It’s 6:00pm on my 24-hour clock, and I’m 18.
This is the age I’m expected to write daring articles, with material to be censored and views that would make my Grandmother’s jaw drop.
This is the age I’m meant to have strong opinions about irrelevant issues and no opinion about ones that matter.
This is the age some deep philosophy should have me confused and questioning, scandalizing any former ideas I once had.
This is the age it is. My passions and ambitions are as huge as any other student’s out there.
Maybe my message is just as outrageous.
What if my writings were not concerned with some new political ideas I’m becoming aware of; not bothering others with the two hundred and one million complaints I have to make; nor toying with the idea of a humorous, mocking article that makes me seem witty and intelligent?
What if the thing I think about and am passionate about is something so atrociously outdated no one would like to believe what they are reading?
What if my message,
my article,
my life’s thoughts,
were focused on
God –
a God I believe in.
A God who is love.
A God I believe is one and true and holy.
What if all I spoke about and stood up for is Jesus?
Would that bring enough feedback to my page?
What if I could just be real and say I am fascinated by a God who forgives, and loves day in day out ?
What if I admitted to over thinking everything; how conscious I am of what others are thinking and the way I look in the eyes of the world? What if I exposed how weak I am – rather than poking fun at some-[weaker]-one else?
Maybe then we’d realize we’re all in the same boat.
We’re all after the same thing.
What if I could smile because so much of the things invading life are meaningless?
What if I could show there is purpose to pain and hope beyond hurt?
What if I could supply care for that cross you voluntarily bare?
What if nobody knows no better because I chose to keep my Jesus-message to myself? No one else has written like this before. And I’m not yet a 50 year old who should be concerned with these religious matters.
Maybe my message is more outrageous than the rest because nobody else fancies the discomfort it would cause.
Where St. Paul went, riots were stirred; where I am, witty people poke fun at those less able to write, and then feel good about themselves - I just roll my eyes. An onlooker – I’ll just go on with my life.
