My name is Raina Verhey. Fifteen years ago, I was pushed into the world and from that point on I have only been learning. I don’t know much, and the more I learn the less I know. I am eager, though, to learn more. To explore more. To live more. Fifteen years is an incredibly short amount of time, and in those years I have had the normal experiences of a kid, and some not normal. But enough about me. I want to talk about my history, and what inspires me to learn, what inspires me to grow, and write, and tell stories.
It was a Friday night, the year somewhere around 2010. I was ten years old, and thought I was more like seventeen. Nonetheless. It was just about six thirty, and my dad and I had just got back from doing business growth work for his home design business, EfficientCAD. He was in the kitchen making the traditional pot of chili, and my Uncle Wes was sitting at the head of the table, in front of the large double window that overlooked the trees of our front yard. His hands were folded as he leaned against the table, shoulders rolled inwards and eyes watching all of our faces as he spoke slowly and methodically, retelling for the fifth time the story of the Saint who spoke the sea serpent to be gone, and relishing the moment when he described the snap of its neck as it reached for its prey.
That was my childhood. What I looked forward to every week. Friday nights, my dad would have his friends over, and my Uncle Wes would come two hours early and tell us story after story. I listened to their talk of politics, of miracles and massacres all over the world, history and art, things that inspired my interest, like stories of the sea called to young sailors many years ago. I learned how to tell a story from my Uncle, and I learned how to recognize a good one from my Dad, and then my mother taught me how to write it, as I was homeschooled(and really well, at that. Only the best mothers give their children raw history books.)
What I have been taught and shown through the years, through the people I respect the most, God has used to water the seed He planted in my heart when He created me. I write for Him. There is no purpose to it, without that standard. Without the knowledge that it is for Him, I write in anger, and it isn’t wholesome or excellent.
So, welcome to my history.
I’ve got a dream, too.
Let Eternity be Realized. What is Eternity? Is it a time, a distance, a measurement? Eternity is a word above time, above anything we can see with our physical eyes. Picture a line, and then name it time. Then realize that it stops at both ends, leaving something greater, something non-defined. I have a thought, something I have been chewing on for a while. The thought is simple: that Eternity is a name for God, or a place inside His heart. I say this, because I think I have been there. The story is up in Word Progression, but my point is simple. My dream is to experience the Heart of God and then write about it. George MacDonald once said,
“There is a chamber also, (O God, humble and accept my speech)– in the heart of God Himself, into which none can enter but the one, the individual, the peculiar man– out of which chamber that man has to bring revelation and strength fro his brethren. That is that for which he was made– to reveal the secret things of the Father.”
My dream is simply to discover the heart of the Father, to be alive with His grace, and keep my eyes on Him. While doing this, I hope to see people touched by His presence by what comes out of my pursuit of Him.
Out of this, I have a heart for America. I want to see Her rise into greatness, to see The People of the United States of America become known all over the world as being great. I want to see America turn back to the One she was dedicated to in the beginning.
The Founding Fathers died in honor of an idea, a hope for Freedom. Let us return to that willingness.