>Insert a Title Here That I Like Better Than The Original One

>I've been journaling a lot more than I usually do as of late, which means that I'm writing less and less on this thing... And I can't say that I'm too happy with that decision. So, I guess I'll just copy and paste from the pages of the notebook (for better or for worse... it will be word for word. stroke for stroke.) onto here if that is ok with you :) Thank you for your continued readership!

At 35,000 feet above sea level, the things on earth way down below your feet, looking up towards the underbelly of your plane, facing the problems accompanying the frantic way of American life, seem quite fleeting and unimportant. The world keeps turning despite tragedy. People get older in spite of wayward promises of forever. The individual disappears into a cloud of dots and shiny metal car roofs peppering the interstate that suddenly doesn't seem so straight or vast anymore. People down there are ending relationships or being robbed at gunpoint or holding the one person in the entire world that means more to them than themselves and they are all concerned with how their individual situations will play out.

And all I can think about is my ears won't stop popping.

I have been thinking a whole lot about why we do the things we do in relation to this truth: that it is important to literally no other human being on the planet in the way that it is important to us (whatever "it" might be). It forces the individual back into that aforementioned cloud, that distant view where nothing a human could do would change the landscape visible from halfway between terra firma and outer space and reduces each person to nothing but a number without personality or passions or family or loves or any of the things that separate us from ants crawling on a dusty sidewalk, desperately constructing a mound which will only be squashed by an ill-wishing toddler.
Suddenly, nobody playing the guitar in their room where nobody but the faces in the walls can hear them, nobody writing in their journal which nobody will read in a lawn chair in their back yard, nobody making clouds appear in their mind as lollipops or alligators, makes any sense at all. They are not doing things which make the world a better place or helping somebody in need or loving their neighbor as themselves; indeed they are a cosmic negative, in the scientific, quantitative way of seeing things.
However, I am reminded of a dream my very dear friend recounted to me which may change everything you once thought about the individual.

He started out by prefacing his story with the disclaimer about taking the dream as a word from God or just a dream being completely up to me.

He said in his dream he was visiting a worship service at a church that was very run-of-the-mill. It was so vivid , he said, that he did not yet know he was dreaming. Songs. People. A select few swaying, hands raised. All of the sudden, his gaze was cast to the plants at the front of the stage and his mind was unnerved suddenly, as the plants and planters were hovering just inches off of the ground. Nobody was really making that big a deal about it, in fact nobody seemed to even notice all that much, but he told me that it literally unsettled him to his core.
He started looking around, trying to figure out a source for this anomaly. He noticed, after nervously glancing about, a man with his eyes closed, and he got this feeling that this guy was responsible. He just knew it in his gut. He let it go and before he knew it, the service was over and he was walking out, and he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned to see the man he noticed earlier, standing close behind him. He spoke: "I noticed that you saw me during the service. I know it doesn't make any sense and I don't really know how to explain it, but I do know that I can make those plants hover. I can't do it anywhere else or to anything else, and I can't really do other things. I can't play an instrument or sing or speak in front of people or build things from scratch or write poetry, but I have been given the gift of making those plants levitate. It makes no sense to me either, but when I'm doing what God has gifted me to do, I feel that it makes Him happy, so I do it, even if nobody's noticing. Because it's not for anybody else."

The story almost brought me to tears as chills traced patterns up my back, neck and arms. I knew the dream had to be shared, because it is just so relevant to everything we struggle with as humans. It not only explains a little of how God sees us, but it also tells us something about ourselves, that we are created to bring our Creator joy.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.