"Just run with me through rows of speeding cars."

Tuesday night is still. The distant call of a passing train is familiar, somehow comforting.  In her young life she had lived by train tracks in many places, often drifting to sleep as they thundered close by. Her mind is wandering to other times, times sweetly nostalgic, holding the illusive grandeur that all fond memories do. Escaping, remembering, savoring… She lay in a blue room in the city of the queen, window shades pulled back, watching the airplanes light up as they travel under the navy blanket, filled with diamonds. She loved that Carolina sky. Soft sounds of a beloved singer seeped into her consciousness, casting her into a state of deep contentment. Life could be so hurtful, but there she was safe. There, deep in the realm of her thoughts. A private space no one else had so much as glimpsed at before.


She is slowly brought back to reality. A slightly messy room, light grey walls, a skinned knee from an unexpected spill. She hears sirens following someone beyond her window. There were always sirens in Virginia.  Lifting her cup of once-hot coffee to her lips, she let her thoughts brush the worry in her heart for a dear friend. One of her very best. He was definitely up at the same hour hundreds of miles away, due to his constant art of procrastination. It was endearing and troubling at the same time, and she couldn’t help but smile at the idea. One day, he’ll use that brilliant mind for something great. Of this, she has no doubt. As of now, however, she’ll simply keep him in line as best she can over such a great distance. Gently raising the volume of her current poetical muse, she almost inhales the words as they come.


“Here’s the day you hoped would never come
Don’t feed me violins, just run with me
Through rows of speeding cars
The paper cuts, the cheating lovers
The coffee’s never strong enough
I know you think it’s more than just bad luck.


Now, now baby, it’s just textbook stuff
It’s in the ABC of growing up
Now, now darling, oh don’t lose your head
‘Cause none of us were angels,
And you know I love you, yeah.”


Imogen Heap. A lady who spoke her alien language. The melody was as much a poem as the words. It comforts her soul, reminding her she isn’t alone. The unfinished Italian cream cake beside her beckons her attention, and she allows herself another bite. Yes, this city is hard. But here are her lessons, and here she has to learn them. She is freshly legal, freshly eighteen. It is an age full of contradictions. You are told you are an adult, but are still looked at as a child. You are expected to take on responsibilities, but are treated with smugness and inferiority. You have to be patient and endure they fact you still aren’t taken seriously. You have to strive to earn your title, to get the ones around you to realize you have transitioned from a child to an adult. But really, you never stop growing. She knows that. And even though it’s painful, even though she wants nothing more than to slide under her bed covers and retreat from the world, letting her white flag wave for all to see, she will still stand if it gives her a chance to grow. Hope is not lost. Not yet. She isn’t out of fight. 


Tuesday night is still. The train has passed, its destination unknown, but not unimagined to her. Lilting tunes fade away, and she takes another sip of cold coffee. Even as she finishes typing this, she’s more settled. Tomorrow holds possibilities, scattered like a field of wildflowers. Possibilities for growth and for learning. Perhaps you’ll see her, trying to embrace them. If you do, you’re welcome to join her. 


“What are you waiting for? The day is gone.
I said, ‘I’m waiting for dawn.’
What are you aiming for, out here alone?
I said, ‘I’m aiming for home.’
Holding on, holding on.


With red eyes, what are you looking for?
With red eyes, red eyes?


All of my days are spent within this skin,
Within this cage that I’m in.
Nowhere feels safe to me, nowhere feels home.
Even in crowds I’m alone.
Holding on, I’m holding on.


With red eyes, what are you looking for?
With red eyes, red eyes?
With red eyes, what are you looking for?
With red eyes, red eyes?


Every now and then I see you dreaming,
Every now and then I see you cry.
Every now and then I see you reaching,
Reaching for the other side.
What are you waiting for?”
- Red Eyes, Switchfoot

My wound goes deeper than the skin; there's no hiding it, so I'm not trying it.

Well, here I am, sitting in a Starbucks in Tyler (Texas) on Thanksgiving day, trying to articulate my rapidly flowing emotions. I was born in this city, though this is the first time I have ever had to really look at it. It's a town filled with music stores and donut shops, with beautiful old trees and colorful leaves (seeing as it's November). I can tell that it's normally got flowing gardens in these neighborhoods, and it's no wonder it got it's reputation as the Rose Capitol. It's very thought-provoking to be here. It feels like I kept hearing the Lord whispering as I drove in, "This is where I brought you into the world, and oh, how I rejoiced on that day!"

Ever since starting this trip to Texas, my heart has been experiencing a variety of emotions. I had several fights with my mother on the way up here, and in the midst of it all something flew out of my mouth before I even knew where it came from.

"You don't believe Jesus makes whole. And I don't believe he does. None of us do, or we wouldn't be having these fights."

That hit me like a bullet when I realized what I said. Not because it wasn't true, but because it really WAS true. It kept dwelling in my mind, and a soberness took me over.  Forget everyone else for a minute. If I, Alec Burnett, believed in the cleansing of Jesus' blood, then I would not hold so much offense in my heart. I would not get stuck in these cycles of frustration with my parents over and over again, but I would rest easy knowing that Jesus has already cleaned them, he has made them whole. I would have no reason to get mad, because they are a new creation, and not the old flesh.

It struck me hard, and it's stayed between my lungs. I NEED to believe that Jesus makes clean. He has extended mercy, he has extended grace. He's so unbelievably beautiful, how can I help but try and do the same?

And on another note, I'm with my extended family - well, not at the moment - and I'm learning more about them. I'm going to be honest, it always gave me a great deal of grief that I didn't know who they were almost at all. I would see some of them occasionally (I come from a very, very large family), but only in bits and pieces, here and there. And now I feel almost overwhelmed at the thought of meeting and seeing so many of them. I feel tired, like I want to give up, the task is so great. But I am determined that by the end of this trip, I will have forged some fond memories to keep of those with whom I share blood.

I'm such a deep feeler; I was struggling with feeling some despair about my life. Even now I am, sitting here at this little table, listening to the baristas banter back and forth. Yet I can't help but let Jesus remind me that it's not over. Ten days from now I will experience a tremendous shift, from minor to "legal adult." My life is just beginning. I'm emerging, I'm changing, I'm growing. I'm going to choose, no matter how hard it is right now, to just believe that I was born into the world, right here in this city, for a reason. You can call it cheesy, irrational, or clichéd. But I'd rather live with hope that God formed me with intent than despair that I have no purpose. 

Happy Thanksgiving everybody. I'm thankful that I was born. And I'm thankful for parents that truly love me. And I'm also thankful that you care enough about me that you took the time to read this.

My Love Goes Free

The open road stood before me like an old, weathered, greatly cherished friend. I'd been using the freeway my whole life. We'd become quite fond of one another. The sun had set an hour or so before, leaving the lingering warmth in the humid air thick and somehow comforting. It was oddly warm for mid-October. Normally I would be frustrated, as I love feeling the cold on my face, but tonight I bestowed upon it a half smile. I let the windows roll down and lazily draped my arm out the window.

The taillights ahead of me were blinking on and off, on and off as the drivers would occasionally brake to accommodate another vehicle, sometimes by choice and sometimes by instinct. Some drivers were purely reckless. I sighed contentedly, Jon Foreman playing at a low volume. I wasn't quite sure when I had turned it down, yet I did remember that I had wanted to hear the freeway breathe, if only for a little bit. I was headed back to my roots, to see the places I came from. I wanted to remember and cherish and discover again. Texas is a country of its own, my Texan pride will tell you that much. Acres and acres of rolling land for you to tumble out of your cars and spin into fields of blue bonnets, smiling up at the millions of stars.

Yes, Texas was a place of supreme beauty. I had not spent the majority of my life there, but it's where I was born, and where my parents were born. I had a copy of the journal of one of my direct ancestors kept when he came to Texas from Germany, translated into English from the original German. It was deeply embedded in my heritage, the genetics of my being. I had Texas dust in my very cells. It was calling me to return and familiarize myself with it's nuances once again.

I think a great part of me wanted answers. Why did I turn out this way? Why do I prefer this certain food? This flavor? What was the land whispering when I was born? Where are the places my story began? Do I still carry pieces of my homeland in the way I walk? Talk? Carry myself? Or has age, grief, and distance washed it all from me, leaving muddied canvas where they had once been a picture? I knew in my heart that this trip could not answer all of these questions. Some were asked in a way the land could not pretend or even hope to know. But simply being there would satisfy the unanswered feelings within me, feelings ignored and hushed like a curious child scorned, only because the adult the child had asked did not know the answers requested of them.

There were fireflies dancing outside. I only caught glimpses of them now and again, but they were beautiful. Lighting up against a dark, musky background, almost as if to say that just because there was darkness didn't mean you couldn't find your way. I turned the Jon Foreman CD back up, one of my favorite song's lyrics slowly drifting through the speakers and embracing me as if I was a delicate little girl, bound to break if not cared for.

"And the words are new
But I recognize the tone
'If you love her let her go'
She's beautifully composed
A tune that only caged birds know"

It was so beautiful. The thought of loving someone so much, but willingly releasing them to make their own choices. I think there's nothing more loving than true sacrifice in the name of another. I picked up my cup of tea, only a few drops remaining, and put it down again absentmindedly. My mind was wandering over summers past and forgotten evenings. Shaking it all off, I set my face forward. I was on a journey of discovery, and as each mile would pass, each piece of land being set behind me, I knew I would be driving through the night, and in the morning I would find myself the closest place I could call ever home.

Outer Limits

Well, I could never say that to you, dear
If only for a moment, the lines would clear
To tell you who you are
And who you're not 
From the outer limits of your heart


Well, there is something else going, on you see
The dark and the light are calling me
You got your homemade weapons that you bought at the store
And a cup of cold coffee on your bedroom floor


Inside, outside, we tried 
Getting up at sunset
I bet they thought we were going crazy 
Maybe we were heading down the wrong road 
Who knows, maybe so
You talked about God like I had dreamed him
I was flying blind, I could not see then


But you run 
Through the fields
Bringing hope 
And cheer 
And you are like a star 
That flew straight into my heart 


Well there is a song that I'd like to sing
It's about the dark and the light 
And the in between
But there's the same old numbers 
On the telephone 
And you can't hear it playing 
On the radio


The call of the wild is calling me
If I'm gonna live, I better live free
So if you're coming up empty
You're coming up short
Push the outer limits
Of your heart

Inside, outside, we tried 

Getting up at sunset

I bet they thought we were going crazy 

Maybe we were heading down the wrong road 

Who knows, maybe so

You talked about God like I had dreamed him

I was flying blind, I could not see then

But you run 

Through the fields

Bringing hope 

And cheer 

And you are like a star 

That flew straight into my heart 

- Outer Limits by Public Radio

Sweet Child

I was talking with a friend of mine 
About the end of the world as we know it
Yeah, and we all know it
Sunday bloody Sunday 
Come again as you are, as you were 
As a train wreck falling from your eyes 


Everybody hurts 
Sometimes, the radio got bought  
By some big TV network 
Oh my, I think I'm gonna cry 


And it was all yellow, we were all stained 
By some clown throwing biscuits from a stage 
Now we tune in every week 
To see some cockney cowboy 
Columbine little kid's hopes, and little kid's dreams


You were home and I was alone
And I wasn't afraid of being 
The best part of waking up
But I got lost and I scrubbed myself clean 
I was clean, I was OC, but Babe
I lost my anatomy 
Then I woke up to find that I wasted my whole day


Everybody hurts 
Sometimes, the radio got bought
By some big TV network. 
Oh my, I think I'm gonna cry 


The camera lies  
The camera lies 
You and I were meant for more than 
Hovering around these TV screens 
Taking in everything 


Turn your eyes 
Turn your eyes 
Come and fly the friendly skies 
Take a good look and walk away


Do you get it? 
'Cause I got it
I sing it 
You shout it
We stand 
United 
We've got to fight it all


We've got to fight it all
Sweet child o' mine


- Sweet Child by Public Radio

Seriously....get off the roof.

I have a friend. And he likes to do things in an effort to take my life by sheer fright. Like jumping off roofs and throwing and catching knives. I keep telling him to stop, but he's a boy, so he doesn't listen. In all honesty, he's such a good friend, even if he is determined to die in a high-speed chase, running down the enemies of the state. He's really been here for me this whole time, offering a listening ear and a sympathetic heart. What would I do without him? Full of promise, all I can see for him is a bright future, should he choose to accept it.

I think he should be a rock star. But not just any rock star. He's got too much potential for another stud in leather pants, spitting on the stage and trashing his tour bus. I think he should be the kind of rock star that stands in integrity, stands for something meaningful. Besides the fact that he's a musical genius, he's a pretty stellar writer too. I've already told him to write about how I'm an alien in one of his books, because I really feel that way. And I think he'd portray it in a fair light, unlike the journalists knocking on my door, asking if all my species is so petite.

To put it bluntly, I'm so glad he's my friend. After all, if I wasn't being scared to death on a regular basis, my reflexes might wear down. Can't have that, now can we?

Keep it up, friend. If anyone's going to make it, it's you.

P.S. Car.

"But oh father, it is you that has called them, and has redeemed them all by name."

"Can their shame turn to sorrow, 'till forgiveness and grace unfold?" -Mark Mathis.

The raindrops echoed in the seemingly deserted monastery. An eerie feeling settled over me, as I realized that each raindrop sounded like a foot step. The ceiling leak dropping in the bucket was slow and rhythmic.


Plink, plink, plink.

I settled back with my hot chocolate and watched the window, fog rising and obscuring the view outside. I thought about turning on music, seeing as music was my sanctuary. Always safe, always comforting, always there. A universal language. Everyone can understand music.

Something was holding me back, however. I could only sit and listen to the sounds of the falling night, breathe in the humid air around me. I was held back in deep thought, the consequence being a great deal of consonants and vowels banging around in my head. The real struggle was my slowly articulating emotions. The language of the heart is very hard to put into words.

Plink, plink, plink.


I stripped myself of jewelry, my scarf, a jacket, and my shoes and stepped outside into the cascade of drops. It felt comforting, somehow. I could see the rain's endless tirade leaving it's mark, washing away the impurities of the earth. I could feel the slickness as it ran down my arms and off of my hands. I was being washed with the world. But it was only an outer cleansing.

As I slowly moved through the pooling water beneath me, shoes in my right hand, I was remembering. No matter the feeling, no matter the discomfort, I knew. I knew everything would work out as it's supposed to. I had been called clean and redeemed by name. I had been given purpose. The world will always try to knock whatever hope I have inside of me out onto the sidewalk, broken and bleeding. It will try and bring me to my knees and keep me there. But if I can manage to stay alive....if I can manage to remain standing when the bell rings, then I have been victorious.

I headed back into shelter, dripping wet on the outside, yet somehow feeling cleaner on the inside.

Plink, plink, plink.


As I returned to my now-not-so-hot chocolate, I couldn't help but smile when I sank into my favorite sanctuary in the form of the gentle melodies of Mark Mathis. As long as I was standing....

As long as I was alive.