A Reflection: I Am Not an Elf

The title will make sense eventually. I admit to being a bit obsessive in my love of all Tolkien. So, if you are not someone who has read the books or watched the movies & loved it, this post is not for you.

I remember reading The Hobbit for the first time. I was in middle school and had just devoured The Chronicles of Narnia and I was ready to jump head first into the world of fantasy. My dear aunt let me borrow her second American edition of The Hobbit, and I couldn’t put it down. Literally. I read as I walked through the school halls between classes. I read during class. (If any of my old teachers read this at some point, I hope it won’t affect my grade.) I stayed up absurdly late reading it.  I laughed and cried with the characters.

And I will never forget when we first meet the Elves. I think everyone is enchanted by the Elves. Who wouldn’t be? Their mystery and otherworldly beauty is captivating. And I wanted to be one. I was memorizing lines in Elvish and plotting my wardrobe change before you could blink.

Years later, I experienced this feeling again when Lord of the Rings came out to theaters. Even the score written for the Elves fits that feeling. Just like Frodo and Sam, we watch with jaws dropped and a sense of awe. And I longed to be one.

But I have come to the realization that I am not an Elf. I will never be Galadriel or Arwen. While I can admire and stare in amazement at such as these, it is not who I am.  I am more like Eowyn, strong but still feminine.  Maybe a little melancholy at times.  At least, like her, I really lucked out on the man I got.  But I am not solemn, and while Elves are beautiful and graceful, I think I am finally beginning to be happy with being a simple Rohirrim maiden.

 

I’m Touched to My Core

I have been working my way through One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp since Christmas.  This book has changed my life, my heart.  Everything really.  I’m counting my gifts and keeping eyes open.  Looking for God.

I also follow her blog.  It’s always a good message with gorgeous pictures.  The way she writes is poetry.  It always seems to hit my heart strings.  Today, though.  Today may have been different.

Her post today at A Holy Experience broke me down entirely.  I read and had I been somewhere quiet, I would have cried and wept until nothing was left.  I may still do so when the moment arises.  Today, I know now that the hardness of my heart has softened.  And words have fallen to tenderize those tough places in my soul.

Why hadn’t I heard about this before?  Why does the world not scream out against such travesty?  And this has led to hard eucharisteo, hard thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving that I, who was a teen pregnancy, is alive when others weren’t allowed that gift.  Thanksgiving despite the horror.  I feel the weight and I wonder how I can bear this.

 

Birds & Beauty

I have had the extreme pleasure of spending my early mornings outside on my front porch.  I have always been drawn to the natural world for inspiration.  Even if I must sit huddled in fleece, sipping coffee, then I will.  And sitting out on my porch, for brief moments, I can see God.

This is not a form of nature worship.  I am not worshiping trees and birds.  But I can see the green fuzz come out on the tree branches and the squirrels chasing each other as they search for nuts, and in that I see the beauty that God has created.  His image mirrored for those with open eyes and a quiet heart.  There is a group of four birds that, every morning, flit about and do a dance in the air.  They swoop, dive and careen around each other in this delicate ballet of aerodynamics.  And I can only sit with my mouth open in amazement.

The robins bob about.  I remember my grandmother telling me that they stop to listen for worms, to explain their stop and start behavior.  And to this day I hold my breath to keep from hindering their hunt.

I find I have to have this time.  Every morning, every day.  It is an incomplete day without this time.  Just me and God mirrored into my eyes.