That must be Pretty Good.

Blah! Talk about living for today!

My knees were shaking, my mind was blank, and I'm really, really glad I prayed like (Ha--I was about to say "prayed like the devil"), like, like--an almost-16 year old who is nervous and scared and uncertain and, and, I'm really glad that He's such a mighty God. Really, really glad.

She talks to angels,

They call her out by name.

She talks to angels,

Says they call her out by her name.

She keeps a lock of hair in her pocket,

She wears a cross around her neck.

Yes, the hair is from a little boy,

And the cross is someone she has not met, not yet.

Says she talks to angels,

Says they all know her name.

Oh yeah, she talks to angels,

Says they call her out by her name.

This is just about the best time I've had in a while--looking up sad lyrics, the dulce strawberry cheesecake lingering in my mouth...

Thinking about angels and if their wings sag in the rain, dreaming about heaven and floating about in a cloud of rapture, wonder, and lethargy.

Can't be sure of how it's going to be

When we walk into the light across the bar

But I'll know you and you'll know me

Out there beyond the stars.

We've seen the secret

things revealed by God,

And we heard what the angels had to say.

Should you go first, or if you follow me,

Will you meet me in Heaven someday?

Living in a mansion on the streets of gold,

At the corner of Grace and Rapture Way,

In sweet ecstasy while the ages roll,

Will you meet me in Heaven someday?

In sweey ecstasy while the ages roll,

Will you meet me in Heaven someday?

I've given much thought to Heaven. Tried to wrap my mind around the enormity of eternity and the impossibility of it all. Every time, I am reminded that I am a human, merely being.

I've tried, so hard, to picture how that first moment will be. Whether the angels will come out and welcome me. If the good places of earth, of all Time, will be in Heaven. Will I be able to sit in Eden and talk with Adam? Find those views in heaven, a hundred times better than I could've found them on earth? And if the people I admired most here, on earth--will they be in Heaven? If I could talk to them, what could I say?

And, more than anything, I wonder what God is like. In His entirety, His fullness.

Well, I don't know if there are harps in heaven,

Or the process for earning your wings.

And I don't know of bright lights at the end of tunnels,

Or any of these things.

But I know to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord,

And from what I know of Him, that must be pretty good.

Oh, I know to be absent from this body is to be present with the Lord,

And from what I know of him, that must be pretty good.

So it must be pretty good.

Hear my Heart

So I have about two minutes before we head out, and I really hate writing when someone's watching...in fact, I hate doing anything when someone's watching.

I love my Baptist music. It's perfect, especially when the world is just spinning off its axis and the dreams you had the night before sort of haunt your thoughts. Aughthguehree! I can't think of anything to write. Tonight is youth group, I had the best sleep of my life last night, school was tough, it's a little depressing outside (even with my love of rain), and we are preforming a skit tonight that we haven't even practiced.

I love the concept of "living for today," but there are some things that you have to do ahead of time.

Oh. And apparently I unknowingly "piss off" my brother.

So maybe my blog title isn't as accurate as I'd like to be. There's a whole lot that's on the tip of my tongue, and there's only a little of Hallelujah.

And that Hallelujah is a confused one, what with my dissatisfaction with some doctrines of my current denomination and an increasing longing for Bible stories. I really miss them.

It just seems like the older I get, the less they focus on the actual Bible--besides devotions--and focus more on do this and that and Holy Ghost and worship and life and love and purity and all that is well and good, but there's just something so filling about the stories of the Bible: Daniel and David and Moses and Abraham and Jesus--so much stories!--and the end of times and Jeremiah and Caleb and Jonathan and, and, and--I miss them. I really do.

Just reading them yourself, it's not the same.
Hearing them--now that's another "story."

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

--e e cummings

Disturbia

Should I be disturbed? According to Angie, forks are sexually attractive...!

I tried changing the templates just now, and nothing. Nothing worked, or even made an attempt to work. Maybe I'm the problem.

Or maybe I should've joined LiveJournal instead, and saved myself a whole passel of problems...but who's to say that LiveJournal has the same issues, or even more? I think I'll stick to Blogger.

I did not lose my heart in summer's even,

When roses to the moonrise burst apart;

When plumes were under heel and lead was flying,

In blood and smoke and flame I lost my heart.

I lost it to a soldier and a foeman,

A chap that did not kill me, but he tried;

That took the sabre straight and took it striking

And laughed and kissed his hand to me and died.

--A. E. Housman

I think the saddest word of tongue and pen is not "It might have been," but "It was and then it died." So take that, John Greenleaf Whittier!

I saw a shooting star for the first time in my life while celebrating New Year's with my best friend. Did you notice how Disney never specified (at least, I'm pretty sure they didn't) what

kind of star we're supposed to wish upon? Do shooting stars give brownie points? Does size really matter? What if the star is part of a constellation, or has a name?

There should be a National Chicken Day. Heaven knows there are enough of them in the world, so why not celebrate? And we should sport hats like so:

And maybe eat corn for dinner and lay proverbial eggs. Or just have them for breakfast, although I'm not sure if that would ruin the point.

Oh. In case I haven't mentioned it before, I'll probably never write anything seriouly worth reading. This is just a journal away from journal. More like the psychotic ramblings of a

deranged teenager--which is what I seriously considered calling my blog, but then found the other couple verses of "Hallelujah," by Leonard Cohen. For a song with innuendo crammed into every line, it's not bad. Not bad at all. :}

That was a custom smiley. It's very versatile, too. Easily flipped to form "mustached smiley," like so:

:{

Do you realize that it's only 5:34? That leaves me five full hours (maybe less, depending on the mood) to post and re-post to my heart's content.

After typing that last sentence and pondering it for a good five seconds, I've realized that I'll probably be on here a lot.

Already, my brain is humming with future post ideas (e.g. Blogthings, interesting lyrics, that iTunes shuffle quiz that is so fun to take and never grows old, my tree theory).

Ok. I'm done.

No, wait.

One more picture. I can't resist.

Well, maybe more than one. Anyway, this is my life's motto:

And these other two are set to WW2 slogans and Band of Brothers pictures:

Ok. NOW I am gone.

In the Beginning...

There once were a man and his wife who lived in the midst of a garden teeming with zebra finches, bookshelves, mismatched furniture, and four children.

Their youngest, the adored baby of the family for a mere two months, was the most beautiful baby in the world and bore an uncanny resemblance to his eldest sister. His hair had an adorable habit of curling up and out, and his smile was dimpled on one cheek.

The second-youngest, who’d been the second-youngest for eleven years but gladly gave up her position for one as adorable as the dimpled baby, loved singing, the social life, and anything that dealt with Montana-dwelling Hannah’s.

The older middle child was taller than anyone in his family, doted on the youngest, and gleefully pushed the buttons of anyone and everyone else. He was so hecka-pro at simulated battles, imaginary sniping, and flying through the air on (and sometime off) his light-weight, custom-built, haphazardly spray-painted bicycle.

Ah! But the eldest—she was a strange one. As stated before, she and the youngest bore an uncanny resemblance. Both had dark brown hair. Both had one dimple. Both smiled often and slept well. Both loved sweets, and both felt most peaceful at the local cathedral. The only difference was in their eyes: one pair dark, one pair light.

Oh, but the eldest. She was the enigma. Inheriting her stunning looks (Ha, ha) and thoughtful mind from her father, she did well in school and loved books and motorcycles with a quiet, refined passion.

The eldest loved writing, but often found it difficult to do so, as writing required thought, and her thoughts were too brilliant, too real to be put into words. Her fortress of solitude was linked through her Ear buds, in Microsoft Word, out-of-Doors, above the Stratosphere, round and about the World, down Rabbit-trails, across the Oceans, among the People she read about or watched or studied or talked to or admired, on top of Things at all times, beyond Expectations, for the Band and the Trees and the People of Greece, up and over the Moon, within herself and without Prejudice.

Her elder interests were plentiful; the colours with which her world painted were effervescent. The pen she wrote with was loquacious, but her mind kept a tight rein on her tongue, as well as her emotions.

The eldest had been alone in the crowd for many years, and she had become comfortable there. As the years went by, she gained a tough, respectful reputation, and she liked it that way. Extreme wariness grew into a sort of outward introversion, and she learned to be comfortable no matter what the surrounding or situation.

Behind the walls of her image, however, the eldest loved to dream. She dreamed of retiring to Europe and growing wine. She dreamed of massive libraries and Bering Sea Blue-coloured rooms. Of meeting Winter and grey houses carved out of seaside cliffs. Of best-selling novels and passing biology. Of someday having hair long enough for a prince to climb. Of breaking the habit of long profile pages.

But even as the eldest dreamed, she managed to find niches: in skim boarding, in Band of Brothers, in the Kawasaki Vulcan, in talking to trees, in Fine Art competitions, in alto saxophones, in t-shirts, in dried rose petals, in one and a half piano songs, in Copenhagen posters, in sushi, in books of quotations, in Silmarillion calendars.

The eldest read more parenting and marriage guides than her parents did. Her brain soaked up trivia and leaked occasional drops of genius. Her IQ, while not prodigious, was not average, either. She loved watching favorite movies alone (so she could quote in peace), listening to war movie soundtracks by herself, and talking walks in solitude.

Her hair was long, waist-length. She’d been called a hippie once or twice. She barely reached five and a half feet. She secretly enjoyed being misunderstood by her relations. Everything amused her. She was a quiet anthropologist and penniless philanthropist.

Volunteering peppered her life. And she loved life, but also did not fear death, knowing that her last exhale on earth would bring that first inhale in heaven.

And so, the eldest inhaled last month, and here I am, second-youngest, telling her story.

Ha! That would’ve been funny, but no. It is I, the Eldest. Really.

And, after Angie's suggestion, I have acquired a blog. It's almost sad how long it took me to fill out the profile page and start it and all. But it's all good.

Anyway. Now for my first image post, quote copy, link, and random thought.

We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
--Oscar Wilde

What a Wonderful World

Ok. Now for the random thought.

[Author's Note: in the rare cases that the Eldest cannot, for her life, come up with witty random thoughts, due to an outbreak of Staircase Wit Syndrome, she will subtlely insert a favorite poem or fact.]

The night is freezing fast,
Tomorrow comes December;
And winterfalls of old
Are with me from the past;
And chiefly I remember
How Dick would hate the cold.

Fall, winter, fall; for he,
Prompt hand and headpiece clever,
Has woven a winter robe,
And made of earth and sea
His overcoat for ever,
And wears the turning globe.

--A.E. Housman