The Devil's been in the laundry mat and I am mad as....AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I have been the victim of a robbery. A stupid, pointless robbery that never, ever should have happened.

I was doing my long-over-due laundry like any normal college student should. I was washing my own, personal clothes. Not waiting for other people to wash their clothes, then take them, but washing my own clothes for me to wear. I left the laundry mat to go study, then returned to put my five loads in the dries-left for dinner-went back to dry them again because the new driers were all used up and I had to use the old ones (which are stupid).

I went back to my room for a little Sunday R & R. Then, I went back to get my clothes and fold them up. Only, they were missing. Not all of my clothes, just the ones that really (oh so coincidentally) matter. My favorite, beloved, fashionably-awesome and very comfortable Hollister zip-up jacket had been stolen. I searched the laundry mat, ripping open washer machines, tearing through piles of clothes, ready to scream at the top of my lungs. I HATE THIEVES!

Those jackets were not just any old jackets-they were gifts from my mother-and gifts from your mother are not just gifts. My favorite, the red one, I had picked out for Christmas and I remember not being able to wear till Christmas. I HATE THIEVES!

Why me? Why my stuff? Why did they have to steal? Did they have nothing better to do? Did they suddenly forget they were at Harding-where this kind of stuff isn't suppose to happen? Why me? Why? Why? Why?

my first reaction was to rain down all sorts of misfortune unto whoever wronged me: ranging from facial-scarring skin diseases to economic failure to sterility. I was that mad. But, then I realized that that would border on occult pass-times so I decided that would not be the best release for my anger.

My next reaction was to call my sister, Abbie, who usually sits and pretends to pay attention to me when I rant-but she helps me get it off my chest. But the stupid time difference between here and Maine is an hour and so Abbie would already be asleep.

So I decided to blog my anger. Here's my rant Planet Earth and I'm mad as a hornet given a machine gun and hooked up on emotional steroids.

I realize its not the biggest thing to be mad about-but it's the whole invasion of privacy in a public place that gets me mad.

I'm trying to forgive my wrong-doers, but I just want to have my jackets back. My friends at Harding know-I wear them everywhere! Even if Fidel Castro himself were to show up at my door with my jackets-I would be his best friend.

But until then-it looks like that I'm going to have to fume for a while. And continue listening to Kelly Clarkson songs (she is good at singing while angry).

As a side note to my wrong-doer...If I see you on campus with my jacket-I am going to get you!!! Not only will I release my anger upon you for stealing my jacket, but I will unleash all the anger that's been building up at Ohio for forcing me to give up my accent, at all those kids in middle school who left me to sit by myself looking like an idiot, at Maine weather for forcing me to waste my and my family's good time by shoveling too many feet of snow, at the guy who built our house because it is already beginning to fall apart, at those idiotic African despots who are just evil, and at Marvel comics for killing off Captain America. AHHHHHHHHHHHH!

In short: I'll get you. When you least expect it.

Wow-that felt good to get off my chest!

So, I went to a fashion show tonight. It was my second fashion show-the first one being the one I accidentally stumbled in on in that shopping mall in Paris. This fashion show was a lot better-I must say. For one, the clothes were 100x more modest. For two, it was for a great cause. For three, it wasn't playing bad, naughty music. For four, the clothes they were showing normal people could actually wear. For five, did I mention it was for a great cause.

The fashion show was put on by HUmanity. For those of who don't know, HUmanity is an organization here on campus that, at its core, works to make the world a better place. Besides having a very creative name (get it Harding University-er-Manity?, its been raising awareness about sweatshops and our favorite clothing brands that have been accused of using them. They have also begun a garden from which they will grow food to give to the poor-I think. They are also doing a lot of other cool things behind the scenes of the school.

The fashion show was to raise awareness about the sweatshop horrors going on in third-world countries. They showcased clothes that have been accused of being sweatshop manufactured and clothes that are 100% sewn out of "justice." The show also had several videos that informed the audience on the situation. Except, I'm not so sure how I feel about the whole underwear video. Something about recycled underwear just rubs me the wrong way (no pun intended).

Well, all the members of the show and all of the models did excellent jobs-even when faced with EXTREMELY disrespectful protesters who felt the need to interrupt one of the speaker's testimonies by throwing fliers into the air and screaming "for the children". The fliers were just a bunch of bogus information that nobody with a good, sane mind and caring heart would believe. But enough about them-they don't really matter. Back to the show.

Like a said before-the show was good. It kept me interested. However, I'm feeling a little overwhelmed. For one, I saw the Invisible Children documentary last night that was very inspiring and very moving. For two, its "Struggles of the Faith" in the Chapel and so testimonies are both depressing and uplifting. For three, I found out that sweatshops are still in existence and some of my favorite brands have been accused of using them. For four, my car broke down again and it is being a big pain in the rear. Needless to say, I've been on some emotional roller-coasters this week. And I'm not a big fan of roller-coasters.

And so I'm feeling like there are just too many problems in the world for anyone to handle. Child soldiers, sweatshops, world hunger, economic crises, global warming,human sex trafficking, the whole state of Northern & Central Africa in general, mass poverty, AIDS outbreaks, ever-present Middle East conflicts, genocides, potential nuclear wars...

And I just discovered on the Discovery Channel that wild hogs are growing freakishly larger and invading small southern towns.

Oh, crud.

So, what's a college student to do? I guess I could grow out dreadlocks, learn to drink coffee, debate politics in coffee houses with bongo-slapping urchins, start wearing itchy clothing made by Mayan seamstresses, permanently mold my right hand into making the peace symbol, and hold up signs with cunning slogans at protests. But, that's not really my personality. Besides, coffee makes me constipated and I don't have the cheek bone-structure for dreadlocks.

What I can do is pray about it.

And I don't mean lay in bed-offer up a quick "Oh, and God, please be with the abducted child soldiers in Africa" before I snooze off before an Amen. I mean I could seriously pray.

By praying seriously, I mean closing my-self in my closet, sitting on the nasty, febreeze-soaked floor and opening my mind to God. Whatever comes to mind-I pray about. A good friend of mine taught me that.

We can protest, boycott, kick and scream all we want. But if you want to save the world, and I mean the whole world, you've got to give to the only person who can save it. On our own, left to our own devices, humans will fail. It's a fact of life...a depressing and kind of maddening fact of life...but a fact of life none-the-less.

Stop asking "How can there be a good, All-Mighty God, when there is so much evil in the world?" and start asking "How can I stop pouting, roll up my sleeves and ask God to help me make the world a better place?"

Last night, I prayed one of my unusual prayers. I love unusual prayers-they are so un-churchy (P.S. I hate it when people use the term "and let it be a nourishment unto our bodies"-we're eating fried chicken and buttered rolls for crying out loud!). They are real-I think they're the kind of prayers God wants us to pray.

So, I prayed for God to give the missionaries in Africa miraculous powers. I asked God to give each and every one of them the power to heal, to protect those they are ministering from harm, and to really just make Africa a better place in general. And, as everybody knows, Africa could use a few miracles. And, I fully have faith that God will fulfill my requests. Because the true missionaries-those who are not faint of heart, but mighty in spirit, those who are willing to put their lives and the lives of their family members on the line for the sake of the Gospel-they will give glory to God and not boast about their gifts. And the Africans will see God still loves them.

I've prayed much weirder prayers-and they have come true-, mostly in ways I didn't expect.

So, if you're looking for a way to save the world and you're not quiet sure how to take that first step-start out by closing your-self in a dark closet and giving God an unusual prayer.

The Maine winter is a harsh and cruel force of nature.

I don't really mean in the sense of fierce, white-out blizzards and devilish roads covered in ice, though we get plenty of those-I mean in the sense that winter lasts far too long. The soft, white blankets of snow that fall in November become like rough pillows that murderers use to smother sleeping victims as March rolls around. By the end of February, you're already sick of watching graceful snowfall.

Not exactly the sort of description one expects to hear about winter.

The worst part about winter has to be shoveling. Any teenager who lives in the North can tell a teenager in the South that snowfall is fun and games for all about two hours till you parents tell you to grab the shovel and get the snow off the back deck.

Then you've got another few hours of back-breaking work, digging through feet of snow, then through inches of solid ice. Not to mention its below zero. Oh, and you also have to clear out the gutters of ice-else when it rains the gutters will overflow and cause sheets of ice to form on the roof-which proceed to melt during winter and leak through into the house.

So much for a winter wonderland huh?

It happened one day while I was shoveling off the back deck. It was a snow day-which meant I had all day freed up to shovel. The snow was still falling in heavy blankets-or murderous pillows rather. We have a pretty large deck in the back that is notorious for building up foot upon foot upon foot of snow.

Covered head to toe in a warm, protective, but stiff, winter outfit, I kept shoveling and shoveling. My Mom will tell you she could hear my groaning and whining miles away. She's probably right. I am a notorious whiner.

I took a break to watch the snowfall. Even though I hated that it was falling so thickly and fast-it is still an event to be admired. Snowfall is one of those magical occurrences that seem to enchant the soul. There's also something about virgin snow that makes you stop and stare. The rolling hills of pure white, untouched and perfectly smooth with snow flakes. Needless to say, the snow cast me under its spell.

I dropped my shovel and headed for the woods behind my house.

The woods behind my house are both deep and vast. Even though I've lived in that house for nearly five years, I'm sure to get lost if I ran head straight into it without looking back.

They say you can find God better in the wilderness. As C.S. Lewis so eloquently put it "He's not a tame lion." I don't know if I went into the woods to find God, but I needed a break from shoveling and a forest in winter is not like a city in winter.

No matter what season, the woods are always beautiful.

So, I broke the virgin snow and went into the woods.

It was like that scene in the Chronicles of Narnia, when Lucy first stumbles into Narnia through the wardrobe. She finds herself in a forest lost in winter, a magical place that has taken her breath away.

The great pine trees stood like sleeping giants around me, covered head to root in white flakes fallen from the sky. The moment I step into their world, I am cut off from noisy suburbia and thrust into an untamed kingdom.

A little thing I like to do when I'm among those great, sleeping giants is to go under their branches and grab them by their skinny trunks. I give the trunk a firm shake...and then stand still as the snow collected atop the hundreds of branches up above fall down onto me like a waterfall.

My own little blizzard beneath a sleeping giant.

I wondered deeper into the woods, looking back every once in a while at the house to make sure it was still in sight. With everything covered in white, the woods are more lost than ever.

Wondering a little deeper, I thought about going back. I still had a whole lot of snow to shovel back at the deck.

Then I saw it.

There was a opening in the trees. A perfect circular meadow among the great, sleeping giants. In the center of this opening was a little tree. A little Christmas tree that could not have been taller than six or seven feet tall. It was like a scene built for a movie.

It was so burdened with heavy sheets of snow, it was completely bent over. The tip-top of the tree was nearly frozen to the ground.

Burdened and bent over...like us.

Nature is God's great allegory written out for all humanity to read.

The other trees surrounding the little one were so tall and straight, covered with snow but not bent over. They seemed a little too prideful about it. It was as if they were mocking the little tree, because he had failed to be so great as they were. Because he had given into the snow and would be forced to stay bent over.

Taking pity on the poor thing, I set to work clearing it of its burden. I shook it free of snow, swept it away with my hands, kicked at the ice-sickles, did whatever I could. Then I gave a good, strong pull and forced it back up straight. It stood up straight. But only for a few seconds.

The thing had been so used to being bent over, it began to fall back into its comfortable position. I grabbed at it again and pulled it back up, bending it the other way to keep it from falling over again. I pulled and pushed, heaved and and hoed, shook it free completely of snow. In the end it decided to stand upright.

Well the meaning in that is not a hard one to find.

I used to find myself like that little Christmas tree, burdened and bent over by the sin that never ceased to fall. Never ceased to quit. Never gave me a break. I began to hate those who stood so upright, high and mighty-living their perfect lives around me.

But even the sleeping giants have their own secrets-a lot of them fell in storms later that summer.

Then He came along, shaking the sin off trees by grabbing them by the trunk, by the soul. He saw me, shook off the sin, swept it away with his hands, kicked away the bad habits. But I was so used to old ways that I quickly fell over again. So, He rolled up his sleeves and set to work. He had to bend me a few other ways, near the point of breaking. It took me a while to stand up-but I did in the end.

Like I said before, nature is God's great allegory written out for all humanity to read.

Hey faithful readers!

I just wanted to thank you guys so much for reading this blog-I feel quiet honored. Since I will hopefully be a journalist some day, I will need a big, complex blogsite with all the bells and whistles. It looks good on a resume. I just wanted to ask if ya'll wouldn't mind just putting your-self down as a follower (such as the list way down at the bottom) on the site so that when I do go to start interviewing for the job at Time Magazine-the interviewer can see just how many people are following. I would really appreciate it!!!
Thanks for reading,
J.M. Adkison

Why is it-when ever I try something exciting out for the first time-something always goes wrong. It's as if the action I'm doing isn't exciting enough, something else has to happen. Something always so unexpected.

Let's take yesterday for instance.

So my good friend Andrew Fulks has been asking me to go repelling off cliffs with him for weeks now-and I've been turning him down-partly because I've got homework, partly because I was scared. Mostly because I am scared.

But, as I've said in a post before, I'm going to start throwing caution into the wind.

So, yesterday after dinner, Andrew asked me if I would like to go repelling with him and Amanda H.-I naturally said no at first-I really did have a lot of stats homework and a World Lit test coming up Wednesday, which I needed to study for. He repeatedly asked me-and I gave in. It was a nice day-way too nice to spend it inside a library. Besides, I have a life to live. Probability and Faust can wait.

And I went repelling with Andrew.

I've never done repelling before. Something about jumping down the face of a tall cliff with just a harness around your waist and way too much air separating you and the ground just did not appeal to me. But I'm sure it had to fun. Why else would Fulks do it nearly every day of his life?

We got to the cliffs at Wyldewood, specifically at the Riverside where the cliffs look over a nice, gray river. Andrew went down first-that way he could spot me when he got to the ground. Amanda said she would go after me so that she could check my harness was locked in tight. I was strapped in, had my carribeaner-thing locked up and the rope (which I found a little too thin) at my right side. Taking a deep breath, I walked backwards, put the heel of my foot on the ledge of the cliff and began to lean backwards.

Then I splipped.

Fortunately enough, there was a little ledge for me to fall onto. One of those ledges God probably put just to save clutzy fools like me. All was good, except that my shoe had decided to fall off and tumble over the cliff.

Andrew yelled up I would have to go down with just one foot. Perfect. Hadn't even finished my first repelling and I'm already doing tricks.

And so, I went over the next edge with just one foot. I did pretty well considering I had only shoe on.

I took baby steps down the cliff's scraggly and uneven face. Rough enough for their to be convenient little steps for my foot find. There was, however, a nice, flat surface that was just shear wall. And it was here that I discovered the convenient little knot in the rope.

A little knot that got me stuck on the face of a cliff.

This is the sort of unexpected happenings I talked about earlier.

So, there I was hanging by a thread, a thick thread, but a thread none the less, trying to un-knot a serious knot while trying not to look down. I did look down-I still had a good twenty feet to fall if I so chose to.

"You're gonna have to untie that knot!" yelled Andrew from below, who held the rope tight to make sure I wouldn't fall.

Great.

Here I am sitting on the face of a flat stone wall twenty feet in the air, having to untie a knot the size of my fist. Well, I didn't have many choices and freaking out was not a priority. So, I cracked my knuckles and grabbed the knot.

I worked at it and worked at it-I actually made some pretty good progress within just a few minutes. I saw the last bit of entwined rope and I knew I would be home free. With a quick prayer, I gave my last bit of strength to pulling the last bit of rope free.

I pulled it loose-and I began to plummet straight to the ground. Needless to say, I screamed.

That night I thanked the Lord for giving Andrew Fulks mad repelling skills-he felt the rope drop through his hands and grabbed a hold of it within a few seconds. The rope went still and my body stopped falling. For a second-I just kind of hung there, sprawled in the air with my arms out and my face looking to the sky. What a rush.

I made it down safe and easy, with only a minor rope-burn on my side and few cuts on my bare foot.

When I got down, Andrew asked if I liked to do it again.

The second time went with less surprises-which was fine by me.

So, I've been trying to stay up to my challenge that I presented at the end of "murdering mediocrity with a pen" and to tell the truth, its not going as well as I hoped. I think I'm one of those peoples that get caught up in these great and magnificent ideas and rave about it to the world in eloquent words, then I do nothing about it. I think I'm becoming a politician.

I am also one of those people who constantly, constantly, constantly think about what other people are thinking about me. Even when I pray, I shut my eyes real tight and get a concentrated look on my face, just in case there might be one person who has his/her eyes open and is trying to see what expression I'm wearing and whether or not I look like I'm genuinely praying-most of the time I am, but other times I'm not thinking about what God is thinking about me. I'm too concerned about looking so "Christian". Of course, God did not call us to look Christian. He calls us to be Holy. And being Holy is being set apart. And when you're set apart, you don't give a patooty about what other people think about you.

Let's take meals in the caf. for instance. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I usually eat lunch by myself because all of my friends have it at noon (F.Y.I. I hate eating lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays). Well, I've been having this feeling that since I have no one to talk to at these quiet, boring meals-I ought to start praying for my food before I start eating-just as I should before every meal like I did at home. But I didn't pray before in high school in the caf.-no one ever prays before their meal at high school-not even at most christian schools I think. So, why should this caf. be any different. Well, for one thing-my caf. just so happens to be owned and frequently visited by Christians. Anyway, I decided I might try and pray at today's meal. But I couldn't do it-not really anyway. I bowed my head, but just enough to look like I was just really intent on staring at my food. That, and my prayer lasted all of half a minute. Wow, that's dedication.

So, I'm not so good at throwing caution into the wind-in fact I'm pretty bad at it. I am one of those people who think things through at least three times before I do them-I analyze everything-just to make sure I don't get in trouble. I get crazy every now and then-but not to the point where people think I'm obnoxious (at least I hope no one thinks I'm obnoxious)or that someone will yell at me. That coupled with my super-sensitivity to what other people think of me creates a very self-conscientious person who is letting himself get in the way of living a wonderfully radical life.

Now I ask you-please pray for me as I try to throw caution into the wind.

I had the weirdest dream last night...

That's how these tales usually go. For me, this phrase is a usual part of my morning. My sisters can both attest, I do have weird dreams-and if I don't tell someone about my dream than I will go crazy.

So, here I am telling the world about my dream.

A dream that was both great and terrible.

I can't really remember the beginning of the dream...I guess dreams really never have a beginning, they just begin somewhere in the middle of a story, randomly in the order of events. We all know a dream ends, but it doesn't finish. We always seem to cut them short by waking up. Who knows, would they even finish if we slept for a hundred years?

The first thing I remember was a church. An abandoned, ruined and decrepit church. I was digging for something in the dirt: a box. I found the box, but did not open it. Maybe I did open, but I have no idea what the content of the box was. Don't even ask me why I was digging for it.

Whatever the reasons were, I remember the feeling. I was scared and kept looking over my shoulder. I kept making sure they didn't find me. The character Wesley from the Princess Bride was keeping watch for me, making sure who ever I was afraid of didn't find me. At least, it was a man dressed in Wesley's black uniform, blond hair and black mask, with a black-gloved hand on the hilt of his saber. We were both afraid, but very brave for finding the box.

The world was like the church. Desolate. It was desert wastelands for as far as the eye could see. No life. No green. Just a whole lot of burnt dirt. I knew I was in a dystopia future earth.

A hovercraft picked me and my Princess Bride-fanatic-watchman up just outside of the church. A hovercraft much like the one in the Matrix series. But this would give that hovercraft a run for its money. The one of my dream looked battered and well-used on the outside, but it was much bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. On the inside was all sorts of high-tech gadgetry that was sleek, smart and cool. There were all sorts of smart-looking tech whizzes that were typing away at their computers. All of them were making sure we were not going to be found. I guess you could say rebels. Rebels against what? I'm not entirely sure.

I always make generalizations about my dreams-just to give them some sort of order. Perhaps it is stupid, trying to give a dream a sense of order when scientists say its just jumble of thoughts. But then why do dreams always seem to have a plot?

As the dream progressed, I learned who I was so afraid of. Invaders. Alien invaders. They came to our planet and seized control of it within a matter of minutes. The tech whizzes pull up massive screens onto the walls of this hovercraft. The kind of screens shown in a omni movie theater. Screens meant to shake you. And shake me they did.

One screen showed dark clouds rolling across the sky. Long, black towers descended from these clouds out of the air, slamming down into the ground below. The towers destroyed whatever was below them. The next screen showed the invaders themselves. They didn't look like aliens ought to look. They looked like humans, except that they were all eight, nine feet tall. Like the nephilim from the Bible. A brute, powerful and cunning race. The screen showed a nine-foot tall woman, who wore a black cloak, with a hood pulled over the top half of her face. She was old, very old. But you could tell she had some sort of authority. Her voice was grave, but stone cold. The screen showed her standing before the U.N., with others of her race standing behind her, also cloaked. They had taken over the world, the U.N. had surrendered.

The next screen showed their leader. A Julius Caesar-like character who stood looking straight into camera, with all sorts of pride and glory. He too was old, but instead of a black cloak he wore a white, billowing cloak. And no hood. He did wear a golden laurel leaf crown. He stood at, like, ten feet tall, at the foot of one of those dark towers. They had won, we had lost.

What was so weird-but this dream was so much more real than all of my other dreams. So much more vivid, but the screens were so strange. So real-looking. The last shot of the dream was that screen with the alien emperor, looking straight into the camera. All pride and glory. I also remember hearing a beeping noise-I think they had found us.

Then I woke up. Just how they always end.

Well, thanks for listening to me about my dreams.

Satan loves a mediocre Christian.

That's what my mom always told me. I've even heard it from a few preachers. My mom tells me this line almost as much as she tells me I need to start working out more and stop eating junk food.

Satan loves a mediocre Christian.

It has such a weird ring to it. I mean, does Satan actually feel accomplished when he comes across a Christian defined as 'mediocre'?

Well, yes.

It's a scary thought. A very scary thought. How many of us Christians-those Christians who have grown up literally since birth in the church, knowing the hymns so well we could sing them backwards with our tongues tide in a knot, having recited John 3:16 so well that its lost the amazingly, spectacular power it has to inspire the exact opposite of what we know as 'mediocrity'.

So, here's another 3:16 verse that also preaches against mediocrity:
"But since you are like lukewarm water, neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth!" (Revelation 3:16)

Lukewarm=Mediocrity. Hence, Satan loves a mediocre Christian. He wins your soul thanks to mediocrity.

Sometimes I hear friends who, like me, have grown up in the church their whole lives complain about how they wished that they hadn't been born into the church. That they had been converted later on in life. Converted by some sort of great and life-changing event that completely turned their world upside down. Something exciting. I think for those of us who have grown up going to church three times a week, going to a christian private school, or a living a combination of those two, we find our 'walk' with God to be not-so-exciting. Probably, because we're not really walking with God. We're moving our feet, but we're not going anywhere. Kinda like running in place. We go through all of these motions-sing the songs as loud as you can, have a perfect attendance record, bow your head and act like you're praying really hard, read the Bible, but don't actually listen to it.

We get so used to church and Christianity, that we actually get comfortable running in place. It's safe, easy and you don't know what really lies ahead, so you kinda hang back. It scares you. So you stay in one spot-safely living in mediocrity. Too bad you look like a complete idiot just running in place, while everyone else is off having grand adventures just a few feet ahead. We hear about the adventures, listen to them in church from the safety of our maroon pews, smiling at the wonders they've done and cry at their sorrow-filled tales. We even have dreams of going to those far away places, spreading God's word and being a Holy Warrior. Too bad we are so stinkin' comfy in our little boxes called mediocrity to do anything.

So, here I am. I feel like I'm running in place on the right road, but going nowhere. The grand adventure in sight, but too afraid to reach it. And its all because I've gotten stuck in this tight little box. I am very comfortable with my near-perfect chapel-attendance record, A+ in Bible and church-going attitude. Sitting in my little box of comforts, perfectly content to think that I've got my eternity packed and ready for an endless vacation. And yet, there are thousands upon thousands upon thousands living outside my box who are in possession of a one-way ticket to a place too terrifying to describe-a place that is literally God forsaken. And here I am, at Harding University where I have so many opportunities, and I've done so little about them. And before I know, that little box I've gotten so used to can become a lock-tight cage. A cage packaged and ready for an express lane to damnation.

So...How do I break free of mediocrity?

How do I break free of this little comfort zone I've gotten my-self into? I don't want to grow up into someone boring. Someone who is content to never leave the borders of a small, middle-of-nowhere town working at a desk job in a stuffy cubicle struggling to find meaning in my life. Someone who attends a local church only concerned with Sunday appearances, perfect attendances and sermons that make us feel all snuggly and warm in our little boxes. Now I don't know about you, but that sounds like hell.

What I want to do is write. I want write about anything and everything. I want the world to hear my voice in the black text lines of a white page. I want the world to hear me scream "HA-ZAA" in a best-seller, in a thousand different languages. I want to take the world by surprise, as art should and do. I want to travel to the corners of the world, see what wonders God has hidden in the deep places of his great, green earth. I don't want to just write fun fantasy novels that fit the way over-done Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings mold anymore. I want to write about the spectacular wonders of this reality. I want to write about God.

I don't want the world to see God as some white-bearded, ultra-conservative republican who sits way up in the clouds with an annoyed expression hurling lightning bolts to those who don't do what he wants. I want to show him like William P. Young does in the Shack. Not as simply the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. But as the Pappi, the Big Brother, and the Best-Friend. Someone who can rock your world, change your life, make things interesting. Keep in mind, he can still hurl lightning bolts if he feels like it. Luckily for us, he rarely ever feels like it. He would much rather hurl little love-notes and simple joys. It makes the world a better place.

I just have to keep in mind to write for God. Not for me. If I write for me, I become prideful. And, as everybody knows, pride comes before the fall. In fact, pride came before The Fall. It came before the Fall of Satan and his demons. Before the Fall of Adam and Eve. Before the Fall of Babel. The Fall of the Israelites in the Assyrian/Babylonian/Roman captivity. The Fall of the greatest empires. The Fall of countless human beings. Pride, as anyone can see, is much worse than mediocrity.

So, I've decided to murder mediocrity with a pen. I am going to bash its head with a keyboard. Blow it away in a whirl-wind of ink-stained papers. I have to leave fear and comfort in the dust. I've got to stop looking like an idiot and actually start running, instead of pretending. Every good story needs good material, good material needs great experience and a wild imagination. I think I've got the imagination-now I just need the experience.

Well, Reader, here's my challenge to you and me. Say no to simplicity. Stop reading the Bible and start listening to it. Quit mediocrity like a bad girl-friend and start flirting with danger, excitement, and adventure. Throw caution into the wind and let God catch you as you fall. Dare to be truly different.