Season of Change

Part of me wishes summer could last forever.

There's something in the rays of sunshine baking warm bodies like cookies on a tray, something in the bare feet running down either gravel roads or sizzling sidewalks, something in the tingle of wiggling fingers dipped in an ice-cold, running creek. There's something in all of those things that's hard to duplicate.

Maybe that's because I'm a summer girl. I was born in the winter, but my heart always awakens with the first dawn of a June morning. Something about summertime makes me feel perfectly bliss, and I think I've defined what it is. Comfort.

Summer means no school for many of us, and for those of us who have school during the summer months, it generally means less school and more free time. Summer also gives the much-appreciated chance for extra summer jobs for those industrious spirits among us, and the chance to spend more time on projects with friends.

During summer, our good times (for the most part) aren't inhibited by icy roads and snowstorms; rainstorms and short days. For me, summer means a time to enjoy life. And that's what I do nearly every summer. Enjoy life.

But summer doesn't last forever, unfortunately. Maybe it's not that unfortunate, though. Think about it. If summer had the rare opportunity of lasting forever, consider the detriment it would be to society. Schoolbooks would gather dust - hence, no one would learn anything from them, parents would be overrun by the constant chaos of the season - providing no schedule and no rest for them, vacations would take precedence over lives instead of work, and that perfect state of bliss I defined as comfort would become old and worn-out- like a piece of stale bread dried out on the kitchen counter.

The point is: seasons must change in order to secure our happiness. In our silly human minds, we often define happiness as comfort, but only our wise God knows that happiness never is formed in that mold. Comfort is only our idea of happiness. Happiness defined is living by the fashion King Solomon, thousands of years ago, penned.

"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to morn and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to cast away;
A time to red and a time to sew; a time to keep silence and a time to speak;
A time to love and a time to hate; a time of war and a time of peace.
What profit hath he that worketh in that wherin he laboureth?
I have seen the travail, which God hath given to the sons of men to be exercised in it.
He hath made everything beautiful in His time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end.
I know that there is no good in them, but for man to rejoice and to do good in his life.
And also that every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour - it is the gift of God.
I know that whatsoever God doeth, it shall be forever: nothing can be put to it, nor anything taken from it: and God doeth it that man should fear before Him." Ecclesiastes 3:1-14

So apparently, God isn't happy about man's idea that one season is good enough for him. That's why He created change. He knew we'd never grow into the image of His Son without it.

I am standing on the threshold of change. My childhood bids me farewell just over my shoulder. The fears and reality of life are rising within my sight, just beyond this doorway. Behind me, and even where I stand, lies all of the comfort I've ever known and embraced. But somehow I've learned that I will never grow in grace within this comfort zone I love. Change stretches people in ways they feel keenly - but that's when they witness the power of growth and experience the grace of a loving God.

How can I ever change the world while insisting on dwelling in the lap of security? My eyes gaze out into the darkness of the unknown. How can I learn to rely upon the awesomeness of an almighty God without trusting Him for that which I cannot see? How can I expect Him to teach me to swim when I'm not willing to take the plunge? How can I run in the dark when I won't walk in it?

I can't. And in a way, all of life is like this. Unless my heart yearns for change with everything in me, my flesh won't be willing to let go of that ever-so-reassuring comfort, and change will be something I talk about often, yet never experience.

I am releasing the ties of my comfort inch-by-inch. It's throwing excuses at me, begging me to stay, reminding me of my failures and warning me of the unpredictable. I am afraid. But nothing ever said I wouldn't be.

This house of comfort screams at me from its every room - my social room, where it tells me that I must cling to comfort in order to remain popular. It smiles at me from the room of my ministry, where it tries to make me believe that I have been effective for Christ there, and that it's much easier to serve Him there anyway. Just when I think my temptation is over, it grabs me by the arm and whirls me around.

"Look," it tells me, "at your spiritual life."

I'm listening with a painful heart. But this time what it's telling me is true. I have, indeed, deserted the cause of Christ many times in this house of comfort. I have succumbed to the temptations of the world time and time again, and I have been indifferent to the mediocre relationship status I have towards the God who loves me.

Why, after stepping out into the unknown, I will be under the microscope of my social world, the magnifying glass of my ministry world, and the condemnation of my spiritual world which pervades it all. If I can't fly when jumping off a thirty-foot cliff, why should I fly being dropped out of an airplane at thirty-thousand feet? If I can't swim in a calm pool, why should I be able to swim in an ocean, battling against the waves that will inevitably be there? Trying to make it outside of my comfort zone and not only making it, but excelling to the glory of God - seems like a nice idea, but highly impractical. The idea has a high possibility of seriously embarrassing myself in the view of all the worlds watching me.

That's scary.

But there's something in that whole scenario that my comfort, still talking in my ear, has forgotten. It's real. It's powerful. It's happening for others. And it can happen for me.

It's the trick of the trade, the heart of the movement, and the power of the greatest secret of all. That is when a person steps out, takes the plunge, jumps the cliff, and braves the unknown in this amazing puzzle called life, that person experiences the greatest power of the universe in a very real way - regardless of the fact that this person has never been able to experience success previously.

It's this act of lowering ourselves before the great Authority of the world, the simple idea of humility in recognizing ourselves unable of doing good without the source of good - God Himself.

It's powerful. It's real. And it's available for everyone. This is part of what they call grace.

I turn for one last look at my childhood, this nursery of my comfort. My heart hesitatingly says goodbye, and in the time frame of an eternal second, my step is outside the door, and I am running, head back, heart forward, into the unknown, farther from the zone of my comfort and closer to the power of God. My eyes are blinded to the temptation of this culture and the worlds watching me by the shining light of the wonder of God. I know that only by actually running from the comfort zones of life will I actually run into the change of me, which must happen before I can change the world in any way, shape, or form.

I like summer, but do I really want it to last forever? Not really. Not at all, as a matter of fact. I desire change in my physical and spiritual life so that change can be worked in the lives of others.
My soul embraces this change - because I know the One who holds all change in His hand, the same hand that holds me.

"When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things." 1 Corinthians 13:11
"Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended, but this one thing I do, forgetting those things that are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before. I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus." Philippians 3:13 & 14

Good night, Comfort, and good morning, Change. To tell you the truth, I'm not afraid. Not at all.

Every Sunrise

Someone recently asked me why I believe God exists. In fact, a lot of people have asked me that lately.

I always cringe at these kinds of questions, wondering why I feel like I need to defend a Lion when I know He is perfectly able to defend Himself. It's not my job to protect my God; it's my job to point Him out.

But how do I know that He's actually there?

I can prove the validity for reasoning there's a God. I prove it with science, history and logic. I can slam every point of every worldview that contradicts with Christianity, I can beat the person in front of me with key truths, and I can even convince my audiences that there is a God; even further than that - that He's my God: the God of the Bible.

And I can win. I can so win.

Yes, He's there. But what have I gained proclaiming that there is, in fact, a God? That He's the God I believe in? Just that. As soon as I gain my point, in a figurative way God becomes this little king sitting in a tall castle in the high heavens, laughing at His ridiculous creation - who is hopelessly out of touch with Him.

I've seen them before. The blank looks that stare at me across tables, shocked that I won a point regarding the case for a living God. But if I continue to rant on and on about the absoluteness of God and if I try to pound it into their strangely stubborn minds, I will suddenly see looks of carelessness. Because after all, who wants to be friends with a God who only exists to announce He exists?

I am a representative of the Almighty God. If I fail to communicate His greatest message to mankind, I have failed indeed.

I must tell them why it is that I have chosen to believe in Him.

I believe Him because He says He's there, I believe Him because I have found Him and Christianity to be objectionably true. But I also believe Him because I have experienced Him in a very real way. I have seen Him, first-hand, perform marvelous things in the lives of my family members and in my own life; things that are unexplainable in a reasonable, rational, human way. I know God. He is a part of my life because He loves me, and because He loved me first, I love Him. That's why.

That's God's greatest message to mankind. He loves them so immensely that He gave His Son for their eternal lives; so beautifully that He, the Creator of all, wishes to share an actual, personal relationship with His creation - mankind. This is the God I know. And that's why I believe in Him.

When Rachel and I sat down for music rehearsal one day this week, the thoughts of this song flowed from our hearts almost simultaneously. Together we penned the simple lyrics of the first song we recorded yesterday:

When this morning dawns/And the day is here/I will feel Your love/And see Your presence

I see You in every sunrise/I hear You in every whisper/Oh, they can say You are not here/But I know You are, 'cause I feel You

When they try to say/That You don't exist/My heart will protest/Because I've known You

I see You in every sunrise/I hear You in every whisper/Oh, they can say You are not here/But I know You are, 'cause I feel You

Lion and great King/How is it that I/Find this gentle love/Rising in me?

I see You in every sunrise/I hear You in every whisper/Oh, they can say You are not here/But I know You are, 'cause I feel You

Every Sunrise by Sarah and Rachel Byrum © This Bright Hour Music 2008

This Rising Song

Nothing inspires me as inspiration itself. And that usually comes in the form of a certain generation.

It was a busy, late afternoon in Washington, D.C at the Dulles airports. Hundreds of people rushed to catch their flights and shuttles. The group of people who had come from everywhere for the same reason I had sat together in a huddle in front, waiting for their ride. The van came, with the name PATRICK HENRY COLLEGE labeled on its side. The kids lined up and piled in. I sat next to the window in the middle row, pressed up against it by the amount of people on the bench. I glanced at my surroundings. Teenagers. Lots of them. Different sizes, different ages, different kids. These were to be my family - and my sister's - for the next week.

What happened next was so strange that it was normal. Everyone was nice. Everyone was friendly. Everyone was kind.

Were these teenagers?

Yes, but they were teenagers with a mission. Young people with a vision, however slight, who were gathering with a common passion. I liked it.

But the mean, nasty staff - now they were a different story. Just kidding. Whoever thought our staff was mean and nasty certainly wasn't there all the way, because our staff was truly the greatest. They might have been inexperienced compared to all of the staffs at camps who are tough, have years under their belts, and who make their campers go to bed at nine 'o clock. But ours was the coolest. We had to be in our dorms by ten, but we all knew that our counselors would let us stay up and chat in our rooms until dawn if we so pleased. Our staff was really the best. Hands down. Honest-to-goodness. No kidding. They knew that they were giving us campers far more freedom than other camps, but that was fine with us. Only we'd know that when more responsibility is given, more responsibility rises. When much is required, much is received.

I have always considered myself a person interested in politics, but I don't think anything could have prepared me for the shocking immersion into the political world I'd experience once I arrived. Right after my arrival I discovered that I was a senator from Virginia and expected to be in congress every single day. In our first session I discovered just how important parliamentary procedure actually was. I'd always thought of it as some funny joke movies sported and TV talked about, but that didn't really happen. I knew it existed, but hadn't a clue how strictly it would be upheld. After observing the firm, collected public rebuke of various congressmen and women by our chairman, I decided that for the first day or so, I'd remain quiet and learn about the proceedings. My little sister, Rachel, who had accompanied me, sat still by my side in complete awe as home schooled twelve-year-olds rose to their feet and began eloquent debates, or presented well-written bills.

We discovered that one person at camp would become camp president, and with that, we began our search for our favorite candidate. At that point there was probably about ten kids running - but that would be eliminated quite a bit by the second day - the primaries. (This was definitely, like they had said, life in the political fast lane!) But this was just the political side of camp.

Every day after breakfast, we'd head down to the Town Hall (actually the basement of our dorm) to hear from an inspiring speaker. There were so many of them - who spoke on so many different topics - that at first I felt a little flabbergasted - and I am only now gathering my thoughts in a sane manner to restate them to you. :)

Michael Smith, president and co-founder of HSLDA. Says enough. Christopher Klicka, lead attorney with HSLDA and a man with the most amazing testimonies of God's grace. Kristen Wright with Parental Rights - a group to amend the constitution to make it more explicit regarding the rights of parents.

So many people I've only heard about but longed to see in person, in other words.

Alex and Brett Harris, the incredible authors of Do Hard Things and the founders of TheRebelution.com, also spoke to us, but in a completely different way than what I'd expected. Somewhat like how they speak on their well-known Do Hard Things tour except slightly more informal, the brothers bounced off of each other in a humorous and captivating way - quietly convincing their audience of the truths they presented. They told their story. A story of two teenagers floating aimlessly along in life until they were rudely awakened with the message that has changed their life and those they have shared it with. I'd heard this story before, but somehow it seemed so much more powerful coming right from them. They're normal guys, but it's their completely abnormal message that is moving a generation to rise from lethargy and into faithfulness.

My heart rises within me as I write this, and suddenly I am wishing to once more be back in that Town Hall, sitting with all of those enthusiastic young people thinking, dreaming, planning; laughing. I don't wonder why I get tired of spending time with people who have no purpose, who despise youth, and who think the idea of doing hard things is just a joke. There is a selfish part of me that wishes my world didn't have to be filled with pessimistic people, but rather inspirational. But wait. My world is filled with inspirational people. My eyes are too often blinded to them - and by the idea that there are always more inspirational people elsewhere.

We celebrated the end of our week (or nearly the end of it) with a formal party. Glimmering gowns, perfect tuxes and a high idea of formal ran through our little camp that night. And of course, I forgot my camera. Every photograph I want from that event I'll have to mooch off of my friends.

The young man my sister and I supported was elected president - but not without a close vote. An independent party came very close to winning, much to every one's surprise. I clearly recall jumping to my feet in ecstasy. High ecstasy. And mostly because of the story that backed up why we supported who we did.

We had just jumped on our flight connection in Minneapolis for D.C.. Rachel and I were sitting together - she in an aisle seat and me by the window. We hadn't even taken off when Rachel jabbed me in the ribs and whispered, "Sarah - see that kid over there?"

I nod and look where she points. A young man of about sixteen is animatedly engaged in talking with an elderly black gentleman. "Yes, I see him," I reply.

"He's home schooled."

I gaze at my sister in amazement. She never studies people like I do. I've always considered myself an observer of people and here is my little sister informing of someone I never once observed. "Uh - how do you know?"

She smiles. "Just look at the way he's conversing with that gentleman. He has to be a home schooler."

I return her smile and settle back into my seat, gazing out my window at the wispy clouds clinging to the wing of the airplane and the sun, straining to peak through them with bright rays. I'm imagining that I'm writing. The blue sky covered us like a warm blanket...

Jam! Rachel has her elbow in my ribs again. "See! I told you he was a homeschooler. He's talking politics." A moment later, she abrubtly calls my attention to him again. "He just mentioned GenJ and Patrick Henry! Sarah - he's going!"

We're girls. We wave at him from across the aisle, thumbs up with big smiles. It didn't really matter because he didn't see us, anyway. But all that to say, we considered it a special thing that we ended up sharing the same flight there, that we were able to campaign with him, and rejoice with him when he won the presidential election that week.

Washington, DC. The very act of mentioning the name of that beautiful city sends waves of chills through me. I can think of no greater place to be than there, our nation's capital, on its great birthday. I expected great things, but came away walking on clouds.

We walked in the great footsteps of the people who lead the greatest nation in the world. We gazed at monuments, tall and splendid, who grace the sky and do beautiful justice to the sun shining down upon them. My heart both sank and rose with every step in that great city. I remember it, and embrace the feeling once more.

I had been there before, and I'm sure I'll be there again, but I'm sure I'll never quite be there as I was this time. Surrounded by laughing, enthusiastic young people - as eager to devour history as myself - I had to pinch myself at times to make sure I wasn't dreaming. In fact, at times when everyone else had walked ahead on the streets, under the sun and tall shadows, skipping and laughing, I'd stop. I'd throw my head back and let my face be kissed by the warmth of the sun, my hair blowing in the wind, and I'd embrace the moment with everything in me. I wanted it to take such a deep root in my heart that I'd never forget it, never let it go, and carry it with me forever. This is the land I love.

After a day of walking in the shadows of the past, we ended it with a long walk to the Jefferson Memorial. It began to rain, so we quickened our pace with prayers in our hearts - asking God to bless us with decent weather for the firework celebration. People everywhere blocked my vision as we struggled on, but very soon I peeped over tall heads in our group and saw the Jefferson Memorial - clear against the sky, breathtaking in architecture, glorious in story, beautiful in providence, unforgettable in sight.

Our group gathered on the steps of the great monument just as dusk was falling. The darkness settled quickly, covering our warm bodies like a blanket. And then it began to rain. At first it sprinkled, but as seconds whizzed by, it picked up speed and gained momentum, soon immersing us in a literal shower. We sat there, under the darkness, surrounded by a fast growing crowd, getting drenched by an eastern rain shower, and loving every minute of it. Would the fireworks happen? Who cared! We were having a blast sitting, laughing, joking, musing, smiling, watching - in the rain.

Regardless of the fun I felt we were having, my heart ran with thoughts. I observed the many little children wrapped to the teeth in rain ponchos or huddled underneath large umbrellas (which reminded me of the wings of a mother hen, protectively covering her chicks) sitting, watching the sky with intent, blinking little eyes, appearing as if their little minds were uttering a thousand-and-one silent prayers for the rain to stop. I grabbed the hand of my sister next to me, and we quickly offered a prayer that the rain would stop and the fireworks would be able to go on.

Minutes later, the rain stopped.

When the fireworks began, it was as if they were about to end. Exploding rays of light rushed to the sky and showered down - it seemed - upon us. In a breathless second a rocket would travel up, up, up into the darkness, and another split second and colors of impossible variety were stretching across the sky. Fingers of color, showers of sparkle; fountains of gold. The reflection of the show danced in my sister's eyes, and my heart rose to the highest peak imaginable.

I could have sat there forever. My feet in a puddle of rain and my hands tightly together on my lap, my heart took in the beauty in context of the week I'd just experienced. From the first moment when I'd been surprised at the friendliness of the people, to my first experience in mock legislation and congress, to the very first speaker who spoke to us, to the very last speaker who spoke to us, to the moment of victory in the presidential race, to this moment - this beautiful moment - when it was all coming together like the end of a fairy tale.

But I snap myself out of my drifting thoughts and glance around at my many friends, sitting under the same sky, in the same place, on the same steps, watching the same, magnificent sight. I don't know what they're thinking, but I can guess. I see laughter in one person's eyes, deep thankfulness in another's, happiness in this one's; depth in that one's.

And now I remember why I have loved this time so much. Something like a sob rises within me as I think about the lives that we - these young people - have before us. We will go home, we will live our lives, but something tells me that they'll be changed. These young people sitting here with me on these great, white steps, represent a great generation of world changers. That's what I see in their eyes collectively. It sparkles brighter than the fireworks that display it; it shimmers more gloriously than the sun itself. It's a fire, a call, a holy desire; a vision. It comes to me in the form of a sentence, and my heart, again, embraces it.

We will change the world.

It is like the melody of a beautiful song, accented by the deep harmony of belief and the orchestra of inspiration, a rising song lifted to the sky proclaiming the glory of the Most High.

Hello, world. This is my generation.

Flaming Torches

I am remembering things these days.

Yesterday one of my mother's and my dearest friends (also a mentor to me) told me a story about myself that I'd long forgotten. She's known me almost all of my life, and we tenderly recalled the days when I was a little girl and she a young mother.

I had always loved children. I hadn't forgotten that, of course, because I still do. Something about their innocence and wonder strikes me and pulls me into their happy, beautiful world. But to go on with my story.

So yesterday I sat at a table with this precious mother, her husband, and their six lovely children. Fondly, I remembered when each and every one of them were little and before most of them were born. It's strange to look at a beautiful young lady, just entering into womanhood, and remember when she was a baby, holding my hand and learning to walk, talk; sing.

My friend told the story that has awakened my remembrance. I was enthusiastic about teaching children, she told us, by the respective age of eight. After church on Sundays and Wednesdays, I'd gather the little children together - a group of two-year-olds, three-year-olds, and children up to my own age. At times, I'd have a special attendance of children who were older than myself. Very special.

I'd pull out my handcrafted canvas bag, filled with my "class" things. Coloring books, crayons, puzzles, prizes and games would line the corner of the sidewalk in the shadow of the church building where we'd sit huddled and avidly engaged. I helped the tiny ones with writing their names on their sweet pictures, and enthusiastically (perhaps too enthusiastically?) praise the other children's highly innovative artwork and creations.

By the dozens mothers would bring their children and sigh with relief on seeing them productively employed. My friend was one of these mothers. Her daughters were some of my students. It was nothing to me. I was doing what I loved.

Something about it, being surrounded by the happy little voices, joining in their laughter, looking down into the twinkling eyes (and sometimes up at them) and putting my thoughts about God into their heads was the next thing to heaven for me. I planned all week for it, gathered new supplies and ideas, and was as crazy over it as one woman at my church over the VBS program of which she was the leader. Seeing the children happy, employed and united instead of running around the church parking lot and giving headaches to their parents, left me feeling delighted.

And then I'd pull out the book.

I'd read as long as I could. I was quite unaware of the wide eyes that were watching me, the little hands that laid aside whatever they were doing and found their places on little laps or the minds that were turning quickly with wholesome, biblical thoughts. How could I have known?

Years down the road, long after I had moved elsewhere and began attending another church, in another state, with other friends, I'd keep that love of teaching children with me, and it was that same love that helped and spurred me onward as I helped to home school my eight younger siblings throughout my high school years. That pastime of reading stories to children would become a passion for telling stories to children, eventually writing them - for both children and adults. It's never left me and only grown.

But the story isn't over yet.

Ten years later, I sit at a table with some of the same young people who were my avid students of the past. Their mother smiles at me, smiles at one of them in particular, and tells me that my tradition, however small, is still being kept.

Because her daughter is running it now.

Every Sunday at that same church, when the lights in the auditorium are off and the children are running off to play in the parking lot and unknowingly give their parents headaches, my young shadow pulls out her handmade canvas bag, gathers her little class of children under the covering of the building, and sits in a circle with them on a small corner of the sidewalk. She hands them the coloring books, the crayons, the games, the prizes, and together they revel in masterpieces.

And then she reads. While the words are flying expressively from her lips, the children watch; mouths open, hearts beating, eyes flashing, minds spinning.

They are captivated.

And the tradition goes on. It is just a small thing, this story of the connection from me to my friend's daughter, once the little girl who sat in my shadow and listened to my stories. But what it represents is not. The torch I carried so enthusiastically and waved with joy would be carried and waved by one of the little people who watched me so intently those Sundays. How could I have known?

I couldn't have. I didn't.

This act of remembrance makes me think. What other kinds of torches am I passing to those hearts that beat for me, those eyes that gaze upon me, those hands that reach upward? You never know. The things I am doing today may very well be flaming torches preparing to be passed on to the next generation.

Maybe I should be doing them well. Quite well.

Just maybe.

Jamestown Memories

It's been one year since my incredible time at the Jamestown Quadricentennial, put on by the ministry of Vision Forum.

I’ve tried to recall a single memory that played such a significant part in my mind, but all of the happiness I felt comes running back to me, swirling my thoughts like a whirlwind.

Happy fathers, blessed sons, joyful mothers, sweet daughters, little children, elderly grandparents – they were all there.

At the time I almost wondered if the locals of the historical towns we visited: Yorktown, Williamsburg and Jamestown, were looking at us and wondering, “What has happened? Did aliens land from another planet and did the news forget to tell us? What is with these 14-passenger vans and other vehicles suddenly appearing from nowhere smeared all over with strange messages like, ‘‘Know Boudinot?’’ and ‘‘Honk 4 JT400!”

Whether or not they were actually thinking those things, I’m sure they had to have been wondering something. Indeed, I found it hard to believe that I hadn’t traveled to ‘homeschooling country’ or some other such place. You could see them a mile off, holding hands and crossing streets, walking beside you and taking notes or pictures and laughing and playing on the Williamsburg green. You could see them, you could hear them; you could almost smell them. Families. Everywhere. Something had happened.

I remember the very first night, the grand opening at the Hampton Convention Center. I recall the breathless excitement clearly exhibited by the eager crowd outside the closed doors. Everyone spoke, laughed; murmured. A violin could be heard in the background, nearly, but not quite drowned out by the rumble of the people.

I smiled. It was the definition of grand in a real, live, sensible way.

I remember the thick and spreading elation as the crowd poured in through the open doors and took their seats in quick anticipation. The soft strum of the maidens’ hands on a harp, the thrill as Mr. Doug Phillips took the stage to address the attendees, and the joy of watching the speakers ascend with a powerful message – it’s all coming back to me, as if I was there all over again.

I remember wanting to catch the week in my hands as it flew by, and wishing that I could soak in every single moment and keep it with me always. I feel the wave of exhilaration once more as I recall walking over the ground that Captain Newport, John Smith and Pocahontas had trampled on four-hundred years before. I stand in the unseen footsteps of moccasins and boots from centuries past. I meditate in the shadows of monuments, tall and marvelous, and feel the presence of the Almighty – the same Almighty whose presence they felt so strongly.

Shaking the hand of John Tyler’s grandson, meeting and laughing with the impersonators of Theodore Roosevelt, John Tyler, Patrick Henry, John Smith and Lady Rebecca are memories that will always be with me, instantly coming to mind at the mention of the word, ‘Jamestown.’ I remember laughing at the weight of my notebook, filled to the brim with the many notes I carried to the sessions, and laughing at my sister’s which was stuffed with the autographs of the many godly leaders we met there.

The balloon rides, the boat rides, the historical tours, the walks along the James River – it all evoked the stirring of a part of me that had never been awakened before. The sensation of leaping to my feet with a crowd enthusiastic over the John Smith award given to the very worthy Christopher Klicka, the tears that I shed when Miss Melanie Thomas won the Jamestown 400 treasure for the glory of God and her family – I will watch these scenes in my mind over and over again during the course of my lifetime.

And the parade – the marching, shouting, singing, laughing, musing, smiling rows of children and young adults (some older ones, too) walking through the woods of Fort Pocahontas, that classic civil war battle site, and throwing their hats, raising their swords and spears, waving flowers and flags to the beautiful music of fife and drum that led them – that led us – onward. I remember, and my heart cries with triumph.

When I have at last begun to think I have very well recalled and covered the most prominent of my memories, another grabs my attention and pulls at my heart with vigor.

The children’s memorial.

Nothing can begin to describe what went on in the beating hearts of the crowd at that moment. Little children sat on their daddies’ shoulders, peering over the heads of strong sons and beautiful daughters, and even the littlest of these were silent with awe, as if they understood the greatness of the monument about to be dedicated.

Because, after all, it was for them.

I still feel the tingling thrill and the tears that stood still in my eyes as Mr. Harrison Tyler, the descendant of Pocahontas and John Rolfe and the grandson of John Tyler, stepped down the long path through the crowd and set the time capsule into its position by the monument – underneath a stone that read 2107. Thousands of eyes watched it be set in it; thousands of hearts beat. Cameras flashed.

It was done. The founding of the greatest nation in the world and the great Providence of its God had not been forgotten in our generation. It would be remembered, and we, by causing a monument to be erected, were setting a precedence for the generations beyond us – these children’s children; my children’s children.

It will never be forgotten. The history of the four hundredth anniversary of Jamestown and a new country, eventually to be the United States of America, is the great story of an Almighty God and of His tender mercies. And this story, experienced and felt like never before, will live on in the hearts of those grandparents, parents, young adults and children forever.

For me, I must add that a part of me that had never been lived before flung open its doors and lived in a way that left me changed, strengthened, and envisioned for eternity.

I will never be the same.

Soli deo Gloria!

Generation Joshua 2008

For those of you who are not familiar with the ministry of Generation Joshua, please feel free to familiarize yourself with it here.

Generation Joshua is a branch of HSLDA and an organization dedicated to creating political awareness in teenagers and teaching them about the faith of our nation's founders and the practical application of the constitution.

This year my sister and I will be joining hundreds of other teenagers and young adults around Washington, D.C. and at Patrick Henry College for a week of prayer, learning, celebrating, friendship, spiritual encouragement and vision. Please pray for us June 29 - July 5.

And in the meantime, check out their site. GenerationJoshua.org.