Last month I posted a poem, seventeen, almost without revision. So for the Slam, I took the original poem and re-worked it to tighten the focus and make it slightly more understandable.

Even so, when I read it before my AP English class on Monday, I felt so vulnerable. I desperately wanted it to be understood and appreciated, but when I read it aloud (“perform” it), the audience has little chance. It’s the type of poem you have to read, not just watch. So I had mixed feelings about moving on through to the third round on Friday.

But I did my best. Because I believe in my poem, I made it the focus of my week, memorized it, and stood confidently on the stage. I also did so partly in the spirit of this:

“If I could go back, I’d write another, more dramatic, more emotional story. And I’d sweat the details, tweak it 60+ times, get nervous in front of everyone, forget something, vow to do it better next time. But the satisfaction of my fullest effort outweighs all of that.”

My friend John, a 2-time Slam finalist, didn’t make the Poetry Slam a priority this semester, but he says that he wished he had. Let me tell you, his poems are definitely dramatic, and I know he would have given his fullest effort to the Slam if he hadn’t been busy trying to break 5 minutes in the mile.

Fun fact: it takes exactly 3:00 minutes to recite, which is the limit according to Parkwood Poetry Slam rules. That doesn’t even include the part where I say, “My name is Alisha Newton, and my poem is titled ‘seventeen’.”

seventeen
by alisha newton

i move in circles.
i merely chase the sun.
day in, day out
i trace a sphere around my wants and needs.

to embrace my passion
i balance ink against smooth paper,
like rubber against asphalt,
a controlled release of energy

it works like this: words beget words
as easily as love begets love
the giver and the receiver
become one in the cycle

○

this circle begins
with ascent into the unknown,
over burning hills
of piled hurts and desires

so i ascend,
gasping for new life to fill my lungs
exhaling my humanness,
my impurity

yes, impurity—you must know i am not clean
but neither am i forever stained.
when it’s over, stains will wash out,
sweat and so many words cleansed from my being.

○

but until then, i focus for a breath
on superfluous film,
and on matte pink,
and inspiration: a book.

i had touched the pages with reverence
and had seen my future written
in the lines of the print—
between their words, mine

then more words begin to collect like rainclouds,
a gathering storm
in my human brain
until lightning jumped between the neurons.

love risk learn, i hear
words flowing in my veins
living words, alimentary,
since the beginning

i can pour out but i can’t take back
like blood
i’ll give as much as i can till i’m faint
until i’m empty

○

consider:

love,
because i am a spark
and you are a match:
our fire will leave a coffee-brown singe

risk,
even wary of the uncertainty
of the wavering flame
and the potential for destruction

learn,
gather and create
until möbius ceases to meet
in the middle

and so i keep moving
i rush headlong at high gear,
like my spinning thoughts,
faster every day.

downhill, here, is no easier than uphill,
breaking the rules of physics,
of romance novels,
but i hope beyond the hills.

○

finally i stop for the rain.
realizing the futility
of trying to go further,
i rest. i let raindrops

soak me to the skin,
gently surround me,
dance over my upturned eyelids and
drip off my nose.

if you could see me now, you
wouldn’t know
who i am.
the rain washed me away

she melted the bars and bricks
of labels they had given me
to build my own prison—
washed it all away

you wouldn’t have known me—
and neither would i.

i only know that i am seventeen,
and i know the taste of eternity,
of thunderclouds.
i know that it rains in heaven.

○

when i awoke the next morning,
i was warm, and dry,
but paralyzed with the fear that
it all had been only a dream

Would You Like Some Prose With That?

I feel the need to explain this poem. My friends in AP English Language, when presented with in-depth analysis assignments, sometimes complain that there is no sense in trying to guess what the author meant to say. So, since I can, I want to give the story behind it. (Not the literary analysis, though. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of the pleasure.)

So, the original poem is a confluence of events, books, feelings from my spring.

It started with my 17th birthday. Within a week, I received my SAT scores and made plans to visit Hollins University. I received a perfect score on the writing section of the SAT, and pored over the Hollins lit mag, Cargoes. Since I had proved I knew the rules of writing, I felt that I could break them, and the Hollins poets led stimulated my creative juices (see stanzas 7-8).

As far as books go: Some of the thunderstorm imagery was inspired by Barbara Kingsolver’s description of an impending storm in The Bean Trees, and the idea of “living words. . .since the beginning” comes from the Bible. (“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” John 1:1)

Everything on my mind was written into the poem as well: I was thinking about the summer, and college, and my passions of biking and writing. I was thinking about what I believed about Christianity and what I wanted to do with my life. I was thinking about dating and what it means to love someone. I’m still thinking about these things.

But it took a video of Elizabeth Gilbert speaking on creative inspiration at TED, and a bike ride, for everything to mesh. In one 45-minute bike ride and the ensuing rainstorm, lines of the poem accumulated in my head, exactly as is written in the poem: “then more words began to collect like rainclouds.”

I loved this creative experience, and more so because in a strange reversal, it took awhile for me to understand and unravel my own poem.

So, that’s the back-story. At first I felt compelled to write this to make up for an uncomprehending audience, but now that the Slam is behind me and the winner told me he appreciates my poem as much as I do his, it’s more like I just want the poem on my blog and the detailed explanation may as well be published with it.

More Slam Poems

• “The Struggle” by Alisha Newton – Spring 2011
• “The Whole World’s a Stage… Or is it?” by Chris DeGraaf – Fall 2011
• “Breathe” by Alisha Newton – Fall 2011

When presented with myriad colleges, and thus majors, and thus occupations, and thus the sum of my entire life, I feel overwhelmed with opportunities.

I feel lost in the questions: where will I attend college? what will I study? how will I pay for it?

To counteract the fluidity and uncertainty of the future, my brain turned to checklists and straight lines for comfort. I started to worry if I have an imbalance of serotonin, a chemical in the brain that affects depression, anxiety, and obsessive-compulsiveness (three issues which have dominated the landscape of my life’s struggles). For a day or two I feared that I somehow have had undiagnosed mild OCD since childhood.

Whoa, Nelly.

Despite phases of real, self-destructive habits (eg. pulling hair out of my scalp in 4th and 6th grade, compulsively exercising and obsessing over food in 9th grade, among others), I’m probably fine.

Why am I thinking about the brain? In the past week I have read Brain Rules by Dr. John Medina and Spark by Dr. John Ratey, one author a molecular biologist and the other a psychiatrist. These books scientifically purport and explain the idea that common issues such as aggression, attention deficit, depression, anxiety, and even just a dulled mind are “neurotransmission malfunctions.” That is to say, these issues  are not moral or intellectual failures and deficiencies. How freeing to imagine that this range of “personality problems” is caused by misfiring neurons and chemical imbalances! When stated in purely biological terms, these often misunderstood and socially stigmatized problems seem less shameful and much less challenging to overcome.

The books about the brain inspire me to pursue psychology or cognitive science; perhaps I will spend my life helping people understand the workings of their brains. I would like to see neurological disorders approached in the manner of an orthodontist wiring crooked teeth with braces. Genes (nature) do factor into these disorders, but environment (nurture) wires the brain’s patterns, and fortunately these patterns can be rewired.

Let me give a personal example. This coming Sunday is two years since I stood before my youth group and confessed what I had been wrestling with for a year prior: pressure to perform, crushing insecurity about my body, and obsessive eating habits.

In the months that followed, I felt that my world had been turned upside down, and I learned truth at a tremendous rate. I detailed this entire story in a post on last year’s anniversary and wrote a poem, and it was all very cathartic.

But this year I feel torn between poetry and science*: The poet says, I learned that my worth is not based on my body or fitness levels, so I live in freedom. The scientist says, I rewired my brain to understand that my image and track ability are not, in fact, threats to my survival.

I’m reminded of the poem “Autobiography in Five Short Chapters” by Portia Nelson, in which the speaker learns to avoid known pitfalls. I posted a paraphrase of the poem on my blog at a time when I, too, was learning to “take a different street.” It’s typical figurative poetry, but in fact, learning on the physical level consists of rewiring the brain. Neurons grow and die and connect in different ways, creating alternative routes and “different streets” for thinking and acting.

The learning process, especially unlearning a bad habit, is difficult at first. But in the same way that I can completely adjust to a detour route that is twice as long as the original, my brain can learn alternative courses of action. Even if a new route takes more effort, I can adjust.

Why am I so interested in rewiring my brain? In honor of my first confession, again I will confess. I want to confess my imperfections, my obsessive-compulsiveness and cognitive dissonance—how I fill  my mouth with broken Pop Tarts, how I write and erase the same word 3 times until it looks just right. Not to mention the fact that I’ve gained 30 pounds in two years… I can’t explain it.

Perhaps the college planning would not feel so overwhelming if I could take confidence from my friendships or something about myself or the faith I claim to have. But I can’t. Like I said, lost.

*I wonder if science and poetry must contradict. I want to embrace both. If I am a scientist, I want to help people understand how their brains work. But as a poet, I just write metaphors using the ideas of researchers and scientists and blame all my issues on “neurotransmission malfunctions” in my brain. Regardless, the two together surely encompass the range of human health: Poetry speaks to the spirit while science addresses the rational mind and the body.

In the Bible, Paul spends an entire chapter proofing an argument for Christ’s resurrection (1 Corinthians 15). One verse in particular stands out: “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.”

Essentially, the hope of a Christian transcends the earthly realm. This hope is not merely a means for coping with life’s challenges. It is not on the level of morphine, marijuana, and martinis. If this is the “faith and hope” believers are clinging to, they are deluded.

Admittedly, I do believe in the transformative power of divine hope on mood and outlook, but “hope in Christ” suggests that the end is Christ.

Also, in an essay on the “triumvirate” gifts of faith, hope, and love, F.M. Perry writes that they are “spiritual gifts granted by the Holy Spirit…to each and every Christian.”

He details how faith, hope, and love are indeed gifts, not originating from believers themselves. The words of Romans 15:13 make it clear: “Now may the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit” (NKJV).

Hope: a gift of certainty.

Thoughts? Respond in the comments below.

i move in circles
i am just chasing the sun
day in, day out
tracing a sphere around my wants and needs

love begets love
writing begets writing
the giver and the receiver
become one in the cycle

i’ll admit to this conscious addiction
i embrace it, even ache for it

writing can never earn me my daily bread
it is my daily bread
Lord, give us this day our daily bread
tonight i will devour the world

tonight i’ll strip to my soul
and give you what’s left

○

Cargoes, pink
useless 35 mm film
promises that
my passion can thrive

in the vacuum of college
art is its own reward

you say this is 2012
so pull out the plug and let it be known:
i am a woman
and it’s all i want to be

at age seventeen

i opened the pages of your book
and saw my future written in the lines
of your printed words—
between yours, mine
conceived only insofar as i have
years left in my life

the words began to collect like rainclouds,
a gathering storm
in my human brain
until lightning jumped between the neurons

i am a spark you are a match
the fire will leave a coffee-brown singe

○

i’m racing in circles
i rush headlong at high gear,
like my spinning thoughts
faster every day

into the unknown
over this mountain
of piled hurts and desires
you and i can hope beyond the hills

i exhale my humanness
my impurity
and pant for the daemon to fill
my lungs with new life

you must know i am not clean
but neither am I unclean
stains will wash out
before it’s over

○

some say love
i say let’s live,
create until Möbius ceases
to meet in the middle

love risk learn
words flowing in my veins
since the beginning
living words

i can pour out but i can’t take back
like blood
i’ll give as much as i can until i faint
with no one to revive me

○

if i had gone farther i
wouldn’t have been careening in the grass
when the rain came
wouldn’t have felt
soaked to the skin

if you had seen me then you
wouldn’t have known
who i am
but neither would i

i am thunderstorms, matte pink
holy spirit
neverending spheres

lock me up in a label but
everything you feed me
turns into more words

○

when it was all over
the sky was dark
and i was afraid that
in the morning it would have been a dream

So this is the season for re-discovering our first loves. I have returned to my first form of exercise: road cycling/biking. And today I have found the most breathtaking place in the world.

My hybrid bike can handle dirt!

It is Sims Road at 7 o’clock on a Sunday evening, in the spring. The sky is a blue bowl with the inside scraped by orange, purple, and pink clouds of all forms. Four white-tailed fawns prance in a weedy field and bob their heads at me, the stranger in a plastic red helmet. Horses graze stoically and unseen birds sing their evening lullabies. The breeze dances with a thousand dandelions and smells of fresh-cut grass and wild garlic. Lazy roads roll over hills and carry me up, down, around. A black cat crouches in a ditch, unsuccessfully trying to be inconspicuous.

This, all in a 10-mile bike ride. I felt like I entered a corner of heaven. But, no, it is just the turn of the Earth.

A quiet Saturday sunrise ride through the back roads is equally breathtaking (perhaps due to the morning chill).

If you don’t ride bikes, just step outside at night, and let the crickets serenade you as you stargaze.

The Walkup House at Sunset

My Birthday

When I wake up on the first day of spring (Tuesday, March 20), I will have woken up for the 6,209th day of my life: 17 years. I will breathe the fresh air of spring mornings through my screen window and I will be happy to be me. There is no more longing for the past, for the 15-year old me who could wear size 0 nor for the 16-year old me who could run 6 miles. (As far as “superficial fat” goes, it is so much better to be fat and happy. Trust me.)

So, I’m ready. Ready to face the world as the person God made me to be: real and totally myself. Ready to be 17.

Bradford Pear trees on Walkup Road

Pun intended.

First of all, this book is available online for free. I don’t know how that’s financially feasible, but it is and you can find it here.

I’m not trying to be a spiritual authority or preach anything here. My goal is simply to summarize the main points of Piper’s book. His words are bold, direct, peremptory, and I must share them.

This is a synthesis of the book’s introduction and a lecture given recently at the JAARS center by Dr. Jim Logan and Rev. Paul Jordan of Biblical Restoration Ministries.

Pride and Fasting

First of all, fasting exposes pride and fosters humility. “I humbled my soul with fasting,” as written in Psalm 35:13. By preventing the self-medication of food, fasting brings to light “the dissatisfactions in relationships, the fears of failure, the emptiness of wasted time…” (Piper 20). It gives us time to breathe  and address our issues.

And what’s wrong with pride? If one is to take the Bible seriously, it may as well the root of evil. In a list of abominations, pride (“haughty eyes” – Proverbs 6:16) comes before the other sins. Lucifer (the original, angelic name of the Enemy) fell from Heaven because of his pride: “I want to be like the Most High.” That pride is so intimately connected to Satan himself should be warning enough.

People who take pride in their accomplishments or superior habits are effectually telling God that they don’t need His power. It is a determined dependence on self, and it is precisely why pride is such a destructive sin: It leaves one helpless against further sin, and as the pendulum swings, discipline becomes ruin and we are stuck saying “I do the very thing I hate” (Romans 7:15 ESV).

Many sins and wrong decisions stem from pride; over time, people fall into a downward spiral of guilt and pride and inability to rescue themselves. The Bible’s proverbs have exhausted the subject of pride: with pride comes such shame and disgrace (11:2), and a man’s pride will bring him low (29:23).

Enter: grace. A strong working definition of grace is found in Philippians 2:13: “for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (ESV). This means that God gives us the power and desire to make choices that honor Him. The second part of the aforementioned proverbs is that with humility comes wisdom—wisdom to make the right decisions—and honor.

Pride is an obstacle to grace and thus freedom from the destructive cycle of sin. God gives grace to the humble, but resists the proud (James 4:6).

So can fasting (and prayer) snuff out the pride in your heart? Not necessarily, but according to A Hunger for God, it can help.

Also see…

• Authentic Faith Manifesto (alishanewton.wordpress.com)
• Follow-Up Friday (alishanewton.wordpress.com)

In other news, I’ve been double-timing this blog. Since December I had an anonymous blog because I wanted to create without the pressure of worrying how friends and relatives respond. (Because these days a few people out there actually read my blog.) It was fun for a few weeks, and then I forgot about it, and then I got brave and transferred a few posts to Unusual Passions. If the things I write on this blog are sometimes difficult to express, then the things I wrote for my anonymous blog were impossible. It was the reservoir for “everything I wanted to say, but couldn’t.” Letters, poems, and essays such as the one I posted earlier today. Things my brain could no longer contain.

Perhaps there is a measure of vanity in being unable to resist sharing my writing, no matter if my name is not attached. Or perhaps this entry from December 16, 2008, when I first felt a strong creative stirring, will explain:

I’m beginning to understand the reason people create with no practical reason. Think about it: ever since the existence of humans, there has been creation. Humans themselves are a magnificent creation by God. (Perhaps He had the same feelings.) The desire to create is one reason that humans are different than any other species on Earth. I’m diving into the world inhabited by artists, songwriters, musicians, photographers, and authors. There is no feeling like reading something you’ve written, something you are inexplicably proud of. There is no feeling like slipping a photograph of yours into a frame, or even just seeing it on the computer screen. And even better is sharing with other humans, who can appreciate it.

I pour myself into what I create until it becomes a piece of me. It is something tangible, proof of my existence. I love it like I love myself, because this product of my mind and hands is essentially me.

There’s no reason to hold back: how could I (or why should I) contain my self-expression?

And who can explain the motive and the objective logically? It’s impossible. I think humans create because they need to. Whether it helps the world or not, it is still there, a representation of what we believe in and who we are.

So why write?

When writing, an idea brews inside my head, aging to perfection like wine, and waiting for the right moment to spill out. I pour it all over the paper, filling the lines with words, words, endless words. Sometimes an idea is conceived and born in the same instant, from the subconscious to the paper as fast as I can get it down. If I wait one minute longer to begin writing, the idea will quickly dissipate and slip away.

But the flame burns on. That flaring and leaping flame of inspiration and the desire to create burns inside me. It’s perpetually ablaze, to be snuffed on the day of my death and no sooner.

The SAT, college, driving, jobs, summer plans, relationships—the myriad things that tingle in my gut—are merely a thread, a sentence, a plot twist in my story. Better yet, this story was ordained by God before I even knew my own name. And whether I succeed or fail or just get by, I will continue to tell my story to the best of my ability.

“Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” Psalm 139:16 NIV

The aptly named "Green Monster" smoothie.

Christmas afternoon: I didn’t snuggle in a blanket or crack the fresh spine of a book. I didn’t play the new Wii (nor would I ever) or a board game with my brother. I didn’t browse for new music, and I didn’t chat with friends, even online.

I helped make a gingerbread house from scratch. My aunt’s idea, it ended with a messy kitchen, a pile of dishes, sticky hands, and several happy children. I licked stiff powdered-sugar icing from my fingers compulsively as I worked on the house, adding gummy candies and chocolate pieces to the miniature version of the witch’s house that lured Hansel and Gretel.

I used to dream about such a house: Hungry? Just pick a candy cane from a window pane or a piece of sweet bread from the roof. I imagined the smell of lemon drops wafting in the breeze and apple cider running from the faucets. Now I shudder at it: Not only would such a house be unlivable, it would most likely collapse on top of you as you swallowed its sweets one by one.

And I shudder because for a time I did live in such a place. I was lured by its sweetness, and likewise imprisoned within. As a freshman in high school, like Hansel and Gretel I was hungry and lost. I was a depressed spirit. Many of my best friends from middle school began attending high schools other than mine, and I was wary of attraction and boys after having been repeatedly betrayed by my own heart.

I was also running. I started running in August that year, covering more than 2, 3, and even 4 consecutive miles for the first time in my life. I wanted to be fast, but I had to be content with just being able to finish the 5K races. I wanted my body to be strong and beautiful, and I never thought it was, even after many months of running. I couldn’t stop running, even if I needed to rest, because I was afraid I would gain 5 pounds the first week I didn’t run.

I ate food like I wanted to gain weight—whenever I was at home or at parties, I ate sweets compulsively—but I forced my lungs and legs to burn off the excess. I also became health-crazed, drinking a smoothie made with bananas, spinach, and ground flaxseed nearly every morning. For Christmas my gifts included a water bottle, a blender, a food processor, and a “Buy Local” t-shirt.

In reality, I was hungry for love. I found solace in food, but it further betrayed me when I became addicted. My world was a struggle between my mind, body, and soul, each part of me unable to control the others, and as a result I was falling apart inside. I felt like the dark winter skies, and with no circle of friends around a fire to warm me.

On the outside, I looked fine. I participated in clubs, made high A’s in all my classes, and lost weight. My life was plenty busy and full of meaningless stuff, but I was subsisting on the bread crumbs of rich human relationships, not to mention my relationship with God.

But I couldn’t humble myself to share that I had any sort of problem, so I continued to live in my head for several more months after the day I built the gingerbread house. I ran track in the spring, eliminated meat and even milk from my diet, and continued to read endless books and blogs about health. I felt wrong, and every day the feeling intensified, but I didn’t know why I felt wrong and I couldn’t see the way out.

And then one day it was all over. I told my youth group one late-April evening. Gretel and I had God on our side, and at the climax of our stories we both got the best of the witch. In the end, I lived in that house for about a year, and when I finally stepped out into the light, the world was a different place. I didn’t know who I was, but I knew I was also different.

Since then God has opened my eyes to a brighter world and a led me to a more balanced life. I gave up physical perfection for sanity, and I love my life more than ever. Some days that statement rings slightly hollow, but now that it’s Christmas break 2011, and I’m turning the calendar to the year I will take the SAT, become a licensed driver, and apply for college, life becomes brighter every day.

This past week, my faith was challenged. I faced the worldviews of people who once believed, but have recanted their belief in Christianity. In thinking about these things, I came to realizations in the following order:

(1) My faith was small.

I realized that I still felt empty despite claiming to have picked God to fill my heart, as He should. Admittedly, it was not to the same extent as my utter depression and desperation I felt a few years ago, but it was still a longing for something more, and an unmet need.

For one moment I thought, “Does that mean there is no God—is it all a lie?” But then I realized it is a fault of my own. Merely assenting to God’s love and grace (the power and desire to make choices that honor Him; an unpacking of Philippians 2:13) does not mean much. God desires the actual, lived-out reality of our preference to Him above all things (Piper 18), and I need to live that out.

(2) I cannot be a “lukewarm” or nominal Christian.

It is better to pick one side or the other; to be lukewarm or nominal is definitely wrong. I don’t think anyone would say I am a nominal Christian, but I realized that if I am going to live according to what I say I believe—according to God’s Living Word—I am no better than a nominal Christian if I do not long to glorify God and dedicate my life to Him.

(3) I cannot rely on respectable goals as ends to satisfy my soul.

Since the beginning of 2012, I have set goals for myself that consumed me for a few days or weeks and gratified me when I made progress. But when I fail, I feel as if nothing has changed. (“Finding Validation and Purpose” and “The Sun and Seasons and Change” speak of my goal-setting state of mind.)

That’s why the goals in themselves cannot be the end, but a means to an end. And that end is precisely what should be the hope and the heartbeat of every Christian: It is not just God that fills our lives with meaning, but the hope and hunger for God.

(4) God and science need not conflict.

Science has a way of reducing phenomena of nature and human interaction into explanations of hormones and electrons and other invisible things. But in my eyes, that does not reduce the profoundness of such mechanisms and the simple joy of watching a thunderstorm or the pleasure of romance. I choose to believe that both the earth itself and the relationships between people reflect the image of God. What does science tell us that does not lend itself to the existence of God? Certain discoveries may make it easier for people to reject the existence of God, but will never make it impossible to believe in God. (I’m rephrasing Stephen Weinberg, who said, “Science doesn’t make it impossible to believe in God, it just makes it possible to not believe in God.”)

(5) I am prepared to be seen as a fool for my beliefs.

That’s hard to accept; nobody wants to be seen less of for their beliefs. But according to the Bible, it’s abnormal not to experience derision or opposition of any kind. The prophet Jeremiah was ridiculed and reviled for his words, because people did not want to hear of their wickedness, but the peremptory power of his message compelled him to share.

(6) The only way this life is possible is through faith, hope, and love.*

Faith is an “assurance of things hoped for” (Hebrews 11:1). It is the substance of hope; it inspires confidence in hope.

And what is hope? To really live out faith, I must live for an ultimate goal. Setting goals that benefit only me is a recipe for failure. I speak from experience. The ultimate goal, however, has the power to invigorate my every action with the hope of God’s Kingdom. As John Piper wrote, “Christianity is… a hope that is unshakably rooted in the past incarnation of Christ who offered himself once for all as a sacrifice for sin and sat down at the right hand of God (Hebrews 10:12).”

And love? Well, that’s for another blog post.

This is my lifetime commission. (At Teen Missions we lit purple candles before going overseas.)

*Yes, I am referencing 1 Corinthians 13.

In conclusion, it’s all or nothing: I want to believe with all my heart what I say I believe. It is true that at this moment, it would socially impossible for me to blatantly reject belief in God, for it is a rejection of my past, my upbringing, my parents, many of my activities, and my closest friends. Right now, in my home, in my youth group, and in my school, it is easier to remain a Christian. It’s easy for me to uphold the existing framework of my life. But as I ponder a life of Christian service and ministry, it does not sound at all easy.

I have spent hours thinking and reading and talking this week about this, especially in anticipation of making decisions about colleges, majors, and careers. I know I’m not going to college for another year and a half, but to hear everyone talk, I’m going to wake up one day with all things college incumbent upon me!

But in all seriousness, even if I am to spend 4 years of my life studying the Bible, a book many people claim is irrelevant; even if I am to spend decades directly involved in evangelizing the world (as Daniel 12:3 puts it, “lead many to righteousness”), a pursuit many people claim is pointless, I am now willing to do whatever God calls me. If it is to write books or study the brain or just talk to people, I am also willing. I’m not necessarily looking to become a radical adventurer, but just a radical believer in something beyond myself. I want to spend my passions to honor God.

“Disillusionment often follows naïve admiration. There is none without sin, and all our triumphs are mixed with imperfections. We do well to temper our esteem with the acknowledgement that there are hidden faults in every saint, and today’s victory is no assurance of tomorrow’s holiness.”

John Piper, A Hunger for God, p. 99