Scatter Brained, Can You Tell?

So I often visit blogger. Read blogs, search blogs, admire blog designs, read more blogs that were referenced in other blogs, looks at blogs with pictures, look at blogs with cakes, look at blogs with crafts, and drawings and funny stories about their dog named Pete, ect. And it came to my attention that I haven't written in a blog in an almost 3 weeks...wow. Really...wow. So while thinking of that and reading some more blogs I've decided that I am going to write a blog three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. You are all welcome to hold me to that, all wonderful four of you (insert smiley face here).


So now that we've covered that, I'm going to actually blog....so a while ago I mentioned two tales. I've told one and have forgotten most of the major details of the other...oops. The major jist of it all was that I made yummy apple cider at the Rust farm. I helped cut the apples, leaving my hands cut and bruised and sore, and then helped strain and seperate the juice. The rest was left to the wonderful Melissa who cooked up a pot or two of the deliciously infectious nector of absolute bliss. The boys did most of the hard work though crushing and juicing the apples. Non the less, it was fun. Afterwards we all gathered in the living room and I played with Little Miss Cora and chatted simultaneously with the darling Sydney who talked of school and Wyatt who mumbled about halloween costumes (incase your wondering he wants to be either: Bugs Bunny or a pirate...my suggestion be Bugs Bunny dressed up as a pirate- problem solved). It was a very enjoyable night.

A lot, a lot, a lot, has happened since. Working, going to Thursday Night Football games, breakfast with the gang and a much delusional Illy, coffee with the woman every Tuesday, good skits, funny skits, embarressing skits, outreaches and revivals; so so so much, I don't know how I could put it all down on screen...(I hope you guys caught the joke).
Anyways, I hope to share more of them with you, especially with my new blog regimen.
-Toby K.

My Second Home, My Second Family.

In my last post I made mention of fun tales about adventure and excitement that took place this last weekend. I am proud to announce that I am now going to share those very tales.

The first tale of mine takes us all the way back to Saturday afternoon where I recieved invitation to a barbeque. After leaving work at 4pm I drove the thirty minutes out to Rickreall. I may have been 2 and a 1/2 hours late but as far as I was concerned the party had just begun.
I walked through the doors of the Rust house and met Melissa sitting in a deserted living room with the sounds of gun fire coming from the field in the back. I could hardly contain myself with news of the cause- a shoot-out! Melissa quickly escorted me through the knee high tall grass to a mowed out section of the field where we found fifteen or so men scattered around a make-shift tent surrounded by guns, bullets the size of one of my fingers, and orange plastic disks.
As I walked into the group I could hear my name being called every which way, followed by the question, "So are you gonna shoot?".
I smiled and greeted, but was strong in my stand against complete and utter humiliation that would come if I took hold of one of those guns; I was absolutley adamant...But with Robby's firm tug on my sleeve I was off (still in protest) towards the field.
"Here", Robby said, reaching back to hand me his baseball cap, "it'll keep the sun out of your eyes".
"Robby, I really don't wanna do this" I said slidding my ponytail through the opening in the back of the hat, adjusting it straight.
Robby continued to ignore my protest and instead lead me in introduction with a very large slick black strapping piece of machinery.
"Robby, why are you giving me the biggest gun in the world?" I said, trying to muster up enough strength to keep the gun from wobbling out of my arms.
"Because this is my gun" he said.
"Oh, okay...", I said, because what he said sure did make a whole lot of sense- not.
Non the less I followed his directions, and took my place on the square wooden cut-out that he brought me to.
"Pull!" I yelled, fired, and missed. But the rush, the pulsing surge of energy that gets sent through every muscle of your body and the immediate retraction as if it was being sucked back out! Oh, the feeling if anything is worth the missed shot. So again I reestalished my position and yelled out the order, "Pull!"; and again I missed. I continued like this till about my fourth shot. I repositioned my footing, leveled the gun, and waited as the first shooter yelled, "pull". Finally I heard the wooshing sound of the birdie whip into motion and after the first shooters failed attempt I aimed my gun, fired, and devestated the disk into a dozen flying pieces. A roar went up behind me as I turned to Robby with curious eyes, "Was that me? Did I hit it Robby?!", but before Robby even had time to answer, the crowd behind him began yelling congragulations and excitment.
The thrill of it all was breathtaking, phenominal, stunning, overwhelming, boggling, simply undescribable.
The rest of the night went more serenly to say the least. I spent the last few hours of the evening and the first few of the morning lounging in a cushioned rocking chair watching old movies from the 60's and 70's with the Dixon girls, as the Dixon men occupied the master-bedroom with three large televisons all of which displaying the gruesome, grotesque, and unquestionably stunning effects of the phenoman better known as HALO. Reguardless to say, the night was spent, not intune with the dialogue that came from our television, but rather the dialogue that came bursting from the back room. "No! Don't do that!" "Wait! What are you getting out of the car for?!" "Dang it! I just died."

The night ended with the velvety hum of my car's engine as I followed close behind the tail lights of more experienced drivers, and with the welcoming call of my unmade bed.

My evening, less to say, was unparalleled.
-Toby K.

(P.S. the second tale will be arriving shortly)

In the Valley of the Shadow of Death

I'm a child of many colors, a lady of many faults, and a woman of many convictions.

This phrase alone could describe, not only my entire life, but just the last 100 or so hours. It's phenominal how much has taken place in such a short time. I had my first breakdown with Pastor Foley this last Sunday evening.
Through out the entire service I struggled with condemnation. I kept looking down at my service journal (Reagan) fore everytime I'd lift my head and look into Pastors scanning eyes my stomach would churn with mounding conviction. Oh Lord, I thought, what do I do?
Even during the very intense altar call, (upon which I refused to go to the altar), my body felt limp beneath my lifted hands. I sang aloud praying inside mouthing words of worship. Oh Lord, I beg of you...help. And yet I still refused to approach the altar as we began a second round of singing. Fear of a let down much like that mornings altar call, inwhich I practically ran to the platform with conviction and then left with even more condemnation, kept me paralyzed at my seat.
Then through the silence, wringing my hands tightly under my chin, a voice spoke the words of the Lord..."-and I will help you in every situation your in"...at that very moment I knew: it was time to talk to Pastor.
After service I watched as Pastor spoke with various church members and I slowly made my way to the platform waiting for my turn. My palms sweat, my heart raced, my mind seemed blurred.
"Pastor, do you think we could talk?" I finally choked out.
"Yes, ofcourse." he said looking around, "Can it wait it minute though? I have few people I need to talk to".
"Oh yeah, take your time, really, I'm in no rush," and I stepped to the side waiting down the minutes. I tried distracting myself with light conversation slowly stepping into the circle of girls. I followed their words with a smile and even managed to fake a laugh at appropriate times; then he came.
Sitting on stage, starring out my knees, I poured out my soul. It didn't take long for the tears to come flooding out and for my voice to begin cracking between breaths. After I layed out what appeared more like a confession rather that a query, I looked up to see Pastor struggling to suppress a smile.
"Don't feel condemned" he said.
"Just don't?" I asked.
"Just don't. You know what you did, you know it was wrong; you've repented and taken care of it. You won't do it again, so don't worry about it. Just don't." he said, this time sporting a no longer concealed smile.
"Thank you Pastor." I said and walked off the platform with new alleviation. My first target was ofcourse the strategically placed box of tissues, and my second, the bathroom where I splashed cool water on my flushed cheeks. All I could do was sigh with closed eyes as the cold water trickled down to my collarbones...Oh Lord, thank you. Thank you a million times backwards. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Almight God, thank you.

Rather than dealing with my condemnation head on I decided to stash it under my mattress where it built and built, soon becoming the size of a small elephant. There's no shame in talking to my Pastor, even if it was infront of half the congregation miggling between aisles.


There's much more to my eventful weekend, joyful things that I want to tell you about so bad, but my fingers are a tad tired so I will have to save the fun stories for another time.
But for now, too-da-loo.
-Toby K.

Favorable Sunday Afternoon

Today I spent the day at the park. After church I came home, changed into something more comfortable, and wandered over to the park a few blocks away from my house. Tthere were no more than 10 people there (a mom and her children, a few resting basketball players, and a couple stray teenagers) but they didn't stay long so before I knew it I had the park all to myself. I took the time to do some writting and then b-lined it to the swings. I spent 20 minutes swinging back and forth starring up at the planes floating by overhead. I'd close my eyes and arch my back flying towards the sky and then bounce into the seat as gravity sent me hurdling backward, my hair rushing past my face. After coming to a slow stop I found a nice shaded spot in the grass, put on some tunes and fell asleep right there in the park. Even after I was awake I still layed there watching the clouds move in and out of motion. Eventually I stood up from the grass, grabbed my stuff, and set on the adventure back home, it was a short adventure but an adventure at that.
Today the hours were slow and I still have two more to fill, but those few hours alone at the park were pure bliss. They made my Sunday worth something nice.

Here's one of the pieces I wrote at the park:

Natalies Dance
She patterns herself with reds and blues and oranges and violets and maroons.
Her blonde curls bouncing with the summers breeze.
Dangling limbs gait across weeds and dandelions.
Her arms stretch out far beside her as she runs,
head hanging down watching her bobbying shoes.
Radiance finds home in her laughter,
and she favors us with it often.
Carefree, beautified, and contentful, all show themselves in her,
coming out in every fluid breath and moment.
The world waits on her shoulders,
shyly she whispers to it- "knock-knock",
and she giggles.

-Toby K.

The Bones We Were

When the dead hear the bones begin to rumble beside,
They will arise, arise.

When the dead see their armor fashioned and polished,
They will arise, arise.

When the dead begin to be called away by name,
They will arise, arise.

When the dead stand before their Creator, the King,
They will arise, arise.

When the dead become the redeeemed,
We will arise, arise.

-Toby K.

Sleepless In McMinnville

I can't sleep and I feel the dawn approaching quickly. I lay here in the dark listening to the sound of my feet shuffling in and out of my blankets. The nights are the most lonliest time; theres no one awake to talk you down from this insomniac state and the only thing willing to keep you company are the whitewash walls starring back you shadowed by streetlamp light and tree branches. My computer rests on my carpet and I hang half my body over the edge of my bed typing away the seconds. My hands look old in this faint light and I watch them as they sluggishly move across the keyboard. I wonder how many more sleepless nights this summer will bring me fore many have already come in the passing months.
Today I sat outside in a small field behind my house on a stump in the middle of a bushel of wildflowers. The breeze was cool and the bee's were friendly. I took the time to write a letter, not that letter writting is any sort of a favorite past time of mine, but it gave me something to do. I wrote to a friend that I miss dearly, one I haven't seen in countless days and one I won't see for countless more. I told them about the weather, how warm the sun was on my bare feet, and about how absolutley cloudless the sky was. I told them about the grass...oh how sweet it smelled, as if the very essence of summer rested in it's ability to smell as sweet as it did. I could here tennis players passing the ball back and forth at the campus nearby and I told my friend about that too; about how the ball popped everytime it slammed into the opponents racket --- pop pop skid pop. The skidding of their tennis shoes across the cement seemed to echo more than the popping ball but I didn't mind. I told them about the relationship between the gusting breeze and my loose strands of hair as they were pushed across my cheek every few seconds despite my avid tucking of them behind my shoulders; I didn't mind that either. I told them about the thorns from a neighboring rose bush that made quick friends with my elbow. It's scrapings left little white marks on my arm and a few holes in my sleeve but I didn't seem to mind that much either. Nothing could take me away from that moment, alone in a field watching wildflowers dance in the summer sun, doing what I love doing the most...writting.
The rest of the day didn't prove too eventful and the time before that wasn't anything worth boasting either, but the hour I spent away from the world made the day all seem worth it; maybe even worth this sleepless night.
-Toby K.

Writers Write

As of late, I have been flushed with literature inspiration. Novel ideas, segmented sentences, fluid rhymes, have all flowed through my brainwaves crashing into my skull and then retreating with the tide. In a days time, with all my thought's, I find myself, in one moment, looking out from the tallest tower in a castle from a land far far away, then in the next, I'm smelling freshly cut grass from a field that stretches out past my 19th century home. Rather than pulling out a pencil and scratch-piece of paper to write down these rivers of fiction styles, I store them. They begin by resting in the back of my head, making home with other melancholy thoughts, and then begin to move slowly through my blood stream till they've made permanent residence among my bones and arteries. Someday they will be made into ink and be stamped on pages tied and bound with a funky black and white cliche cover of a tree resting over a riverbed or of a sunset in the August afternoon; but for now they will remain imbeded in my flesh, creating in me a charcter and personality that can only be described through words.
-Toby K.