Challenge #2: Who should read this blog

    Honestly, I do not know how to answer this question. I think that friends and acquaintances of a blogger will be more likely to read a blog than a stranger. That is not always the case, but I think that knowing something about a person, some background knowledge or past experience, will make you more open to reading something that the person writes and you will connect better. It is the same way with friends who write a song or a novel or create a piece of art. Instead of comparing them to Mumford, Jane Austen, or Picasso, we appreciate them for their talent and ability to create something that we often cannot.
   If I do not know you well though and you are reading this blog, welcome! C. S. Lewis said in his book The Four Loves, "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, 'What! You too? I thought I was the only one." So if any of you  have any of these four things in common with me, I think that the same thing applies to us. 

Love of... 

1. God

2. Poetry

3. Books

4. Quotes

Talk about your blog

    The reason that I started a blog is because I have an amazing friend who pushes me to try new things and encourages me to write frequently. She might not even know it, but she is one of my greatest inspirations for writing, and whenever I read something that she wrote, I immediately want to sit down and write some beautiful song or a even start a novel!
    I have been writing in my journal since I was in 3rd grade, and so now my collection ranges to about 20 notebooks, but I have always kept them hidden. Starting a blog is a way for me to show a piece of who I am, what I like to think about and write about, and to share it with other people. I write poetry all the time, and I guess you could call it my passion. I love seeing other people enjoy a good piece of literature or a poem, and if I could create that enjoyment for them, no matter who it is, it brings me a great pleasure as well.
    I will probably share something whenever I am struck by a new idea and really want to write out in words. For the next thirty posts, or thirty days, my friends and I will be writing about a different topic each time that comes from our own experience or persepective. Today's was talking about our blog. I hope that they all enjoy this as much as I have so far!
    As to why I named my blog When the Bird Sings, the best way I can explain it is by posting this story that I wrote a few months ago. My roommate, her sister, and another friend and I all wanted to write short stories with the same title, and for some reason I thought that this one would make a great title. So I started writing but later scrapped the story because I gave up on it. I looked it over again tonight, and thought it would actually tie in well to why my blog has this name...

The soul of the Nightingale grows stronger in the dark. It is the only bird that will sing at night, when blindness overtakes the world. Many people face the hardship and pain this world brings, some in larger doses than others, but what we do in the blackest moments shows who we truly are and where we place our hope.

§

            Emma’s eyes glimmered with excitement and amazement even as she hid behind the older orphans in the group. She watched the group of eleven Americans with curiosity as we broke free from the bus and unloaded with all of our disorganized VBS material into their Trinidad playground. As we all began introducing ourselves and mingling with the children, Emma suddenly recognized that I was a no greater threat than the grass below her feet, and she confidently walked towards me.

“Do you want to see a magic trick?”

            I was instantly amused at the authority that she took as she assumed the role of a magician, and I willingly obliged her. Soon after she performed the trick (leaving me stunned and wonderstruck) we immediately became friends, and she could not stop talking to me. The older girls even attempted to quiet her, but she refused to listen to them. She asked to hold my hand, to play a game with me, and even offered me a granola bar, and she did so with such confidence and fire that I could not help but laugh with delight at her beautiful strength. Her freckles stood out against her dark complexion, and her braids were so evenly and carefully created, but her heart far outshone her appearances.

            I spent the rest of my time at the orphanage in awe of this young girl who was unable to hide her smile, even in the midst of uncertainty and suffering. Her song of love, delight, and curiosity burst out of her heart and stood against the darkness that surrounded her. She had no money, she had little clothing, and the granola bar that she had offered me represented a small portion of food she received daily, yet her love surpassed that of my own. Her joy for life and the small graces that God sent her overpowered her temporary lack, and she did not fall into despair.

            She was my first nightingale.

§

            Four young children played on the outskirts of a playground in a run down and broken neighborhood in Pennsylvania, looking in defiance at the group of kids singing songs and playing games with adults and teenagers. They believed that they were too cool to join, that songs were for babies, and so they could only glare at us until we left; but in their eyes I saw their longing to join us, their thirst for the happiness they could only watch from afar.

My friend Gale saw their miniature gang, saw beneath their exterior and into their broken hearts, and invited them to watch the battle scene in a skit some adults were performing. Boasting that they were strong enough to fight anyone, the three boys and girl walked over, clearly overjoyed that they were invited, and yet trying desperately to hide their excitement under a pretense of superiority and reserve. They could not keep their act up for long. In just a half hour, I was having pencil sword fights and trying, but failing, to beat them in an arm wrestling contest.

One of the gifts we were giving out to the children were silly bands in the shapes of crosses and hearts, and so these four each received one as well. Tyler (age 7) would not leave my side the whole afternoon, and when I handed him a silly band, he automatically wanted to return a gift to me. He took off a glow in the dark giraffe band that he had found somewhere, muddied and ragged, and put it around my wrist. I still cherish it.

            He wanted me to follow him as he climbed up the monkey bars, showing off to impress me. He was so desperate for love and attention, he only wanted someone to tell him that he was strong, brave, and worth something. As he flipped around the monkey bars, I saw the bottom of his shoes. They were spattered with holes the size of quarters. My heart broke as I later found out that he and his brother Jeremy (8) lived in a terrible area, and their mom was never around. They practically lived on the streets. 

Daniel (9) and JoJo (6), the two others with them, had no parents at all and lived with their grandmother. The four of them had been seen wandering on the other side of town alone, walking the streets that were known for gangs and street fights. Daniel believed he was in charge, and I knew that he would never let anything happen to his friends without putting up a fight, but they were still so young.

            Tyler, Jeremy, and their mother eventually visited the church where we stayed, walking two hours in the summer heat to eat a hotdog, bounce in an inflatable tent, and play basketball with people who loved them with a love from God. Tyler’s dark eyes stared in awe at me whenever I played with him, and I wonder how many people had showed him such attention before. His happiness in my company, their determination to read the Bibles we gave them, and the endurance of their friendships stirred my heart, and I broke down crying when I realized that I would probably never see them again.

            Tyler was my second nightingale.

§

           These children showed me how joy can be found despite the lack of material possessions and even the circumstances that surround us. The greatest light comes from Christ and the belief that he came to save us from our sins, and then our lives now have a purpose and are hidden with him. That is where my only hope lies, and that is the only reason why I can sing like the nightingale too.

“My soul will be satisfied with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips, when I remember you in my bed, and meditate on you in the watches of the night; for you have been my help, and in the shadow of your wings I find joy.” Psalm 63:5-7

“By day the Lord commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life.” Psalm 42:8

Lady in Waiting

I often read about the call to purity and the importance and beauty of marriage, and I have always loved writers such as Elisabeth Elliot. So much of my poetry has to do with the emotions that girls face continually, and the natural responses we might have to certain things like singleness and actively waiting. So here is a poem inspired by two of my close friends about something all of us girls have been through.

The Art of Patience

A maiden perched beside a pond

With tempting hook and pole in hand,
And eager eyes fixed on the line
As hook to frenzied depth descends.

A moment passed before she sensed
The shivers of a nibbling prey,
But yank too soon upon a pole
And haste will scare the fish away.

With furrowed brow she cast again
And reeled the prize with wiser ways,
But as she reached to grasp its fins,
It deeply pierced, and swam away.

The tears welled up, but soon dissolved
When stronger beast strained on her line,
She longed to see a fish at last
But only found sea-weed entwined.

All patience left her fervent heart
And sobbing to the ground she fell,
But soothing voice within her soul
Did bid her wait to see all well.

So trusting in the Sovereign Voice
To move the hook in purposed path,
She sat in silence looking up
And patience brought her fish at last.

The Muse

The Muse is always written about and spoken of by the Greeks in the ancient world, and John Milton refered to it as the Holy Spirit in Paradise Lost; but whether the Muse actually exists or not, it represents an idea, a feeling, a miracle. It represents inspiration. I cannot explain how an idea leaks out of my mind into a pen and onto a scrap of paper. But wherever Inspiration comes from, every writer has it, every writer experiences it, and every writer treasures it. It's never chance, it always has a purpose. So the muse in me is dying to get out, and I hope that you get to enjoy it too.