Mountaintop Experience

I went away to the mountains for the weekend with the Young Adult group at my church. More reason to rue growing up: having to acclimate to a whole new age group, right when you find yourself comfortable in the old one. It actually wasn't that bad. I fit in. Not perfectly. But I fit. Somewhere.

We went for a hike on Saturday. "5.4 miles" and "strenuous" were the only words we could find in the guide books to describe our chosen destination... and we went anyway, most likely for the promised 70 foot waterfall at the end of the trail. Between the blisters, roots, rocks, and sweat, the way up was unpleasant at best. It took me an hour and ten minutes to make it 2.7 miles. The waterfall was awe-inspiring, though. The sheer drop off the rock face was spectacular, the mist refreshing, if not chilling.

Was it worth it? Yes. But not for the waterfall.

As we headed back down the mountain, I ended up in the lead group. Our pack of five spread out a bit as our paces changed. Eventually it was only me and one of the leaders. Then, odd as it was, we both started running. We caught up with the other three and they ran, too. Again, we spread out, and I was alone, bounding over the same rocks and roots I had stumbled over previously.

Never in my life have I felt so much energy, and never in my life have I felt more like a child of God, a wanted, accepted, delighted in daughter. He "renewed my strength" while amazing my eyes with the wonder of his creation. There's something about nature, mountains especially, that help you get focus. There's no crazy job, no confusing relationships, no college health forms, no roommate's facebook profile, no cell phone, none of the usual distractions.

So we talked. We hadn't done that in a while (that hadn't involved a meal, anyway). I asked Him to take the next few weeks to teach me. I know I'll be learning about God all my life, but there's a lot of stuff I'm missing, about who He is and who I am to Him, important stuff that I need to know. I desperately want to learn and perhaps... even be healed.

Hey, he got me running. Maybe I can still soar.

This Can't Be Good...

The Roommate. The single most dreaded aspect of college life for many incoming freshman.

First, you get a name. In the mail, at orientation... somehow, the name comes. In my case, there was a phone number along with the name. But on the day that little paper of fate blessed my mailbox, I had little knowledge of it's importance. Instead of opening the envelope bearing "No, It's Not UGA" University's letterhead, I took a nap. Imagine my confusion when I was awakened by a phone call, from the roommate herself.

"Hello?"
"Hey... it's [name here]...?"
"Oh... Hi?"
"Your... roommate?"
"OH! Hey!"
"Didn't you get the little paper of fate in the mail today?"
"It's... possible."
[discussion follows about who would bring what for the room.]

No, she didn't say "little paper of fate." But she did ask. I felt stupid. And that was when [name here] learned her first thing about me: I like to take naps.

Next, thanks to the magic that is facebook, you are able to get a nice snapshot of who your future best friend exactly is. I was able to enjoy this experience tonight, and I can't help but wonder what it all means (or what she thinks about my profile).

Profile Picture: [name here] posing happily with two friends. That's nice. She has friends. Wait. What's that? Oh! They're drinking something. Good. I like drinking liquids, too. This is great. Oh, that's funny, her can is silver... and blue. Hm. Maybe it's... Pepsi? Oh, hold on. The friend in the middle's holding a huge QT style plastic cup of light brown liquid. That says "Big Ass Beer." Ah-HA! Yeah, that's cute.

Stats: Ah, looks like [name here]'s in a relationship. Let's hope they like to talk to each other every hour I'm sleeping. And... oh, boy. She's "Liberal." Better break out the Ann Coulter books. Seems she likes every kind of music (so she won't have a problem with Coldplay?) and has no favorite books, saying she "only reads magazines." Heck, I like books enough to be an English major.

I'm starting to think we're not so... compatible.

So what's the next step? Who knows. I wrote on her wall. I think we need a cabinet or something for the TV (that she's bringing), so I thought I might offer. It's just bizarre, really. This person who probably can't pronounce my last name will know intimate details about me and how I live by Labor Day.

Man, I love growing up!

Storm Clouds

I hate droughts.

The water bans. The not-so-flourishing flora. The sticky, humid mood that blankets the air as well as your skin the second you step out of air conditioned bliss.

This summer, like every summer, we're having a drought. Thus, we deal with frustrations, such as those listed above. But more than that, the oddest thing happens to us: We forget rain.

A few days ago, I was backing out of my garage when I heard the strangest noise beating the rear end of my car. I immediately applied the brakes, completely startled by the incessant tapping. Then I looked in the rear view and saw huge raindrops plopping on the back windshield. It had been so long, I didn't recognize rain.

I think one of the reasons I was so bewildered was the stark presence of the sun. You know that weather rarity when it's pouring rain, but the sun's still in full glory? It was bizarre, to say the least. It's sunny. There should be no rain. We're in drought. There should be no rain.

Everyone in my state would agree: the few showers we've been having recently couldn't have come sooner. The rain's been a gift, much needed and much appreciated.

The idea of gifts has struck me lately. In Bible study, we were discussing Hannah in 1 Samuel. She prayed for a child, though it was a distressing situation. She earnestly believed that God would give her exactly what she needed, when she needed it. Then, when she finally received her baby boy, she gladly gave the gift back to God.

When we ask God for something, I've realized our refining comes both in the waiting and in the receiving. Often, you wait so long for something, a drought of sorts, that it takes some time to recognize it for what it is. You begin to enjoy it and marvel at it, thanking God for its arrival.

Sometimes, gifts are only for a season. Then, you are called to give them back. You must, for this is the will of the LORD.

But what about the times when the gift is there, present in your life, but the circumstances seem wrong, like the rain in the sunshine? It's still a gift, but is it yours to have? I'm not sure, but I wish I knew.

Vision Impaired

"Today I wonder why it is God refers to Himself as 'Father' at all. This, to me, in light of the earthly representation of the role, seems a marketing mistake. Why would God want to call Himself Father when so many fathers abandon their children?" - Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz

I think there is truth in the idea that we view God much like we view our fathers, although that conclusion gives rise to personal confusion. How does this leave me, a daughter of a father for only 7 years, viewing God?

If I view God in terms of my dad, I am left with a hazy, incomplete picture. He was there for my family. He made us laugh. I have vague memories of him pretending to suck my toes up in the vacuum, grabbing my wrist and chastising me in a low voice at Kroger, singing me to sleep, reading the family devotional after dinner, letting me ride on his back like a horse. I've heard things about him through other people. Every time I ask my mom something theological, she sighs and says how much she wished Dad were here because he'd talk to me about it. I'm told he loved plants and animals and sneezed when the sun hit his eyes just right. His books are downstairs; a couple of his shirts hang in my closet. But the man? He's hardly been here when I needed him. His memory hasn't made much of a relationship.

After he died, my grandparents moved two miles down the road, and my grandfather assumed the physical role of alpha male. I make a point of only saying physical. He was there every night at the dinner table. But if I view God in terms of my grandfather (and I'm beginning to think I do), then God must spend most of His time trying to pretend like I don't exist. He never asks about me or about my life. I could be gone for a week and not hear more than five words from him upon my return. For a while, I played along, talking about my day as if he were listening. But recently, I've given up. Just sit there until he's done with his meal, after which he goes to the living room and turns up the TV loud enough to drown out our noise. It doesn't matter how much I try to do or say or achieve, I will never be more important than the 6 o' clock news.

So God abandons me or ignores me. Either way, it explains the silence.

Happy Father's Day.

Once Upon A Time

You might be surprised. I've sorted through and dissected every feeling and emotion and concern I've had about my graduation through this blog, yet it is now days after the actual event, and I have not mentioned it. You would assume that I would have much on my mind the day of and would need to unload it all here, as is often the case with my posts. You probably expected an extensive metaphor or a sarcastic rundown or some other characteristic recounting, recorded in the early hours of the morning after.

Honestly, I just didn't know how I felt. It was all so surreal, like it didn't really happen. I was so swept up in the odd reality that I just couldn't describe anything, metaphorically or sarcastically.

But tonight, it hit me. I can finally put it into words. And yes, there's a metaphor.

You know that feeling you get after you've read a long novel for some time? You've become well aquainted with the characters. You're invovled in their lives, even parts the other characters don't know about. You know their joys, their cares, their sins, their faults, everything. Also, you're completely familiar with the world they live in. The places they visit and inhabit are places in which you vicariously exist. Finally, you've become completely invested into the plot. The events that unfold seem to directly effect you. Until you read the last page, the book is your world.

But then, the spell is broken. The plot reaches the climax, the conflicts resolve, and you might, if you're lucky, be blessed with a cheerful epilogue, giving you a small glimsp into the future of the characters. And that's it. Sure, you feel a sense of accomplishment, finally finishing the book, especially if it's a long one. But the longer they are, the more time you have to get attached. By the time your eyes find "The End," you aren't quite ready for it. Relieved, maybe. But still kind of sad. You'll miss it. You want to still be there, in the thick of it, experiencing the places and the people you've come to know so well.

But then, you move on. You pick up a new read. You find yourself in a new setting, learning new characters and experiencing new things. It always starts out rough, getting into a fresh book. But hopefully after the first few chapters, you're ready to invest yourself once again.

That's how I feel. I've finished a book. The events are stored in my memory and in my photo albums. The setting is a drive away, but I'll be a visitor if I go back, not an actual inhabitant. And the characters? Well, I know a lot of them are gone, too. Graduation day was probably the last day I'll see many of my classmates. But there are some whom I hope and pray will not go away. They, invariably, will show up in my next volume, which I can't wait to read.

My Bench

There is a bench in the city where I live. It's structure is simple: three slabs of smooth gray granite. I can tell you that this bench has been carefully placed so that it sits right underneath the shade of a nearby tree, whose branches desperately need a trim. This sturdy seat has been placed with purpose, a memorial for a man I never knew. His name is inscribed on the bench, along with a short epitaph.

24 hours ago, I had no idea this bench even existed. I probably didn't need it. Because then, I still had hope. I had faith. I believed.

Now, reality has won. I am defeated.

It was a bad morning. I was just so sad. I didn't understand. And I couldn't get out of it. There was no one to talk to, so I just started driving. After nearly breaking down in tears at Target, I knew the baby car would be my only solace, as she often is. So we went exploring. I didn't care about getting lost. That's nearly impossible around here. We just took new roads, listening to Coldplay, as I sniffled behind my sunglasses.

And then, I saw it. The bench. Nestled in an old cemetery off a nondescript road. I pulled up to where it sat next to the gravel path. It was so inviting, regardless of the morbid setting.

I sat down, a person overcome by the inevitable, broken, empty of hope, full of despair. And I just sobbed.

I stayed there for about an hour, spitting my prayers and complaints and confusion and anger out to God. People change. Relationships change. I knew this would happen. I anticipated it. Why did you give me hope that it wouldn't? Didn't you promise hope that does not disappoint? ...and so on.

I prayed someone would come and comfort me, but I remained alone. I prayed for peace, for joy, for the ability to accept reality, but I was without it all. I drove away released but oddly enough, still burdened. And very exhausted.

Nobody said it was easy.
Oh, it's such a shame for us to part.
Nobody said it was easy.
No one ever said it would be so hard.

Oh, take me back to the start.

Senior Checklist

"So... you excited?"
"How's it feel to be done?"
"I'm going to miss you so much!"
"Here, sign my yearbook."
"Have I signed your yearbook?"
"See you at graduation."
"Where'd you tell me you're going again?"
"Oh. Where is that?"
"Oh! Well, that sounds nice."
"I thought you were going to UGA."
"Did you mail your announcements yet?"
"Did you mail your graduation party invitations yet?"
"Why haven't you done that yet?"
"Explain in your own words the two main themes of Jane Eyre."
"I can't sign this until you've cleaned out your locker."
"... or else you won't walk."
"Torpeders."
"What's that flower thing that goes on your wrist? Am I supposed to get you one?"
"My daughter looks up to you so much."
"Well, if I don't see you, have fun tomorrow night."
"Rosalyn."
"Would you like to join the army?"
"Now, what has this taught you about procrastination?"

Just a few sound bites that have been swirling around my life lately. The last quote was spoken by a lady in the UPS store who was mailing a priority shipped (aka almost late) scholarship application for me. It seems life lessons must always be learned with extra postage.

We had baccalaureate (or, as I like to call it, the Graduation pep rally) yesterday. I am now the owner of a new Bible with my name calligraphied on the inside. Last night was our last regular youth group meeting. I plopped my graduation announcements in the mailbox at the post office this morning, with a ceremonious "'07!" under my breath. I'm still working on the blasted orange senior checklist, getting signatures from everyone saying I can, in fact, walk. I turned in my last test today (thanks for the 523 pages, Charlotte Brontë). I attended the last small group meeting at lunch. P-ROM '07 plans are all made: I got the tickets, the reservations, the dress, the date, the jewelry, the hair appointment, the shoes, the handbag, and the transportation all set. Now I just have to enjoy myself tomorrow night, which will hopefully be the easiest thing on this list.

So here I am, blogging at my familiar coffee spot, pondering dancing with someone who always seems to bring a smile to my face. Contemplating all my pending free time before graduation. Thinking about the summer with my youth group. Musing over the fall at "No, it's not UGA" University and all the people I'll meet, things I'll do, stuff I'll learn there.

So, to answer your question... yes. I am excited. Or at least getting there.