A pen is filled with ink. Common knowledge.
Sitting in church this morning I was drawing on an envelope. With an ink pen. After drawing and scribbling for about 5 minutes the pen stopped working. That got me thinking. When a pen is first made it's empty of ink. It's only the pen shell until a machine fills it with ink. It's shipped out to the work to be used. To help people. Again I am comparing myself/christians in general to something (nothing original coming from this bean rn). So, comparing christians to pens: Before we're saved, we are typically just a shell. After, we are filled with the Lord. Our job as christians is to spread the good news of the Lord to all the earth. But sometimes we feel like the Lord has left us. That we've ran out of him. Butter spread over too much bread. In this way, we are ink pens. Fun Fact: Burning the tip of a pen that won't work usually fixes the problem and you have a working pen again. Sometimes we just need a little spark. A little more of God. Boost that faith. Slay that giant. Preach that word. I recently heard a song called Touched By A Fire that kind of inspired this last part (totally has nothing to do with pens. Again, Ya Girl Is Random. THOUGHT THREAD) of today's post. It says: "I've been touched by a fire, so let the world come and watch me burn. Shout it from the rooftops, shout it till everyone has heard." Touched by a fire. That is my favorite thing to say now. God is the fire that touches the people. I've been touched by a fire. This world is gonna watch me burn. This world is gonna hear me shout. And to top off this (very short, very random) blog post, a quote from the Hunger Games that almost fits what I'm trying to say. "If we burn, you burn with us."
0 Comments
Just gonna say this real quick before you read what I have to say- I’m sure some people*cough*everyone*cough* will think that I’ve copied another someone. I know that people have already written about what I’ve written here. Please don’t hate me. And if you do, then the haters gonna hate, and I’m gonna keep on writing whatever the heck I want😁.
“I think new writers are too worried that it has all been said before. Sure it has, but not by you.” -Asha Dornfest I found myself describing(to myself)why I picked a dandelion the other day. Yes, I talk to myself. Yes, I’m weird. It wasn’t a very pretty one. It was broken and smashed. Stepped on and rejected. But I picked it, nonetheless. The best isn’t always, well, the best. It’s OK to pick the broken. Same with sea shells. When you look for shells, you look for the pretty ones. The ones with no cracks or scratches. But the broken ones tell the most stories. The scratches and cracks and imperfections tell that the shell has been through countless storms. Your imperfections, your scars, show what you’ve been through. The battles you’ve fought. The trials you’ve faced. The mistakes you’ve made. The scars are a reminder that you aren’t perfect. And you can’t avoid them. As TobyMac puts it, “Scars come with livin’”. Scars are a part of everyone’s life. We are human. Your scars are beautiful and you should care about them. Be like Mater(yes, Mater😂I love Cars😁) who’s dents are “valuable”. (I feel like all that up above was a totally different thought thread. Sorry, Beans😂I may not make sense sometimes.) The broken, stepped on dandelion I picked the other day was brought inside and placed in a cup of water. I looked at the flower and (guess what!) I saw (Ohmygosh what did I see?) myself. (🤦♀️Seriously Sara?! Yourself? Enough with the flowers.) (I tend to see myself in flowers a lot😂.)(btw, this is totally NOT basically the same thing I wrote in my last post). I’m a broken, stepped on, hurting human bean who has no clue what she’s doing with her life. I looked at the flower the next morning and it was opening, but throughout the progress of it reopening to see the sun I noticed that it was no longer so smashed looking. It was still a little beat up looking but it had pretty much “healed”. God takes a broken thing, a broken human bean, and makes it whole again, but he leaves the scars so that we may learn from our mistakes. So we may remember our battles and trials and how God pulled us through it. All that to say this; You and I, we’re beautifully broken children of God. I'd like to start off by saying this: Don't expect me to post on a regular schedule. My posting is sporadic. I'll post when I have something to say.
I thought I'd share something inspiring from my week😊 I am very involved in Musical Theatre. The theatre is near 30 minutes from my home so getting there is a bit of a hassle. I had been in town early Thursday and ended up arriving at the theatre at 4:00 for my 7:30 rehearsal. I was sitting in the lobby listening to some music and noticed a bouquet of flowers by the mini-fridge. Sitting in a bucket (yes, a bucket) of water, I couldn't avert my eyes from them. I walked around the lobby for a few minutes and stopped to peer out the window. It faces the downtown street. People bustling by, popping in and out of shops. Many things that would catch your eye. But mine settled on the curb. In my brain I'm thinking, "A curb? Really? What's so important about a curb?" I couldn't keep my eyes from it. So, putting the eye attracting curb (why a curb?!) and the bucket of flowers together, I pulled Notes up on my phone and wrote this: A Flower is on the curb. Why is it there? Who left it? Who is it for? The Flower lays there, wilting in the sun. People walk by, ignoring it. No one takes or touches or assists the broken thing. What once was a beautiful, loved thing is now ugly and hated. And then he appears. He is bathed in a pearly white light. He walks to the flower, looking down on it with love and affection. In his eyes he sees a good beautiful thing. An elegant rose, a pristine crimson red, standing like a queen. He sees a gentle daisy, bleach white with a sunlight center, bowing with the wind. A dandelion, wild as a fire. He stoops down and picks up the Flower. It seemed to perk up a bit at his touch. He takes it and tends to it, giving it water and making sure it gets the right amount of sun. The Flower no longer looks like a broken thing to those who look upon it. It is pretty. Not beautiful, like it is to its caretaker, but it is no longer hated, maybe by some, but not by all. Beautiful to few, pretty to many, hated by most. But the Flower feels better now that it was loved by the caretaker. If all the world hated the Flower, it would be happy knowing that one person loves it. The caretaker loves the flower with a love that none other could give. The caretaker is a King. A King of the world. The King if the world. Creator of All. Creator of the Flower. Protector of the Weak. Guidance to the Lost. Healer to the Sick. He is the Maker. And I am the Flower. The Weak One. The Lost One. The Sick One. The Loved One. |
|