Hey everyone (those that have stuck around, that is...)!
I have no clue what I'm going to write about but I'm going to start with an apology. I'm sorry to my readers for leaving you hanging. For a while I was truly busy - wrapping up the semester, studying for and taking finals, and trying to sort out the life that awaits me only a mere semester away. However I can't create excuses. After a while I was in a full blown bloggy slump. How was I supposed to come back after almost a
full month of absense with witty words, deep thoughts, and legitimate reasons for
temporarily abandoning my blog?
I treasure the fact that even a handful of people decide to take the time to read the thoughts, feelings, and even the nonsensicle ramblings in my blog. While blogging isn't a priority or "calling" in my life I truly enjoy sharing my two cents and letting the words of my heart enter the big bad world of the internet. So sorry...and thank you to those of you who stuck around!
I'm not going to summarize all that has happened this past month. It's too much of a
whirlwind. I'll spare you. However, I will say that there is a small island only a few hundred miles from where I live that has a story to share. There are two countries that share this island, small though it may be. I'll give you a hint, the eastern country is the Dominican Republic. On the west end of the island, though, is a smaller country nestled in the bright aqua blue colors of the Carribbean.
A tropical paridise.
Look up and all around and you'll see mountains beyond mountains.You'll see some greens and browns and you'll likely catch a few glimpses of reds and organges as trucks and busses fly by. Unable to take it all in by sight, you breathe in deeply. It smells of salty air, new and delightful spices, and a pinch of sweat. You start to smile and open your ears to listen. You hear a rapidly spoken language, neighbors greeting eachother and mothers calling to their children. You can't understand it but it's beautiful. There are children singing from down the street. You've never heard the tune before but the melody is greeting you like an old friend. You shake hands with an old man with greying hair and sun wrinkled skin. His wise eyes and toughened hands pull you deeper still.
Without language he tells you the story of his country. His eyes have seen pain, suffering, and death. His body shows the wear of hunger and malnutrition. His hands are rough from countless years of working in his garden. The green and brown mountains are his home, out of which he coaxes what little crops he has to grow. The sea, to him, is not blue and beautiful, it is where he catches tiny fish when he can't harvest his garden. The orange and blue trucks are not blurs of beautify - they are machines that take his money, bang him around, and
hopefully drop him off at the market to sell and buy what little he can. In a span of seconds this old man shows you that this is not paradise to him. Rather, paradise is waiting for him in Heaven. He knows God and accepts Jesus as his savior. He has hope to one day be freed from the oppression he has faced in
paradise.
That, to me, is greater than any sight, smell, or sound.
