One of the strangest, and most important, events in a person’s life is when he leaves home and departs for foreign worlds, the worlds unfamiliar and the worlds spoken of only in legend and tale. He leaves home for the worlds of great thinkers whose great thoughts became great actions, of creative minds that refused to be anything less than what they could conceive, and of those who shaped the figure of history with chisels and hammers. It is the boy leaving the farm to face the dragon and save the princess. It is the hobbit leaving his hole to destroy the evil ring. It is the girl tumbling down the rabbit hole in chase of a thing not from her world. It is the great adventure that comes only once in a lifetime; the adventure that takes you to where the legends exist and dreams come true. That is me. I am the boy discovering himself in the world far from home. I am the boy who has stumbled into the land of great thinkers, creative minds, and history-shapers.
Italy is a land full of ancient tales, absolute powers, and legends who refused to accept the limitations of a medieval mind. Italy was the center of the Roman Empire, the birthplace of the Renaissance, and the throne of Catholicism. Upon first arriving in Florence, which rivals Rome it-self in great history and immortal legends, I was slow to fully realize where I truly was. Disoriented by jet-lag and confused by culture-shock, I spent the first week trying to stay calm and keep one foot in front of the other. But I began to relax and only saw it in the light of today, a land no longer center of the world and sitting in the shadow of younger nations with lesser histories. I enjoyed the quaint, little medieval towns stuck in the past and the gelato that made my taste-buds sing in Gregorian chants, but it wasn’t until I came face to face with the work of Michelangelo that my “aha” moment slapped me in the face and told me to wake up and smell the Giglio.
Our group was touring the museum which sat in the shadow of the great Duomo, the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flower, and viewing the statues and artifacts that used to decorate the giant halls of the ancient church. The museum contained many works by Ghiberti, Brunelleschi, Donatello, and Michelangelo himself. The museum was nice and enjoyable, with a few statues that moderately held my interest, a few works of art that were weathered with age and no different than the thousands of other artifacts that decorated thousands of other churches. And then we turned a corner, climbed a flight of stairs, entered a small, circular room, and saw Michelangelo’s 3rd Pieta.
The 3rd Pieta was one of the last endeavors of the great Michelangelo. This Pieta, also know as the Deposition or the Lamentation over the Dead Christ, depicts the body of Christ being held by his mother, Mary, as well as Mary Magdalene and a hooded man who could be either Nicodemus or Joseph of Arimathea. This Pieta is special among the great artist’s works because he did not finish it. Because of an impurity in the marble, Michelangelo actually took a hammer to the construct and attacked it in a fit of rage.
It wasn’t until I was standing right in front of the statue, trying to get a clear picture of the work of art with my camera, did I discover that I was actually standing in the same room with something that the great artist himself had thought of, had begun, had sweated and labored over, had actually touched and morphed to fit his imagination. Our tour guide said that the face of the hooded man is actually believed to be a self-portrait of Michelangelo, looking sorrowfully down on the broken body of Christ. And so there I stood, gazing into the face of a man who had painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, had crafted the famous, and infamous, statue of David, and had astonished everyone from the Papacy to the Medicis to the world with his masterful skill.
Soon after we saw the Pieta, we went to a small room that had once been a courtyard. Our tour guide said that the very spot where we were standing had been the exact location where the David had been built. “Aha!” went my mind. I was standing where Michelangelo had stood, where he had worked, and where he had dreamed. The “Aha!” continued as I began to realize that this was merely the first of many encounters with sharing the same space with the legends of the past. I will be wandering the roads where fearsome Roman legions marched on their way to conquer the world; I will be walking along the footsteps of Cardinals and Popes; I will be touring through the great cities where kings ruled and history was made. I stood there, in the exact same spot where Michelangelo had once stood, sharing the same space, separated only by time.

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.

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.

After writing the 300[reasons why I hate this movie] thought-rant, I felt like I need to write something a little more...happier.
Lately, I have been having the strongest impulse to just jump into the air, kicking my feet off the ground and throwing my arms out wide, and flying into the sky. Sometimes, the impulse is so strong, it seems that if I were to fly, it would be one of the most natural things in the world. As I walk from the cafeteria every night when its getting dark, I look up into the naked tree branches that look like snake fingers interweaving with one another and I can just imagine my-self soaring through them and up into the stars that are beginning to peak out as the sun is stepping over the horizon.
Now I've flown hundreds of times in airplanes-but I don't really count that as flying. That's just sitting in a cramped metal bus with wings attached, trying your best not to elbow the strange man sitting next to you. I do like it when you look out and see all of those great, mountainous clouds that the plane is flying near. However, it would be so much better to actually fly by yourself into those clouds at the speed of sound. Without a care in the world.
When I return to Maine for the summer, it would be so nice to just leap from my back porch, leap right across the Atlantic, and land smack dab in the middle of London. Or take an extra step into Paris. Or a few more to Venice. Or a big leap to Tokyo.
I've been having these urges so strongly lately that I even down-loaded Superman Returns-a movie I think could have been done a whole lot better-just to see somebody fly.
Its no wonder every time I see a shooting star, drop a penny into the fountain or notice the clock says 11:11, I wish "I had the powers of Superman."