A Crucifix

A Crucifix

By Ryan Billington

April, 2007

Introduction:

            “Without question, this is the great mystery of our faith:

                        Christ appeared in the flesh

                           And was shown to be righteous by the Spirit

                        He was seen by angels

                           And was announced to the nations.

                        He was believed on in the world…”

                                    - 1 Timothy 3:16

            The word became flesh, and made his dwelling among us… my insight into these words wavers with the wind.  At times I wonder at them, in awe of such a being and such reckless, stupid love.  He makes me laugh, and lights me up inside.  Then a few weeks later I see them, and the felten face of Jesus appears before me, like a cereal box cutout.  No emotion, no thankfulness.  I wonder about my connection with Him, and question His will and guidance in my life.  No, no; I don’t question God.  I question myself…

What am I doing?  What happened to the me that rolled out of bed in the morning for God?  Where is the next step in the ladder?  Must we remain at this impasse? 

A crucifix was made for me—but was stolen by a friend

Who labor much, who loved and lost

Whose life for me did end

Two rough sticks, a wooden cross; why reject pure light for me?

For now I hold these dirty sticks

A tortured love from thee

I’ve hidden it, I’ve forgotten it, but more I’ve rejected You—

The hands that felt the taste of steel

For my chance at life renewed

But no, not yet; I can’t take you—for people, pleasure, pride

A search I’m on to find the point

Of life on sinful side

Wasting ‘way, still I seek the scars you took for me

To find meaning in your death for love

Upon that wooden tree

Stumbling on, though cuts of Time who deals such fatal blows

My control is gone, my mind confused

A soul that’s dying slow

Doubt surrounds and failures mount, Oh God, give me a sign

For though I say that I am Yours

I doubt that Thou art mine

Oh, that I’d be only Yours, of one and steady mind

To live and choose of Thee, my Friend

To breathe through lungs of Thine

And still my choices lingers here, set for all see

You forsook heaven, eternal God

For mere chance to welcome me

Oh God, my Father, save me from my sin

That ere I see those nails and tree

I live to fish for men

Ode to a Mother

Ode to a Mother

By Your Youngest

To my mom on this day of celebration and joy

Come these thoughts of rememberance from your youngest boy

Looking back on my life, quite awestruck to see

Your self-giving heart that cherished we three

From diapers to cleaning to girls’ bouquets

To our special traditions that last to this day

Fondue, my own stocking, birthday morning surprises

Sacrifice for my joy way beyond any surmises

Remember David, Goliath, and that reclining blue chair?

You’ve shown us God’s ways, in rough times and in fair

Songs I still remember, no, I need not be afraid

For I know that my God (and sometimes worrisome mom) is watching always

Midnight low scares and convulsions galore

To trust God and let go, despite fears that you bore

Fighting a disease, our conflicts, and my anger troubles

Yet you saw a good heart, despite all of the rubble

You taught me to clean, almost cook, and not act like a slob

And why can’t I multi-task?  “Always finish the job.”

You taught me good listening, which I’m still not sure I do

But so many of my good things I attribute to you

From our sailboat adventures, to disease, to the future and what end

Your life has led me to live by trust for the Bestest of Friends

Homemade Bible games, angel dramas, and the Books of the Bible sing along

You’ve lived to incorporate Jesus in our lives by your daily life song

You’ve expanded my beliefs, character, and mind

 You’d give up your life so that my own I could find

You make such good food that marriage is scary

You’re a standard to which I measure those pretty college fairies

Now, we know you aren’t perfect though you sometimes try to be

Because I’m still neither Dustin nor Rufus- I am simply me

But you have a heart of pure gold, and that’s hard to ignore

For no matter the outside, the insides matter more

A mom interested in me, my life, friends, and thoughts

Is worth more than the gold over which any man ever fought

How can I sum, Mom, what you mean to me?

For the words I would need are more vast than the sea

I could write for pages, beyond a single pen and its ink

For they couldn’t begin to scratch all of you that I think

To sum it all into one, I wish you know this be true

That all I could want in a mother, I have found in you

Tombstones

Tombstones

By Ryan Billington

Sometime between 2006 and 2007

I don’t know how I got here.

Covered with cuts and bruises;

My left arm is numb and my head is throbbing.

I find myself in the bottom of a crevasse.

Something is behind me—I have to get out.

Running frantically, trying to escape this doom.

Emotions rush through me like riptides, creating a storm inside—

Unpredictable currents with no purpose or direction,

Blowing, tossing the small paper boat of my sanity like chafe in the wind.

On an impulse, I rush at the canyon wall

Grabbing at sticks and sand,

Trying to pull myself out of this prison.

But the lock holds firm.

The sand melts into emptiness, and the sticks are transformed into loose briars

That only tear at my hands.

Falling… falling yet again.

The impact sends my mind further into delirium.

Panic furthers its grip on me;

I can feel the crack running down my mind—

Reason is being fought by Panic.

I am fighting a loosing battle; I am being taken over.

What will happen when my desire shrivels to the nothingness that surrounds me?

I’ll fade away—

Becoming part of this desolate wasteland,

Melting away into the sand.

Every path I stumble up ends in another bruise, another knock to my reeling mind

Every rock and briar that I grasp collapses.

Is this it?  Will I simply fade away?

I can find no escape,

Desperately trying to hold onto the little life I have left.

Another desperate lunge, another failure.

My senses are spinning

I try to stand but instead sink to battered knees.

It’s playing with my emotions:

Panic, anger, fear

Emptiness, loneliness.

We cannot both survive this.

I can’t escape; I can’t run away.

I’ve finally found myself in the corner I’ve seen coming in the worst of my nightmares.

But they used to be only nightmares—

Then, I could wake up.

Now, I can’t.

Will I ever wake up again?

As myself?

Will it leave me?  Will I become a shell?

Without feeling, emotion, intellect, personality—

Melting into the sand of mediocrity so well that I shall simply disappear.

Fatalism—I loathe the very word.

There is always hope, but I cannot find it.

I cannot get out.

I am stuck and loosing my mind as my emotions are played with like I am some sort of toy.

Life is beautiful—

But living a deadness is like living in hell:

Seeing but never being able to create, to form, to have;

Tasting warmth to know the bitter cold;

Seeing a glimpse of the sun so that I may fathom the complete blackness in which I’ve lost my way.

God can pierce this darkness, but the damage has been done—

The scars will remain.

I must do something to escape from this crevasse

But I am forced to do nothing.

Only to sit and watch, helpless in this awful reality of the garbage that surrounds my cage.

Instead, we walk around this graveyard, this crevasse

And analyze, critique.

Why do we choose to stay here instead of running to the meadow that is over the hill?

No.

We stay and analyze the tombstones…

Ryan Billington

5-2-06

AP English

Extra Credit

Giraffes and Flip-flops

            The unique fascinations held by people can prove to be quite intriguing.  A love for a certain squeaky pen has dramatically affected most UCA students academic experience, and this year would not have been the same without a certain ASB officer’s fire for Ephesians 3:16-19.  From dancing in the bathroom to rubber duckies to “questing” to the squishiness of a sea anemone to giraffes to penguins to lime green flip-flops to the cloudy skies of Portland, there is no end to the list of these special items.  Some come with stories, several with personality, and a lot with, “…don’t ask why, I just do.”  But these individualized, seemingly random interests can often expose sides of a person that are impossible to see, and offer insights that words cannot capture.  Although “being unique” is often beaten to death in speeches, sermons, and other verbal bantering, only a few pause to appreciate these specific differences that break up the monotony of the everyday.  In this rush of last year activities, it seems that life is often transformed into a cyclone that rips through life and days later we wake up and realize that time, the events, and the people are gone with the wind.  In a quiet moment, remember to take the time to notice the unique and pause to thank God for the person next to and for the diversity.

Ryan Billington

3-10-06

AP English

Extra Credit

World Famous

By Ryan Billington

            I had the privilege of going on the UCA gymnastics tour to Yakima and Brewster this March.  Over the 5-day tour, the team racked up over 17 hours on the bus.  Our team left Thursday evening and stayed at Ma and Pa Soule’s house that night.  We performed at Yakima Adventist Christian School and then drove to Brewster for a show Saturday night, after which we drove all the way back to Yakima. 

Sunday morning found everyone tired, sore, and a little low on enthusiasm.  We were scheduled to arrive at the All Nations Center, run by the Kravig family, to give a show and clinic for the kids.  Our half time show, unicycle routine, mixed pairs, and quads all rushed by without a hitch, and suddenly Soule was out on the mat, announcing that it was time for all the kids to come forward.  Each gymnast grabbed one or two kids, and suddenly life was teeming with shouts, yells, and people everywhere.  I picked out two boys.  Then David Wheeler and I set to work teaching them the tricks of the trade.  After several stunts, we were running low on ideas, so we asked the boys what they would like to learn.  After a mumbled, “I don’t know,” the eldest looked up and said, “Umm… do you know my sister?  She goes to UCA.  Oh, you wouldn’t know her.  You’re world famous.”  I chuckled and helped the youngster into position for a Front Angel.  But his words echoed inside my head… world famous.  We finished the clinic and wrapped up the show, which had gone fairly well.  While almost all of the pyramids had gone up, it seemed our timing was farther off than previous shows and that we weren’t as together as a whole.  After the mats were rolled, the trailer packed, and the pizzas eaten, we loaded the bus for a 3-hour trip to UCA.  Still, the boy’s words would not leave me.  I didn’t even know him, yet our 10-minute interaction had left my mind spinning.  I saw him as a normal, wide-eyed kid with a shy smile and a timid voice.  In his eyes, we were a world-class gymnastic team that was taking time to play and be friends with him: to show him how to stand on top of a pyramid of giants, and to give him a high five.   

            In life, we don’t often see ourselves through the eyes of others.  The sight of our character, our way of interacting, and our everyday actions is limited to a single perspective.  We are almost blind to the ways we affect others, the thoughts we inspire, and the impact we have.  For the gymnastic team on the tour, working and connecting with those kids was a simple part of our show, but for the boy I worked with, it was almost surreal.  It’s the everyday events in life, the everyday moments we live that can mean so much to someone else.  A smile, five minutes of connection, an encouraging note, a caring question that shows not our face, but the face of Christ.  Living is for Christ.  Not Week of Prayer, not a handful of Sabbaths.  Living… and that, my friends, is beyond anything else:  even being world famous. 

Melancholy

Ryan Billington

2-28-06

AP English

Descriptive Essay

Melancholy

            Winter’s sky ripples across the horizon.  The wind swirls strokes of gray and marble with white, contrasted by threads of blue.   While my passions and pastimes are framed in sunshine and warmth, there is a capturing presence carried by this landscape, by nature in winter.  The air is flavored with rain and earth, a crispness I taste, I breathe.  I feel the tinge of the chilled gusts sweeping across fields that roll and dip with the sky.  Pinpricks jump from my skin, and it seems I am standing by the windswept sea as a wave crashes, covering me with the sensation of ten thousand salted icicles sweeping through my skin.  A lone tree beckons me to join him in thought and offers a root-broken patch of grass which welcomes my hands, its pale yellow strands scattered amongst a faded green, scant covering over the earthen brown below me.  With rough birch bark at my back, I allow my thoughts to be pulled away.   

            Gray has enveloped nature, a touch of mortality in the strokes of the artist’s brush.  Nothing is left unaltered.  The leafless trees wave their twigged fingers at a washed blue sky.  The brown fields look worn, tired from trudging the length of parallel furrows in a lifelong journey.  Even the grass is hidden behind a mist of silver.  Faded from the world, death and life come together in season.  The air is pregnant with reflection, smelling of good clean soil.  Spring abandoned this scene long ago, and Winter feels the pain of its passing, sad sorrow at the loss of an old friend.  So he remains:  watching, waiting, wistfully longing for the sight of his companion.  It seems Winter has grown old and gray and somewhere in this landscape is the wisdom of his thousand years waiting for discovery, hidden behind this curtain of sobriety.  Beauty in sobriety, nobility in gray…

            A question was asked, “How do I live, how do I act with the knowledge of so much evil in the world?”  As one of four seasons lives as a testimony to grayness there is a season of people:  people that carry a deep sadness, a wistfulness through life, searching, scanning the horizon for an old friend.  A piece of puzzle is missing, a rightness that is gone from the world.  They journey along the furrows of life, fulfilled yet knowing this incompleteness, seeing that not all is right.   Wholeness is missing until an old friend comes home.  It is their service—it is their personality to carry this burden and to be the visual reminder of absence, a reminder of suffering.  Beauty in sobriety, nobility in gray…

Backed by the trunk of my companion, I stare at this silver world.  Life reveals the life that has left; color reveals the existence of gray.