The summer's gone and all the roses falling

As I was driving home I noticed the moon shining kindly on me. It was as if it were laughing at my melancholic face, all the while knowing that the next time I see it again my view will no longer be obstructed by the evergreen trees.

Tonight is the last night I sleep in Washington, for a few months at least. I am reminded of the emotions I felt four years ago when I was a freshman going off to boarding school an hour away. Even now I try to assure myself that it will be the same as I leave for university, but I know it isn't.

Summer's Requiem No. 2

IT IS a very early Saturday morning and I ought to go to bed since my parents get upset when I wake up late on Sabbath, but I can sense a rush of thoughts in my mind that beg for release. So here I am tonight writing.

Quite often in my young life I will question and doubt my faith. I do read a lot, and the National Geographic and other literary substances will generally push for an evolutionary agenda. This leaves me feeling like I should accept what most of the educated world accepts.

Or I may find myself thinking about society and the world today and I'll come to the conclusion that religion follows a pattern that can be predicted, and that we are all we need to create a better future.

And when I find myself discouraged and downcast with the way the world turns - when I prefer humanism over hymns or Darwin over the desire of ages - I think about something that gives me hope.

An old man once said that to be an Adventist doesn't mean to just believe Jesus is coming soon, but to absolutely love the thought of it. Alas when I find myself distraught with church doctrine, world problems, or sinful people, I go back to the essence of my Adventist faith. I get homesick for a place I've never been to.

How can humanity be torn between doing evil and desiring a better day? Only a creative power could have instilled within the human soul the hope for something better.

It's so strange to want to go home, to a place I've never been to, but I can forcefully call it home.

Quelle pagaille mon écriture est

I am a failure and you have made me one, Summer's Requiem No. 1

AS I wait for my piece of technology to finish updating, I write haphazardly the first part of a requiem for summer.

The title of this post is a part of an infamous quote by former President Clinton. I often feel that that statement always applies to me.

For every year that I've had this blog, it has been a tradition for me to write about how miserable my summer was and how I didn't accomplish the things I wanted to.

Pas la fin

Somebody Else's Thoughts, No. 2

The Lord feeds some of His prisoners better than others.
It could be said of Him that He is not a just god but an
indifferent god.
That He is not to be trusted to reward the righteous and
punish the unscrupulous.
That He maketh the poor poorer but is otherwise
undependable.
It could be said of Him that it is His school of the germane
that produced the Congressional Record.
That it is His vision of justice that gave us cost accounting.
It could be said of Him that though we walk with Him all
the days of our lives we will never fathom Him
Because He is empty.
These are dark images of our Lord
That make it seem needful for us to pray not unto Him
But ourselves.
But when we do that we find that indeed we are truly lost
And we rush back into the safer fold, impressed by His care
for us.

Reed Whittemore

True North

I recently took a brief excursion to Canada. Of all the places I travel, I always feel quite comfortable in British Columbia, probably because it's not a rural country place or in the South.

On one of the evenings I was sitting alone in a steam room at the hotel when one boy popped his head in the door. "Um. Hello," he said awkwardly, as he came in followed by a crew of other boys, ranging from 6 to 16. After intermittent conversation with each other, the room was silent. One of them greeted me in an attempted obnoxious fashion, "Hi."

"Hi there."

"What's your name?"
I responded.

"Are you a traveler?"

I figured maybe I should pretend I'm student roaming around, and I responded so.

"Where are you from?"

"America"

"You don't look fat like an American. Not that you're fat or anything, or Americans are fat. or.."

"No I understand. I have these premonitions of Canadians as well. Do you put maple syrup on everything?"

And we continued from there.

They told me about the polar bears they had to ride to school from their igloos, and admitted they joked that Americans live in McDonald's restaurants, all while purposefully concluding their sentences with something that sounds like the first letter of the alphabet. I'm not sure.

One of the more intelligent ones explained that Canada's right-wing is not as right as America's, which is why homosexual marriage is legal there. I was at least glad they approved of Obama, while showing contempt for his predecessor.

I was getting tired of acting like a foreign journalist talking to children in an underprivileged country, so I excused myself. A younger Canuck quipped back, "Come back and we can ice fish at my igloo eh?"