From: God To: Ecuador

Freely you have received, freely give.  I'm sending you out like sheep among wolfs.  Therefore, be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.  All men will hate you because of me.  But he who stands firm to the end will be saved.  Whoever acknowledges me before men, I will also acknowledge him before my father in heaven.
Whoever finds his life will loose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.

(Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send?  And who will go for us?"  And I said, "Here I am.  Send me!")

My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work.  As you sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world.  

Peace be with you!  As the father has sent me, I am sending you.
How then, can they call on the one they have not believed in?  And how can they believe in the one whom they have not heard?  And how can they hear without someone preaching to them?  And how can they preach unless they are sent?  As it is written, 'how beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!'  So is my word that goes out from my mouth, it will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
You will go out in joy, and be lead forth in peace.  Go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

 From: God

Lord willing, I'm going on a missions trip to Loja Ecuador in March, 2018, from the 2nd to the 10th.  Several months ago my dear elderly sister (Mary Poppins) posted about this trip on her blog.  (Read it.  She's pretty great.) And as I read, I felt the sudden urge to go with her.  I sent God some prayers about it and he sent me some replies.  So here I go.
To say I'm not nervous would be a lie.  In this trip we will partnering with translators and local church members to go from house to house sharing about Jesus, about salvation, and also providing free medical assistants.  Me and Mary Poppins would love it if you would pray for us and the team, that God would speak through us, and that he would be preparing the hearts of those who will hear it.  Less then 1% of the population has a personal relationship with God.
I also signed up short notice, and have to raise over $2,775 by February and have half the funds by Thanksgiving in about 5 and a half  weeks.  If you would like to help me in answering Gods call in that way, you can give on my fund raising page:

https://www.purecharity.com/emily-newtons-fundraiser-for-loja-ecuador-ec18a/r/backers

I'm also selling wrist bands for $4.  Let me know if you're interested in buying one and I'll find a way to get it you.

Marry Poppin's blog:
 http://secretlifeofliddy.blogspot.com/2017/10/octoberthankfulnesschallenge.html

Verses referenced:
Mathew 10:8, 16, 22, 32, 39, Isaiah 6:8, John 4:34, 17:18, 20:21, Romans 10:14, Isaiah 55:11, 12, 28:19

Domino Duel

Elemis:  *Facing her desk.  Head phones on.  Pretending to be productive.  She swivels in her chair, and jolts.*  "Domino?  What are you doing here?"

Domino:  *Sitting on the bed facing her.  Hands in hoodie pockets*  "You forgot about me."

Elemis:  "Haha!  I did not forget about you.  I just actively choose not to think about you."

Domino:  "It kinda hurts."

Elemis:  "Well maybe you could suck it up and see it through my socks for once."

Domino:  "I'm still here."

Elemis:  "I know.  Could you quit haunting me?  You're a writer too, you should understand.  I can't write you right now.  Maybe later.  It doesn't mean I don't care about you-"

Domino:  *interrupting*   "You left us."

Elemis:  "No.  YOU left ME."

Domino:  "I'm right here."

Elemis:  "No, no, no you're not.  Your a dead kid in my dead story, buried in an extensive abyss of deleted files.  So why can't you just leave me alone?"

Domino:  "Well I guess that's the thing about dead people.  And stories.  They don't just leave you in peace."

Elemis:  *Covers face with hands.*  "Do you know how much I put into you?"

Domino:  "Then don't give up on us."

Elemis:  "I just want to have someone to blame besides myself.  Don't you get it?  I'm not writing you any more because I'm scared you're going to get lost on me again.  This isn't the first time I've lost a story."

Domino:  "Did you ever think you may have lost me for a reason?"

Elemis:  "Yes.  And I can find no reason.  Just a blurb that says, 'sorry, this file is corrupted" And I'm trying to find you but I can't.  I can't rewrite you.  Not after all we've been through."

Domino:  "Okay, forget about my story, now start thinking about your own story.  Now look at me.  There are things I never told you about myself.  I was waiting to speak to you because you didn't understand, but now I think you do.  Now I think I can tell you more about my story.  And now you'll know how to write it."

Elemis:  "Nooo, that doesn't work.  My imagination.  I'm in charge."

Domino:  "My story.  I'm in charge.  I never told you some things because I didn't think you would write it very well."

Elemis:  "Well zeesh, thanks."

Domino:  "Now I think you can.  Now I think you understand.  You had to wait."

Elemis:  "I don't have the energy."

Domino:  "Think about Savy.  Think about Qym.  Think about me.  Now keep writing our story.  Don't give up on us."

  

Susan

This poem is based on the Susan from the Chronicles of Narnia.  I grew up with Narnia.  Being in the play (The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe) I've been thinking about it a lot more.  In the book series, you find out in the last book that Susan stops believing in Narnia.  I always wondered why.  Something that the actress of Susan told us really stuck with me.  She said, "Susan thought so much about what other people thought of her, that Narnia didn't matter any more."

I never thought of it that way.  I think about my own faith, I live it and breathe it, I can't imagine life without God.  

I also can't imagine a day going by that I don't think about what other people think of me, and what I can do to be better accepted.

She thought so much about what others thought of her, that Narnia didn't matter anymore. 
Susan is a fictional character.  Unfortunately there are a lot (all) of the characters in Narnia I have a hard time accepting as fictional.  Because I feel like I've met them all before.  Aslan.  Edmund.  Puddle Glum.  Jill.  Peter.  And Susan.  Weak willed Susan's, like me.

I'm a little sibling with a perfect older sister or two, so I found it easy to write this poem though Lucy's point of view.  (No, I'm not playing Lucy in the play.  I'm playing the evil minion dwarf.  So I shouldn't be so sentimental.  It takes some effort to keep myself from crying while Aslan is being killed).  

Susan 

Susan, 

My sister, 

Lucy here.

Remember that time,

We were filled with fear?

You covered my eyes, 

And held me tight, 

And sang me a song 

About wrong and right.

Susan, 

Remember, 

That touch of snow,

When your eyes were opened,

To what you didn't know.

That my magical world

Was actually real.

One you could touch, 

Taste

And feel.

And together we laughed,

Like you could care less,

About your looks, 

Your hair, 

Or your dress.

I captured that moment,

And held it that way

To hang on my wall 

For another day.

Susan,

Remember 

When the dark one's came,

And slaughtered our hope, 

As we watched in vain?

And we knew that nothing

Would be the same.

Then the stone table broke,

We jumped at the sound,

We saw the dark

Crumble to the ground.

When our hope arose

By the break of day,

Alive from the dead,

And evil fled away.

Susan,

Don't you remember our joy?

Why don't you remember the light?

We fought,

We danced, 

We smiled again, 

All in our perfect sight.

Susan, 

Susan, 

Where have you gone?

What are you trying to find?

In the Wardrobe between

What you believe,
And you left Narnia behind.

Susan,

You left it all behind.

Lost in the pleasure of things.

When you look in the mirror,

And then you find,

What these shallow joy's will bring.

Susan, 

My sister, 

Lucy here, 

And I don't know what to do

Without my Susan.

But I'm still right here.

I'm in Narnia waiting for you.

At Last

At Last 

The ground is gone,

So why look down?

We wither away,

But why do we frown?

This is the end.

So why don't we sing?

Music is life,

But it's life that we cling.

The world is fading,

We're fading fast.

I see it in your eyes, 

It's over at last.

But why do you cry,

As if we failed?

Come to the boat,

Together we'll sail.

Tonight we die,

So get up and dance.

Pick up your music,

This is our last chance.

Then sit down beside me,

Under the stars.

We'll raise up our coffee,

For the horizon's not far.

I think I'm quite ready for another adventure

-Bilbo 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6HHnCQModx8

(Stones under Rushing Water; Neetobreathe).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2fngvQS_PmQ

(I See Fire; Ed Sheeran) 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=shdiTRxTJb4 

(Into the West; Lord of the Rings, Return of the King) 

Addings and Endings

First thing in the morning; I attack my journal.
I need to scribble everything down, all my anger and anxiety and embarrassment and worry.  I'm afraid.  I'm afraid because I'm too stupid for the world, because I'm too short and homely, because my future is a big blank peace of paper, because I'm not good enough or smart enough or pretty enough to survive in the acting world.

I write faster and faster, I'm on a roll, and just then I flip my journal over and I hit the back cover.  Right in mid sentence, my pen hovers over the dead end.  I didn't realize that that was the last page of my journal.
You may wonder why this is such a catastrophe.  Well, imagine that you're driving to Chick-fill-a and your starving and you see the sign in the distance and your so pumped for a chicken sandwich, just to get there and realize that it's Sunday.
Not only did my journal just while I was on a roll, but it also gave me a very lame ending.  Even if the middle of my journals are dirt, if it has a lovely opening and a lovely closing, then I feel satisfied before I tuck it away with the other Chronicles of my life.  But no.  This was the worst way to end a journal.  No redemption.  No hopeful comment.  Just some dumb rambling and complaining over some meaningless things.
I toss the journal and go scrounging about my basement like a scrappy ally cat, looking for a notebook.
I'm so angry at myself for not anticipating the journals end.  I was so busy worrying that I didn't bother to look ahead.

I think I got a glimpse of death.  No, no, I don't care that much about my journals, but isn't this kinda like how death works?

I recently watched the movie 'A Beautiful Mind' and one part in particular stuck with me.  When John is sitting there, and he asks what is there to do with his life.  And his wife answers that you can find anything to do, just add meaning.

When I come to the end of my journal, my life, I don't want to be worrying and complaining about all the things I listed above.
I have hands for writing.  Eye's for art.  A voice for people.
When people ask me what my dream car is, I reply, "Anything as long as it's simple, it takes me places, and has it's own weird look so I can find it in a parking lot."  Only recently have I figured out that I was describing me.
Careers.  Colleges.  Jobs.  Dreams.  Goals.  Hopes.  Adulting.  These things are kind of like the dream car I was talking about.  Passions, goals, they're your Tardis.  Your suit case.  You don't go anywhere without them.  But what's the point of a suit case if it's empty?  Because, friends, our journals are coming up on their last pages and we don't realize it.

Humans Crack Me Up

I go to the zoo.  My friends and I discuss pranks we should play on the zookeepers.  We come up with a brilliant plan to waltz up to a zoo keeper and humbly and modestly inform her that the monkeys are naked.  We think this is hilarious and I volunteer for the job.
Giggling and pulling out their phones to take videos, my friends nudge me and motion to the employee slumped against the wall of the monkey exhibit.  I nod and give them the okay, creeping over to the young lady in a theatrically nervous, slightly embarrassed manner.
I cough, "Um, excuse me, but-um...The monkey's are naked."
Employee stares at me, expression as blank as her glasses.  "You think your funny?"
Darn.  She's one of those people.
"Heh," I shrug, continuing the act, "Just didn't know if-you know-that was a problem or not..."
Now she's showing some expression.  I should wrap it up before I get strangled.

Two hours later my friend comes up to me and dares me to start dancing in front of the crowed to win a free funnel cake.  So I do.  Of course.  (If you'd like to call it dancing).
And the man at the snack bar gives us a free funnel cake....
And I'm like,

How am I supposed to learn my learn my lessons? 

Humans crack me up.  I love seeing their reactions to things.  Analyzing their characters.  One of my favorite things to do is watch people.  Which is terribly rude and creepy and socially unacceptable and I wouldn't suggest it.  But really, people are fascinating.  

I thought I was good at people's characters.  I write them out like maps, like equations in my head, and then they do things completely unexpected, and I erase all my notes and wonder what I did wrong.  People are kind of like science, I'm bad at it. 

I've done a lot of dumb things this year.  It's been quite entertaining.  I mean, I don't have Netflix.  I have to actually physically entertain myself.

Ooh, ooh, how about this one:

Me:  "Hey Mom, you can drop me off at the cafe, I'll just walk to the library for filming."

Mom:  "You sure?  You wont have much time."
Me:  "Pffff, sure I have time!  It's right across the street!"

😐

Well.  After a lovely cup of coffee and chat with the employees and a mad rush to memorize lines, I look at my watch and realize I'm already late.  I rush out the door, a lovely neon green sign in front of me that says, 'Library' with a little stick figure reading a book.  And I walk left...

I eventually come back to my senses (or, what ever sense I am capable to attain), cursing myself and looking for a rock to smash my head on.

People laugh when I tell them that my natural humanly sense of navigation is broken.  Then I tell them this story and they stop laughing.

Then there was the time I was volunteering at a concert at a booth selling band swag, whom for the moment I had to pretend I liked.  After the concert, I start stacking chairs.  No, volunteering and stacking chairs does not mean I am a virtuous person.  But I suppose you've already gathered that.

The fancy car pulls up beside us as we work, containing two men with lovely hair, stern expressions and sunglasses.

"That's them!  Form the concert!" My friends exclaim, taking turns peeking over the chair stacks to take a look at the celebrities.  "Ha!" Say's me, in all my jealousy and arrogance, "They think they're so cool!  They're rich they can afford a fancy car with fancy sunglasses and phones and black jackets just so they can look like super undercover spy dudes!  Look them!  Just to impress the chicks!  Ha!  I bet they-"

That's when I shut up.  Oh, I would have continued.  I was pumped.  Until I realize that during my entire sass rage, their window was rolled down...

Yes, I've been pretty top notch stupid this year.  Then there was that time my friend and I dressed up in fluffy princess dresses and flounced around Walmart...I'm not even going to go into that.  Perhaps another day in the Adventures of Dr. Elemis Pott and How She Entertains Herself.  Within the last few days I've managed to accidentally walk down the men's hall, wonder why a friend hadn't arrived after I already greeted them and they stood not a foot away from me, almost get clobbered if not for someone shoving me back in line, (this is all within three minutes of a day mind you) run into Captain America and spill coffee all over her, forget three pages of a script and an entire scene I was supposed to perform that day, I forgot my pants, (not even kidding) forgot my watch, my food, my age, and I chugged almost an entire bowl of orange punch, straight from the bowl.  And that's only within a few days.  Oh but there's more.
On fourth of July I set my backyard on fire, and hours later, set off illegal fire works.  The cops showed up.  But all that wasn't entirely my fault.  Then I proceeded to sing classic patriotic songs around the camp fire.  Like, "You'll Be Back" from Hamilton, and "Taylor the Latte Boy."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fdxLohjwhoQ

(You'll Be Back.  A song written in the POV of Kind George as a 'Love' Song to America).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXS0nEOx_20

(Taylor the Latte Boy....yeah..)

Oooooh and so much more.  If I had time and energy and no life then I could continue.  It would never end.  Which makes me sad because I know I'm forgetting something juicy that will torment me for not writing about.  But it's a burden that children like me have to bare.

Make it A Story Challenge: By MMC (My Mutant Cousin)

No, my cousin is not mutant.  On the contrary she is quite normal (in a good sense), peaceful, beautiful, loving, and wise.  Which makes her hidden ninja side even scarier....

Thank you so much for your incredible stories MMC!  (And sorry.  I'll come up with a better nick name for you...)

If you don't know what the Make it a Story Challenge is, go back a four blog posts and read about how it works.  I'd love to hear your stories!

Monster Stories, by MMC

Cory carried monsters.
He held his green-and-orange backpack in front of him, trying to rush out the door before his parents could notice that it was wiggling. Snap – or Sneak – let out a muffled growl.
“Cory? Did you need that waiver today?”
Cory leaned his head back into the house. “Augh-awhat?” he yelled, to cover the sound of another growl.
“For the natural history museum,” his mom replied patiently.
“Nope Mom it’s oooooo-kay!” Cory called, stifling a yelp as a sharp tail poked him through the backpack. “I’ll just get it in tomorrow!”
“Your trip is today.”
“That’s-fine-actually-Dad-got-it-bye!”
Cory ran out of the house. On the bus, he forged a signature onto the waiver.
While the noisy class sat in the dark space section of the museum, Cory snuck away to the “Prehistoric Oceans” display. He knelt and peeked under the display platform.
Yellow eyes winked at him.
Cory opened his backpack. Snap and Squeak untangled themselves, and stared up with the same yellow eyes.
Cory hugged them, bristly scales and all, then pushed them under the display. Happy squeals came from under the platform. He thought he could recognize Sneak’s.
He turned to go. His face felt hot, and his eyes filled with tears.
A tall green monster stopped him, and held out a hand.
Cory shook it.

Lyssa searched for monsters.
The lone lantern on the bow of her gondola gave weak light to the canal. She gave a clumsy stoke with her oar, and warm water splashed her bare arms. Her purple dress might be wet too, soon.
Uppity restaurants lined the canal, outdoor porches and tables twinkling with lights. Businesspeople chatted and sipped wine. But here in the middle of the canal, the music and chatter dimmed.
Lyssa should be back at the legal party, smiling, chatting, making connections in her new career. Only children believed in monsters.
She paddled slowly to the canal light where two waterways intersected. No one else was out here – no humans, at least.
She had been chatting with a young lawyer at the party, leaning on a rail by the water. He had complimented her work on the last case, and she had looked down, pleased but embarrassed.
Yellow eyes had winked in the water.
Lyssa stopped paddling in the intersection and scanned the canals. She was too old for this. But those eyes had called up half-forgotten memories – or fantasies? Yellow eyes. A scaly tail. A feathered face and curious fuzzy nose.
Fantasy. The overactive imagination of a lonely child. Lyssa was past that now.
She bowed her head.
And something splashed behind her.
It jumped into the boat – yellow, curious eyes – and nuzzled into her lap.

Sophie played with monsters.
She told Kent that when he came to play during the parents meeting, and he said that his brother said that monsters aren’t real. But his brother was wrong then, because but they ARE. REAL.
Sophie told Kent that, but he said no, his brother is ALWAYS right.
Sophie didn’t want to play with Kent after that. Which is why it was okay to be in time-out for yelling. Kent was stupid anyway. Sophie WANTED to be in time out.
Except she yelled that, too, and kicked at the bed, which got her in more trouble.
But the really bad part was after the meeting, when she had sat there and calmed down and even said sorry to Kent. Kent left, and Sophie started to get happy again, because time-out was over and there were extra peanut-butter cookies from the adults. But then the parents had said no, don’t go outside yet, sit here and we can talk while you eat your cookie.
Then they said that monsters weren’t really real.
Sophie took her cookie and ran outside after that. She sat on the dock by the canal and cried.
Yellow and Yellow Two came first, sitting by her with their stripy feet and looking at her with big eyes.
Big Tooth nuzzled her with his fuzzy head.
The fish monsters poked their heads out of the water and waited.
Finally, Sophie slowed down her crying and broke up her cookie to share.
She played with her monsters till the sun went down.

Mattie wrote for monsters.
She sat backstage, because she did scene changes for the play, and wrote the story in her head.
She had been sitting on a tall stool, reading a book while the main swordfight scene went on. It was a long scene about an evil dragon. The book she was reading was about an invasion of alien lizards.
That was when Mattie thought – what if there were good monsters?
Mattie imagined the story. The sword-woman in her cloak – the sword-woman was Mattie, now – would be fighting an evil dragon with red scales and dirty teeth. She would be fighting bravely, but then she would trip and fall.
And that was when the good monsters would come.
They would be green and scaly, with yellow glowing eyes, and they would climb over the dragon and attack it with their teeth.
Mattie could imagine them the clearest. After the monsters had helped Mattie the sword-woman to kill the dragon and save a couple mountain towns from total destruction, they would stay with her for a while.
Their skin was rough and scaly, but they had round, curious eyes, and they would never hurt her.
Making up the monsters felt more and more like remembering them.

Anna fished for monsters.
Her mom said not to go too close to the canals, but Anna was older now. Old enough to finish school, soon. Old enough to know that her grandma’s old stories, of green, scaly monsters who liked peanuts, were just stories. Old enough to know that the canals were dangerous now.
But Anna still wondered.
So she covered a hook in peanut butter and snuck out to Old Town. There used to be restaurants here, but now they were musty old gift shops.
Behind one was a canal intersection, with an almost-drowned canal light in the center.
Anna swam to the light with her fishing pole and climbed up. She dangled the hook into the water.
Anna imagined her grandmother here, years ago, in a wooden gondola. The water was probably lower then.
Anna wondered if she should be scared. Probably not. If there were still monsters here, they would be out at night, like in Grandma’s stories. Her mind wandered as she sat there in the sun.
She heard a quiet splash and looked down.
Her fishing line jerked, and her pole flew out of her hands and disappeared.
She thought she heard a gulp, muffled by the water.
A yellow eye the size of a plate emerged from the surface.
It winked.

Janika lived with monsters.
Some people worshipped them. When an ocean-lizard raised its great head, they prayed to it. When a rumble-hill opened a grassy eye, they sang special songs.
Some people feared them. Janika’s grandparents built their house on a stone plateau, far from rumble-hills and pesky earth-diggers.
But Janika thought the monsters were just animals, like dogs or parrots. Like all of God’s creatures, just – bigger.
She didn’t worship them. You don’t worship dogs, you worship God for giving them to you.
She didn’t fear them, either. The rumble-hills were huge, yes, but they never crushed anyone. They just looked at you patiently, and if they moved that did it at the pace of a snail.
She’d even seen an ocean-lizard, once. She had gone to the docks with other tourists to throw peanut-packages into the water, and it ate her package and winked a giant yellow eye. Her little brother squealed and hid behind her leg, but Janika thought it was a friendly wink. She read stories about when the monsters had been smaller, and they never hurt people then. They played with children.
That was why Janika decided that when she grew up, she would live on a rumble-hill.
One hill, in particular. It stayed close to Janika’s house, in a little valley across the road. She named it Grain, for the wheat that sometimes grew on it. She built herself a swing on Grain’s tree, and when she played on him, his deep rumbles sounded happy.
Janika’s friends said she was crazy, but she just smiled and read her stories of monsters.