Actions may speak louder than words, but words still speak.

It's a known fact that flowers make women smile. The sending-flowers-phenomenon is hard to fully understand really because 1) They are expensive, 2) They have a short life expectancy, and 3) They don't really DO anything; they don't provide any sort of service to whom they are given.

Everyone knows the phrase, "Actions speak louder than words." My mom spoke those words to me the first time a boy treated me with disrespect after an awful break-up. A good friend approached me and said the phrase after I had said something to publicly humiliate her in front of a group of our friends. And my Sunday school teacher offered it as a piece of wisdom to encourage sinning adolescents. All-in-all "actions speak louder than words" has a sort of negative connotation. Someone was done wrong. And action should be taken to reconcile a relationship.

Here lately, I'm not sure that "actions speak louder than words" is a 100% completely full-proof statement. What have we done to make "words" less authentic than actions? And why can the two not be combined to offer the BEST way to settle squabbles? Better yet, how can we get to a place where "words" and "actions" work together to be something good? Something validating. Something positive. Something that makes people smile.

Flowers aren't delivered alone. They are usually accompanied by a small card that peeks over the top of the pedals. That small card attaches "words" to "action." It ties what is being given to what is being said. And what is being said originates from the thoughts about and emotions for the receiver directly from the giver.

I watched "Love Happens" tonight, and you can probably guess the movie is a romantic comedy. The main female character, Eloise, makes flower arrangements in her shop. In the film, she refers to the messages attached to flowers as "life on a 3x5 card." That's exactly what it is. People don't just buy flowers to give to just anyone. People buy flowers for loved ones. For the most important people in their lives. For the ones they have something to say. Sure, sending them is an action, but giving them is a message. So, how do you sum up a lifetime of love on one 3x5 card? The answer: you can't. But the point is that you try.

The Hands That Made Me Cry

Over the course of my life so far, I have witnessed many people raise their hands. Some to ask permission to speak in the classroom. Some to add emphasis to an exaggerated story. Some to stretch after a long day at work. But I have never been brought to tears by a raised hand until this past weekend.

I stood in front of a white folding chair grasping the back of the seat in front of me. McCall next to me on my right side and Jordan on my left in a room packed full of Jr. High and High School students. The band began to play. And the people around me sang along. I crossed my left foot over my right, balancing my body's weight on my left leg. My eyes searched across the crowd around me. The sea of faces represented many different families. Each person carried his or her own burdens and housed personal gifts. Every teenager held a story behind the secrecy in their eyes.

At that moment, I realized I could never know each story. I would never rejoice with each individual's successes or weep with them in their failures and personal sufferings. But regardless of that fact, I still cared. I cared about each student very deeply. I wanted them to each experience happiness, peace, and prosperity.

My eyes immediately focused on one boy in particular. He sat quietly beside his friend while everyone around them stood on their feet. His body slouched to one side against the back of his seat as he rested his forearm casually across his thigh. He wore round eyeglasses, a plain blue t-shirt, and blue jeans. As the band transitioned from one song to the next, the boy and his friend both stood to join the posture of the crowd. He then fidgeted his feet a little, swayed his body a couple of times, and finally balanced his weight and crossed his arms across his chest. I saw him wanting to worship. He was young, thirteen maybe, shorter than most boys his age and thin in build.

I closed my eyes and began to talk to God. I asked God to fill that boy with His Holy Spirit. To touch him. To love him. To hold him in His arms as the most precious child of God. To remind him that he is loved and adored and pursued by his Creator. That he is uniquely and beautifully made. I asked God to change him so that he may surrender every aspect of his life to our Heavenly Father. As the lead singer finished singing, "Every cry in my heart is to bring you praise from the inside out, Lord, my soul cries out from the inside out ... " I opened my eyes to find his arms lifted high and an expression of joy and trust across his face.

I still don't know who I was praying for. I don't know his name, his story, or what he was experiencing at that moment with the Lord, but I will always remember the tears that filled my eyes as I watched him worship with his own held tightly shut. I will never understand the promptings of the Holy Spirit, what made me choose him out of the crowd of people, or what it even meant in his life or even in my own. I might always remember my prayer that evening to be the most selfless prayer I have ever prayed. But I honestly believe that prayer was needed. It was a gift to me just as much, if not more, than it was possibly to him.

He is true love.

I love how there is always one specific word that explains every thing under the sun. A feeling, a place, a taste, a smell. I love to try to describe words with other words. And I see life unfold in words, long sentences carefully constructed together to say the right thing at the right time. To convey something influential, powerful, and meaningful through the use of language. But for the first time, I am stuck on one word. I try to describe it. To describe him. But I cannot find the words that serve it justice.

Something has changed inside of me. I see and experience life much differently now. I breathe deeper. I laugh longer. I smile more frequently. I am constantly challenged. Somehow his voice relaxes every anxious thought, overbooked schedule, and stressful situation. I am motivated to honor a name that's not yet my own. I am emotionally transparent. I can trust. I can feel. Frowns have disappeared. Beauty is evident. Sounds are clearer. Life has more meaning. More hope. More joy. And a bright and unpredictable future. He is the epitome of everything wonderful, everything good. Everything I never thought to look for. He brightens my days. Says the right things at exactly the right time. He completes not only my sentences but my thoughts, and then he speaks them before I'm able and sometimes before I'm willing. He reads me and understands aspects of myself that I find odd and confusing. He is excitement. He is spontaneity. And passion. He is adventure. And laughter.

I thought I knew myself. But I didn't know myself at all really. Come to find out, I like blonde hair, brown eyes, dark skin, manpris, Chacos, summer camp, lakes, Toms, the sound of jingling keys hanging from a belt loop, Velveeta shells and Doritoes, Converse in every color, v-necks, Teddy Roosevelt, Michael Jackson, hearing "do you want to hear the good news or the bad news," sharing an entree, Foggy Bottom, golden retrievers, longboards, his "on a scale of 1-10"s. But I love the way our hands fit together, laughing until I cry, being heard, taking walks, spending Christmas together, operating as a team, being understood, and his last name.

I thought I had experienced it all and knew it all, and I didn't expect to find what I did. I doubted the existence of true love and never thought to search for it. God placed it before my eyes, and I'll admit I didn't trust Him at first. I was skeptical and afraid. Even in the beginning, I saw the face of God in this handsome boy who knew how to truly live. He understood beauty the way I began writing about it in my journal when I was just sixteen years old. He came to me at the most perfect time because he is the perfect man for me. He expresses himself in a way that blows my mind. I long for him just moments after I leave his side. And my love for him cannot be properly described to anyone.

Life could never be the same now that I have met him. We can be apart. But it doesn't make sense to be. Spending Forever isn't long enough. And spending Right Now is frustrating with miles of separation, long phone calls, Skype dates, and snail mail love letters. He is the most genuine, selfless, hard-working, driven, risk-taking, humorous, entertaining, and compassionate person I know. He knows what he wants in life and fights for it. I will defend him. Trust him. Support him. And continue to thank God for him every day that I am alive. For me, true love is forever. It has the courage to point out discrepancies and sticks around to sort them out. It shows compassion. Is constantly faithful. And practices patience. For me, true love is Christopher Sidney Espinosa.

Boredom: The Death of a Nation

“ … it is a failure of character to have no inner resources to enjoy the wonders of creation, literature, and people. Such abilities and resources should be cultivated and developed early in life." - John Berryman

Having “no inner resources” translates in my mind as a lack of stimulation, most likely developing in early childhood. I recently had a conversation with a good friend of mine. He said that when he was younger he watched a lot of movies and rarely played outside. I, on the other hand, shared how I was constantly making trips from inside my house to outdoors causing my mother to yell, “Morgan, stay in or out!” I played with dolls in my room then mud puddles in the yard. I learned to entertain myself. I played “house” with the neighborhood kids and was always convinced by my best friend that I had to be the dad because my hair was shortest. We built sandcastles in my sandbox and jumped on the trampoline to Britney Spears first (and best) album, Crazy.

Because my mom is a preschool teacher, I consider myself a lifelong student … literally. When I was younger, my siblings and I interacted with her through educational games and activities. We made sock puppets, carved pumpkins for Halloween, and learned fractions by flipping through flash cards. My mother challenged us to think for ourselves and taught us how to be independent individuals. She entrusted us with pets at an early age, even though their lifespans were rather short. We were in charge of feeding, cleaning cages, walking, scooping you-know-what, and playing with them so they could exercise. How much exercise does a hamster really need anyway? Of course kids will be under stimulated if their parents just let them sit in front of the television set for hours each day, watching numerous repetitive commercials and eating entire cans of Pringles and family-sized bags of Doritos. Stimulation comes with practice. It’s no wonder that American children are always looking to purchase the latest video game. The materialistic things kids want seem to involve limited thought processing for them. For example, who buys books for their children anymore? Interactive learning software? Or musical instruments? Nope. We buy Wiis, PS3s, Rock Band, iPods, and Game Boys. Whatever is the easiest way to entertain ourselves, we do. And if we can pass the time without moving from the same spot, all the better.

The average person suffering from severe boredom overlooks all possibility and remains emotionally and physically stagnant. Desperate Housewives is the best example I can think of when it comes to how popular culture portrays boredom in television. It seems to be an implicit undertone in every series, but the female characters on Desperate Housewives are especially bored with their daily routine that they involve themselves in affairs and gossip. Their wealthy husbands supply habitual shopping trips and manicures and pedicures. They can afford to eat out at restaurants, so they rarely cook in their kitchens full of stainless steel appliances and built-in ice machines. I guarantee you that housewives in poverty-stricken third-world countries do not get bored. They know what hard work is because they do it all day every single day.

The role models young girls compare themselves to in today’s culture distort personal identity. Models. Actresses. Flawless Barbie dolls. And Miss America pageant contestants. Girls want long, straight blond hair and blue eyes, and a handsome, All-Star quarter-back boyfriend. Mass media distorts the life of teenagers on Laguna Beach, The Real World, and even Saved By The Bell and Disney’s Boy Meets World. They provide faulty perceptions of what high school really is like, and young people want the same exciting lives they see portrayed on "reality" and commercial television. American teenagers are bored by the realities they find themselves in. Life is hard and oftentimes uneventful and repetitious, so teenagers wish for what they don’t have and just give-up in the real world around them.

It all seems to boil down to this … if things don’t go our way, we get bored. And as Americans, we want our way. We want nice things, a good job, a happy marriage, excitement, fun, adventure, happiness, and perfection. But nice things don’t come without money. Money is the reason to work. Work takes time away from the spouse and family. Lack of investment in family produces a failing marriage and distant relationships with children which causes unhappiness, boredom, and imperfection. These are the actualities of life. Boredom exists because we refuse to embrace life. Life is not always perfect, and it is not always fair. One must offer his or her very best efforts to those we love ... for their benefit and for the well being of oneself. It is important to remain persistent, dedicated, and focused because boredom is not an excuse for life. It is an inevitable aspect of life that one must be prepared to conquer when it arises.

Something To Be Said

Thanksgiving is a unique day of the year that forces a person to think about their life, about how things have unfolded for them, and about the people they have been blessed to know. I have an amazing family and a shockingly diverse group of friends.

My mom is extremely selfless. She's entertaining and doesn't realize it. My dad is optimistic and encouraging regardless of his own circumstances. He knows the right things to say to make everything feel better. My older sister is a cowgirl who knows how and when to stick up for herself. She is bold and amazingly beautiful. My younger sister rests the burdens of the world upon her shoulders. She's compassionate and can sing at the top of her lungs. And my brother. He is quiet but confident. He speaks only when he has something to say and will defend OU football any day of the year. I have also been blessed by a solid group of friends. We all like different things and come from different states and families, but we support each other in whatever we choose to love. When I look into the eyes of the people I appreciate most, I see diversity, humility, and above all, unique passions and qualities. I hear different voices that hold distinct and unparalleled passions that define the very spirit that motivates their personal state-of-being. For them, and for me, passion is the force that provides a sustaining energy throughout the day and ensures a promising tomorrow.


Kathleen, for instance. Her voice is much different than mine. She is an artist. Every word that means something to her reveals itself on paper. On a canvas. In paint. In chalk. In oil. Her passions lie deeper than surface. Her work says something. Something no one else can say in exactly the same manner. She changes people. She changes me and whomever else looks at her final projects. Through her art, she evokes emotion out of viewers. She encourages them to recognize their own passions and utilize their own gifts. She provides them an opportunity to use their own voice--their own means to make a difference.

The most precious moments in life are the ones that leave us speechless. When there are no sufficient words, no perfect combination of passionate vocabulary, or phrase to describe a smile, that is when you know that there is something to be said. Passion is affirmation that the person with the idea, the mental picture, and the drive to make it known has something worth saying. I am a firm believer that everyone has their own silence. Their own means of happiness. Do the things in life that make you happy, whether it is drawing, writing, singing, listening, or speaking. Let whatever leaves you speechless and makes you smile motivate you to have a voice. Let the silence within yourself create an opportunity to speak. Because you can and will make a difference.

All artwork done by Kathleen Nixon

My Blinking Eye

Several weeks ago when the weather was still nice and warm, my boyfriend took me out on the lake in his parent’s boat. I took my shoes off, planning to sit back on the boat and relax. However, I soon found out that he was a huge lake fan, which is a little bit intimidating for someone who rides horses instead of Sea-doos. I wanted to impress him, so I chose to be a team player and participate. My intention to merely attempt wake boarding as a first-timer turned into a fifteen-minute long display of athleticism. Girls can do whatever boys can, right? Well when Chris and I were packing up to leave that evening, he knelt down and began to tie my shoelaces for me. He looked up and commented that no one could tie converse like him, as his left cheek forced a side smile. Today, I have been thinking about Christopher and the night at the lake when he tied my shoes. After a long day, he wanted to take care of me, show me affection, and be kind to me. He wanted to serve me in the simplest of ways.

This afternoon, I was visiting with a dear friend in her room. We were catching one another up on the latest news of our personal lives. I began rambling about school and family. The next thing I knew, I felt myself giving in to emotion. Tears welled in my eyes, but they didn’t run down my cheek. It was almost like, even though I was crying, I was telling myself that there was nothing to cry about. “Everything will be fine. I don’t need to burden other people with my trifling problems.” I blinked, and the tears formed a path down my face. One small trail revealing the evidence of suppression. At that moment, I realized that Kayla was my blinking eye. The catalyst for conversation. And the person kneeling to tie my shoelaces.

As we try to catch what the world throws at us, we become so exhausted that apathy begins to consume our thoughts, ignoring problems seems easier, and depending on others appears unnecessary. But sometimes we need to rely on another person, a close friend or family member. Sometimes we need to just talk and let someone else provide an opinion, some insight, or words of wisdom. Sometimes we need to simply let others care. Sometimes those we love can tie our shoelaces better than we can ourselves.

An audience with Shelby's face.

If someone ever begins a sentence with “God has called me to …,” accountability immediately looms over his or her head. I look at this person and think, “Oh, nice going. Now you’ve really got some big shoes to fill.” They instantly become responsible for following through with what God has articulated to them because others have heard it spoken.

Until recently, I have always considered this spiritual suicide because personal conversations with the Lord are now out on the table for everyone to see and criticize. I have kept God’s call for my life to myself because I feel like it’s expected that outsiders would question that call. I’ve been afraid they would judge me, question my motives, or have little faith that I will follow through for Him. But the truth is, I have to verbalize what the Lord has instructed me to do. If I don’t, I am being disobedient. Silence basically presents the truth that I do not trust His plans and that I believe they are not good enough to share. The dreams I have hidden in my heart for the past year coincides with God’s dreams for my future. And that is very exciting; however, I am so scared because He has called me to be a writer.

This was affirmed for me as I stood staring at the faces of 280 teenagers at the Northwest Oklahoma district church camp in Tishomingo, Oklahoma. The speaker asked all the counselors, leaders, and staff to come forward and be willing to pray with any kids that came to the front. I hadn’t formed any close relationships with the campers yet because it was only Tuesday night, so I was really worried that no one would ask me to pray with them, and I would look stupid standing there by myself in front of all those people. Ridiculous concern, I know, but I began praying, “Lord, I feel like I won’t have a lot of kids wanting to pray with me, but if someone does need me, please give me the exact prayer that they need to hear.” Right then, I felt a tug on my arm; Shelby, a gorgeous 15-year-old girl from my home church, stood in front of me and said, “Morgan, will you pray for me?” Tears filled my eyes. I wrapped my arms around her, hugged her as tight as I could, and began praying into her ear. That night I whispered a prayer into her ear; I talked to God about protecting her and taking away all her fears about entering high school as a freshman. I asked Him to give her guidance and direction to be a light for Jesus in her school. I asked Him to bless her with spiritual discernment when boys started asking her out on dates. The words kept spilling out of me, and I don’t remember most of what I said.

The next day, Roxanne, the wife of Shelby’s youth pastor, stopped me after breakfast and expressed how much I had impacted Shelby the night before with my prayer. She said that Shelby had cried about how much I had helped and comforted her. She looked me directly in the eyes and said, “Even after what’s recently happened, you have found a way to encourage her.” Having no idea what she was talking about, Roxanne began to share how Shelby’s mom had passed away just two weeks before camp. Not only was I emotionally torn apart at that moment, I was speechless. I was humbled. And I knew that God used me the night before. And ministering to young girls was exactly what God wanted me to do for the rest of my life.

That Tuesday night, when I called upon the Lord, He answered my little prayer. He made sure that I was available to give all my attention to Shelby and Shelby only. He prepared my heart and mind. He gave me the words to say, words directly from Him meant only for her. As I cried out to Him, I was simply an instrument for a young girl who needed someone to relate to her, someone to love her, and someone who would hold her tight and not let go.

This past year, I have had actual dreams where I’ve been standing on stage in front of packed auditoriums of young women presenting a novel I’d written that expressed God’s unconditional love for the female heart. Now, and in the future, I will do whatever is necessary to fulfill God’s plan for me. I will write books, articles, and notes. I will drive, fly, and walk. I will read, prepare, plan, and speak. The desires of my heart and the topics I am so passionate about have been ingrained into my personality and my core for a purpose. Yes, I am afraid, but I know that my fear is no longer an issue, and that I will not allow Satan a foothold to hold me back. This is God’s plan. It is no longer in my hands. It’s not up to me. He has called me to be a writer, so it doesn’t matter if I don’t think I’m good enough or capable to achieve something of this magnitude. He will provide the material; I just pray that everything I write is directly from the voice of God, just like Shelby’s prayer. That night, I made a decision to embrace God's plan for me. I made a decision to take advantage of life's opportunity. I tied my shoelaces.