      ~ Mark Twain

Mark Twain was America’s author, and a legend in his own right. His witty wisdom, and practical, life-applicable quotes have trickled down through the decades, and in a time in which it was difficult, he discovered the balance of speaking the truth while remaining sensitive to delicate issues. He did not favor situations, nor did he bow to the altar of being politically correct. He seemed to see no grey in the world. Truth was truth and lies, were lies. Throughout his lifetime, he remained intent on delivering truth at all cost. His quote that best describes this is shown below, and it was extracted from one of his speeches.

“It doesn’t matter what the press says. It doesn’t matter what the politicians or the mobs say.  It doesn’t matter if the whole country decides that something wrong is something right.  Republics are founded on one principle above all else: The requirement that we stand up for what we believe in, no matter the odds or consequences.

When the mobs and the press and the whole world tells you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth and tell the whole world:
“No, you move.”

I believe that people respected Mark Twain for his absolute honesty, and yet complete lack of hate or malice in his quest for truth. It is my belief that he provided an excellent example of speaking the truth in love. That being said, the quote above is an excellent example of his practical, yet witty style of truth telling. Incidentally the principle conveyed seems to promote a partiality for the underdog crowd, in whatever situation they may be in. I can honestly say, that I do not know anyone that does not enjoy a good underdog story. In our media today there are a plethora of modern, and instant-classic films to choose from: The Blind Side, Rudy, 23 Blast, We are Marshall, just to name a few. There is a book, that seems to be an underdog story from start to finish, yet it has an incredible ending. It is the Bible. The Bible is comprised almost completely of God using people that society and situations would deem to be unworthy.

Joseph was the youngest of twelve. He was favored by his father, hated by his brothers, dumped into an empty cistern, sold in to slavery by his own family, and accused and imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit. BUT God used Joseph to save his people during a time of famine. Joseph rose to be second only to the king in Egypt, and he saved the same brothers that sold him into slavery all those years back, from starvation.

Moses, was a murderer, and suffered from a speech disability, he ran away from his position as prince of Egypt, and became a shepherd for forty years in the desert, BUT God chose to use him to free his people from Egyptian enslavement. Moses spent the first forty years of his life thinking that he was somebody, the next forty years of his life realizing he was nobody, and the last forty years of his life experiencing the INCREDIBLE things that God can do with a nobody.

Elijah doubted God's plan, even though God had proven his faithfulness time and time again. He had just come off of the mountain, where he had experienced a heaven sent miracle, and yet he questioned, “God where are you? Am I the only one serving you? Will my life be spared?” He so quickly forgot the promises of God, when his life was threatened. BUT God continued to use him to reach out to His people.

Peter proved to be faithless to Jesus, he gave in to peer pressure, lied, and seemed to have anger management problems. BUT God chose Peter to establish, and lead the Jerusalem church. Peter was one of the most active evangelical witnesses in the history of the world.

Many times I struggle to believe that God could use someone like me in this world. I am not strong, I quickly forget God’s faithfulness, then I hear that same still small voice Elijah heard in that time of doubting remind me that the Bible is the story of God using nobodys for his purpose, and ultimately his glory. I am a Nobody, but I am God’s Nobody. Will you join me and be a Nobody for Him today too?

Beautifully Broken

I had been fighting since the point of conception. Always pushing to be first, I made sure I got what I knew was coming to me… and then some. A cheater that hated to be cheated, I never settled for second best, or second, period. My 'me-first' mind set and and constant struggle to be first had poisoned every relationship I had, and I was running. Running from my father-in-law, running from my brother, and running from my past. It felt like every aspect of my life was closing in on me, the events that had built my past were suffocating me, and I was fighting a tidal wave of memories, struggling to keep my head above the water. I had this strange feeling that everything in my life was about to come full-circle, the thought terrified me. Everything that I had then-had in life I had gained dishonestly. I was a supplanter, and a heel-grasper, and I was about to face two of the biggest mistakes in my life: Laban and Esau. I felt that fate was about to take it's course, and I had done nothing to earn any favors from God. Even with two wives, (it's a long story.) two nursemaids, and eleven sons, I felt distant, and unreachable. We came to the brook of Jabbok, it means, 'an emptying out of.' I found the name fitting. I sent my family, animals, and possessions over the brook, but I stayed behind to think. My mind spun in constant circles, stumbling over my troubles and never nearing a solution. I felt my last thread of hope fading. I was jerked from my thoughts as the echo of footsteps echoed along the shoreline. I rose as a man drew near to me. His eyes held a finality, and he felt familiar even though I am sure that I had never seen him before. Without a word uttered we fought. Not verbally like one might imagine. No, we wrestled, long and hard, we wrestled through the night. I was fighting like I had fought every spiritual and physical fight in my life up until that point. I fought with a determination to win and a stubbornness that surpassed all words I refused to submit to the mighty hand of this mysterious stranger. In the past, I had always won, always gotten my way, and ran with it. This time was different. This time I felt as if I was being toyed with. The thought angered me, and I doubled my efforts, pouring my hurt, frustrations, and fear into this battle I was giving all the strength that I had. When dawn broke the man touched my hip, with a power that terrified me to the core. Immediately my hip was disjointed and any power to stand left my body, along with the ability or desire to fight. Falling I caught myself on the man's shoulder, and clung to Him for all I was worth. At that instant as I stood supported by this stranger I knew. This man was no human, this was God. The thought overwhelmed me. This was the God who had tried to reach me time, and time again. This God that I refused to submit to, had come down on my level, and related to me the only way I knew how to relate. To fight. As the sun rose, I stood there leaning completely on Him, clinging to Him. I was terrified to let go. Dawn struck, and He said to me,"Let me go, for it is daybreak." I panicked. I couldn't stand without Him. I couldn't face my trials without Him holding me in His perfect arms. I responded stubbornly,"I will not let you go until you bless me." I gulped. What had I done to deserve a blessing from God? The answer was nothing. Absolutely nothing. At that moment, I wouldn't have blamed Him at all if He had dropped me, walked out of my life, and never looked back. But the God I serve is the God of abounding, unending grace. He responded,"What is your name?" Awe surged through my veins and pounded in my temples. The God who had knit me together in my mother's womb knew who I was, He knew my name. He wasn't being ignorant, He was granting Redemption. Long ago, in what seems like another lifetime I had been asked that question by my dying father, and I had given my older brother's name in order to acquire the family blessing. Tears filled my eyes. I was getting a second chance, a chance to change my answer, a chance to tell the truth. I straightened my shoulders and answered,"Jacob."He said to me,"Your name will no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, because you have fought with God and men and overcome." Then He was gone. Tears sprang from my eyes and rolled down my face. The God of my fathers had known exactly what my heart needed. A blessing wasn't what my heart yearned for. No, my heart longed for a second-chance, a clean-slate, a brand-new start, and that's what my heart got. I was no longer a supplanter. I was a survivor. Was I broken? Yes. Am I broken? Yes, I still don't walk perfectly, but my disjointed hip serves as a reminder of the day that I came face-to-face with God, and not only survived, but thrived. It reminds me of the day I surrendered all, and dropped my walls of defense, the day I let God take control. I am broken, but it’s a Beautiful Broken.

The story of Jacob wrestling with God can be found in the Bible, in Genesis 32.

Whimsical Wednesdays

“IF                                                                     

- I FIND IN MYSELF -  

A desire in which  

*nothing in this world * can satisfy

The most probable explanation is that …

We Were Made for a Different World.”

-      C.S. Lewis

 It is my belief that every human being has at one point felt a longing or a desire for something we are not quite sure of, we become lonesome for something we have never known. In every treasured sunset, every crisp morning, and every starlit evening tends to bring out the melancholic in each soul. It is in this, that our soul recognizes what our minds cannot, our hearts are homesick for heaven. 

 Once we recognize this tendency in each of us, we can live as though heaven is on earth. C.S. Lewis was quoted saying, 

"My hope is that when I die, all of hell rejoices that I am out of the fight." Personally, I want this to be my life goal. Every morning I want to live my life in anticipation of Heaven, changing the world for Jesus, and fighting against the very reaches of hell. Today, I beg you to join me in living for the hope ahead, and realizing that we were in fact made for a different world. 

Whimsical Wednesdays

“History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.”

-Winston Churchill

At first glance, this quote may seem to have an air of arrogance, and some may say that Mr. Churchill exhumed far too much confidence, but the truth is that everyone should have a little more of this viewpoint activated in their life. It has been said, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” Like so many cliches the meaning of this phrase has lost some of it’s power from the disadvantage of repetition, but this is a biblically based idea. After His resurrection and before his ascension, Jesus left his followers with what is known as the Great Commission. “Go into all the world and proclaim the gospel to the whole Creation.” (Mark 16:15) In this powerful statement Jesus is basically saying, “Be My change to the world.” What we do today will go down in the History books of tomorrow. We are literally writing History with the way we live our lives. So many times I doubt that I have a voice. I doubt that I have the ability to make a difference. I doubt that anything I do now will be remembered in the scope of eternity. Know this, you can never have enough confidence in your ability to change the world. What you do everyday can influence the eternity of lost souls. Remember, that as Christians, we are not in the business of temporal. So today, join me in being the change in our generation for Him.  

Whimsical Wednesdays

“The past is a foreign place, they do things differently there.”

• Unknown

All of humanity shares a common thread of silver that is entwined throughout their lives. Depending on the viewer’s perspective, this thread either binds them up, and prevents progress, or anchors them down to more secure, safer, and simpler times. There are those who cling to this thread as if it were their very lifeline, while others spend their lifetime attempting to cut it with the knife of resentment. Some look upon this thread, their eyes filled with a thousand regrets, the sorrows of a yesterday reflecting in today through the glimmer in their eyes. Yet there are those who look upon it with a wistful sigh, longing for the whimsical happenings of a yesterday in a different lifetime, a yesterday they  will never grasp again. This thread of silver has been known to be haunting. It’s intricate weave can remind you of events better left forgotten. It holds the power to pressure the future to live up to it. It can influence the lens in which you view the world to make your decisions. It is the past. There are two major people groups in dealing with the past. There are those who have been scarred. They reject their past completely, and spend their lifetime hiding from it, petrified that their scars will be cut open, and that the past will breathe again. Others run to it. They embrace it everyday and go over every detail religiously, terrified that if they miss even a moment the past will remain dead forever, and that they will be left with nothing but an empty present, and a foreboding tomorrow. Both of these perspectives are flawed. If you allow your past to dictate ANYTHING that you do, it has ceased to become your past and has become your present, and tomorrow it will be your future. The past should not pressure you, determine, you, or define you. It should simply be exactly what it it, “the past.” I struggle with the past, at times I wish for it to live again, to breathe again, to simply be again. The other day, I read something that was oh so true in my life, and it helped me approach my view of the past correctly. “It is OK to miss something without wanting it back.” I realized that I needed to balance my love for the past, with the joy I found in the present, a quote that personally speaks to me is, “Don’t look back, you’re not  going that way.” This idea is also found in scripture. Philippians 3:13 states, “Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it on my own, but one thing I do; Forgetting what is behind and straining forward to what is ahead.” Our past mistakes do not define us, learn from them and move on. The happy times of the past should be treasured, but not lived in place of the present. File them away as cherished memories in the filing cabinet of your mind, and remember the ever encouraging C.S. Lewis quote, “There are far better things ahead than what we leave behind.”Keep tomorrow in mind but not at expense of the moment. Embrace the next new thing that is coming into life. Join me today in forgetting the old and pressing on towards what is ahead and waiting!

What my Mother Gave me

My name is Riley Rose Henderson, I will be a Senior in the fall, and recently I have been contemplating the question, "What defines me? What do I aspire to be?" It is my belief that every soul has to answer this question in order to know what their purpose is. In the shadows of my mind, I have created a list of thing things that I hope define me, the things that I aspire to be. I want a faith to move mountains, to love everyone with a God kind of love. I want to posses a work ethic, and an incredible ability to forgive, the ability to sacrifice my needs for the needs of others, and a kindness that extends beyond the normal. These are the qualities that I want engraved on the tablet of my heart, but where does my desire to posses these come from? I now know something, that I did not fully realize until now. My parents posses these qualities. They have these standards for themselves, and they live their lives with this moral integrity. Both of my parent's are the sweetest loveliest, and most real people I know, but since it is Mother's Day, I would like to focus on thanking my mother on this practically perfect day. 

After my parent's brought me home from the hospital, my mom chose to give up her career, and stay home with me. She gave up her job, to raise me. I can't imagine that it was easy, but she poured all of her love and effort into caring for and caring for my brother and I. Recently my brother and I had the opportunity to attend a private school, (shout out to Liberty Christian!) and in order to do so, my mom would have to go back to work. She not only got one, but two teaching jobs, at two different schools. She had no other reason than to do it for us, for me. She continues to put herself last everyday, and goes to work with a smile. My mother gave me the gift of sacrifice. 
For as long as I can remember my parent's have taken me to church, helped me memorize scripture, and prayed with me.  My mom has done family devotions with us around the dinner table, and prayed for me daily. My mother has given me the gift of faith. 
In this life, everyone has been wronged, and everyone has wronged. It is one of the unfortunate results of the fallen world we live in. I have seen my mother do wrong. I have seen her tearfully repent to God, and I have seen her humble herself and apologize, and ask for forgiveness. I have seen my mom wronged. (sometimes by me.) I have seen her forgive without being asked. I have seen her carry on as though it never happened. Her power to forgive amazes me. My mother gave me the gift of forgiveness and repentance.
From the time that I was in Kindergarten, until this past year, my mom has home schooled me. She taught me my ABC's  and Algebra, and Physics, and she gave me the love that I have for writing. My mother gave me the gift of learning. 
These examples barely scratch the surface of what my mom has done for me, or the love that she shows me on a daily basis. The things that she has given me could never be completely listed, she has given me my love for quotes, my adoration for black and white TV shows, and my love of sitcoms. All of these are my traits that my mother has passed on to me. I am grateful for all that she has done to make my life what it is. I want to thank her for instilling in me the traits that I hope to one day fully posses. I want to thank her for choosing me over herself countless times, and most of all, I want to thank her for leading me to the Savior that I adore. Thank you mom. 
My name is Riley Rose Henderson, and I have realized, that not only do my God, and my parent's define me, they are what I aspire to be. This is my goal, even if it takes me the rest of my life to achieve. Happy Mother's Day Mom! You are literally the best mom in the world! 

Whimsical Wednesdays

“Those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”

• William Shakespeare

Music makes everything better. Even the most monotonous task seems to fly by with the perfect playlist to listen to. Music promotes a certain joy and inspiration in the souls that it touches. Music, like so many other things in life is a choice. You have to choose to listen to it. So to with the music of life. One has to choose to appreciate the chirping of birds as they tilt their heads towards the heavens and let the melodies procure from their mouth. One must decide to pay mind to the crisp foggy October mornings when the aroma of burning leaves permeates the air. This is the soundtrack of our lives, that we have to choose to focus on, this is the recipe of dancing through dilemmas, twirling through trials, and remaining carefree despite the circumstances. I like to think that every life is a song, and that we have the power to choose the genre based on the way we live our lives. There are two kinds of people, those who choose to hear the music that God gives us, and those who don’t. Often the people who choose to focus on, and live by the music find joy, and they seem to dance through life, while those who have chosen to ignore the music can only stare in wonder at those who dance through dilemmas, deaf to the music that makes it possible.  As the great poet William Shakespeare said in his quote above, “Those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” I ask you today to join me in focusing on the music of life, staying positive through predicaments, finding strength dance through dilemmas, and stay carefree during foreboding circumstances. Let’s make the song called our life, a hit that is heard through the ages, and remembered far after we are gone. Keep listening to the music, keep dancing!

Whimsical Wednesdays

“Years of Love have been forgotten in the hatred of a moment.”

• Edgar Allen Poe

The ever-famous poet Edgar Allen Poe shows great insight and knowledge in this profound statement that has endured the barriers of time and remained relevant in our culture today. A moment of passion, can lead to a casualty of circumstance, the lives of the innocent sacrificed at the feet of convenience, the survivors left to endure a lifetime of regret. A moment of hatred paves the path for the mistake of a lifetime, a singular action left to haunt the soul for an eternity. Throughout history lands have been conquered, relationships forfeited, and lives lost, in the span of a moment.

On this principle, dynasty’s have fallen and innocence has been lost. In a moment of weakness King David of Israel determined the destruction of his legacy when he lusted after Bathsheba, it was then that the downfall of Israel began. It was a moment of doubting, when Eve questioned the integrity of God, and sealed the fate of the entirety of the human race. And, it was a moment of triumph when Jesus Christ hung from the cross and released with his final breath the all freeing words, “It is Finished.”The barrier between man and God that had been built in a moment was torn down in a lifetime so that man could be united with God for eternity. In so many cases a lifetime, even an eternity hinges on the decision of a moment. Throughout the gospels there are countless times that Jesus could have fallen into temptation. A plethora of situations are supplied in which he could have reacted instead of responded, and given into the wishes of the enemy. He could have let the passion, the anger, the power, or the pride of a moment doom the salvation of the world, but He didn’t. Why? I submit to you that Jesus kept his whole life so focused and centered in on the mission and the love of the father that there was simply no room for anything else. When “in the moment” Jesus saw eternity. When faced with mangled and wicked humanity, he saw a masterpiece. When set before the torture of the cross and with it the unavoidable separation between the Father and the Son, He saw the only hope of reuniting the relationship between God and man that had been lost centuries before in the decision of a moment. Love was the answer to His success. A pure love, a true love, a God love. The God of the universe stepped down from the throne of Heaven, to show us the way, to show us truth, to show us life, and to show us love. In return He asks that we simply do the same. Jesus said in John 15:12 “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” This may seem like a tall order, or an unattainable dream, but let me assure you, it is a love worth dying for, but even more importantly it’s a love worth living for.

As you set out to live today I plead with you to heed Edgar Allen Poe’s warning. Don’t let your relationships, lifetime, or eternity be determined in the emotion of a moment.

- Riley Rose

Whimsical Wednesdays

“As a child I received instruction in both the Bible and the Talmud. I am a Jew, but I am enthralled in the luminous figure of the Nazarene… No one can read the Gospel without feeling the actual presence of Jesus. His personality pulsates in every word. No myth is filled with such life.”

• Albert Einstein

Recently, I was asked what the resurrection of Jesus Christ means in my life. At first this seemed a simple and rather easy question to answer, but after a moment of reflection I realized how important the resurrection truly is. So many times we focus on the life and death of Jesus, and rightfully so. His ministry and mission are more miraculous than the stars, but so many times the resurrection gets placed on the back burner of Christianity. I was once in a training that taught teachers how to properly teach the gospel to children, and one of the jokes that we were always reminded of was, “Don’t leave Jesus dead.” We all laughed, but the truth is that the joke was necessary in order to remind us not to forget the resurrection. So often teachers (myself included) would speak about the crucifixion and death of Jesus, and would forget to include the resurrection, essentially leaving Jesus dead to the children. Albert Einstein with all of his knowledge and genius pinpointed the power of Christianity and the difference between it and other world religions with his statement, “No myth is filled with such life.” As beautiful, powerful, and freeing as the crucifixion is, Christianity would not have the life changing impact on the human soul today without the resurrection of Jesus. Einstein would not be able to feel the presence of Jesus if He were still dead. His personality would not pulsate through every word if He were still in the grave. Without the resurrection Jesus would be just another dead prophet. Without his life He would join the legions of other men that have died for a cause. Without his rising we would serve a God that could be conquered by death, and if that were so what kind of God would that be? We should not make the mistake of taking for granted that we serve a living God. Go out today with the assurance of the truth of the Gospel, “No myth is filled with such life!”

The Forgotten Soldier

Before you read the following poem, I wanted to explain it's very unique backstory. I recently visited Washington D.C. in September, and while there we visited all of the war memorials. Each memorial was amazing, and sad, and unique in it's own way, but when we reached the Vietnam War Memorial, the tears could not be stopped from flowing. Our guide explained to us that the children that had been in grade school when the bombing of Pearl Harbor happened in 1941, were the same ones joining the Vietnam War, just fourteen years later, in 1955. The World War II Veterans came home heroes, but the Vietnam War was the scorned war, and the soldiers that did make it home, were spit upon, and hated. Many Vietnam Veterans were saved by airport security members from the mobs, told to change their uniform, and never tell anyone that they were in the war. Our guide also told us the true story of a Vietnam Veteran who would come every day to watch the wall, but he was never able to approach it. He would just stand in the trees next to it, and watch over it. Eventually, the man committed suicide next to the wall out of grief. When I heard this true story, I was horrified, and realized that the soldiers of the Vietnam War were  never honored, and because of that, they were never truly able to leave the war behind. The poem "The Forgotten Soldier" is in honor of the man who died as a casualty of the Vietnam War, even if it was on home soil, next to the wall. It is in honor, and a thank you to all of those who served to protect the innocent, and to those who laid down their lives in the ultimate sacrifice and never made it home. We salute you.  We thank you for your service to our county, and we honor you.

The Forgotten Soldier


The wind whistles through the barren trees, 

With each gust I'm trembling not from the cold, but what's haunting me. 

Nobody can fathom the pain I've seen, 

Or that unlike any other war, this is not a memory that has faded with time, 

But is a forever reality. 

I come here everyday to remember the slain,

I feel the choices I've made forever come into play. 

I stand at a distance concealed by the trees, 

Wishing and willing my heart and soul to be free. 

For years I've longed to run my hands over those names, 

To apologize for living straight to the wall's dark face.

But here I stand bound by the fear of public condemnation, 

For my uniform has born only scorn and humiliation, 

Spit on was I who gave my life to this nation. 

I'm weary of living; my soul tormented by the past. 

I'm worn down by regretting the way my life has passed, 

I just want to give up, and rest in peace at last. 

The cancer coursing through my body has left my legs frail, 

This "Agent Orange" is nothing compared to Vietnam; the soldiers hell. 

The breath in my body is the only thing separating me from the dead. 

I scream from the pain the memories I have running red. 

Like the wall this war leaves a scar in my heart you cannot see, but the wound is deep. 

I will never completely heal. 

I try to convince myself the things I've seen were not real. 

I have given up on God, 

I have given up on life, 

I see no future, 

Only the promise of my soul and mind forever in strife, 

So I will leave now, and by no one be missed, 

For I am just another one of those suicidal statistics

I didn't have the honor to die oversees, so my name will not be on the wall, 

Just a civilian deceased. 

I will give up and retire from the position of a mental warrior, 

For I am the forgotten soldier

                                         - Written By Riley Rose 

1941

A freshly fallen blanket of snow enwraps the world with its cold embrace, and expands along the horizon as far as the eye can see. The sky, stretched over the entirety of the world like a canopy is a crystal clear blue that awakens thoughts of the deep universe beyond. All was quiet, but this was not to be mistaken for peaceful, as Peter Payne knew far too well. He was just an ordinary country farm boy from the back hills of Tennessee. He was not a soldier, but yet here he stood, in a valley only heaven knew where, headed straight into an enemy encampment that he knew nothing about, clad in the uniform of his country. This war made a soldier of every man.

“It’s the  valley of the shadow of death, my death.” The sound of his own whisper echoing over the vast, desolate plane before him, took him aback. He shook his head and took a vow of silence, as he refused to allow fear’s icy hand to wrap it’s deathlike fingers around his heart.

His entire life had been invested in his family and the acres of rich soil that they owned, and depended on for their livelihood. The small town that they lived on the outskirts of was straight from a story book. Every soul knew everyone’s names, and the entirety of the community attended the same church, where his father was a preacher. He had been halfway through his senior year when the world turned upside down. December 7, 1941. The day stood out as a black mark in his mind and his soul. After that fateful day, his world would never be the same. His best friend growing up was Timothy Johnston, who had been stationed, and killed, in Pearl Harbor. It was a devastating blow to the community. In the midst of all of their sorrow, Peter had felt the call to fight. Not two weeks later he had dropped out of High school (temporarily) and was a willing participant of the United States Army.

So here he found himself, discarded by fate, fighting in a war that nobody wanted, and dying to protect the innocent. His once lively brown eyes, now dull from the sight of suffering and death, wandered over the open, and foreboding clearing set before him. At 6’2 he had always been the tallest player on his high school’s basketball team. What had been an advantage for him in another life, was a danger, and a liability now. His height made him a target. That, coupled with the fact that he was a troop of one, with a message for a General Staffen in the camp that was nestled in the middle of the cluster of  birch trees, which stood tall and resolute like a fortress, promising protection, made him uneasy. He ran his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, now damp with sweat, placed his green army issued helmet back atop his head, and faced reality along with the clearing. He knew that he had to start now if he wanted to reach his destination before dark. To say that the going was slow may qualify as the understatement of the year. Not only were the drifts deep, and the snow hardened and nearly impossible to plow through with merely your legs, but beneath the layers of snow lay a solid layer of ice, that made it impossible to keep a grip. Even though he tried for all he was worth, he could not keep himself from sliding. After forty-five minutes of back breaking work, and careful perseverance, he looked back only to find that he had made a mere ten yards progress. Disheartened, he turned back and continued to drudge through the snow when he was made aware of a noise. Turning to look once again, he saw a German soldier standing where he had just three quarters of an hour prior, studying the clearing before him. In an instant that was recorded before the stars were created, the eyes of the two enemies meet. Both held fear, and uncertainty, but in one, a mission came before sympathy or compassion. Peter turned just as the gunshot went off, and he felt the searing hot pain rip through his shoulder, then his abdomen. Wounded he fell to the snowy ground and lay there unconscious for hours. When he awoke, he was on the ground in the middle of the clump of birch trees where the camp was supposed to have been. He felt around for the message in his pocket, but found only blood from the bullet wound instead. Realizing that his own had taken him for dead, he tried to utter a cry of help, but found that his throat was to parched to speak, and his lips to chapped to form a word. He felt his blood along with his life seeping from his body. It was then that he realized he would soon be joining the piles of corpses that he had so often walked past in his duties. He would just be another casualty of this cruel war. He knew that the chances of his broken body being shipped to his home soil would be very slim, so he came to the conclusion that he was destined to rest in an unmarked mass grave, and remain nameless to all but God forever. His mother would hope that he was simply missing in action, and wait for a miracle. His little brother would beg his parent’s to bring his brother, his hero, back home, and his father would pray to the God that he lived for, for the safety of his son, and believe with his mother in the miracle of his homecoming. All for nothing. He lay there, prostrate on the frozen gazing at the cold sky through the thin branches of the birch trees above. He felt the wispy wind wailing it’s lonely empty tune across the plane and rustling through the barren trees. It was the very breath of the creator, and he had never truly felt it until now. The birds gathered on the branches above, bundled in their downy coat of feathers, and sung a bittersweet melody, their innocent faces raised to the expanse of the universe above. It was the very song of Heaven, but he had never truly heard it until now. He felt as though he were living for the first time as he lay there dying. He chuckled a dry laugh at the irony of it in an effort to hide his fear. He was scared. Not scared of dying, for he had been a Christian for as long as he could remember, and he knew where he was headed. No, he wasn’t scared of dying, he was scared of leaving. Leaving his life, leaving his family and friends, leaving his home. He had left so many things unsaid. The piercing pain of a thousand regrets washed over him like the freezing water off of the Atlantic Coast. He longed to tell his mother he loved her, and kiss her one last time, to tell his little brother to cherish the seemingly “insignificant” things, for those are what form the makings of a lifetime. He longed to look his father, his hero in the eye and tell him that he had fought the good fight, that he had finished his race, and that he had died well.

With every beat of his heart it pumped more and more blood from his body. As each breath slowed, so did the song that had made up his memories, as the dance called his life drew to a close, and he went to meet the one who made him and loved him, far before the cruel war of 1941.