A new look--again.

I changed my look again, because the old page only allowed one post to show up at a time.  Thus, limiting my ability to post twice in one day, should I have a hankerin'.  I like it.  I hope you do to.

V.I.P. That's right.

As of Monday I became a VIP at the Nabi plasma donation center.  Basically, this means my plasma has lots of Hepatitis B antigens, I get paid more, and I get to put VIP after my name when I sign in, moving my name and file to the very top of the list.  I'm not sure why, but the whole thing makes me feel like a rap star, and I am considering getting some bling with my initial on it.

Brrrrrr (I'm feeling poetic)

There's something quiet about the cold, something private.

Perhaps it's the way we hunch over keeping our arms as close to our sides as possible, our hands tucked into pockets.

With our ears to our shoulders, we do not invite the friendly conversations or simple nods hello from passersby.  

As we enter into the warmth of inside, we stand up, we loosen ourselves both physically and relationally.  We say hello.

Verbally Processing This Thing Called Hope

I have been pondering hope lately, not just hope in the Lord and His promises, which is ultimately hope, but the demeanor of hope as it sits on a person's soul.  Hope can be so freeing.  It doesn't so much sit on one's soul, but it makes is float, it holds it up.  But as a realist, hope is terrifying for me, even after writing that last description.  Hope gives up control.  It throws itself into an exhilarating free-fall from a mountaintop and risks the possibility of incredible pain.  The knowledge of the risk of pain causes me to reign in any hope in which I might surely enjoy and revel.I know that I have issues and pain that I need to work through, but why do I not risk hoping, seeing its potential to bring life?  Even as I process this, I am so enticed to hope, but it seems like a monster under my bed ready to grab my leg and bite it off.  Arrrrg!  Hope!