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Below is a poem that I wrote. I was inspired by the Chrysler commercial that features their new car, I forget what it is, but that isn't the point. The car, according o the commercial is 'imported from Detroit' meaning that car is at least assembled in America.
That's a first. At school during Chapel we've been focusing on Rebelling against low standards of society. I'm rebellion against America's dependency on foreign countries to make everything that we need. A good place to start is cars. Plus I really want that car, it looks awesome! :)
Look at it this way. I wanted to do something about our predicament, I'm limited, but what I can do is share my opinion and hopefully win people to my cause.
Read on, and feel free to copy and repost this, just be sure to get my signature on the bottom!
Humble Beginnings.
By: Sarah Cruthirds 5/30/11
Grey on black on brown. Piled high into the sky.
Light.
The sky grey, traced with tendrils of blue, hinting at a better tomorrow.
Music. Dull and metallic, sharp, but energizing.
People all around, their brows set, hands at the ready.
Working quick and fast. The snow falling, piling up on their shoulder like weights.
Determination the American dream. Black paved ways, the veins of our city.
Humble Beginnings.
‘True,’ says the wind. True. And so it began.
A Humble Beginning.
That turned into a foundation, which in turn was built upon.
And now it stands. Strong and mighty. It’s all grown up
Sharp edges, crisp lines, and the red and velvet of old. They make a fashion.
Like no other. Paired they are great, but not, they are none.
Running. Coursing through the veins. Sleek and grey. Shiny, a hint of old luxury.
Humble Beginnings.
A rumbling. Something starting, growing faster, and then coming to a head.
Rebellion. A good one.
Spreading and spreading. Over taking the walls, the corners, the sky even.
Freedom within the reach of the people.
The flag flies proud and long. The wind whipping it back and forth.
It’s an omen of the times to come.
We are dependent on no one. We eat by the fruits of our labor and ours alone.
Humble Beginnings.
Detroit. A Rebellion, this is my city.
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This is an article I wrote for my school paper a few months ago. My math teachers liked it, so I decided to post it. Enjoy:)
Is God a mathematician?
I myself have become very interested in this question since the beginning of the year, but I didn’t quite know how to put it into words, or where to get the answers. However, my algebra class has undertaken a project about the Fibonacci sequence, which bears the name of the early 13th century mathematician, Leonardo Fibonacci of Pisa.
You’ve learned about ratios right? Well, have you learned of the golden ratio? I bet not. The golden ratio, or phi (pronounced like fee or 1.61803399…) is the most ascetically pleasing, or the most pleasurable, to look at ratio! It appears almost everywhere. Such examples are; the Milky Way, the ratio between the various lengths of your body (i.e. the top section of your finger to the length of the entire finger), the golden rectangle, the reproduction of male bees, and, yeah that’s right: The Fibonacci sequence.
In the Fibonacci sequence (1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21,34,55,89,144…) the ratio of any number to the number directly previous, is always constantly nearing phi, or the golden ratio. At one point, the ratio of the two numbers is accurate to 15 decimal places of phi.
So, back to my question: Is God a Mathematician?
We don’t need Albert Einstein, or quantum physics to prove this, all the proof we need is provided by God. Back to Phi, this is somewhere in between the rational, counting, and whole numbers of 1 and 2, but it keeps going and going and going, you get the point. And it never stops! Because of this quality, is considered irrational, or a radical number. What a minute, Jesus was a radical right? Yeah, he was! Jesus was the radical messiah who was rejected by just as many people, if not more, than who accepted him!
Also another way to look upon this is that God’s knowledge is infinite, or never ending. Phi is never ending, as well as the better known pi (3.1415926…), so in the middle of our orderly number system occurs little pieces of infinite. Or little pieces that remind us who our creator is.
Ok, I’m done with example a, onto example b. God is our divine creator. He is a God of order, who has infinite knowledge, we’ve established that. Nature, the universe, and God run in patterns, to a certain extent. I’m not trying to bring God down to our level, but for the purpose of this article I have no better way to describe this.
Nature and the universe have been created, by God, and glorify Him, by proving they are orderly and reoccur in patterns, like the Fibonacci sequence. God also runs in a pattern with humanity, it’s written all over the bible! He keeps forgiving and forgiving, and forgiving, and etc, the Israelites. But it doesn’t stop there, God ultimately rescued his people by sending Jesus, and yet he keeps forgiving us and forgiving us… and keeps doing it! This remind you of anything? Numbers go on forever, phi goes on forever, and God goes on forever.
Pretty neat right? But wait I’m not done yet.
As the ratios of the Fibonacci sequence as constantly nearing their ultimate goal, to equal phi, so are humans constantly trying to reach their goal of being like Christ, or even trying to outdo him. The thing is, we will never reach this status. God is the only perfect being and he has saved us by giving his only son, Jesus, to die for our sins.
In conclusion, here are three powerful and real examples of why God is a mathematician. He has designed his world to glorify him, by showing he is creator, through patterns, such as the Fibonacci sequence. And, there are even more examples if you look for them.
Next time you see a seashell remind yourself, “God made everything, even me, to glorify him. And that we are all fearfully and wonderfully made.”
Below is a first person narrative I wrote a few months ago. My English teacher fell in love with it, and had me enter it into a competition. I didn't win anything, but she gave me a 100 on the project. That's good enough. Enjoy reading! :)
Eating Ham Flavored Ice Cream
Melissa Hailey Morgan. I like to write my name at the top of my paper, to see the way my hand progresses across the page as the small cursive handwriting appears in my signature, forget-me-not blue ink. Of course, I use my favorite pen bestowed upon me by Mr. Jenkins, a resident of Halzworth Glen, Ohio, just like me. It was a birthday present. Mr. Jenkins told me that it used to belong to his son. He said, “That pen was the boy’s favorite when he was budding, going to school.” He contemplated I’m a virtuous student and decided I should have it.
I would set off for his small cramped boat house on Saturdays, sometimes on Sundays if mother would let me skip church. We would sit and talk about all sorts of varying subjects, from astronauts, to cowboys; to politics. I never liked discussions on politics very much.
We also discussed our favorite book series; The Chronicles of Narnia. Mr. Jenkins had a copy of all seven volumes printed in old English, with “thee”, “thou”, and “shalt” too. He let me borrow it a few summers back. There happened to be so many words I couldn’t understand I took one of mother’s empty fig jars and wrote down every word that confused me. Then I deposited them into my word jar. When I was done reading the manuscripts, I carried two full word jars over to Mr. Jenkins’ boat and read them aloud, jotting down the definition of the word he would give to me.
Some days we would not talk at all; just sit out on the deck under the faded green and yellow tarp that was ridden with holes. It reminded me of Swiss cheese. Mr. Jenkins would sit in his decorated wheelchair and string his violin, softly playing some dead, famous composer’s work; it mostly sounded to me like someone had died. The music was comforting to him so I didn’t complain. As he played, I would eat my ham flavored ice cream and stare at the clouds, occasionally pointing one out that made me laugh.
Those days were sullen, for often Mr. Jenkins had just talked to his son’s lawyer, who would inform him that Jeremy still did not want to talk with him. Jeremy was still demanding money for his mother’s premature death; which he blamed solely on Mr. Jenkins. He said that if his father had pursued an education he would have been able to pay for Mama Jenkins cancer treatments, and she wouldn’t have died.
I felt sorry for Mr. Jenkins. He was a hermit crab on those days; stuck inside his shell deep in thought. Mr. Jenkins’ job didn’t pay good money; for he gave up luxury and fame for courage, bravery, and a sea savvy life. Jeremy would never understand. In my mind Jeremy was a whiney babe who desired to blame his insecurities and losses on someone else, lest his important self image shatter.
In the summer, Mr. Jenkins and I would fish off his tiny boat on a lonely lake two miles from my mobile home complex. He tried to teach me about fish and fishing, but it was vastly confusing. I gave up on learning anything. I just let him talk. He needed it; as Mama Jenkins had been gone for nearly fifteen years.
Once while we were eating our ham flavored ice cream on his modest boat Mr. Jenkins announced, “ Melissa, you’re a brainy girl, and don’t let anybody tell you anything different.”
I alleged, “I’m not smart, I just have an extra supply of common sense, honesty, and Christ to help me live my life.”
He cackled then retorted, “Child, you should be a preacher,” and made himself laugh again. The “hack, hack” sound of his cough echoed around his small boat house. After he had calmed down and lowered his voice to an almost inaudible whisper he said, “Melissa, dear girl, if you keep those three things in the forefront of your mind…,” he paused and looked at the tranquil tarn, “you can go far in life.”
“You mean like making a lot of money or running for president?” I asked, totally ignorant of his statement’s meaning.
“No child, I mean you’ll look back on your life and say ‘I have no regrets.’ You will go far child… I promise.” We were both quiet after that for Mr. Jenkins’ music had become even more sullen and depressing than before. I wondered to myself if Mr. Jenkins had regrets in life.
Most days I walked to Mr. Jenkins house the full two miles, which took me about twenty minutes, fifteen if I was running. I told my mother, “I’ll go to his house in rain, snow, or sunshine,” and during the summer I went just about every other day.
During the school year I would show Mr. Jenkins all my graded papers. He liked when I did this because it gave him something to do, something to look forward to, and something to be proud of. He always remarked, “Child, if that mama of yours keels over and dies, why I’ll take you in as my own, feed you, water you, and give you all the ham flavored ice cream you want.” Plus, he said I could read all the books in his dusty library.
But that was never to be. I went to his house like I always did one summer afternoon; however, I hadn’t been able to stop by for the past week since my father had come down from Montana, where he hunted wild game. I ran all the way to Mr. Jenkins’ house. When I arrived, there was a strange man wearing a black suit and red tie slouching in the doorway. He donned sunglasses as he saw me approaching and slicked back his greasy, curly hair with a heavily bejeweled hand. “The old buzzard’s dead!” he cried, revealing sparkling white teeth and a diamond inset into his front right tooth. I stopped point blank and felt a great pressure rise in my chest like a thunder head coming to a halt only to pour out its furry.
He stood up to his full height and smiled again even wider. “You must be little Melissa Morgan,” he said to me with fake and practiced sweetness. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You’re my father’s sole heir. Seems the slippery slug made it legal for you to inherit everything he owns. Well he owed me, and now you owe me too.”
I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Mr. Jenkins, dead! No it couldn’t be, this stranger must be lying. He must be! I was quiet for a long time before I found my voice to talk, “You can’t ha-have any… anything that be-belonged to Mr. Jenkins.”
His smile vanished, replaced by an evil snarl. “What did you say to me?” I found the strength inside of me to stand up to him. I drew myself to my full height, albeit small compared to my enemy’s.
“You can’t have anything of Mr. Jenkins! I know who you are, you’re his good for nothing son, Jeremy, that makes, uh… made Mr. Jenkins’ life miserable. You deserve nothing of his, you snobby scum bag. How dare you ask for his things or his money! You have done nothing but bring trouble to Mr. Jenkins’ life for the past fifteen years.” I spat at him, barely containing my rage.
Jeremy sighed, “I can see this won’t be as easy as I thought.” He pulled out a contract and a pen from inside his coat pocket. I gasped. His pen was a perfect match to mine! “Sign here,” he indicated the dotted line on page ninety three of a huge document. “All of this belongs to me,” he flung his hands in the general direction of the boat house. “You don’t deserve it, I do. He still has a debt to pay to me for letting my mother die like a impoverished bag-lady.” A blood vessel pulsed in his temple as he leaned over me. “Do I make myself clear?” he asked through gritted teeth.
I pulled out the twin to Jeremy’s pen. I clicked it. Registered the look of shock on his face, then put it back into my jacket pocket. “Crystal,” I whispered back at him then snatched the paper from his hands and tore it in half with a loud rip. Feeling the thunder storm in my chest easing, I kept ripping until I could rip no longer then I flung the pieces on the ground at his feet.
Turning and walking away, I felt the tears come back to my eyes. I raced all the way back home, trying not to spill the avalanche of water gathering behind my eyes, for fear of tripping over my own feet. When I reached my dilapidated, rat-ridden, withering mobile-home, I flung myself upon the bed and cried until my mother came home later that night. The next day we received a call from a local funeral home. Lt. Edward P. Jenkins was to be buried there the next day, at two o’clock pending the tempestuous weather.
We also received a call from Mr. Jenkins’ lawyer saying that I was listed as the sole heir of the deceased. Being a minor, my mother was given rights to the house boat and everything inside, as well as a small sum of money entrusted to the local bank. My mother comforted me the entire weekend. She even bought me ham flavored ice cream, despite her vow to never buy what she called, “a disgrace to pigs and ice cream everywhere.”
The next day we left the house fully clad in black for the funeral. There were very few in attendance, however I barely noticed. My eyes were seemingly fixed upon Mr. Jenkins’ lifeless form laying inside a wooden, hastily constructed coffin that had no padding or decoration. His wheel chair was folded up inside, all the pins and ornaments still attached. That made me smile; he would at least have something to please him in heaven. I tucked my pen under his hand then joined the others to sing one of Mr. Jenkins’ favorite songs, “Ode to Joy.”
I didn’t think I could cry anymore, but I did. He was gone. And so was my best friend.
