a thought.

i think i would like to be an eccentric poet when i grow up
only understood by three others
my husband one of them
if this were so, i wouldn't mind that all the rest stared at me
and said
what a queer one she is

Hannah has found a deep dissatisfaction with the comfortable and the known.

Is it naive?
Is it merely restlessness?
Is it rebellion against everything familiar?
Is it part of a search for something deeper, something stronger?

avalanche

crushed under a thousand rocks
ice and snow and mud and the dead and dying
bones broken and splintered
can this framework be repaired?

bandages and salves
weeks and months and a psychiatrist too
bruises and disfigurement
linger
on

looking up at a wall of destruction
a cacophony of debris raining down
what is there to feel
except despair?

"I feel like a pancake,"

said the girl with the yellow Taylor shirt sitting in the Union, alone among 39 people.

She had been cracked open, sifted, stirred, beaten, poured out. And after it all she lay in a frying pan, sizzling with anxiety, flattened by cares, prepared for consumption.

Metamorphosis in May

Cast down by the wiles of some capricious goddess
He lay just beyond the glass. I could not touch him.
Only watch as he struggled
writhing
spindly appendages stretching for the windowsill.

Even when he could reach it, his levers were inadequate
Just allowing the other legs to have a go.
The ball's in your court now.

A sparrow played behind him.
A young thing, I imagined
flitting.
I focused again on him in front of me, whose name will be so common next month
Whose movements now seemed so lethargic
rhythmic.

I looked away for several minutes
And when I returned he had grown even slower.
His limbs now moved in apathy, forgetting all desperation.
I urged his efforts on
But the glass deleted my efforts of hope.

A minute later you had died
You had stopped
You had ceased
to strive
to live
to be.

I walked outside
to make you right
But I had failed
and so had you.

slow.w..w...w....w.....w......w.......w........w.........w..........w

characteristics of a good weekend...

...climbing a quilted rock...

...trampolining...

...riding an Amish buggy through farmland...

...hearing three-year-old Wilma speak only German to her Amish mother...

...making bunny rabbits and wicked old ladies out of harmless clouds...

...petting three dogs, two miniature horses, and an attack kitty...

...driving to Ohio and back in a living room full of your best friends...

Jesus with Mud On

I asked God a year and a half ago to teach me to depend on him, and I've found out he's not through. In Ireland I learned what it is like to not depend on people, and this past week I learned what it is like to not depend on things.

Before Social Justice Week even began, I lost my wallet. I found myself without money, without an abundance of food or sleep, without dry clothes, and stressed.

But I also found something outside myself. I found Jesus. He was worshiping in a cold morning rain after a bad night's lack of sleep, he was slogging through a muddy field to clean up after others. He was Danielle, he was Shane, he was Stephen, he was Jessie. He was Jesus with mud on.

Worm. Part II.

earthworms cannot swim
but i keep watching them try
their bodies as sails

War and Peace

What is it inside the human soul that becomes so depraved and so twisted, that the pain and demise of another becomes inspiring? What baseness have we achieved?

They diagnose this sadism. They may call it a disorder. I'm apt to call it sin.

The taste for blood, the thirst for violence, runs deep within our fallenness. When I was nine or ten, I had decided I wanted to join the Air Force. I was going to be a helicopter pilot. Besides the desire for recognition, I really just wanted to fight someone. To cause pain. To take back the right of vengeance from God.

I can't help but look back and be ashamed of myself. And of course that now I think I know all the answers, what with being above government and pacifistic, I shake my mental finger at my younger self.

How could I be like that? I can't have changed that drastically. Who am I, under all the fluctuation and the trappings of flesh? Who is that constant self I see vaguely beneath?

At the heart of it all, I discovered, is my desire to fight. I loved my country then, and I wanted to defend her. A helicopter pilot was the best way I could think to accomplish that. But only through bringing others down would I build my country up.

In my heart I still find this deepest fire, this strong determination to better the status quo. But I think, I hope, that now I have come to understand a better way to fight. I no longer have to fight with war, trampling those I come against. Now I can fight with peace, lifting up those who have been trampled, fighting for the end of pain.

Do you remember the playground, sitting there and twisting the swing until the chain was wound so tightly your feet could barely touch the ground? But then with your big toe you would reach and push off, and be spun around, suddenly carried by the energy and momentum. Unbounded. Released.

Unbraid yourself from the lie that is war. Search for the truth that is peace, for truth can only be found in God, and God is Love.

i don't know how you were diverted
you were perverted too
i don't know how you were inverted
no one alerted you

i look at you all, see the love there that's sleeping
while my guitar gently weeps
i look at you all
still my guitar gently weeps

(Beatles, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps")

"How are you?"

I used to be annoyed with this question, just because it's usually asked in passing and not really considerately. I don't really mind now. What I do mind is my own response to it. Here are some of my recent responses to "How are you?"

It's sunny today! (=good)
It's cold and rainy. (=bad)
They have snickerdoodles! (=good)
I got two extra hours of sleep! (=good)
I'm so busy. (=bad)

Why have I decided that how I am doing is circumstantial? Why is my wellbeing dependent on my surroundings? Where is that peace that passes all understanding?

aspire.

I don't remember my childhood aspirations.

Although at one point, watching the Olympics, I said, "Mommy, I will do gymnastics. And you will clap."

My mom doesn't remember what I wanted to be either. But she did say that I was "quite passionate and zealous" at whatever I did.

I don't remember any specifics, wanting to be a ballerina. Or a princess. Nah, those were career choices of a normal girl. If I had picked anything it would have probably been a tree-climber. Or a writer. Or an "Illistrater". But I don't know what I wanted to do.

But I do remember what I wanted to be. It was probably when I was 8 or 10 or 12 or something. I remember thinking, "Whatever I do, I want everyone in the world to know who Hannah Chupp is." I aspired to something along the lines of George Washington. Or Coca Cola. Everyone in the world knows what Coke is. I remember hearing how people in India knew the name of Coca Cola, but not the name of Jesus Christ. I remember hearing that and thinking, "Yes. I want to be just like that."

How blatantly self-seeking. "I want my name to be known by everyone. I want my name to be bigger than the name of Jesus Christ."

How often I still seek and promote myself. But how horridly subtle now it is. Of course now I shout that Jesus' name must be proclaimed, but how does my life proclaim it? Jesus Christ, the creator of infinite universe and of my very being, was betrayed, denied, flayed, and condemned by those he had created, tormented by the being he had cast out of heaven, and crushed by the sin that should have damned me.

And what is my response to his glorious suffering for me? *SNOOZE* "I'm too tired to read my Bible this morning." Honestly? Is that the most I can do?

Let me aspire to be second.



http://www.iamsecond.com/#/seconds/Pete_Briscoe/ (this is my pastor from home)

HORRIBLE, horrible stressful dream!

I was so glad to wake up.

It started out with a showing of Peter Pan, with Peter Keuhl and some girl, and they were flying around between these buildings, and I actually had a seat out there too, which was held up like a swing by fishing line (and I couldn't get it to stop swinging at one point but Mark Koh helped me).

Then I left the show and I was at the airport and dad was supposed to pick me up by the baggage claim. Then I met up with this stylish, spoiled girl (my age) and her mom who were unable to find their flight and they started to stress me out. The gate attendant, who didn't speak English very well, indicated that I need to go back the way I came to find the baggage claim.

As I ran back, I noticed that all the airport workers had Home Depot aprons on. I also noticed that I needed to go to the bathroom. When I emerged from the bathroom, I realized that I had somehow gotten outside of the airport ... to go back in to get to the baggage claim, I would have to go through security.

I then realized that I had no ticket and no form of identification, including my passport. I couldn't get through security to get to the baggage claim to get to dad. I realized I had been all over the airport and couldn't possibly find my passport. I began to wish they had already found it and I would hear "Passenger Hannah Chupp, please report to ..." and then I opened my eyes and realized it was all a dream...

Worm.

a melodramatic tale of sorrow and of woe


Abysmal dark, pouring rain. The cold and biting water arrows sting my face and I strain to see in front of me. It hurts too much. Blasted Indiana spring, the worms are out again. Adventurous and desperate, they brave the perilous sidewalk to escape their drowning homes of earth.

I bend down and the rain pelts my back. The worm at my feet inches forward, persevering to the drumbeat of the thunder. My finger reaches out and pushes him onward; he writhes away. Good, he's a feisty one. I scoop him up and watch as he wriggles and explores the terrain of my hand.

He's nervous though, and as I pick up a second one, I see that worm excrement covers my hand. But I don't mind, it's just dirt anyway. When I bring the worms inside, some girls scream and so I put the squirming invertebrates on the back porch. With a twinge of sadness I wonder if they'll make it till morning.

But in the morning the rain has collected in residual pools, small and stagnant. Drowned worms float there, dead and bloated, thwarted in their attempt to reach safety. By the end of the week the courageous caravans have become mere blots on the sidewalk, their very skins serving as their last sarcophagi.

present

When you're a kid you want to grow up. When Peter was little he wanted to be a watermelon and a tiger. I honestly can't remember what I wanted to be. But something. I wanted to grow up so I could eat sweet cereal whenever I wanted.

And now I'm growing up and for some time I've wondered why I wanted this. Why did I want to enter the cares of life? Why not stay young and blissfully uninnocent?

But I've gotten to that stage again, where I want to move on, out of a dorm, into my own meals, my own schedule, my own life.

But why?

Why can't I learn to be content? Why this constant state of restlessness?

In Goethe's Faust, contentment is shamed and yearning for more is encouraged. But is there a virtue to being satisfied, to appreciating the here and now?

LIVE THIS.

Acts 4:32-35

Now the full number of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one said that any of the things that belonged to him was his own, but they had everything in common. And with great power the apostles were giving their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all. There was not a needy person among them, for as many as were owners of lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold and laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need.

jpusa.org

you know what?

All people are just people, you know.
They're like me, you, Aunt Sue, your neighbor, your favorite cousin, your best friend, your pa.
They don't bite, usually.

People are narcissistic, you know.
Once you let them go they'll talk of coffee, bad business, family, economy, dogs, cats, the weather.
And even if they smile politely and pull away, you know they want to divulge the things they like best about themselves.

I am always watching, you know.
Not in the creepy way that line suggested, not the stalker on facebook or outside your bedroom window.
But when I look at people, I am interested, I want to know.

But I am just too reticent, you know.
I know that once I crack the shell and put it in the pan I'll have a sizzling fried egg with salt and pepper and cheese on top.
But I just can't bring myself to break the egg.

Why am I so inhibited? Do you know?
If people are just people, and they want to talk about themselves, and I want to hear their narcissism, then why don't I do anything?
What's stopping me?

a short epistle

Dear Father Time,

I believe you have taken several days that were mine. I would like them back.

Sincerely,

Hannah Chupp's Sophomore Spring Semester

Happy.

I'm so happy. I can't help it.

Part of it's opening windows and welcoming the weather, inexpressibly happy, full of adrenaline, unable to listen to songs with minor chords in them.

Part of it's having tea with Jessie Riley for two hours on the deck behind Randall, turning clouds into unicorns, enjoying PG Tipps and the sun shining on my back, exchanging book and movie suggestions, relishing life.

Part of it's squishing 8 people in a Ford Taurus and getting pizza at midnight.

Part of it's reading Faust whilst walking around campus barefoot, balancing on the curb, wearing a skirt, being told I looked poetic, hearing "Jai Ho" streaming out of a Swallow window.

Part of it's marveling how a simple cup from Goodwill can look when the sun hits it just so.


It's friends. It's experience. It's life.

and I love it.

On The Cognitive Development and Sin Nature of Preoperational Children

WARNING! This post shall be slightly esoteric and highfalutin.

You see, in Life Span lately we have been talking about 4-6 year olds. And how they think. And how their brains work. And I have been thinking (which is generally a good thing). But sometimes it seems as though the field of psychology is bent on removing all trace of a sin nature.

For example, today we were talking about how these kids "prefer personal desires over facts", or in non psychospeech, lie. According to this idea, when Mom asks Little Kid, "Did you eat the chocolate cake?" and Little Kid says, "No", Little Kid is not lying. Little Kid may not be trying to hide the fact that s/he ate the chocolate cake, but just saying in her/his own way, "I ate the cake, but I wish I didn't."

Is that too much leeway? Are we giving kids too much room for error? What happened to the innate sin nature?

There are numerous examples of this in psychology, and I'm not quite sure what to do with it. The ability to say "no" is apparently a cognitive achievement, and yet I've always seen it as a demonstration of the sinful will. What is it?

Yeah, I don't know.

God talked to me in church today...

(surprising, eh?)

The passage was 2 Timothy 1:7-14, and Darren was talking about the calling of God on our lives. Darren kept mentioning how following God's call is not an easy thing to do, but once God has called you, it's like there is absolutely nothing else you can do. He compared it to being in love with someone and saying not "I can live with them" but "I can't live without them".

I started thanking God for the call he's given me, for how excited I am to do something, go someplace, to Ireland, to Rwanda, to Russia, to Guatemala, to India. But then God asked me, "Are you willing to serve me when it's boring? Are you willing to not go somewhere exotic? What if I tell you to live in the States?"

And my heart sank.

And I didn't know what to say.

I went to bed smiling last night

and it didn't make sense.

It was 2 in the a.m., and I had just barely studied for two hard tests I have later on today. I had had a crazy busy hectic day at work, I hadn't done anything productive all day, and instead of trying to fill 2 more hours with possible productivity, I filled it with cover bands.

So it didn't make sense that I should be smiling as I fell asleep, thinking to myself, satisfied, "That was a good day."

But I did.

Why?

I was happy. Happy because I was thinking about the awesome future I know God has for me somewhere. Happy because I am so grateful to him for friends who build me up and encourage me. Happy because it was in the 50s outside. and just Happy because I wanted to be happy.

Does that make sense? I don't think so. But I don't think it needs to.

a day of nonexistant time

I want a day of nonexistant time,
a day where I can press pause,
a day where
nothing's due,
nothing's pressing,
where I can just
be.

But if that day existed,
I couldn't rest,
I wouldn't pause,
I would have
to work,
to rush,
to finish
something.

So I guess there would be no gain
in pausing for a day ...
... but I would still like to try it.

another scarf!

This one was for Peter .... his Christmas present. And he got it February 27. Oh well. At least he got it.

I sort of made up the pattern. The following is the pattern for the ribbing:
Cast on 28 stitches
Row 1: K2, P2, (K4, P4)x2, K4, P2, K2
Row 2: P2, K2, (P4, K4)x2, P4, K2, P2
Repeat until desired length

And then this is the pattern for the stripeys (similar to the hat my mom made for him for Christmas):
28 rows: Color A
2 rows: Color B
2 rows: Color A
4 rows: Color B
2 rows: Color A
2 rows: Color B
Repeat until desired length. End with 28 rows of Color A.

I believe I repeated the pattern 11 times. Here's a couple more pictures:

Oh yes, for the yarn, I used navy and white "I love this Yarn" from Hobby Lobby.

I spent like 10 minutes in a photo shoot with this scarf, ha.

And then here's the boy proudly wearing said scarf:

And thus, after only 5 pages of reading, Hannah took a break from homework.

I was reading the chapter on Creation in A Faith for All Seasons for my Historic Christian Belief class tomorrow and came upon this phrase that made me think. I'll put it in context for you.

Here Edwards distinguished between what has been called God's necessary work and God's free work. It is necessary for God the Father to beget the Son and exist on the high order of Trinity in order to delight in himself. Otherwise God would not be God. But God needs nothing outside of himself in order to be completely happy with who he is.

Can you guess the sentence? "But God needs nothing outside of himself in order to be completely happy with who he is." Can you guess what phrase? To be happy. 

I guess I really never thought of God being happy before. God seems like he would be glad, or appreciative, or admiring. But happy? God seems more dignified than that.

Then I remember verses like Zephaniah 3:17, which, come to think of it, is our room verse.

The Lord your God is in your midst,

A mighty one who will save;

He will rejoice over you with gladness;

He will quiet you with his love;

He will exult over you with loud singing.

God is glad, yes, but not a dignified sort of glad. He rejoices - a verb that implies excitement. And then look at that last phrase, my favorite. Loud singing!

When you think of God, put away the refined picture in your head. Paint a new one, a God who sings loudly, rejoices, and is happy.