A Pen

 

A Pen

by Ryan Billington

Written in the summer of 2005

Meaningless scribbles, a pen in the hand

Neither understanding nor fathoming the depth or use it holds

A purpose it has, a brush for the Master’s piece

Resting in the scars

But to what end is it that I write?

Uncontrolled existence, chaos fills the purpose

Poetry, prose, arithmetic, or account

I know I am held but for what?

Does ink even flow from this mind that consumes me?

Thoughts forever flowing, but from the Source or the stone?

Pride in use, purpose, Maker—not self

Confidence, assurity in what dirt contains

Jar of clay or piece of shale,

To what end have I been formed?

To some a crown and to some a fork

Both from silver vein

But in the end, its purpose served, both shall melt away

For what makes it last and fulfill purpose laid

Is the Maker not the clay

And so I sit a pen, this lump of mud

Unsure, unstable, confident, assured

A pen resting in the Master’s scars

Thoughts

 

Thoughts

by Ryan Billington

6/4/05

Surrounded by things I despise, sickened by things I have grown accustomed to, but most of all saddened by what I see in the deepest darkness of myself… forgiven, but forever seeing and remembering the scars that I have left on his body… bathing in the blood that ran out of those scars and trickled down his broken body, down to me and becoming transformed…  but oh so many times I have to return to his hands and feet and bathe once again.  May I never leave Him again…

            “By his wounds we are healed…”  Isaiah 53

I really liked that… may we live everyday being at and thus becoming His hands and feet…

Marmalade Summer

Ryan Billington

1-17-05

AP English

Narrative Essay

 

Marmalade Summer

            When I was growing up, my grandparents owned a small red cabin on the edge of a lake.  Many summers were spent with my family out on our lovely lake, sitting down at the dock, basking in the warmth of summer sunshine.  It was during one of these summers that an event occurred that has changed my outlook on life; I call it the marmalade summer…

I sat in a chair, eyes closed, the smooth brown carpet warming my feet as I soaked in the warmth of the late summer sun.  A water droplet trickled from my hair and danced down my side.  I brushed it away and sat up.  The faded colors of our lake greeted my eyes.   Pale trees rose from the bank, surrounding the grey blue water, domed by a wispy blue sky.  The wind gusted across the rippling surface, whispering of the coming fall.  My eyes drifted from the cove back to the opposite edge of our dock.  And back to cove…

            Three hundred feet out from our dock lay a speck of orange, struggling, wrestling with the surface of the water.  Our aluminum boat cast off and I powered my oar through the glistening water, out to the trapped fleck of marmalade.  Two enormous wings floundered on the surface of the deep.  Carefully, after several tries, I brought my oar up under my friend.  He was the largest moth I had ever seen:  a fall colored mix of orange, light brown, and swirls of yellow.  His little black eyes stared back into mine for a moment, then all strength left him.

            Gently setting him down, I rowed back to the dock.  I laid him on the smooth carpet, retrieved a lid for a water dish from the boat, and made an alcove from the wind.  Content with the rescue of my new friend, I sat down to observe and wait.  The sound of a bell reached down out of the trees, signaling that lunch was ready.  Waving to my friend, I rushed up the steps. 

            When I returned, the alcove was empty and a speck of orange was lying on the surface of the water once again.  For the second time, I retrieved my friend, and placed his tired and wet frame in the sanctuary I’d built; and this time I watched…

              I watched as he dragged his body to the edge of the dock.  His enormous wings slowly rose and fell in the evening breeze.  His body quivered for a moment, and then he took off, headed for the opposite shore.  I don’t recall the orange speck rising more than 10 feet off the water, and all too quickly it began to fall.  My oars splashed through the water and I set my trembling friend on the dock.  His right wing had a spasmodic tendency, and several of his legs were broken.  I was sure he would stay on the dock, in comfort, and that his death would come with the night. 

            But night never reached us.  Teetering on broken legs, he stood at the edge of the dock, his enormous wings rising and falling.  I thought to stop him, but I could not bring myself to do so.   His eyes were set on the opposite shore; and after a moment he was gone. 

            I held my friend with trembling hands one last time.  I set him down in the final sanctuary I had built for him and watched as that brilliant orange was lost from the world, hidden behind the dark soil. 

When I laid those orange wings in the ground, I believed that my friend had failed, and that his life had been a waste.  His goals were left unfulfilled, and his earnest search had led only to death.  But time and life are showing me that this is not true.  And while the opposite shore was never graced by those marmalade wings, I am realizing that my friend died not in failure, but in accomplishment.

A Void

A Void

by Ryan Billington

Written January 16, 2005

Winter of JuniorYear

I am a phantom, an illusion;

Going through life as a ghost.

You cannot kill me; I cannot die.

Instead, I wander through my world.

I am unnoticed; I am invisible.

I search the sea of expressionless faces.

“Acknowledge me, affirm my existence,” I cry

But only downcast eyes glance away;

Grey, like the clouds, the concrete, the buildings;

Walling their world into a cell; a prison inescapable

Trapped in their misunderstanding of life

Empty blank eyes reflect their minds

Accustomed to hollowness, to the void inside them

How I long to fill them with color

This world I have bought, will you still reject me?

What is this life that you have abandoned me to live?

I am the trickle of water in this frozen winter spring

I am the sun fighting to pierce the haze that surrounds you

You try to contain me in a building and steeple

To fit me into this colorless void of your life

To make me a piece of your puzzle that will change to fit your desires

Oh my children, how long will you turn away?

Why do you choose this emptiness?

I am not made to fit into your puzzle, your confusion

Neither were you

I already have a picture for you

Made from the fragments of my broken body

You sit in a pew, expecting me to take the haze of life away.

I reach out, trying to finally grasp your heart

But I run into the cold gray wall that you have built around it

You leave; feeling abandoned by me, distant, unseen.

I follow you down the gray sidewalks

I have never left you, I‘ve always been right here

Behind you, at your side, staring into your barren soul

I try to touch you

My scarred hand passes through your cheek.

In this void, filled with nothing

The only One that truly exists has become a phantom

Your shrouded faces drift by

Hidden in disguises, living a falsehood

Masks that smile and sparkle; facades that cover you up

Made from the clay of this empty void

You spend so much time in delusion, trying to hide who you are

But the masks keep cracking into emptiness and nothing can put them back together.

Painted white by winter’s chill, and black by the darkness inside you

If mixed together they form the color of your vacant stare

The masks smile; they speak; they seek to conceal and forget

But in your eyes lives an emptiness that cannot be hidden

A longing that you will never be able to veil

I look out over the world I created

Twisted, distorted, and deformed into this void that I see

A world bought back by the living color that flows through my veins

When will they accept the life in me?

Instead they choose to live in this darkness

Actors, surviving through life

Covered in masks

Covered in grayness

Hastening about in the bleakness of winter

Filling their minds and starving their souls

You know my name and claim to know me

But when will you let my water beyond the walls of your mind?

When will you let it reach the cracked and barren surface of your heart?

Even now you shrug me off.

Will you ever be wholly mine?

The conflict is here: grayness covers your body, but I desire soul

Will you still choose the void?

Ryan Billington

1-4-05

AP English

Extra Credit

Winter’s Quandary

By Ryan Billington

            A weakening of winter’s power has left UCA in a form of a winter drought.  The once frozen tundra covered in snow has been transformed by a midwinter spring.  Sun and rain have washed away the blinding white that favored this campus in the record low, pre-break temperatures.  The New Year has brought about change and our white wintry fluff has disappeared. 

Winter brings a unique atmosphere to these wheatfields that we have come to love.  UCA takes on a mystical, storybook atmosphere.  The trees turn completely white, covered by twinkling frost.  The snow swirls that cover the ground and fill the air cause the world we know to dwindle and disappear, leaving only one’s self and the pinpricks of white.  But winter has fallen into a quandary, and remains undecided and unsure of what is to come.  So we sit in this mix of seasons, ever changing.

Snow enthusiasts, such as the avid mountain riders that attend this school in droves, are quite disappointed with this turn of events but “there’s still snow in the mountains,” which always makes things better.  The ski rec program is going strong, and winterists can still slide and float through those wonderful little crystals.  But those who dream of whiter days can’t help but remember winters of old, and wonder when nature’s quandary will end.

In the mean time, rain, wind, sunshine, and blue skies have all found a place at UCA.  Those faithful few who long for warmer days and the sports they love can occasionally be spotted around campus.  Skateboards gather at the front of the dorm and wakeboarders can be seen discussing equipment, new tricks, and their goals for the coming summer.  

It’s quite possible that this northwestern weather may never fully decide, and that the quandary will continue to some unforeseeable end; a continuous mixing pot of seasons and peoples.  After all, that is why we love it here.  Lakes, mountains, snow, rain, sunshine, and clouds… brought together so that all can marvel and enjoy the wonder of our home.

A Speck in the Darkness

A Speck in the Darkness

Written October 4, 2004 for Junior Bible class

Based off John 9:1-7

            That day dawned clear and bright.  The vast blue sky was littered with several cottony clouds floating in the wind.  As for me, everything was the same.  People stomping on me, hurrying off to some important meeting or appointment.  Teenagers hung out with each other on the side of the road, and several beggars could be seen.  Sandals, hoofs, and wheels scurried about all around me.  Suddenly, whoosh!  Whoosh!  A cane swept through my top layer, scattering parts of me to the wind.  Oh yes, of course.  It was him: the man born blind. He had few earthly possessions: a blanket for cold nights, a small covering to hide him from the sun, and a cane. He always carried his cane wherever he went.  It was his most valuable possession, and I had never felt or seen him without it.  Like a brush in the hands of a skilled artist, he painted a picture of the things around him: my dips and bumps, a set of stairs, or the foot of a small child in front of him.  This small wooden stick was the only prick of light in his dark world.

            As was his custom, the man would sit by the side of the road, usually right next to me, and beg the people passing by for money or food.  Occasionally, he would get up and feel around with his cane.  Several times it had been knocked out of his hand by a passing donkey, cart, or annoyed Pharisee. Frantically, the blind man would fall on his knees and scrounge all over my surface for his precious cane, calling out hysterically for help.  But his cries were usually ignored. For some reason, most prominent Jews despised him, believing that his condition resulted from an evil that he or his parents had committed.  Once in a while, a kind soul would bring it to him.  With tears of joy shining in his empty eyes, he would thank them over and over again, asking God to bless them.  That cane was his only speck of light in the darkness.

            The sun blistered down on the small street.  A light breeze wafted by, carrying a twinge of the sea.  Several men walked by, and a small dog searched for hidden scraps.  Several children milled around as a donkey cart slowly threaded its way through the street.  Then I felt it.  A sandal.  I’d been walked on thousands of times before, but something… something was different.  It was almost as if I was out of place.  A royal rich rug or something better should have replaced me.  An aura of untold glory emanated from this Man.  Following behind was a raggedy group of 12 lesser men.  I watched as one of the Man’s followers gazed over the scene around us.  His eyes locked onto the man born blind.  I wondered, could this blind man feel the power of the One in front of him?  Hurriedly, the disciple went to his Master and asked, “Lord, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”  It was a commonly asked question, full of judgement and condemnation.  I felt the blind man’s weight shift, as his remarkable hearing caught the disciple’s query.  He pushed back against the wall, trying to hide from the accusing eyes.  His knuckles whitened around the cane. It was his only sliver of light in this world of darkness.  

But the Master’s response was extraordinary.  “Neither,” Jesus replied, “he was born blind so the power of God could be seen in him.  All of us must quickly carry out the tasks assigned us by the one who sent me, because there is little time left before the night falls and all work comes to an end.  But while I am still here in the world, I am the light of the world.”

            I could almost see the flicker of hope in the blind man’s empty eyes.  It must have been the first time he had not been convicted of some wrong.  The questions began to shout in his mind.  Could God really care about him?  Was there a purpose to his existence beyond this empty blackness?

I didn’t follow meaning behind the Master’s words though.  Night was coming… there was still work to do… and something about light?  How could a blind man see the light?  Everything was night already.  He lived in blackness so deep, that even the glare of burning orb above couldn’t penetrate his darkness.  Suddenly, I felt something wet.  The Man had spit on me, and was kneeling down.  His hand carefully mixed me with the liquid, and then scooped me up into His hand.  He walked over to the cowering form of the blind man, and carefully, with a touch so gentle it could have been holding an infant, yet with a hidden strength beyond explanation, he wiped me over the man’s eyes, and said, “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam.”  Bewildered by this kind yet puzzling act, the blind scrambled up, searched for his cane, and then began tapping his way to the pool.

            Confusion poured through me.  Why had that Master done that?  What did this blind man’s eternal night have to do with this Man who was the Light of the world?  The blind man seemed to be as perplexed as I was.  Eternity seemed to pass in an instant, and in the next moment the blind man reached down into the pool.  The splash of water washed through me, and I dripped off onto the ground.  I hit the ground and felt, with astonishment, the full weight of a wooden cane slam into me.  But there was no cry of fear or desperation.  A sandal rested beside me for an instant before rushing away, leaving the cane and myself far behind.  Besides, who needs a sliver of light when you’ve just been shown the Son?