Change My Name

First, I need to apologize for my previous post. I've talked with a few people about my misgivings and each one told me that it was my blog and it was my right to express myself however I want. I don't care. I meant the part about suddenly seeing myself as Christ's biggest slut, but I could have said that without drawing my friend into the illustration. My camping story was purely for shock value, and to make myself look more spiritual than I really am. I'm really sorry about that. So...Oktober's post, with a nod to modern German diaspora culture...

Change My Name

I'm restive again tonight, God. So I walk. A fast walk. Long, Confident, Powerful strides; the emulation of Purpose and Importance, carrying me away to nowhere. Because I have no goal except to walk, and I know where every street leads in a ten kilometer radius. My parents' fear binds me to that limit, not unreasonably so. It's the northeast and walking alone at night just isn't safe. So I remain. My body encaged in 30 minutes, like the fire that always smolders but never consumes me from the inside out. I want my muscles to burn like my emotions do.

I go looking for a fight and You gave me one, once. At least the cold wind cooled off my face, if not this ever-present anger. It was a good storm God, but I wish You'd have sent rain. I wanted to be soaked. Cold showers just aren't the same. But if they can't get relief from Stanley Hall's Durmstrang and Durmstrong then neither shall I. Twisted metal and mutilated shopping carts stolen from the world's capitalistic retailers lie in piles along every street from Temple to Sunridge. Proud Monuments attesting to the raw passion of Youth, and the lack of identity or direction thereof.

Do you ever feel like a moving target for an unseen enemy? I didn't. At least, not until Dave suggested to me that following God leaves us with marks So every son of the devil and his snake can read your name and know EXACTLY who you are in Christ. Throw

Down

Your

Gauntlet. 'Cause them 2 Corinthians 10:3-6 is fightin' words.

Saul became Paul, Sarai became Sarah, Abram became Abraham, Simon became Peter, and when Jacob had a wrestling match with an angel and became Israel, his hip was put out of joint. So's mine. But I don't know if I really want to ask God for a name change. Marilyn means “bitter,” being a derivation of Mara, whom Naomi became after drought and an alien land took her home, husband, and both of her sons. But it's been in the family for three generations now and I hate to break tradition. Faye means “faith” and it's the name I use for all things practical. Archer implies a soldier with more than one good eye to see a war clearly and act on it with deadly precision. Maybe this means God won't change my name until I get married. Hope at last.

Still, Sindy became Bubba unofficially, and I want to know: what does that sign on my forehead say, God?

It's a crop circle, of course. It says: “You are mine, all mine, yes, you are. (muah, muah, muah, muah).”