He Feared the Source

He Feared the Source

January 25, 2013 at 1:20pm

PublicFriends of FriendsFriendsOnly MeCustomClose FriendsMy ParentsSee all lists...writerNordhoff HighWilliam Jessup UniversityRocklin, California AreaFamilyGolden Valley Charter SchoolPaso RoblesOjai Christian AcademyWilliam Jessup UniversityLompoc, California AreaWillian Jessup UniversityThe Glory of GodOjai, California AreaAcquaintancesGo Back

In the mountains high above there is a long and twisted road. Its skinny paths bear little else but wasted green turned brown. So every traveler who dares the road brings what he thinks best. But for this moment, I tell of a time and one lost and lonely man who started on the road.

Within his home, the man stood and pondered what he could bear and carry. For once he reached the other side, he knew not what he needed. In all due time, he packed a bag with much to be of use. And with his bag, heavy and weighted, he wandered the curving groove.

For many hours he hiked the hill and up beyond the trees. And in the peaks, all water dried and green was turned to brown. Tumbled weeds and dried up grass marked the forsaken tips. His throat grew dry and thirst was harsh. In the second day of travel he pondered if he should die.

But to his fortune, not far off, in the midst of death and decay, a well stood simple and small. In his thirst, the man knelt down and stared into the well. He licked his lips to quench their parch, his eyes locked on the water. Though as he stared a thought occurred and drove him nigh to madness.

Having never seen nor drank this water, he wondered at its repute. Thirst could take him soon enough, but poison seemed far worse. For while the water could be good and take away his pain, the man was terrified of what could be and therefore sat and cried. His worries made him much afraid and so he chose to sit. Not one sip did he draw from the small and simple well.

Hours passed and for his choice, he had no strength to rise and walk again. So he sat all alone till he died a slow and sorry death.

Was this man wise for his choice? He feared what could make him well. And as would have it, more travelers came, just and thirsty, and stopped beside that well. Cup in hand they drank their fill and found their strength restored.

Two kind souls were nice enough to pause just for the man. They hauled him up into their arms and bore him to a grave. But with a chisel, they carved a stone to mark the six foot hole.


Here lies the man
Who died of thirst
When salvation stood in sight
For though he might have lived more days
He questioned the source
The giver of life


Emily Bergstrom – January 2013

Songs I love

I'm certain that the reason why I love to sing so much is because my mother sings... or she used to. She says that her voice isn't a good as it used to be. But for sentimentality's sake, I love to remember the way it was, so when she sings now, I still hear it the way it was. So I really don't always understand her when she says her voice has changed.

Whenever I hear these songs, I feel like a little girl again.

Every night she would pull from:

Do-re-mi
Puff, the Magic Dragon
Lord, You Are More Precious
I Love You Lord
Hush Little Baby
My Favorite Things
Stay Awake
(They Long to Be) Close to You
You Are My Sunshine
and Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral (That's An Irish Lullaby)

I loved those songs as a little girl. I'm fairly certain I will never forget them as long as I live.

My dad wasn't nearly as good at singing. In fact, he's rather tone-deaf. But he did play the guitar and that was something my brother and I loved because, once a week, Mom would drive us down to the church so we could hear him play for the Youth Group. We were so proud that our dad played the guitar.

There was one night, when my mom was away at a women's retreat, that my brother and I were left all alone with Dad. The fact that my mom would sing to us and read, or tell a story every night before bed, proved to be a problem. If I recall, Dad had taken over story-telling duty at that point because he was reading the Chronicles of Narnia aloud to us, but he couldn't sing like mom.

So, when bedtime came around, I moved my pillow into my brother's room and climbed into the top bunk of the bunk bed my dad built for him. Dad dragged a kitchen chair into the room and pulled his guitar from its case. And though he cannot sing a note, he perched his guitar upon his knee and asked us what song we wanted to hear.

It was so long ago, I cannot tell you what songs we picked, but I remember our favorites.

God of Wonders
Open the Eyes of My Heart
The Heart of Worship
Undignified
Let Everything That Has Breath
Rock of Ages
Here I Am to Worship
Come, Now Is the Time to Worship
Lord I Lift Your Name On High
and Every Move I Make

I'm sure there were more, but those were the ones I remember. My brother liked Every Move I Make, though he never actually could remember the name, and consequently, neither could I. Instead, we would call it the "Na Na Song" because in the middle of the song we'd sing, "Na na na na na na na..." Over and over again.

We loved music in our house. That much is engrained on my heart. We would sing all the time. I listed my mom's lullabies, but she would sing other songs too. We were always singing the theme songs from old TV shows and musical numbers from our favorite Disney movies. My dad would sing too, but he liked to change the lyrics to fit my name. Mom favored "The Sound of Music," "Mary Poppins," "Green Acres," "The Brady Bunch," and such. Dad was stuck in 80's Christian Rock and Winnie the Pooh.

More recently, my brother has become an amazing guitarist in his own right and has taken over playing worship for the church youth group. I simply sing for my own pleasure. But there's something about singing that just makes me happy. That's probably a God thing.

Psalm 96

 

Sing to the Lord a new song;
    sing to the Lord, all the earth.
² Sing to the Lord, praise his name;
    proclaim his salvation day after day.
³ Declare his glory among the nations,
    his marvelous deeds among all peoples.

Growing Up

College is an awkward stage of life. It's that place where you learn who you are separate from your family, as well as just how well you've really absorbed all that they have tried to teach you.

I have friends who leave home and try to get as far away as they possibly can. They crave something new and different. Deep down, we all know they just don't want to be told what to do anymore... or they don't want to face some of their friends or the decisions they've made any longer. It's really a rather simple desire. But once you're gone, it's odd... you begin to miss all that you tried to run from.

I don't think I ever really tried to run. Really, my parents almost pushed me out the door.


But then, just the other day, my dad called me. the moment I picked up, his first words were that he missed my voice. As I'm writing this, I feel tempted to cry - though that might partially be due to sleep deprivation. But REALLY. I missed his voice too.

Being so far from home, I tend to feel the difference most when I experience things that are a stark contrast to what is familiar to me.

Sitting in chapel, or at church, I find myself comparing each and every speaker to my dad and the way he teaches. Naturally, no one quite measures up. At least I can say I love listening to my dad's sermons!

"Whistle While You Work"

The funniest thing that I miss is Saturday chores. Who thought I would miss that? My family has chore sharing down pat! Every Saturday, we do a full cleaning of the house. Living on my own now, well, not really, I have roommates, but away from them, nevertheless, I wish I had the authority to help my roommates follow suit. It made things so easy. And I miss getting things done as a team, rather than alone. I'm sure you've heard me compare myself to Cinderella. Though my roommate tells me I'm much more akin to Snow White. I suppose she isn't too far off. I do like to sing. And quite honestly, I don't mind the work so much as it may sound. One of the things I really carried with me was the NEED to keep things clean. Not necessarily "pristine," but "clean." I'm more of a sanitary than an organized sort of cleaner.

But back to the real point... leaving home... you begin to miss the familiar. That's what most eighteen year olds don't expect when they fly the coop.

That desire makes me thankful. It means that my parents did something right. I know that I can dream of starting my own family with a good foundation, but I can know that until such a day, my home is a safe and wonderful place... beautiful and full of sentiment.

I'm  fairly certain my dad will read this eventually... I do love your voice, too. And I miss your sermons!

Wishing

 Sometimes I wish time travel really did exist.

If it did, I would go back in time and tell this little girl so many things. I don't know if you recognize her face or not, but there were years where she could have really used someone to come back and tell her that everything works out alright in the end.

She didn't recognize it long ago, but she was a worrier. She liked to know that everything would be solid and definite. No grey. And the future is often one of the greyest things in life.

She only just learned for herself that she liked Jesus. After all, Jesus loves little children and Jesus is good. Why shouldn't she like Jesus? But this little girl didn't understand what it meant to trust him with all of her uncertainties.

five years old

Her life came with many uncertainties and many hardships, and as I think back, I wish I could just tell her that it all works out in the end. I wish I could give her a hug and make all kinds of promises.

But if someone went back and told her all the things she needed to know in the future, how would she learn all the life lessons set out for her? How would she really put into practice and KNOW those lessons? They would lack something.

Often, I wish I could have saved myself from all kinds of hardships. that little girl was me. And some memories cause my heart to break. But having gone through all the flames, I know that God worked all of those difficulties into some incredible lessons and experiences.

nine years old

I wish I could have saved myself. But Jesus did that for me.

He didn't swoop in and give me warnings, no, he did something better.

He gave me hope so that all those hard times don't matter anymore. They don't control me. Nor do they determine anything anymore.

That's been a difficult lesson. After all, I'm a worrier and I crave black and white, crystal clear, security. But over the years, I have learned to let go of that need and practice trusting God to see me through, even if I can't tell, or even make a guess at what will happen.

Letting go is terrifying, let me tell you! But letting go doesn't mean the world will end or fall apart.

twelve years old

After all, if God is good, then he will be good all the time.

No matter what may come my way, I will be okay. I don't have to warn that poor little girl because she learned a lot about Jesus during those hard years... even the ones she would consider changing if given the chance. She might even admit that it was THOSE years she benefited the most.


Hugs,

Emily

In Every Song

I've loved you all along.
The zone that seemed so clear,
the one you dread,
the one you fear,
never held you captive, nor even claimed your hand.
Indeed, I've loved you all along
and heard your name in every song.

I've loved you all along.
And when I laughed so hard I cried,
my heart did break;
I nearly died.
Hoping that one day you'd know...
Indeed, I've loved you all along
and heard your name in every song.

I've loved you all along.
And all along I've sought to earn
your enchanting glance
and tried to learn
every need you've ever had and wanted so much to make you glad.
Indeed, I've loved you all along
and heard your name in every song.


I've loved you all along.
I even feared you'd never see,
the girl right here,
the girl who's me.
Because that zone that seemed so clear, broke my heart.
Nevertheless, indeed, I've loved you all along
and heard your name in every song.

Emily Bergstrom
10/11/2013 

Bookmark

If memory lane and days gone by
are places to be found,
then what if life per se might be
a book of life unbound?

Flipping back are days gone by;
forward are things to come.
But dreams are the ones that matter,
and I'd like to think that I'm your bookmark

Emily Bergstrom
2/7/2013

have you ever considered what your life might look like in terms of a story? Only just recently, I started to. Maybe its because I'm a storyteller and that worldview just comes so naturally. But think about it... consider the turning points in your life and the place you hope to be someday. consider your obstacles and how they have shaped you. That's the way a story works, right?

Regardless of how boring your life might be, you've experienced life. You've met important people. You've had dreams and desires. Well, your life story is the path your take to either achieve that dream, or set it aside and set a new one into motion.

To me, I'm in a bit of awe to know that God already sees those future moments and turning points. He sees if it all works out in the end.

One of my biggest struggles is worrying. I always consider my dreams and all of the things standing my my way. It makes me nervous and panicked... not a happy way to live life, by the way. But when I consider that God is orchestrating a story, and I consider how far he has already brought me, I begin to understand that my dreams are not my own, but His. And if my dreams are his and he has promised to be the giver of good gifts, then can't I trust that my story with end with a "Happily Ever After"? Those are my favorite kind of endings, if you didn't know. Reading books that end with tragedy or death always bothered me. I think its because those kinds of endings are so opposed to what God has in store for us.

So... will you do life with me? Be apart of my story? Be one of my bookmarks, those pages that I turn back to and reread over and over again because they were turning points that inspire me to trust that the future with be just as promising?

what if life per se might be, a book of life unbound?

Cinderella, Cinderella...

Part of growing up, so I've discovered, means learning so much more about yourself than you could see as a child.

Having left high school behind and started on my second year of college, one of the many things I've discovered, is that I have a bit of a modified Cinderella complex... which I just might have inherited from my dad. Never thought that would happen.

Look up "Cinderella complex" on google and you might see something about unappreciated girls who suddenly come into the spotlight. That's not my point. Being a storyteller myself, I tend to look a little bit deeper into the whole story behind Cinderella.

In the Rogers and Hammerstein version of Cinderella, she sings a song called, "In My Own Little Corner," all about how she wishes her life were different. I've always loved that song.
Most likely due to my own overactive imagination. But also because of succumbing to my own version of a Cinderella complex.

Someday, I wonder just how this might effect a marriage (my marriage, ah! the poor man! whoever he may be).

For someone whose love language is doing favors, this creates quite a dilemma. It means that I crave a clean house. I love it when the carpets are vacuumed, the kitchen is swept and mopped and the bathroom sparkling. But I start feeling used when other people begin to sit back and watch me do the work for them. But rather attempting to encourage them to take on the responsibility, I continue doing it myself because I fear they won't perform the task as well as I would. Yet, I grouse and grumble because all the responsibility is on me.

Having written it out... it feels silly. But how many of us really do go about life is such a silly way? For me, its sitting in the same old rut and WISHING something would change. Like one of my favorite scenes between Whitney Houston and Brandy:

Godmother: "Fol-der-ol and fid-dle-dy foodle, all the wishers in the world and dizzy in the noodle."

Cinderella: "That's terrible." 

Godmother: "You try coming up with a rhyme on the spot like that."

Cinderella: "No, no. I mean what you said about dreamers. I mean, why shouldn't I dream?"

Godmother: "I can see this is going to take a while."

Cinderella: "I've always hoped that someone would come and take me away from here."

Godmother: "Cinderella, if you wanna get out of here, you're going to have to do it yourself. The music's in you. Deep down in your soul. When you find it, nothing's going to be able to keep you from walking out that door."

Cinderella: "I've dreamed about leaving so many times."

Godmother: "That's the problem with most people, they dream about what they wanna do instead of really doing it."

I love how stories always speak into our lives. That's the idea for us as writers: to tell a story that resonates with a reader. Now, all the things that make a story resonate are quite involved and take a bit of practice to accomplish (have I gotten there yet? I'm not sure!) but its a goal =)

Well, my prayers for this week revolve around getting rid of my Cinderella complex. But how about you? God likes to use all kinds of different methods of pointing out the ways we need to grow and showing us who we are. Now what we see, however, are we going to trust him to do something about it? There's a real challenge.

Good luck to you!

Emily

(ESV) Phillippians 1:4-6 "I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, 4always in every prayer of mine for you all making my prayer with joy, 5because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now. 6And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ"