Happy Birthday

A greeting cast to someone as an obligation? Sometimes to greet a friend because it's the thing to do. 'Happy birthday' is said these days, but often left so empty. Yes, it's been the birthday greeting since you can remember, but do you realize what you're saying when you wish someone a 'happy birthday'?

I don't see happy birthday as a simple hello, one day a year.

I do not take those words lightly.

Happy birthday is wishing someone well on their birthday. It's a celebration of life. You are celebrating someone being born, and so, in essence, celebrating them being alive. Suicide is the leading cause of death in 16-25 year-old's in the United States, and the third leading cause of death in 16-25 year-old's in the United Kingdom. If I wish you a happy birthday, I'm telling you that I am glad you are alive.

I used to hate my birthday. I didn't have a reason, I just started hating my birthday after I turned 11. For so long I used to dread my birthday, hope people would forget it. I think I hoped people would forget me. and for the past few years, since I was 14, something disastrous has happened on or around my birthday. I dread my birthday these days for what it might bring. Even now I don't remind my friends when my birthday is coming up, partly for luck's sake, partly to see if anyone cares enough to remember (which I know is mad, especially coming from me as, if any of you know me, I have the worst memory you could imagine). I no longer despise my birthday- if someone wishes me happy birthday, whether they see deeper meaning in that greeting or not, I know that someone, somewhere appreciates my life just that little bit to acknowledge that yes, I am alive. My arrival apparently has a bad effect on the world. But I don't care, because recently I've come to realize the importance of birthdays; hence this blog post.

I have been meaning to write this post for about 6 months, but I keep putting it off because I can't find the right words- even though I write them in every birthday card I send. Birthdays are such a massive deal- you were born on this day a year ago; 10 years ago; 18, 21, 30, 80 years ago; you made it!

You

        are

              alive.

And it is so important that you are. Because every time someone says 'happy birthday' to you, whether you realize it or not, they're congratulating you. They are thanking you.

Thank you for being in my life.

Thank you for being born.

Thank you for being alive.

We are all living stories. You must not give up.

Happy birthday, my friend.

"It is an honour being a character in your story"

A School With A Story.

I've been at Bluecoat since I was 11. At first I hated it. By the time my place was confirmed I was adamant that I did not want to go; every morning of my first term there, my parents would have to get me out of bed and dress me themselves because I was so against going. I eventually settled into it though, or I wouldn't still be here 7 years later! One of the only things I remember from those first 16 weeks was Founder's Day. Our school hold one of these services every year, to welcome the year 7's into our school and to present them with a bible. This began as a Braithwaite edition of the bible, but has changed to a Youth bible in recent years (which, in my opinion, is a much better translation anyway). This makes sense to Bluecoat kids, as one of our houses is Braithwaite, named after one of our founders, Thomas Braithwaite.
The whole point of Founder's Day is really to remind us where we come from. We are a school with a history- not a history in the sense that it's been going for a while, but a history that means something. My school has a real story behind it, which continues to grow each year, and the next chapters in our story are acknowledged each year at our Founder's Day service. I've been involved in every Founder's Day since I started at Bluecoat- mainly singing- and this day has never really impacted me that much- until this year, my last year at Bluecoat, and I have either only just realized that I love that my school has a story, or I've just become very gushy and sentimental. I would rather believe the first, and if you've ever received a birthday card from me, you'll know that that is the more likely reason.
Although our head teacher says her part at the beginning, the service is held by kids like me... and our youth worker (who is basically a big kid anyway!). This means that the service is slightly more interesting than you'd imagine, and in the last few years, a drama has been performed by a group of year 7, 8 & 9 students about the history of the school. This is naturally performed as an over-the-top, comedic train-wreck, but it gets across the story.
Nottingham was very poor, the poor were getting poorer, the rich were getting richer, and all schools had to be paid for except the high school- oh the irony!- and Bluecoat. Bluecoat was held in the doorway of St Peter's from 1706 and was free, funded by donations from various benefactors. The uniform was originally grey, but was later changed to blue. After a while, a plot of land was bought and as more money was given to the school, more and more children arrived- more money, more children. The school was relocated- twice- then another campus opened in 2003. We have sister schools in China, Africa and South Africa. Each house raises money for a chosen charity each year. Every year we run a Coast-to-Coast bike ride for the British Heart Foundation/Macmillan (these alternate) and Rainbow's Children's hospice- a charity very close to my own heart. So many different things have happened to our school in the last 100 year, and even the last 10 years, which I can't begin summarize in just one blog post. I urge you to go and read about my school's history here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nottingham_Bluecoat_School
There is such a story behind my school. It's very long, but it's very strong. And it is inspirational.
I'm a sucker for a story.
We are living stories.
And every story must to be told; every story has a right to be told.
So this is our story, and we will continue to grow it and develop it through the beautiful gifts we've been given. Our school does a lot for many, many charities- it's in our roots, it's where we come from. Our school- my school- changes and invents each and every one of us, whether we know it or not. I know that my school has made me who I am today- sometimes I love her, sometimes I hate her, but I know that I wouldn't be who I am today if it wasn't for Bluecoat and some of the amazing people I have met there.

So thank you, Timothy Fenton.
Thank you, William Thorpe.
Thank you, Thomas Braithwaite.
Thank you, Messrs: Inglis, Mellors and Rippon.
And thank you, Alfred Harisson.

Tigger's Trip to The Vets

I promise that once this post gets going it will be funny, but i have to give you contextual knowledge so you don't just think my cat is a pussy.

Cats do not like V.E.T's. They don't mind vets; they don't know the word 'vet' as no one ever says it, it's always 'V.E.T', so I like to say in my kitty cat voice "Come on Mister Tigz, let's go to the vets!" and he really excitedly jumps up and follows me to wherever this magical land is. By the time he's in his cat box, he's too traumatized to remember where it was I said we're going, but by this point all he can hear is my parents saying 'V.E.T' over and over again.

Okay, lots of cats hate the vets- lots of animals hate the vets- because they like their dignity and don't like being poked about here there and everywhere. Especially with latex gloves. But Tigger has issues with vets for more than just his personal space protection-instincts. My cat once got stuck in a wall. The builders had to knock the wall through and threw bits of wall at him to make him move. In this facade he injured his back, became anorexic (which in animals just means they stop eating) and had to be hospitalized for 2 days. Earlier this year, he was hospitalized for 3 days due to a stomach bug- which our other cat had, and loved as she was away from Tigger for 6 days (she was far more poorly as she is older and so was in for longer).
But the real reason he hates the vets so passionately is because in February and March 2011, Tigger went to the vets 5 times in four weeks. He had two operations, an MRI, a consultation with one of Europe's leading veterinary practitioner-surgeons and 3 lots of general anesthetic. On my 15th birthday, my dad took Tigger to Solihull to see this specialist vet. Tigger had an hour's consultation and an MRI under general anesthetic, which added up to 4 hours and £lots of his £not-that-mush insurance each year. Thank God he is insured. You seeeeeee, Tigger has cancer, and his is near-impossible to successfully treat. If he had the operation to remove it, he would have had a 12cm x 16cm x 12cm piece of him taken out. Tigger wasn't very big at this time. This was just before he turned 2. He also would have had to stay inside for 3 months after the operation, and with him being a professional free-runner and all, that just wouldn't have worked. Even if this was all managed, this type of cancer- fibrosarcoma- always comes back, and in younger cats it is especially aggressive the second time.
So his traumatic 4 weeks of heavy duty vet work told us we'd have weeks or months with Tigger, so naturally we were all distraught for about 2 weeks after. We've now had an additional 2 and a half years with him, and he's now absolutely traumatized from the experience of unfamiliar surroundings, 4 hospitalizations and 5 vets visits in less than 30 days.
So to recap, he does not like vets.

Today Tigger went to sleep in a rocking chair. I spotted the opportunity at about 3:15 to put him in his cat basket, as he will keep his eyes closed and pretend he's still sleeping if I pick him up gently. His appointment was for 3:30 so this was perfect timing. He must have felt the walls closing in though, as he opened his eyes just in time to see me locking the basket.
A howl of terror- he's so dramatic- told us he didn't want to go, but his insane itching this past week told us he did. It was bad news I'm afraid.

Fleas.

I'll tell you what happened, then give a running commentary of his thoughts.
We were in the car and he was angry at me for causing this situation to happen, so he gave me the cold shoulder for all of five minutes, then he forgot when he was mad at me and lay down on my hand rather than letting me stroke him in his basket. At this point he was violently shaking every time he exhaled... which was about twice a second, as he was hyperventilating- something I didn't think cats could do until today.
Arriving at the vets, we could see Lady number one. Lady number one was very anti-social, ignoring us, her cat and the massive flashing sign that said "this lady doesn't want to be here so she's ignoring her cat who really wants a cuddle" pointing right at her head. Lady's cat sounded like he was singing the descants for O Come All Ye Faithful. Veterinary nurse offered to do Tigger's flea jab to svae us time and money from having to see the vet herself. We accepted and were led to the overnight room which Tigger unfortunately knows all too well.
Tigger was now in full fight-or-flight mode but, being stuck in his box, chose stick-yourself-to-the-back-of-your-cage-and-under-no-$&£*ing-circumstances-let-go mode. I tried twice unsuccessfully to get him out of his travel basket. Nurse lifted the basket and I pulled kitty out of his box. My dad locked the basket and put it on the counter, and Tigger did a commando-crawl across the table in a poor attempt at returning to his safe haven- oh how the tables had turned! (except they hadn't because this was a surgical table and those things are about as mobile as me on a Friday morning)
Tigger was weighed... ish...
Nurse had to go and get the injection, so I picked Tigger up and walked over the the cages at the back of the room. We met cat and dog. Dog looked doped. Cat looked sad.
Nurse gets back- dog is Vet's and fancied a change of scene so got brought to work. We held a minute's silence for Dog and his innocence.
I then held Tigger whilst he had his flea injection.

However...

My dad thought he might already have some live fleas, which meant a tablet.

Maybe some of you have cats? Or maybe some of you have had an encounter with a bear... at breakfast time... after hibernation... whilst wearing Lady Gaga's meat dress... having just told a joke really offensive to bears.
Nurse couldn't make Mister Tigger take his tablet, so she went to get the Pill Pusher- yes, correct medical term, Pill-Pusher- whilst we went to see Cat and Dog again. Dog wanted a cuddle. Tigger wanted to kill Nurse. Cat wanted more Valium.
Tigger took the tablet and we left the room or terror.
Whilst my dad settled up, I met Stone- a 30lb Pitbull-Terrier. Bare in mind Tigger weighs about 11lb. Bare in mind the stereotype of cats and dogs. And please, please, bare in mind the behavioral characteristics of a pitbull-terrier. I sat down to stroke Stone, and popped Tigger in his basket down next to me. Stone was very happy with me, then realized I was with 'the box'. Obviously, something Stone didn't recognize HAD to be sniffed. 'Ooo, smells of cat. Hmm, I wonder what will happen if I keep- HOLY CRAP WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT' *runs and hides under owner's chair, whimpering*.

Yeah Tigger doesn't like the vets.

Stone then tried to style it out. 'Umm... grrr..? GRR- please don't kill me!!'. This all happened whilst Stone was stood, trembling behind his owner's leg, his head wedged under Owner's knee. As we left Stone jumped up onto Owner's lap, whining for comfort.

Tigger does not like vets.
Now for his thought-stream.

Ahh mummy. Oh where are we- mummy no. No, NO! DAMMIT WOMAN WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Okay, okay, breathe, you're fine- OH WHAT WAS THAT- oh just a door. Okay. Okay car- I know that. Brum brum, yes drive dad, drive already. Is it the V.E.T? Cattery? Are they just torturing me? What is going on? Move your hand. Moveyourhandmoveyourhandmoveyour- where am I? STOP STROKING ME. Okay. Car stopping. Here we go. Oh that smells awful. Clean, almost, eww. What is that noise? What is that noise? Whatisthatnoisewhatisthatnoisewhatisthatnoi- where are we going? Why are we moving again? NO NO WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME. NO PLEASE NO. No I will not come out. No. CLING. CLINGGGGGG. Okay we're out. Mission one- get back in. Okay no-no-no- LET GO OF ME I DON'T WANT TO STAND ON THAT THING WITH THE- oooo the numbers go up. Ooo. Hey they've gone. So have I! Where's she gone? Where has that human gone? Oh a cat. OH A DOG LET'S BE FRIENDS. Oh she's back. See you later guys- hang in there! Oh an injection. Hold me mummy, hold me! Okay done. No. I will not take that. Right, I'll just wait for you to stop rubbing my throat then I'll spit it- STOP OPENING MY MOUTH IT IS MY MOUTH NOT YOURS- right. And again. And again- STOP IT IT'S MY MOUTH NOT YOURS LEAVE ME ALONE. Good she's gone. Dog! Cat! Hello again! Oh warm air- oooo red light... She's back! GAG REFLEX WOMAN, GAG REFLEX. You don't have to do tha-STOP OPENING MY MOUTH! Yes it's gone... Bitch. Finally back in my box. Wait was that it? Are you kidding me, was that it? Oh well come on at least give me something to work with, I didn't even get to bite her! What was all of that for, what the hell, why take me there and traumatize me- GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME DOG I'M TRYING TO RANT- for about 30 seconds of nothing? Why just not take me? Why? Why? Tell me why?

I'm pretty sure that continued until we got home and he forgot he'd even been out the house. He's not the brightest knife in the cookie jar. One sandwich short of a wardrobe, you know?

Anyway, that was Tigger's exciting day out.

Smile for the camera baby!

"I have a dream"

50 years ago today, Martin Luther King made his famous speech, sparking the major turnaround in the way different races were treated in America. This speech kick-started many equal rights movements across the largest and most powerful country in the world including the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Not only is the speech a vital part of this world’s modern past, but is absolutely integral to its future. I despair to think of a world where Martin Luther King had a dream but couldn’t be bothered to tell us all about it. A world without that speech doesn’t bear thinking about. Unfortunately there are still areas of the world which need to learn from America’s example of civil rights.

“Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

50 years ago today, the world began to revolutionize. The greatest country began to listen and accept the fact that every human- no matter what colour their skin- was indeed human. But many didn’t like that. Heavily influenced by their parents, adults in the 1960’s thought that unless someone was white, they weren’t worth talking to. They weren’t worth going to the toilet near. They weren’t worth being listened to. Which sparked a whole load of trouble. The KKK. This organisation had been running for hundreds of years already, with a history of ‘superior race’ hate crimes and corps. Many of the citizens of America dressed in their most menacing gang wear and set fire to the homes and work places of black people. Martin Luther King was targeted and no one was safe unless they were wearing a pointed white cap and pillow case. Stupid, right? Well some other people thought so, too.

Including the parents of my 86-year-old friend, Mabel-Anne.

50 years ago today, her parents- Dr and Mrs Sam E. Ashmore- who were closely connected with the churches in Jackson, Mississippi, knew that God loved and loves all people. They went out of their way to spread the same message as Martin Luther King. Mable-Anne and her family had to keep moving, due to death threats to her parents and herself. Their lives and church were hanging in in the balance due to their beliefs and actions. The Ashmores were endangering their lives in the fight against segregation- and they were white.

Despite the many threats to their lives, family and friends, the Ashmores stayed strong in their knowledge of equal love and beliefs of civil rights, and saw the battle through until their end. I am so proud of Mabel-Anne and the bravery her family showed in such a time. I’m proud of every single soul who fought the right side and who contributed to the civil rights movement in America. Though it took many years, Martin Luther King’s dream came true, and the world is a better place for that. Though we mustn’t forget those who gave their time, passion and even lives in the process. Although the act was passed only a year later, it took a long time for the hate crimes from the Ku Klux Klan to stop, and even longer for the people of America to accept the new laws and rights of African-Americans.

I am so lucky to have been brought up in a society without racism and broadcasted prejudices, and I know that at no point in history was segregation of races or apartheid right or deserved. I would fight in favour of civil rights causes if the problem arose again in my country or anywhere else in the world; though if I had been brought up with several generations of prejudices influencing my beliefs, I may not have said that- even if I believed it. It not only takes strength and bravery to believe something, but to say it- it just requires something more. Standing up for something you believe in before hundreds of thousands who want to oppress and obliterate your opinions takes courage and power. Endangering your own life for the rights and protection of others, when it would be safer, simpler and a lot easier to sit back and do nothing, takes such a faith in what you know to be true, it’s almost undetectable in our culture.

“The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing.”

I am so incredibly proud of Mabel-Anne. And I know that she and her existing family would do the same now if they had to- lay their lives down for a cause- despite her living in sheltered accommodation and often forgetting the date, time, or names of those she loves. Because although Mable-Anne has dementia, she is still Mabel-Anne; she still knows what’s right and what she believes.

And I will always be proud to know her.

Mabel-Anne, I love you.

You give me hope.

I just want people to understand mental illness.

I just want people to understand mental illness.

If someone breaks their leg, everyone gathers round the hospital bed giving them flowers and chocolate; if someone’s admitted to a psych ward, it’s not talked about and barely anyone visits. Everyone signs a plaster cast; no one wants to sign something they can’t see.

Say someone with depression is just feeling absolutely awful one day- they’re in a complete state of apathy- but made plans with a friend. This person cancels because they really don’t feel up to it and they try to explain in their best words why they can’t go but it just doesn't make sense and they feel even worse for cancelling. Their friend probably wouldn't understand and spend the rest of the day or even week feeling incredibly annoyed and resentful. However if someone was laid up in bed with a stomach bug and didn't have the energy to go out with a friend they’d made plans with- no one wants to leave the comfort of their own home when they’re ill- and cancelled, the friend would most probably be understanding.

Compare “I really don’t feel up to it, maybe another day?” with “I've been up all night vomiting, sorry I’m going to have to cancel”. You’d be happier with the second, wouldn't you? It’s something solid that you can understand. You can’t sit in on counselling sessions and I bet you’d feel awkward as hell watching someone take their anti-psychotics or anti-depressants. You can however, go with someone to the doctors because they've got a bruise that won’t go away. You can, however, push your friend’s wheel chair because their shattered tibia from that car crash won’t allow them to walk.

The nature of mental illness is also something people struggle to grasp. ‘I can’t see that dog you’re calling to, therefore it can’t exist’ ‘you’re not recently bereft, so why are you so sad all the time?’ ‘Your moods change like the weather, you’re a freak’ ‘you’re really ill, why won’t you just eat something?!’. That’s the thing about mental illness- when it’s starting out, a patient might not notice it, but by the time others are noticing it, a patient might not be able to help themselves; the illnesses lie to the sufferers; they eventually consume them, telling them either that they’re fine or that they’re past help. This means it’s vital for those not suffering to help by learning about symptoms and early warning signs.

You have to understand in order to help, but you have to want to help in order to understand.

And I don’t think that people realize they need to help; only if you've been affected by mental illness will you realize the need for awareness.

It starts with a bruise. One day you’re just not feeling that great. Then the bruise just doesn't go away. You just keep feeling sad and not wanting to do anything. You go to the doctors and there’s a referral. They don’t know for sure but it sounds like this. You’re at the hospital and they tell you the news. Your psychiatrist gives you the diagnosis. Both patients can receive treatment. It might not work. It might work. They’ll go into ‘remission’. The illness could come back. And it does. But they don’t want to say anything. My bones are just aching a little, it’s nothing. Oh it’s because of the weather; my mood is quite reflective. But then they begin to ache more, she can’t walk; she’s often short of breath. He ends up not wanting to get out of bed in the mornings, and sleeping the days away. She knows what’s happened and she thinks it’s too late, so she won’t go back to the doctors. He reckons he’s too far gone this time and doesn't seek help. The next day at 3:30am there are two less people in the world. 

You see, leukemia and depression can have the same story. So can sport injuries and bi-polar; sometimes they’re here, sometimes they’re not. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down. But similar to what I said earlier, you’ll see the Wimbledon competitors wearing their K-tape; you won’t see the world famous musician take his Lithium.

Buzz Aldrin, a wondrous explorer- suffered addiction and depression.

Beethoven, a celebrated composer- believed to have had bipolar disorder.

Earl Campbell, great previous NFL player- plagued by an anxiety disorder.

Mental illness doesn't stop people from becoming brilliant, and being brilliant doesn't stop people from developing a mental illness.

What if there really is gold at the end of the rainbow?

I was walking home in the bi-polar English weather this week; I stepped off the bus and within 30 seconds, though the sun was still high in the sky, I suddenly found myself in a 12 minute torrential downpour.
Now recently (in the past year) when this situation occurs, I've found myself sometimes doubting my destination, having flashbacks and occasionally being paralyzed by fear, actually for quite a silly reason: D of E. When my group walked on our Silver practice, we walked on a day when 1/3 of Britain's annual average rainfall fell. It was a terrifying experience and has genuinely left me scarred, which I personally find hilarious!! I actually love the rain, but my body thinks it's dangerous- I promise you, it's not. OH! And don't be discouraged from D of E, it's not always like that!
So there I was in this downpour: emotionally I find the experience beautiful, physically I find it dizzying and fearful, but mentally I find those two sides battling so amusing that I almost missed the view when I flicked my head up to move my hood from my eyes. I had a double take, then stopped, admiring the double rainbow the sky was accommodating.
I was never told the stories about gold at the end of the rainbow when I was little, however I discovered the tale once when I was reading a story book I'd taken out of the library at the age of about 7 (yeah I used to think I was Matilda or something, I don't know, my childhood was a bit messy). APPARENTLY, some small, green, angry- but kindly- Irish chap with four-leaf-clovers and horseshoes was going around leaving big pots of gold at the ends of rainbows, but someone was stealing the gold every time anyone got close.
I threw the legend away when I got older- obviously it's just fairy stories- but I thought in that second when I saw them sitting a short way apart from each other "where does the gold go in this scenario?". Because by my childhood logic, the man shouldn't leave two pots; anyone who finds the first is bound to find the second if they're so close together! That surely can't be fair on others hunting the treasure?! Well, like I said earlier, it's not true. I was lied to by that book in the library.

But what if I'm wrong?


What if there really is gold at the end of the rainbow?

Well that made me think about those things I believe and those things I don't: I believe in mermaids; I believe in the Loch Ness monster; I believe we can miss people we've never met; I believe there are some kinds of monsters under the bed that will never go away, and I believe memories can haunt us, regardless of whether we can remember them or not. I don't believe anyone is beyond saving; I don't believe humans can pass a fair judgement on themselves, due to distortions of the world on our minds. I don't believe in those things I know would hold me back if I believed in them and I DO believe in things others would consider impossible or highly improbable.
I'm so assured of these things that actually, I thought to myself, it doesn't take a genius to know that there is more than gold at the end of the rainbow. There's happiness. That's what we're always taught, right? Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.
Well what if Hubert Stothart (look him up) was wrong, too?

"What if happiness isn't over the rainbow? What if it's on our side already, we're just not tuned into it?"

I recently dropped myself into a double dare with my friend:
I: I double dare you to get all A's.
Friend: Double dare... you're getting them too then, right?
I: Sure!
I believe my friend is fully capable of getting all A's. Friend just doesn't know it yet. And if in August, Friend sees a letter that isn't an A, my friend will no doubt believe less that Friend can complete the dare. I know you can though, Friend. Your dream isn't that far-fetched. You know what you want to do; that's the only thing that will make you happy. You CANNOT let it get away that easily. Your happiness depends on it. And your happiness isn't over the other side of the rainbow, friend. It's right here.

Just...

Tune in.

Because what if there really is gold at the end of the rainbow?

Happy Easter.

What do you say to a man who knows everything about you? Even the things you've never told anyone. He just comes to you one day and asks you who you are, then tells you He already knew and that He's going to give you a personality makeover. Would you ask for a rain-check? Walk away slowly and call the emergency services? Or would you willingly take Him up on the offer and do everything He tells you for the next three years of your life?
Most people will know who He is, but not many know Him as Him. But there were twelve people who He went and talked to, told them He would give them a personality makeover. They didn't back away, they didn't hesitate, they followed- because with this man, something was different. They followed willingly. For three years; three really fast year years. And during that time they grew closer to Him, got to know Him, they obeyed Him, they served Him. It wasn't a business relationship or an acquaintanceship. It was a friendship that grew incredibly strong.
The twelve men didn't get along all the time, but they were brothers through this one man, and they shared all the fire between themselves and Him. They all grew to be best friends to this stranger who had walked into their lives and slightly re-worded their job titles; they went from 'fishermen' to 'fishers of men' He altered their occupations, but changed their hearts. Then one day, this man, their best friend, confidant, brother, turns around to them and starts sharing some creepy prophecies. Then He tells them He's soon to die.

Your best friend turns around to you and tells you He's going to die soon. What? The guy you've been doing everything for, hanging onto His every word, learning from Him and letting Him know the parts you that you didn't even realize existed- He starts washing your feet. What? The world's going crazy, being turned inside-out; people laying palm leaves down for your mate who's riding a donkey. A donkey with a cross down his back. What's going on then, when a few days later, armed guards come in and cart Him away? He's commit no sin in His life- never even told a white lie- and is rules completely innocent by the most important, prestigious judge of the time. Yet He's still given the worst death sentence available. What happened? When did the world go mad?

        He's hanging there, pinned down to a tree like a fly on a wood board. It isn't just any tree though. It's two pieces of wood. A stake and a cross bar. They look like an old tattered cross made of wood. He has cloth covering Him slightly, but no clothes on. A crown of thorns is put on Him and He's mocked. This is your best friend who has never done a thing wrong. What are you doing? How are you feeling? You can't do a thing to save Him and you know He's going to die.

         He has ropes binding his wrists to the splintery wood, cutting into his skin, nails through both of his palms. You can feel his agony as he hangs there. Then he cries out for a moment: "Eloi! Eloi! Lema sabachthani?" Blood and sweat dripping down his forehead and he's asking God why he's deserted him. They're poking a stick at him, making him drink. They're shouting and yelling abuse, spitting at him, hanging a sign above his head. This is the God of the universe, the star breather; strength renewer; the one you can come to with nothing left and be given everything. He heals by His word and we fall at His feet, our hearts cannot begin to grasp the concept of how tiny we are in the universe and how great a place He has for us in His heart, and He's hanging there on a cross, suffering for things He's not done. He's innocent; He's God. And He's dying.

        What are you doing? You're watching him, distraught, not knowing what to do, where to turn, your whole world has just imploded in on you and your best friend's just hanging there, running out of strength, running out of breath. You can see him, feel him, but any second now, any second now, all these people are going to see how wrong they are. "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Some of His last words are just pure compassion. Then with the last strength he has, your friend, your king, your God, cries out a loud and long sound which fills your ears, your mind, your heart; you can't think and you can't breath, it's drowning you and you know something's about to happen. You look up, His head is down.

He's dead.

         The curtain in the temple, the one made out of the finest cloth, the one piece of fabric, the only thing people can see concealing their secrets, the strongest thing in the temple... it tears into two pieces. Right as He screamed, it split straight down the center. It's mid afternoon but the sky is black; the sun covered in a cloud as dark as the final hour.

         So what have you done in three years? You've changed people's lives, seen Him heal a dying child and raise a dead one. You were with this amazing man when he's eaten with prostitutes and beggars. You helped Him cast out demons. You've witnessed miracles. You've preformed miracles. But only with this man. Never without.

What do you do now? He's gone. Dead. That's it, it's over. It is finished.

     You hide. You and ten other men. The one who betrayed has killed himself, knowing he's done something awful. But what he did was crucial, as it led to the greatest, most highly documented moment in history.

          Three days of hiding, you wake up to hear the man's mother and her friends banging on your door telling you that He isn't dead. But you watched Him die. You heard Him cry out, you felt the pain, the exhaustion. For a moment you had been filled with Him, His sound, His soul. But He's dead and you know it. Then a while later, He shows up. He. Him.Your best friend. You see His hands, you see His feet and you see where the spear went into His side to test if this man was truly dead. And he was. He was dead; He died. But now He's here! Here is your best friend, alive! He has risen. He died, but He rose again! 

And now,

Jesus is alive.

Knitting Endeavors.

I recently spent a Saturday with my mammar; a lovely, funny, strong-willed and patient lady, not strictly related to me, but one of my grandma's all the same, and the one I see most often. Now, on this particular day she wasn't very well- dizzy and couldn't walk very far- so we decided we'd have some fun which didn't involve much moving around. I've recently been wanting to learn how to knit, and I knew that my mammar is very good knitter, so suggested she taught me- she agreed and I brought some knitting supplies with me to her house. We got to and she showed me first how to cast-on. After trying to knit my first cast-on stitch for a good 20 minutes, my mammar- controlled and measured- suggested I watch her once again. She'd already accumulated 36 cast-on stitches though and was running out of room on her needle. At any rate, I watched once again, huffed and tried to pull the piece of wool through with my right needle. It came through!! Absolutely ecstatic, I slipped it onto my left needle, and proceeded to knit 4 more cast-on stitches, identical to the first. On the 6th, I became stuck once again and the charade repeated itself once more. All was going well!
I then learnt how to knit and purl, catching on pretty quickly after that initial 45 minutes.
Now, my mammar said, you started with 24 stitches, just count how many you have, you've probably dropped a few, beginners often drop a few on their first square!
I had 42 stitches.
Oh, right! I though it looked like a few more than 24... wait, you've picked up 18 stitches? How?!  She exclaimed. Honestly I was about as confused as she was. Anyway, I continued my messy, inconsistent attempt at stocking stitch, ending up with a funny looking Mr Tickle (The Mr Man) sort of shape. I cast off with super-mam's help, and sat looking at my squiggly piece of knitting. We then spent another 5 minutes coming up with ideas of what it was. We settled on pencil warmer...
Yesterday afternoon I had a second wind for knitting and set to work casting on with a nice little 24. I thought I'd be adventurous and follow a pattern this time, having now knitted three squares, with no desire of making a patchwork blanket. The pattern said to change colors and so I followed the instructions on how to do so. It was a bit fiddly but I managed it. Then came the twist; so far on my knitting endeavors, I had only produced pieces of stocking stitch (knit a row, purl a row etc); the pattern said k2p2- knit 2 stitches, purl 2 stitches. I thought I was doing really well, reversing my knits and purls at the end of each row. Then I looked at it on my 6th row. I had a big, messy ball of knots. Not brilliantly sure how I'd managed this I counted my stitches. From starting with that neat 2 dozen, I'd doubled every time I'd purled. With no idea how to correct myself, I unraveled the piece and started again. Half an hour passed and I found myself unraveling the same knotty mess for the third time... I was stuck between a ball of wool and a hard place (insert gory scene from 127 Hours here). I gave up.
Then later last night I realized my mistakes! I once again began to cast on, and soon had finished my first row of k2p2 and was about to start my second when disaster struck! Alas, I had been- yet again- making both of my rookie mistakes. I once again unraveled and sat in an angry state, sipping tea and stocking stitch-ing a phone cover for a friend. She probably won't think much of the knitting, but she'll know I put hard effort and sleepless nights into the crappy, over-sized, elecro-sock I present her with.

That's about it for my knitting skills, if anyone knows how to knit and wants to help me out, I won't say no: just drop a comment and I will excitedly reply with too much time on my hands.

Life's Too Short.

A family friend who'd recently been struggling to look after himself was found unconscious by neighbours last week and rushed to hospital with a bone and flesh infection. He had to have the whole of his left leg amputated up to the hip. He hasn't regained consciousness yet, but imagine the shock he'll get when he stirs. He passed out with two legs and he'll wake up with one; have to learn a completely new lifestyle; have to be explained to by someone he's never met in a language of jargon he doesn't understand that whilst he's been gone his life has changed beyond anything he could have imagined.
It's a shocking and humbling situation, so rare that no one thinks it would ever happen to them. It got me thinking about those things that couldn't happen to me and those which are guaranteed to come upon me, knowing my luck. It made me think, if this was my last day for which I had my life as I know it, how would I live it? Would I turn into one of the craziest partiers out there whilst I still had the chance? Would I submerge myself in a state of mania, do all the things I wished I would then crash and burn when my life was snatched from my sight? Or would I sink into a pit of darkness and ignore the past, focusing on what was to come?
The point isn't what I would do, though and as I've never been put in that situation I can't possibly pass judgement. The point is that we never know what cards we'll be dealt until we look at our whole hand. In a game of blackjack, you wouldn't pick up one of your cards and think game over; this hand can't possibly improve, I'm bust because that's not the way the game works. You pick up both cards, decide if you want another or if you're content with what you have. If you're dealt short with a 2 and a 7 then your choice seems obvious, but an ace and a 7 could leave you gambling with 11 or 1, end up with a large and low hand virtually useless against a 10 and ace or going bust with just 3 cards. At the end of the game it's just potluck- card counting aside- and timing of entering the game. In the same way life is just how it comes. You can't control what you're given and there is no possible way to know which turn the deck will take next. If you want to play at a game of life, you've just got to put one foot in front of the other and step out in faith. In the same way that when you sit in for a game of cards you know that you're letting yourself into a game of luck and chance.

We can't control what we get given in life, but we can control how we cope with it.

I'd like to think that if I woke up after sleeping soundly for two weeks with one less limb, I'd have a time of mourning for my loss, then I'd try and make the best of a bad situation and learn to adapt to my new life. A year ago I would have said something completely different though, and a year from now I'm sure I'll have changed my mind again, but for now I'm not in that situation and I'm thankful for the life I have. I can walk, see, breathe and eat independently and with these abilities I can culture any talents I find on rocky paths. With the lives we've been blessed with, what time have we to waste on anything more than just a blog post to wonder about the what if's and could be's? Life's too short to be wasting away trying to control in our minds those extraneous circumstances which haven't even crossed our paths in life yet- and probably never will be.
Our friend had never made plans on what he'd do if his life had worked out like it has. I don't blame him frankly, I don't think anyone does. But now that this horror is his reality he'll have to start changing the way he thinks, acts and lives. I think things happen for a reason and I think this change has happened to alter the way those around him live their own lives. I think society will need this young man to take the curve-ball he's been given and change his life to give others hope that no situation is damaged beyond repair. I believe he has a greater purpose than just another amputee- I believe he could teach his generation a lesson on how to cope with what we're landed in.
Because the point isn't getting out of your problems.
The point is finding the strength to survive them.

"We are living stories, and we will not give up." - Jamie Tworkowski