JENNY WRITES STUFF

love cannot be due to humanity.

2010-03-02T07:56:00.000-08:00

i used to regard love as the most powerful element in the world. actually up until about one minute ago i still did, or so i thought. many times i have fought on the front lines of Love's brigade.
"it can overcome hatred" i would say. look around you. look at the prejudice big and small.

black. white. brown. fat. slim. old. young. clean. crust. scene. country. Muslim. Jew. Christian. look at the violence it begets, if not with fists, then with heart.

"it can overpower bitterness" i have cried. see for yourself. see the millions dis-enchanted with God. if you are afraid to recognize such atrocity i shall wish to laugh in your face, bite my thumb to your ways, and spit on your hands. for even though you dare not lick your lips to admit it, you feel its existence.

"it can crumble resentment" i pressed. watch.

PAY ATTENTION PLEASE!

friendships, families, lovers lay tossed asunder.

necks splintered, feet crippled under resentments weight.

need you ask why your churches are in ruins, why your country lets you down?!

is love conquering the daughter who resents her mother for being gay?

is love defeating the pride of one more religious friend to her brothers and sisters?

is love erasing the pain caused by the death of two loved ones within the same year?

is love reuniting three old friends faced with hurt and betrayal on all sides?

is it love that speaks through the drunken father calling on an intoxicated vapor?

monolithic love...i imagined it all.

this all, i have come to realize. it is known in my head and, with the heaviest of all sighs i may ever breath, i have known this in my heart.

love.

love before you can love no longer.

if there be no God,

how have we survived thus far.

don't lose your glasses.

2010-03-02T07:47:00.000-08:00

i admit i am a brutally broken girl.
my days too often follow such mornings
that most certainly followed such nights
and though i am past pasts
the pasts contain things you wouldn't imagine,
and aren't as far away as i would like.

take me at face value,
for usually it is all i will let you have.
and i will cry at that fact,
that you will never understand what i feel,
but it's not because you don't want to,
it's because i don't want to.....understand.
DEAR GOD! i feel hands and mouths, i feel hate.
are the hands mine? no, but the hate is.
contained in a place that is only mine,
that i may cradle it and hate myself in peace.

such shames i bear! and though i am comforted
in knowing you carry them as well,
i am not convinced that i am alright.
memories take the shape of serpents,
and crawl through my eyes....
and every open hole that you can see.

i hope you never see clearly through your rose colored glasses,
for then you would see my true hues,
and you would love me,
and i am scared of love! and i am scared of loving!
and if such came to be you would see all of me,
and know all of me, and i you....
and we would weep...and we would love.

(originally written Aug. 2008)

James.

2010-03-02T07:22:00.000-08:00

[to preface this...piece? i would like to say it was written many years ago and it is not my favorite. however, i think the ending is cute, and if taken into account what is actually happening in the span of 30 minutes time after meeting the character "James" then it is quite an interesting delve into the female mind....maybe....]

hello acquaintance.
i have learned your name, and you have heard mine.
we will sit together and share glimpses of impossibility.
i think such things that you know not of,
and taking an odd sense of pride about my secrecy.
i am thinking of my newest betrayal.
i love(d) him, and he love(d)(s) me?
she "loves" him, and he does not love her.
they shared moments of something that meant everything to me.
and once to him.
now they are hers, in vain and by much deceit,
for i cannot stress enough his nothing.......

acquaintance, you do not know how sad i am.
i sing loudly and dance about as if i were a dervish,
again i take pride in such secrecy,
that something inside me is brutally wounded,
and that you cannot tell.
i briefly entertain the idea of our situation.
you are much different than i, sir.
my mind chooses another route,
and it is quite an opposite one....
For somewhere in this place there is a boy i dream of;

his hair is dark and matted,
and though unshaven and dirty,
his brilliance continues to leave a glint in my eye.
his scratchy voice speaks in rhymes and sings of truth and beauty.
where my betrayal is causing decay his words bring me a joy,
UN ABOUND
that has stopped my tears and brought shallow, excited breaths to me lungs....

though, acquaintance, i find you appealing,
i do not know you heart and in his...
in his is something that also beats in mine.
BE NOT DISMAYED!
For though i have chosen him over you,
you are just my acquaintance,
and you never knew anything.
:)

under the asphalt [oldsht]

2010-01-05T21:53:00.001-08:00

i pulled up the weeds and sure enough

there was some love underneath.

i thought i had lost you, Love.

but you, you are a trickster!

you hide beneath the ragweeds.

where the ladybugs are.

maybe it's not time [oldsht]

2010-01-05T21:50:00.000-08:00

The Children are searching for the moon.

Someone speaks a hint of its glory,

and the Children cry:

“Brother moon, we cannot see as you hide

beyond the forest trees.

Please come out to play, that we may dance

in your glow and praise such an artist as He!”

This nights moon shall retire all to soon,

and the Children will traipse to bed,

(of course in a town where bedtimes come later than most)

they go, tired and unfulfilled from the nights misadventures.

In the morning such grey sweeps the land.

The Children are searching for the sun.

Someone whistles a tune of its melody,

And the Children cry:

“Sister sun, we cannot feel you as you hide

beyond the clouds.

Please come out to play, that we may

hear your bright lines and sing to such a

musician as He!”

The days sun shall not arise before the sullen sky,

however, unconvinced as Children can sometime be they resolve:

“Sister sun and Brother moon,

the animals are resting from their

chattering play. The flowers cower in their

buds and even the stars have dimmed their glows.

We too need a time of rest. When it is that you

both return from yours, we will rejoice, and sing

and dance as Children are meant to do.”

wolves in girls clothing [oldsht]

2010-01-05T21:48:00.000-08:00

Your tight morals gave way to loose lips...........

What a wayward kiss!

It caused much damage than you'd like to admit in attempts to free a depression that was his......and his only.

and believe me doll face i know more than any his needs can't be met, or freed, or fed...

just disguised and you wore the veil like cheap perfume,

and we caught your scent like wolves.....

.. ..

Along with your dignity such trust you buried......

Well, i buried it...

and as of yet you've not put a shovel to the grave.

the dirt

REMAINS THE SAME!

unmoved like the heart of the boy you so sought to tame.

i watched your quest like it was a horrible wreck....

such speed will never leave you safe and i've heard the alarms too many times. Like crying wolf you tried and tried....

but i've stopped listening.

i don't know when i'll hear your voice again, but as the sound of your words reach my ears i'll take them with a grain of salt.

not because i'm wary of your truths,

but because i've heard them so many times they've become plain.....

i've heard it said to love and forgive....

but can you forgive and love and distrust all at the same pace?

See, Jesus said

NOT ONE IS GOOD........

and until now, i wondered if this was just a myth.....

warple was the color i created in fourth grade [oldsht]

2010-01-05T21:47:00.001-08:00

i am but my own person.

un-willed, as of yet, by G-d

and free from the bonds of love.

(Love in the sense that is romantic AND relational,

i am not free from the loving of people.)

if i should dare to take on my adventures i could do so with as much ease as anyone who has taken on adventures of their own.

my decisions would be based on wantings of my own....

follow those tracks...

play in the rocky sands...

camp underneath the willow trees.

my worry would be only with the bugs,

who just so happened to pick those same trees to slumber beneath.

i would search the beauty of the earth until my heart was full of colors that havn't even been given names,

beating portraits of things only the Creator could see.

and i would think that to be a fair trade,

His colors, for my unspoken heart.

experienced gardener wanted [oldsht]

2010-01-05T21:45:00.001-08:00

i am becoming a restless child.

i can no longer sit and listen.

your prayers are full of pride and your hearts weighed down with injustice, you embrace such as false love and peek through curtain eyelids.

judge their fruit you say and forget about your own!

what cherry tree you have chopped down, for you had not yet seen the seeds!

and alas! you had all along refused to water the roots!

blasphemy, you cry!

blasphemy, i choke back, rasped on the air of your burning vineyards.

our battle is that of a warrior and his enemy.

we will never come to peaceful terms.

but FIGHT, i am willing to DIE! for the love in me, is the love of G-D.

so fight you i must, but love you i must also.

for as much as you are my enemy, you are made of dirt and breath.

and someone died for you too.

the chemistry of freezing vs. flying [oldsht]

2010-01-05T21:44:00.001-08:00

the chills grew.
spread not unlike that of flies on a rancid carcass of something that was once greater.
but, supposing, all that is rotting away MUST have been something more!
as flowers have surely wilted from roses.
as eyes have surely recognized brighter colors.
as voices surely have shouted louder revolutions!

the chills grew.
passing through veins like cheap cocaine in attempts to make WHAT real?
this nothingness?
i remember when your words carried heart.

the chills grew.
as the thought of death rushed the martyrs.

the chills grew,
when realized you could never die with such dignity.

kill the lights, neverland is missing [oldsht]

2010-01-05T21:41:00.000-08:00

that intimacy i never give away......
i gave it away.

once
or twice.
or even three times.

"one day i'd like it to stay."
i said.
but they all gave it away, too.

once. i placed it gently back.
in his open palms.

"no, this time...i really want YOU to have it."
and he slipped it through his fingers like a magic trick.
gone.

i searched.
day and night.

i would dream of hints.....
and wake to papers filled with sketches...
of me.
and of you.
of the last time i was able to give it away.....

thank you for showing me how to be afraid

i should save these in a safer place;;

2010-01-05T21:34:00.000-08:00

Kudos to the new year.

This isn't really my resolution,

but i figured my previous years of writings weren't being given proper chance just sitting in lame-o blogs connected to myspace and facebook....

not that there are anything wrong with such sites,

i do the majority of my spy/creeper skills grazing like a starved cow through dozens of interesting looking profiles.

of boys with cute haircuts, or crappy indie music that someone is going to determine to be the hottest thing since sliced bread (toasted slice bread....since it's hot....ya know...)

anyways,

i've decided to move my old pieces of poetry, prose, storytelling, or whatever the hell else i've phrased these past many years into this site.

one site to unite them all!

if you won't give up,i won't give up;;

2010-01-05T21:32:00.000-08:00

sometimes, life can be a heavy thing.

not like a burden.

or a cross to carry.

just heavy.

today was supposed to bring my first actual field search for a missing person.

or, for the body that is......

it ended up raining pretty heavily, making the already frigid weather worse.

instead we ended up at the small chuch that brad,

our founder, our trainer and all around swell guy,

pastors.

the longer i find myself in this kind of work,

the heavier and heavier it gets.

the stories of missing children get harder and harder to hear.

the pictures get harder and harder to see,

because the numbers are growing.....

and the violence is growing......

and the rape is growing.....

and the murder is growing.....

and what's worse....

we are outnumbered.

it pains me to know that we spend time visiting churches,

teaching them, showing them, even giving them opportunities to help,

and all to almost no avail.

God's "people" are great in number....

when they can get something out of it....

when they can feel good from a sermon and go home happy.

all the while....

2300 children go missing in the united states everyday.

sold for sex.

sold for drugs.

sold for a buck.

stolen for a fantasy.

beaten for a thrill.

and the majority,

they never get to home happy again.

because they never get to go home again.

revelations in a parking lot;;

2009-04-28T08:37:00.000-07:00

In my last attempt at conveying what was going on in my life, i thoroughly went over my first 24 hours of the Yo-Ho experience. The fear of leaving home, to a place where i barely knew 2 people, and being stuck for a month (albeit it was my decision to leave, but nonetheless, i didn't know what God wanted to show me, and was therefore pretty apprehensive when it all came down to it), my first trip to the women's prisons (which quickly became one of my favorite places to visit throughout the month), and the really horrible coffee at the Barnes and Noble Starbucks.

(Houston thou didst redeem thyself later.)

Well, God certainly did have something he wanted said, and he spared not one emotion when it came down to it.

The Monday of my second week in Houston, i began noticing a withdrawal of my spirit among those that were spending their time with me on a daily basis. In my mind were the thoughts :

"God, if it was You that wanted me to spend time here, as a type of spiritual oasis, then why do I feel exactly the same deadness as when i am at home?"

Mondays, in general, are a particularly slow day for the Young Hope crew, so that left me plenty of time to sit and sulk about how it was God's fault i was so numb. WHY COULDN'T HE MAKE ME FEEL BETTER? ya know.

As much as Mondays were slow, Tuesdays took a turn in the most nascar of ways: Fast and...left? It was a 6:00 wake up call, to be ready and out of the door by 6:50 for the weekly International Missions prayer meeting at the church. Followed by and hour or so private prayer time, an hour (give or take some odd minutes) drive to a women's home for Bible study, a break for lunch, on to the Bridges (a low income housing project) to spend some time with the kids of the neighborhood, and a quick visit underneath a busy overpass/intersection to have dinner with some of our less fortunate friends. (which the cops did manage to kick us out of last week, for a side story.) It was on this Tuesday before bed that i felt something so demonic present on my mattress. Reaching back into the long unused and very dusty parts of my mind that knew of spiritual warfare, i revoked the presence in the name of Jesus, (feeling quite foolish i'll admit) and prayed myself to sleep.*(1)

The next day, would change my entire spiritual life.

Wednesdays, as well as Mondays, were a bit on the slower side. You were aloud a bit more sleep time, and the night was finished off with a trip downtown to Montrose Street Church, which is exactly as it sounds. We would meet, along with a few hundred saved, lost, addicted, homeless, violent, troubled, sane, crazy, BEAUTIFUL IN THE EYES OF GOD people in a parking lot behind a Jack in the Box where we would spend time in worship, prayer, and service just as you would find on the comfortable air conditioned pews of your church. Feeling very diminished in heart and spirit i tried my best to stay out of the way of those that would expect me to spend time with the members of the church there. Not because i had anything against them, but because at that moment i had anything against anyone that would expect me to speak to them in any God inspired manner. My plan did not work. Debs Walker, fearless woman she is, commands of me that i go speak to a woman sitting alone. Stubbornly i stood right where i was, watching Debs out of the corner of my eye, and calculating how much time i had to stall before she saw me again. Fighting everything to stay where i was, and fighting even more to move, i finally sat down with Keri, the woman, all alone, at street church. Horribly cold hearted, and uninterested in what she could possibly have to say, i proceeded to ask her in a bright manner (for anyone who knows me knows what an actress i have taught myself to be) if there was anything she would like me to pray with her about. Quickly and quietly she whispered,

"Yeah,.... that my family stays strong in the Lord. And, that i stay strong in the Lord, too."

I prayed quickly, and walked away to a quiet spot, this is what i wrote that day:

" Father,

i am only relearning to be with you. i am like a salmon fighting the current to get to the calm stream. i am just like Keri, the woman i just prayed with. i ask the same thing of myself; that i stay STRONG in you....."

It was not ONE minute after i had put away my notebook that Karen wraps her arms around me, and tells me i had really been on her mind the past two days*(2), and asked me if i was okay...

i lied, i said yes, and i began to cry.

Not the snotty, hysteric, sob cry, no, without my permission, quiet, calm tears began to fall out of my eyes. To say the least, she knew i was lying. We sat down in the back row, where i proceeded to tell her that i, out of all truthfulness, had no idea what was wrong with me. i was so confused about what was happening. i had not cried in MONTHS. IN ALMOST ONE YEAR! and how much longer had it been since i felt the actual despair of God!

I told her of my fear of commitment. That i had not committed fully to anything my entire life, and it was that fear which drove me to believe that i would never make it anywhere with God as well. At risk to sound lackluster after such a large realization, we prayed together, and i expected the night to go on as usual. God was not finished with me. As i looked away to find my next spot to stand around (sounds exciting, i know) she said to me, "i don't think that is all. i believe there is something else that is holding you back, something strong, that has been going on for a while maybe." I tried to say no, I TRIED TO SAY NO, THERE IS NOTHING ELSE! All of me tried, and again the silent tears filled my eyes and began cascading down my cheeks. i proceeded to explain of the thorn in my side, a thistle i had told no one about, or at least to the extent it was dug into my ribs.

During my prayer time that week, i had felt God telling me that i needed to understand what it was to worship Him. It was more than i had ever realized, and i had judged it completely wrong. I was after a feeling, an emotion, something tangible that would band-aid the gap that a lack of worship left behind, and that is what i tried to replicate with my thorn.

She asked why i had never spoken of this to anyone before hand, i explained to her the way it felt to be amongst people every day who seemed to have it all together,(actors, actresses just like me) and to feel comparably less.

To feel ashamed.

To feel that the majority of these people could really care less about you the person.

To see right through them, to watch their fruits, and to know they only ever asked how you were doing with God for their own pride.*(3)

Karen simply stated this:

"We are nothing compared to God. We are disgusting, all of us. Do not see anyone as higher than you, because we are all dirt on the ground together."

Three people came to me that night, all with the same words, you have really been on my heart and mind the past two days. THREE.

Today, almost two full weeks have passed.

Relearning to recognize the voice of God, to see the woven workings of His hands, and to thank Him for every moment of it has been hard. i constantly am forgetting who God is, and how little i am compared to Him. i am forever being hounded by the sins and fears that i left among the gravel at street church that night. Apathy is working overtime, everyday is a struggle. And that's okay with me.

"So much has changed.

If it be to God, let my eyes weep everyday.

May my knees never fail to falter.

For it is crumpled on the ground that i finally feel human."

END NOTES:

1. * If you are a Christian, and you chose to disbelieve the existence of such beings you are foolish. It is in this idea, that we forget Satan exists, and that he is indeed our enemy.

2. *If you hadn't caught on, the Monday and Tuesday before hand, when i had been experiencing such spiritual turmoil, were the two days they had been speaking of, though they knew nothing of them.

3. *I cannot judge the heart of another, i cannot even keep mine under control, however i can clearly see the fruits of peoples actions. i wrote this statement only because it is still very real and true to me, not to cause a clamor about the people i spend my days with, or to wrongly accuse them of something. we are all dirt.

"Come To Me" pt. one

2009-04-09T09:47:00.000-07:00

I picked up my borrowed copy of Under The Overpass, turned my flashlight on, and began at the preface. A twelve hour bus ride from Pensacola, FL to Houston, TX was not something that I was looking forward to. I had every reason to stay safe and sound at home in Alabama. I would be able to save some money to put into the Chevy Blazer that sits, unused and broken in my parents front yard. Some of the best musicians to tour this summer would be passing through town, and i know i would regret not being able to see them all, not to mention i should be working on some promotion of Celebration Fest for Thendy Productions. Robin was freaking out over our group plans and productions for this summer, she would need me there to remind her of the purpose behind the plan, to remind her that she was not going crazy. Yes, everything had pointed to the comforts of staying at home, and so i packed up my things, and planned to leave for one month.

Denying the nagging wish to turn around in my mind i noticed that i was already into the first chapter of the book, and had not one idea of what was said. Backtracking, the story told of two men, who feeling a sense of hypocrisy in the Christianity they claimed to live, decided to give up their comfortable lives for five months, to live as the homeless do. In order to prevent such an intense case of culture shock, Mike Yankoski, admitted himself into a rehabilitation center in downtown Denver. There he would be tossed among the least of Denver's society. Over 150 homeless men and women, all broken, all trying to recover from the wide roads of drug and alcohol abuse.

Every day before dinner was served there was a mandatory service, in which a local church would bring in a group to lead worship and deliver a message meant to turn the hearts of the people listening from their damning ways, to a better way. The Jesus way.

Mike, who had found much greater spirituality in some of the people he had met at the rehabilitation center, became angered that at every service, the only message preached was the turning from sins, and nothing else.

"Of the twenty-seven chapel services I attended, about twenty focused on hell, condemnation, sin, and eternal suffering. Are each of these relevant parts of the gospel message? Yes. But are they the most appropriate parts to focus on with such a physically needy group? ....... I thought of Christ's words, 'For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him' (John 3:17) Weren't these well-intentioned speakers condemning the broken for being broken?"

- Mike Yankoski (author of under the overpass)

Not soon enough, my bus pulled into the Greyhound station in downtown Houston.

Running on less than three hours of sleep, i stepped into a foreign city, and faced the unknown.

My first task of the day was to get some sort of caffeine into my system. After a pickup from Karen, and a really horrible cup of joe from the local Barnes and Noble Cafe, we headed to a prison for recovering women, where for the past month or so, the female members of Young Hope had been attending a Bible study with the women, and holding group sessions afterwards where they were able to talk and pray about what was being learned and what God was doing in the lives of these broken bodies.

I don't really know how i would explain walking into the women's prison. It was no high security lock down, but more along the lines of a rehab center. Zipping my jacket completely up, and leaving my license at the front desk i followed Karen into a courtyard brightly lit by the sun, scattered in painted stones and picnic tables. Women in different colored smocks sat around the tables, and on benches. Some reading tattered books, others speaking animatedly to their neighbors, and still others just sitting silently, heads down, staring into blank space of their minds. ALL battling some sort of addiction.

We walked pass friendly greetings, and interested looks into a large tent-like contraption, where there had been set up tables and chairs in front of a small television. I was astounded at the women. Or, I was astounded at the difference between the women inside the tent compared with those sitting outside in the beating Texas sun. Faces throughout the tent lit with such intensity as the women who weekly attended the Bible study, and those who conducted it, walked up with matching smiles and open arms. It was difficult to look into the faces of these women, and believe they had ever done anything wrong in all the days of their lives.

As worship began, i was able to witness one of the purest, most beautiful pictures ever seen by the eyes of man. These girls, torn down, broken, in the lowest of the lows, raised their hands, eyes, hearts and voices to the songs you and i sing in church every Sunday, however this, this was different. I watched as they held hands with each other, with guards, with leaders, and danced beneath the rhythm of praise, and i realized: I was one of them. I am just as torn. Just as broken. Just as wretched as everyone else in the place, but the difference was, was that the unconditional love God has for his children was more abundant in this makeshift chapel, than in any church i had ever attended. There was no church politics, no pressure to act this way, or that way. You weren't expected to keep up with appearances, or to have made some grand spiritual breakthrough. It was perfectly okay if you were going through a valley, and it wasn't because you had left God behind. If you were in the hills, you weren't regarded as more enlightened or closer to God than the next person. The pressures i had always felt while attending regular services were not present here. And I grieved that this is how I truly did feel about the church.

It seems that we have, for the most part, left the path of love and encouragement of our brothers and sisters, and have turned faith into a football game. Who is beating whom on the race to the end? Who has more points at the end of each quarter? I yearn to be able to walk into any and every public church, and feel the same warmth, and acceptance, and genuine care for everyone as these women were able to show me. What mattered wasn't the mistakes they had made (those barely existed to them), but the leaps they had taken. They were family, they had one Father, and that was it. We have largely embraced a policy of condemnation in the church. "Condemning the broken for being broken" is much easier than reaching out to God's creation in true faith and in love.