It's the last day of summer, and I leave for the University tomorrow. Will it rain today?
I came home with two carloads of stuff and will soon repack it all to head back to my friends and future degree. But I wonder what else I'm carrying around. I brought more in my coupe than anyone realized. Even myself. Yet here I am, taking inventory again. Can I please leave it all somewhere and stop toting it around? My gas mileage is suffering...
I'm in the mood to be ambiguous. Forgive me.
You can change yourself, but you can't. You can change your clothes, your hair, your relationship status, your major, your usual drink order at a coffee shop. It doesn't really change much, though, does it? Change is constant and perpetual, like time. Not a one time occasion or a future eventuality. It is past, present, future. You can't escape it. You can't be lost by it. But that doesn't make it bad.
Just scary.
Change carries with it mystery, an element of the unknown. What will happen? What will I be when it's over? Will I make it out of this next bout of violent convulsions unrecognizable?
Perhaps I'm being unfair. Painting poor change in ugly colors, making it the monster of life. It can't help being itself. God put limitations on mankind. Gravity. Three dimensions. Time. Mortality. Change is just one more part of humanity.
So you leave parts of yourself everywhere. Little pieces of you are in people that come and go. Old relationships, friendships, jobs. The people you meet are chipped off in you forever just as you are in them. And maybe they forget that, and so do you, and things get awkward and tense and no one really knows why. It's just a side effect of change. The people you were bonded in the past, but the new people you are don't know what to do with each other.
Change is untamable, uncontrollable, irresponsible to any human being. But it is good.
I found some old poems the other day. Who was I back then?
Change lifts us out of who we were. Time, change's closest companion, heals us, gives change a constant axis on which to move. Both give relief. They bring new people, new friends, new mentors, new lovers. And they make a new you, one who fits absurdly well with the new set of everything.
It won't modify the past. The past is gone. It is cemented in itself and untouchable but by your memory. The future is ready for your pressing hand against the cool mix. The present begs your attention, though. In this single breath you can rest and live and exist.
So breathe already. Accept the air and exhale. Maybe it's your last, but there's a good chance it's not. More change ahead, but you'll find those who change with you, and they'll end up composing most of yourself, and you them.
And God? Well, he's there. He just isn't going to let you stagnate. Your life with him will change more than all of the above. Sometimes you're the teacher; sometimes you're the student. But you always learn either way. His change is constant, at times seems reckless, but is always purposeful. While you may change in every possible way, He remains immutable. Funny how He always turns out to be the things humans wish they were.
Lots of clouds, but still no drops.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Middle Distance Runner
I have a love / hate relationship with running. It all started in 6th grade when I felt the ridiculous urge to try out for the track team in the spring. Barely mature and rarely outstanding, my season and I gained little more than a basic foundation for running and a shiny Most Improved trophy at the end of the year. For the next few years, I grew as a runner and went from picking four leaf clovers at track meets to anchoring the 1600 meter relay. But by the time I hit Varsity, I had no appreciation for running in itself. It had become something I did, not something I loved.
My problem was distance. As soon as I began running, I wanted to stop. I secretly longed to be a sprinter (thinking I could probably handle 100 meters), but much to my chagrin I was constantly placed in middle distance. I tolerated it for a time, but then rebelled when the coach forced middle distance runners to do the exact same workouts as the long distancers. All I had to do at the meets was half a mile. Why are you making me run three? The logic of endurance escaped me.
So, as with many big projects, ideas, schemes, and novels I have attempted in the past, I quit. Gave up. Wrote it off as something I could never do or enjoy. The looming lengths discouraged me. All I saw myself as capable of was half a mile, and I refused (based on what I thought was principle but was actually laziness) to even try.
Recently, I ran my first 10K road race in downtown Atlanta. Considering I've been a fairly casual runner for the past few months and my previous record for length was a mere 2 miles, you can imagine how the 6.2 miles went in the southern summer heat. Or perhaps you can't.
Bounding down the concrete, sandwiched by 50,000 good citizens of Atlanta (and Africa), I remembered why running was worth loving. I knew, beyond a doubt, I couldn't run the whole thing. But I surprised myself. I made it over half way. It was incredible. I fell in love on the course, with the thrill, the surety of the pavement, the feel of blood rescuing my muscles with oxygen, the familiarity of the liquid movement of my arms and legs propelling me forward.
Why do I always give up? I look back on my life and see the attempts, the tries, the dreams, the things I've given up on. It infuriates me. I've gotten into the habit of middle distance. Why don't I try for longer? Why don't I push myself just a few paces further? Why do I only see myself as capable of today and (maybe) tomorrow? Also, why do I get so entangled by my mistakes and hurts? Why do I let them prevent me from running my heart out?
Perhaps in some instances, I've been stopped short. I've been conditioned for middle distance. Relationships specifically have ended too soon, before they've even been allowed to run their course. I've been stopped on the track, willing to run more meters. However, I find the lanes around me empty, so I assume the race is won, and I have lost. When it comes to my relationship with God, I've been easily discouraged and distracted by the constant breathing cramps and stress fractures that come with sanctification. My pace has constantly slowed to a walk. Somewhere in this life, I've gotten used to middle distance. Or perhaps I've merely settled for it.
But maybe I'm capable of more than I know. Maybe given the chance, I could run a marathon. I could stop stopping at 800 meters and keep going for miles. I could run beyond 1 month. Maybe even go for 60 to 70 years.
The question remains: Am I, a middle distance runner, willing to train on long distance workouts? Can I build up the endurance I lack? Can I fight against the strain and keep pushing? Can I stay on pace?
I know I can. But it'll take time... and a lot of training. But I can cross the finish line one day.
My problem was distance. As soon as I began running, I wanted to stop. I secretly longed to be a sprinter (thinking I could probably handle 100 meters), but much to my chagrin I was constantly placed in middle distance. I tolerated it for a time, but then rebelled when the coach forced middle distance runners to do the exact same workouts as the long distancers. All I had to do at the meets was half a mile. Why are you making me run three? The logic of endurance escaped me.
So, as with many big projects, ideas, schemes, and novels I have attempted in the past, I quit. Gave up. Wrote it off as something I could never do or enjoy. The looming lengths discouraged me. All I saw myself as capable of was half a mile, and I refused (based on what I thought was principle but was actually laziness) to even try.
Recently, I ran my first 10K road race in downtown Atlanta. Considering I've been a fairly casual runner for the past few months and my previous record for length was a mere 2 miles, you can imagine how the 6.2 miles went in the southern summer heat. Or perhaps you can't.
Bounding down the concrete, sandwiched by 50,000 good citizens of Atlanta (and Africa), I remembered why running was worth loving. I knew, beyond a doubt, I couldn't run the whole thing. But I surprised myself. I made it over half way. It was incredible. I fell in love on the course, with the thrill, the surety of the pavement, the feel of blood rescuing my muscles with oxygen, the familiarity of the liquid movement of my arms and legs propelling me forward.
Why do I always give up? I look back on my life and see the attempts, the tries, the dreams, the things I've given up on. It infuriates me. I've gotten into the habit of middle distance. Why don't I try for longer? Why don't I push myself just a few paces further? Why do I only see myself as capable of today and (maybe) tomorrow? Also, why do I get so entangled by my mistakes and hurts? Why do I let them prevent me from running my heart out?
Perhaps in some instances, I've been stopped short. I've been conditioned for middle distance. Relationships specifically have ended too soon, before they've even been allowed to run their course. I've been stopped on the track, willing to run more meters. However, I find the lanes around me empty, so I assume the race is won, and I have lost. When it comes to my relationship with God, I've been easily discouraged and distracted by the constant breathing cramps and stress fractures that come with sanctification. My pace has constantly slowed to a walk. Somewhere in this life, I've gotten used to middle distance. Or perhaps I've merely settled for it.
But maybe I'm capable of more than I know. Maybe given the chance, I could run a marathon. I could stop stopping at 800 meters and keep going for miles. I could run beyond 1 month. Maybe even go for 60 to 70 years.
The question remains: Am I, a middle distance runner, willing to train on long distance workouts? Can I build up the endurance I lack? Can I fight against the strain and keep pushing? Can I stay on pace?
I know I can. But it'll take time... and a lot of training. But I can cross the finish line one day.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Failure
I've always been a big fan of sanctification. To me, it's the whole idea of God finally getting together a self-improvement plan for all us screw up Christians. The constant seduction of a seemingly easy to follow 12 step plan or the like can be rejected in the face of the Almighty's renovating Spirit. "Ha! No thanks, Dr. Phil! Take it somewhere else, Tony Robbins! I'm good, Oprah! I'm being sanctified!"
I've had the struggle of perfection bearing down on my slim shoulders since diapers. Some could say it was because I was created for more, being part of my Father's chosen, having the weight of future glory burdening my earthly walk. I have to disagree. I wonder if it simply expectation. Sure, living in a family of perfectionistic personalities hasn't helped. Yet I glance into their lives as a possible mirror to my own, for the qualifications I put on myself are much harsher than theirs.
I often go on self-improvement stints. I resolve to do something everyday or to act better in a certain area or remember something I constantly forget. Most valiant attempts involve as many of these things as possible. I get caught looking around in my life too long, turning away disgusted, submitting all I see for improvements. It's much like a real estate agent would look at a prospective house. "Well, the yard's a mess, let's remember curb appeal... And the hardwood flooring is a selling point, but not with this inch of dust on it. Can we remove this wall?" It's like a big to-do list that I long to check off, but never can. Every try fails. I may keep the plates spinning a while, but then gravity kicks in, and they all crash.
I'm uncomfortable with my adulthood. I rarely feel its consistency; at one moment I am exerting my independence, brash and audacious; the next I am clinging to assistance, needy and incapable. I'm tired of making excuses for my absurd behavior, tired of not quite relating to the adult community around me, tired of having to justify myself to everyone, including myself. I don't know who I am. Leave me alone so I can figure it out. But please don't desert me, because I have no idea what I'm doing.
I wish I had it all right the first time. I'm frustrated with my mistakes. I'm angry at my weaknesses. I'm sick of myself messing up. So I ask, what happened to my sanctification? Why am I not getting better? Why has every new challenge, every new element, every new aspect proved itself my superior as I fall defeated? I guess you could say I'm a little discouraged. Prepare yourself, for this is the rest of your life. Imperfection and the inability to overcome it.
So how does a human, incapable of perfection, relate to God, the creator of perfection? How do I communicate to the One who should be more disappointed in me than anyone else in my life? And why would He even want to talk to His pathetic example of a girl who graduated high school, sure of her standards, morals, and absolutes turning into an unstable woman who would be blind leading anyone to Him, having forgotten the way herself?
I wish I had a conclusion, something to tie this mess up at the end in some clever way that gives the reader hope I'm on the right path, just bumping into the furniture until I can find the light switch. And perhaps I am. But for the time being, my eyes aren't adjusting well to the dark.
I've had the struggle of perfection bearing down on my slim shoulders since diapers. Some could say it was because I was created for more, being part of my Father's chosen, having the weight of future glory burdening my earthly walk. I have to disagree. I wonder if it simply expectation. Sure, living in a family of perfectionistic personalities hasn't helped. Yet I glance into their lives as a possible mirror to my own, for the qualifications I put on myself are much harsher than theirs.
I often go on self-improvement stints. I resolve to do something everyday or to act better in a certain area or remember something I constantly forget. Most valiant attempts involve as many of these things as possible. I get caught looking around in my life too long, turning away disgusted, submitting all I see for improvements. It's much like a real estate agent would look at a prospective house. "Well, the yard's a mess, let's remember curb appeal... And the hardwood flooring is a selling point, but not with this inch of dust on it. Can we remove this wall?" It's like a big to-do list that I long to check off, but never can. Every try fails. I may keep the plates spinning a while, but then gravity kicks in, and they all crash.
I'm uncomfortable with my adulthood. I rarely feel its consistency; at one moment I am exerting my independence, brash and audacious; the next I am clinging to assistance, needy and incapable. I'm tired of making excuses for my absurd behavior, tired of not quite relating to the adult community around me, tired of having to justify myself to everyone, including myself. I don't know who I am. Leave me alone so I can figure it out. But please don't desert me, because I have no idea what I'm doing.
I wish I had it all right the first time. I'm frustrated with my mistakes. I'm angry at my weaknesses. I'm sick of myself messing up. So I ask, what happened to my sanctification? Why am I not getting better? Why has every new challenge, every new element, every new aspect proved itself my superior as I fall defeated? I guess you could say I'm a little discouraged. Prepare yourself, for this is the rest of your life. Imperfection and the inability to overcome it.
So how does a human, incapable of perfection, relate to God, the creator of perfection? How do I communicate to the One who should be more disappointed in me than anyone else in my life? And why would He even want to talk to His pathetic example of a girl who graduated high school, sure of her standards, morals, and absolutes turning into an unstable woman who would be blind leading anyone to Him, having forgotten the way herself?
I wish I had a conclusion, something to tie this mess up at the end in some clever way that gives the reader hope I'm on the right path, just bumping into the furniture until I can find the light switch. And perhaps I am. But for the time being, my eyes aren't adjusting well to the dark.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Present Tense
She makes them laugh, as always.
The sound of their happiness carries from the kitchen and dissolves over the still driveway as she slips out quietly through the front door. Preoccupied, she hardly notices the weight of dusk surrounding her. The stars above serenade her with their splatters of light while the crescent moon smiles upon her down turned head. Her face remains set on her car as she flip flops across the cement, and she ignores the summer night sky's cartographic display.
She slides in the driver's seat, slips the key in the ignition, and pauses. The windshield receives her blank stare as she sighs. She shakes off the moment and turns the key. The four-cylinder murmur reaches her unhearing ears as the honeyed humidity forces her to roll down the windows. Ah, the poor man's convertible is once again created from her coup.
She heads down the road and turns on the music. Coldplay. Exactly what she needs. The wind fills the car and mingles with the strokes of the strings. Her pulse rises with each swell. Her brunette locks with tickles of blond summer highlights fly freely as she twists the knob for more volume. She is lost in the music. It dissolves her thoughts, her words, her senses.
She turns into her neighborhood and the gusts die down. She suddenly becomes aware of the music and how contrary it is to the quiet calm of the suburbs. She spins it down, but the magic is not lost. The song comes to an end as she bumps over the gutter and into her slot on the driveway. The engine sleeps with the exit of the key, and the lights blink off. She steps out and stands, regaining her sense of existence. She walks to the house, glancing up to check if any lights were still on inside. Her green eyes find the window, but refuse to linger. They shoot up towards the heavens and she finally sees that which has been above her as she drove the streets.
She has always been in love with the night sky. Nothing else can make her feel as purposeful, as significant, as humbly important as the stars, moon, and infinite dark beyond. But lately, the realities and necessities and tendencies of life have distracted her from her first love. They haven't met in quite some time.
But now, they have reunited. She forgets to breathe, forgets to blink. Her thirsty eyes take in the sight she has neglected far too long, recognizing the familiar pattens. She is silent, for she is listening. And what she hears gives her hope.
"You are my daughter. You are imperfect; you are sinful; you get things wrong. But you are my daughter, and I love you."
"Help me." She says simply. She does not beg, but says this with the strength of faith, learning once again she is needy and poor, yet has the deepest resource, the richest kindness, standing wide open to her.
She walks into the house and rests in peace.
The sound of their happiness carries from the kitchen and dissolves over the still driveway as she slips out quietly through the front door. Preoccupied, she hardly notices the weight of dusk surrounding her. The stars above serenade her with their splatters of light while the crescent moon smiles upon her down turned head. Her face remains set on her car as she flip flops across the cement, and she ignores the summer night sky's cartographic display.
She slides in the driver's seat, slips the key in the ignition, and pauses. The windshield receives her blank stare as she sighs. She shakes off the moment and turns the key. The four-cylinder murmur reaches her unhearing ears as the honeyed humidity forces her to roll down the windows. Ah, the poor man's convertible is once again created from her coup.
She heads down the road and turns on the music. Coldplay. Exactly what she needs. The wind fills the car and mingles with the strokes of the strings. Her pulse rises with each swell. Her brunette locks with tickles of blond summer highlights fly freely as she twists the knob for more volume. She is lost in the music. It dissolves her thoughts, her words, her senses.
She turns into her neighborhood and the gusts die down. She suddenly becomes aware of the music and how contrary it is to the quiet calm of the suburbs. She spins it down, but the magic is not lost. The song comes to an end as she bumps over the gutter and into her slot on the driveway. The engine sleeps with the exit of the key, and the lights blink off. She steps out and stands, regaining her sense of existence. She walks to the house, glancing up to check if any lights were still on inside. Her green eyes find the window, but refuse to linger. They shoot up towards the heavens and she finally sees that which has been above her as she drove the streets.
She has always been in love with the night sky. Nothing else can make her feel as purposeful, as significant, as humbly important as the stars, moon, and infinite dark beyond. But lately, the realities and necessities and tendencies of life have distracted her from her first love. They haven't met in quite some time.
But now, they have reunited. She forgets to breathe, forgets to blink. Her thirsty eyes take in the sight she has neglected far too long, recognizing the familiar pattens. She is silent, for she is listening. And what she hears gives her hope.
"You are my daughter. You are imperfect; you are sinful; you get things wrong. But you are my daughter, and I love you."
"Help me." She says simply. She does not beg, but says this with the strength of faith, learning once again she is needy and poor, yet has the deepest resource, the richest kindness, standing wide open to her.
She walks into the house and rests in peace.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Plot Twists
Some time ago, I wrote a blog (March 25, 2007... or thereabouts) about how I felt like a child in one of the craziest times of my life. I was a confused toddler, yet somehow God tolerated my selfishness and wailing to bless me regardless of my unwillingness. I was upset because I was losing normal. I wanted the status quo, the life I had always known, whereas God was slowly but swiftly pushing me out of the predictable. And I wasn't happy about it.
Over Christmas break, a friend of mine had accidentally double booked herself as a babysitter for two families at the same time. Even though as a full time nanny in the summer I have an aversion to acknowledging the existence of all human beings 12 and under during the other 9 months of the year, I agreed to help her out. I headed over to a family of two little girls and a set of parents racing to get to a wedding on time. With a flurry of instructions, I was left alone to take care of the dependents.
We had a pretty good time, and everything went as usual. Dinner, however, was a challenge. The youngest was less than a year old and did not, under and circumstances or powers of persuasion, desire to eat the orange mush I was assigned to feed her. After about an hour of trying and one very desperate phone call to the friend who had placed me in the predicament in the first place, I gave up, hoping somehow the child had as many orange blobs inside her as on the outside of her. (And of me.)
After getting back home from school this May, I was called back on duty (pun? yes.) to the same family for a day. The girls and I had a great time again: piggy back rides, blanket fights, hundreds of swing set pushes, and a whole lot of Disney/Pixar movies. It came time for lunch, and I was delightfully suprised. The baby sat in her high chair and ate her unattractive "garden vegetable" green purée with little fuss. Sure, she got some around her mouth. Which got on her hands. Which got in her hair. Which somehow got on my leg. But all in all, it was like feeding a different baby.
I sat in my big person chair next to her in wonder as I realized I was looking at myself. We had both grown up since Christmas. Sure, the change wasn't monumental. She wasn't sitting at a fancy dinner, deftly going through salad forks and soup spoons. And I'm still not perfect, still not doing everything right, remembering all my responsibilities or forgetting my default setting of stubborn. But as I looked at this little 13 month year old, I realized how far I've come. I'm back home now. I can see the change in myself, and I like it.
I've been through a lot since visiting that house at Christmastime. I was texting a different guy then. I was thinking about different commitments, dreaming different dreams. But here I am, in a new, everchanging situation, looking around and realizing I'm happy. I'm getting somewhere. I'm maybe even doing a few things right. And I realized I can never go back to the place from which I've come. Progress can't be repeated like a bar of music or revistited like a familiar coffee place. It's perpetual. To go back would be to forfeit the growth.
I've always hated roller coasters. The awful feeling of being propelled in unpredictable directions at an unstoppable speed. But now I'm starting to wonder... perhaps the thrill truly is worth the ride.
Over Christmas break, a friend of mine had accidentally double booked herself as a babysitter for two families at the same time. Even though as a full time nanny in the summer I have an aversion to acknowledging the existence of all human beings 12 and under during the other 9 months of the year, I agreed to help her out. I headed over to a family of two little girls and a set of parents racing to get to a wedding on time. With a flurry of instructions, I was left alone to take care of the dependents.
We had a pretty good time, and everything went as usual. Dinner, however, was a challenge. The youngest was less than a year old and did not, under and circumstances or powers of persuasion, desire to eat the orange mush I was assigned to feed her. After about an hour of trying and one very desperate phone call to the friend who had placed me in the predicament in the first place, I gave up, hoping somehow the child had as many orange blobs inside her as on the outside of her. (And of me.)
After getting back home from school this May, I was called back on duty (pun? yes.) to the same family for a day. The girls and I had a great time again: piggy back rides, blanket fights, hundreds of swing set pushes, and a whole lot of Disney/Pixar movies. It came time for lunch, and I was delightfully suprised. The baby sat in her high chair and ate her unattractive "garden vegetable" green purée with little fuss. Sure, she got some around her mouth. Which got on her hands. Which got in her hair. Which somehow got on my leg. But all in all, it was like feeding a different baby.
I sat in my big person chair next to her in wonder as I realized I was looking at myself. We had both grown up since Christmas. Sure, the change wasn't monumental. She wasn't sitting at a fancy dinner, deftly going through salad forks and soup spoons. And I'm still not perfect, still not doing everything right, remembering all my responsibilities or forgetting my default setting of stubborn. But as I looked at this little 13 month year old, I realized how far I've come. I'm back home now. I can see the change in myself, and I like it.
I've been through a lot since visiting that house at Christmastime. I was texting a different guy then. I was thinking about different commitments, dreaming different dreams. But here I am, in a new, everchanging situation, looking around and realizing I'm happy. I'm getting somewhere. I'm maybe even doing a few things right. And I realized I can never go back to the place from which I've come. Progress can't be repeated like a bar of music or revistited like a familiar coffee place. It's perpetual. To go back would be to forfeit the growth.
I've always hated roller coasters. The awful feeling of being propelled in unpredictable directions at an unstoppable speed. But now I'm starting to wonder... perhaps the thrill truly is worth the ride.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Update
Hey, Dad.
February 6th - it caught me off gaurd again. 50 years old today. Crazy, isn't it? I can't really imagine you topping off half a century, honestly. I guess I always think of you as young. I can't imagine your black hair peppered with grays or your twinkling eyes framed by crow's feet.
I'm doing pretty well. Much has happened since last year. I graduated high school. It was crazy, honestly. I can't tell you how much that scared me! I guess I'm a lot like Peter Pan, refusing to grow up. (And yet, people always insist on my maturity. Psh.) Mom admires that about me - that I like to enjoy every time of my life. It just goes by so fast, you know? It was weird gradutating. Everyone was really excited. I mean, I was. But it just seemed a little overdone. Great. I finished high school. Now give me a real challenge. It just didn't seem worthy of all the pomp. It was, however, a satisfying feeling walking out of the school knowing I'd done what I could, that maybe I made it a little better for having been there. That was pretty nice.
I made it to college. Now, it's nothing fancy, but I'm really happy, Dad. I was walking past the soccer field out to my car the other day (I LOVE driving! It's so amazing. No worries, I'm a safe driver.) and I just realized how much God has blessed me over my time at the University. First, I have the most amazing support system ever. My close friends love God like I do. Instead of compromising my faith, they challenge it. I can't imagine ever living without them. I have mentors who deeply care about me, who look out for me and love me.
Also, I have so many great opportunities. I absolutely love being an English major. My heart belongs to literature, and those are my favorite classes. I got to be in Hamlet this semester. Dad, it was a dream come true, to act in a Shakespearean play - and as a freshman, no less! I'm also in the flute choir here. I get so much joy in playing. I love just sneaking back to one of the practice rooms and playing for hours at night.
Mom's handling it well that I'm gone. I don't get to go home much, but we keep in touch all the time. I know she misses you, but I've never seen her relationship with God stronger than it is now. Mary's doing really well, too. She's a remarkable person - one of those that will change the world some day. She's engaged! Mom and I couldn't be happier. He's a great guy, Dad. You'd approve 100%.
And me? Well, I'm alright. I have good times and bad times, but then again, who doesn't? I've made mistakes, Dad. I'm in no way perfect, which I've proven constantly throughout this year. But I'd like to think that through the work of God, I get some things right every now and then. Maybe, it's in the failures and the weaknesses that He is most glorified... and I am most easily used.
I think you'd be proud of me. I think you'd be happy about where I am and where I'm going. I think if you were still here, we'd be close. We'd talk about theology and politics and you'd give me huge hugs when I'd finally get to come home to visit. I miss you. I love you. I can't wait to walk with you in God's heavenly gardens and hear your voice mixed with mine in praise to our King.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Jessie
February 6th - it caught me off gaurd again. 50 years old today. Crazy, isn't it? I can't really imagine you topping off half a century, honestly. I guess I always think of you as young. I can't imagine your black hair peppered with grays or your twinkling eyes framed by crow's feet.
I'm doing pretty well. Much has happened since last year. I graduated high school. It was crazy, honestly. I can't tell you how much that scared me! I guess I'm a lot like Peter Pan, refusing to grow up. (And yet, people always insist on my maturity. Psh.) Mom admires that about me - that I like to enjoy every time of my life. It just goes by so fast, you know? It was weird gradutating. Everyone was really excited. I mean, I was. But it just seemed a little overdone. Great. I finished high school. Now give me a real challenge. It just didn't seem worthy of all the pomp. It was, however, a satisfying feeling walking out of the school knowing I'd done what I could, that maybe I made it a little better for having been there. That was pretty nice.
I made it to college. Now, it's nothing fancy, but I'm really happy, Dad. I was walking past the soccer field out to my car the other day (I LOVE driving! It's so amazing. No worries, I'm a safe driver.) and I just realized how much God has blessed me over my time at the University. First, I have the most amazing support system ever. My close friends love God like I do. Instead of compromising my faith, they challenge it. I can't imagine ever living without them. I have mentors who deeply care about me, who look out for me and love me.
Also, I have so many great opportunities. I absolutely love being an English major. My heart belongs to literature, and those are my favorite classes. I got to be in Hamlet this semester. Dad, it was a dream come true, to act in a Shakespearean play - and as a freshman, no less! I'm also in the flute choir here. I get so much joy in playing. I love just sneaking back to one of the practice rooms and playing for hours at night.
Mom's handling it well that I'm gone. I don't get to go home much, but we keep in touch all the time. I know she misses you, but I've never seen her relationship with God stronger than it is now. Mary's doing really well, too. She's a remarkable person - one of those that will change the world some day. She's engaged! Mom and I couldn't be happier. He's a great guy, Dad. You'd approve 100%.
And me? Well, I'm alright. I have good times and bad times, but then again, who doesn't? I've made mistakes, Dad. I'm in no way perfect, which I've proven constantly throughout this year. But I'd like to think that through the work of God, I get some things right every now and then. Maybe, it's in the failures and the weaknesses that He is most glorified... and I am most easily used.
I think you'd be proud of me. I think you'd be happy about where I am and where I'm going. I think if you were still here, we'd be close. We'd talk about theology and politics and you'd give me huge hugs when I'd finally get to come home to visit. I miss you. I love you. I can't wait to walk with you in God's heavenly gardens and hear your voice mixed with mine in praise to our King.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Jessie
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Pursuit
When I was younger, out of all the necessary kid things I instinctly knew I had to do, one stood out from the rest: I absolutely had to find a hiding place. My house wasn't very accommodating when it came to secrecy, but as an eight year old, I needed a spot to go and disappear for a while. Why? I'm not really sure. Perhaps the thrill of being invisible was the draw. Or maybe I just needed somewhere to go when Mom brought out the "I want you to do something that, if left up to your own volition, you would have no desire to do" tone. Either way, after days (hours) of searching, I found it. If I squeezed myself just right between the side table and the couch in the far end of the nice living room we never used, then I was unfindable.
What is it about hiding that's so appealing? Why did it delight me to sneak back to my spot (eventually stocked with my favorite stuffed animals and books) throughout the day for a few precious minutes at a time? Why did Adam and Eve hide in the Garden after the Fall? Why do people walk around today, living behind masks, with their best and fakest faces forward?
I've always thought of myself as a hider. I often play hide and seek with the people in my life. Fulghum put it best: "Hide and seek, grown-up style. Wanting to hide. Needing to be sought. Confused about being found." It takes a lot of courage to step out of hiding, to take off the mask, to give up the act, to be found. Courage that I have yet to possess. And that's probably why God has decided to test me in this very area.
I thought for a time (much like I assume Adam and Eve did) that the sin that initially alienated me from God created an immovable block between us. Somehow, I was convinced that because I was responsible for the distance I felt from God, it was my job to fix it. But the more I tried, the more imperfect I proved myself to be. My mistakes piled up. The block not only remained, but grew wider as I began to hide from God, ashamed that I kept failing, guilty that my sin remained on my shoulders. Finally, I got so frustrated. Why can't I just turn back to God? Why can't I get over this? Why can't I improve and do better?
Then it hit me: This isn't about what I can do. Somewhere in me, I was convinced that Jesus did His work on the cross, and now it's my job to finish my sanctification. But honestly, isn't the inability for broken people to fix themselves at the heart of the Gospel? Isn't that why Jesus came in the first place and why the Holy Spirit is in us now, changing us each day? For, "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick." I'm starting to think maybe God's forgiveness doesn't depend on prerequisites. I don't have to wait around, get my act together, and THEN come to God. I don't have to hide, because He already knows the sinful state I find myself in, and even there, He pursues me, never willing to give up seeking me.
Jesus didn't say, "Come to me, all you who are able-bodied and perfect, and I will give you more work to do. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am tyrannical and demanding in heart, and you will find guilt for your souls. For my yoke is really heavy and my burden cannot be handled by weak, pathetic Christians who sin all the time." No! He knows I'm weary, weak, and burdened. That's not a surprise. So why not come to Him, honestly, in that state, and seek his strength? It might just be worth trying.
Meanwhile, I'm finding God refuses to just simply teach me to trust Him with the messy side of me. He wants me to trust others, persisting on working in me to change the old, "run away and hide" mentality. And I'm honestly finding my old hiding spots less of a comfort, getting restless behind the walls I've built. I want to be sought. And perhaps, I'm ready to be found.
What is it about hiding that's so appealing? Why did it delight me to sneak back to my spot (eventually stocked with my favorite stuffed animals and books) throughout the day for a few precious minutes at a time? Why did Adam and Eve hide in the Garden after the Fall? Why do people walk around today, living behind masks, with their best and fakest faces forward?
I've always thought of myself as a hider. I often play hide and seek with the people in my life. Fulghum put it best: "Hide and seek, grown-up style. Wanting to hide. Needing to be sought. Confused about being found." It takes a lot of courage to step out of hiding, to take off the mask, to give up the act, to be found. Courage that I have yet to possess. And that's probably why God has decided to test me in this very area.
I thought for a time (much like I assume Adam and Eve did) that the sin that initially alienated me from God created an immovable block between us. Somehow, I was convinced that because I was responsible for the distance I felt from God, it was my job to fix it. But the more I tried, the more imperfect I proved myself to be. My mistakes piled up. The block not only remained, but grew wider as I began to hide from God, ashamed that I kept failing, guilty that my sin remained on my shoulders. Finally, I got so frustrated. Why can't I just turn back to God? Why can't I get over this? Why can't I improve and do better?
Then it hit me: This isn't about what I can do. Somewhere in me, I was convinced that Jesus did His work on the cross, and now it's my job to finish my sanctification. But honestly, isn't the inability for broken people to fix themselves at the heart of the Gospel? Isn't that why Jesus came in the first place and why the Holy Spirit is in us now, changing us each day? For, "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick." I'm starting to think maybe God's forgiveness doesn't depend on prerequisites. I don't have to wait around, get my act together, and THEN come to God. I don't have to hide, because He already knows the sinful state I find myself in, and even there, He pursues me, never willing to give up seeking me.
Jesus didn't say, "Come to me, all you who are able-bodied and perfect, and I will give you more work to do. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am tyrannical and demanding in heart, and you will find guilt for your souls. For my yoke is really heavy and my burden cannot be handled by weak, pathetic Christians who sin all the time." No! He knows I'm weary, weak, and burdened. That's not a surprise. So why not come to Him, honestly, in that state, and seek his strength? It might just be worth trying.
Meanwhile, I'm finding God refuses to just simply teach me to trust Him with the messy side of me. He wants me to trust others, persisting on working in me to change the old, "run away and hide" mentality. And I'm honestly finding my old hiding spots less of a comfort, getting restless behind the walls I've built. I want to be sought. And perhaps, I'm ready to be found.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Hope Deferred
I have a rock. It's not just any rock. It's actually pretty special as far as rocks are concerned (and some of you reading already know about this rock... my apologies, but the analogy perfectly fit me once again). I was in England with my family for a few weeks, just seeing the sights and enjoying some time off. We were part of this huge tour group that travelled around together like a flock of ducks, snapping photos and squawking loudly about everything in our big, American accents. One of the few teenagers in this decidedly older group was my first summer fling. We didn't really do much, except entertain each other on the frustratingly long bus rides through monotonous English countryside. During the trip, we toured Belvoir Castle in Rutland, a beautiful estate currently inhabited by the Duke and Duchess of Rutland. The sights were distinctly fairy-tale esque with overflowing gardens, spiraling staircases and a touch of magic everywhere you turned.
After the tour, I got back to the bus. Summer Fling wasn't far behind, bearing an unorthodox souvenir. He presented me with a palm-sized rock he found in a corner outside the castle's wall, presumably a chip off the structure itself. "I'm taking home part of the castle!" he claimed. I found this to be a brilliant idea, but had no time to go back for my own piece. Summer Fling, the Prince Charming he was, broke his piece in two and gave me half. As I type this post, it stares at me from its seat on my laptop. And I wonder, if someone presented me with the offer of trading my dear little rock for the rest of the castle, would I refuse? Would I hold on fast to this small, sentimental pebble only to lose the whole estate?
This rock has come to represent a lot for me over the years since England, Summer Fling, and fairy tale settings. It's my hopes, dreams, desires. The most secret inmost part of me, the part that's afraid to come out for fear of seeming ridiculous and unrealistic. I've changed a lot since that summer, so much so I've given up on wishes and dreams. I've let my own cynicism convince my heart of its folly, and I've allowed the actions of others to confirm my convictions.
But now, it seems I have an offer. God wants me to trade my little, banged up, damaged rock for a castle. I've made a mess of myself, really. My desires and hopes have been ravaged by reality and insufficiently fulfilled with poor attempts at genuine love. But He still seems set on trading this out and giving me more than I can possibly imagine. Sounds like a pretty obvious choice, right?
The hesitancy I feel is what throws me. I can't let go. I can't seem to unclasp my grip from the thing I know in my head is not God's best for me. I'm afraid of hurting someone I care about, of losing temporary security that feels really good right now. I can't do it. And I kind of despise myself for it.
So once again, I find I lack the strength to be weak, the confidence to be vulnerable, and the courage to be afraid.
After the tour, I got back to the bus. Summer Fling wasn't far behind, bearing an unorthodox souvenir. He presented me with a palm-sized rock he found in a corner outside the castle's wall, presumably a chip off the structure itself. "I'm taking home part of the castle!" he claimed. I found this to be a brilliant idea, but had no time to go back for my own piece. Summer Fling, the Prince Charming he was, broke his piece in two and gave me half. As I type this post, it stares at me from its seat on my laptop. And I wonder, if someone presented me with the offer of trading my dear little rock for the rest of the castle, would I refuse? Would I hold on fast to this small, sentimental pebble only to lose the whole estate?
This rock has come to represent a lot for me over the years since England, Summer Fling, and fairy tale settings. It's my hopes, dreams, desires. The most secret inmost part of me, the part that's afraid to come out for fear of seeming ridiculous and unrealistic. I've changed a lot since that summer, so much so I've given up on wishes and dreams. I've let my own cynicism convince my heart of its folly, and I've allowed the actions of others to confirm my convictions.
But now, it seems I have an offer. God wants me to trade my little, banged up, damaged rock for a castle. I've made a mess of myself, really. My desires and hopes have been ravaged by reality and insufficiently fulfilled with poor attempts at genuine love. But He still seems set on trading this out and giving me more than I can possibly imagine. Sounds like a pretty obvious choice, right?
The hesitancy I feel is what throws me. I can't let go. I can't seem to unclasp my grip from the thing I know in my head is not God's best for me. I'm afraid of hurting someone I care about, of losing temporary security that feels really good right now. I can't do it. And I kind of despise myself for it.
So once again, I find I lack the strength to be weak, the confidence to be vulnerable, and the courage to be afraid.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
A Word?
As a fan of the English language, I happen to have a few favorite words. Cahoots, mellifluous, behest, glib, capitulate... I could go on. Sometimes I think the words we use are paltry substitutes for the myriad possibilities at our disposal. Really. We could do better. But I digress (into sciolism, most likely).
All this to say, I have found a single word in our vernacular that I despise: Maybe. I love Yes, can handle No, and will often appreciate Probably. But Maybe? Well, that is simply cruel.
Yes will give one affirmation, even if it is in answer to a negative thing. What was expected is verified. Yes wipes away all incredulity with three simple letters, finally confirming what has been supported and consequently, assumed. Yes is freeing in its encouragement. Hope is satisfied and may continue to flourish.
No is more difficult to receive. What was anticipated has not come to fruition. Although it is negative, No allows the receiver to finally walk away in dignified defeat. No is releasing in its finality. Hope has been disappointed, but now it may cut its losses and invest elsewhere.
But Maybe is another response entirely, if it even counts as a response at all. Maybe fuels confusion, simultaneously giving reasons to give up and to hold on. It creates insecurity in a place of no absolutes or guarantees. It feeds blind hope, enhances vulnerability, and destroys confidence. When Maybe gives way to No, one feels ashamed for ever having expected something from an empty and noncommittal answer. However, when Maybe becomes a Yes, the final security is that much more satisfying, having risked so much in the face of so little assurance.
So what to do when faced with a Maybe? When one's initial instinct is to run far away from the hurtful path of instability? Or perhaps to rush ahead and anticipate the No before the Yes even has time to arrive?
I suppose it all comes down to faith, though what happens when one is found with less and less evidence to support any kind of reasonable hope? Ah, but is that not the very definition of faith? Being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see? So must one keep hoping, waiting for the inevitable verdict of Yes or No?
Maybe. Just Maybe.
All this to say, I have found a single word in our vernacular that I despise: Maybe. I love Yes, can handle No, and will often appreciate Probably. But Maybe? Well, that is simply cruel.
Yes will give one affirmation, even if it is in answer to a negative thing. What was expected is verified. Yes wipes away all incredulity with three simple letters, finally confirming what has been supported and consequently, assumed. Yes is freeing in its encouragement. Hope is satisfied and may continue to flourish.
No is more difficult to receive. What was anticipated has not come to fruition. Although it is negative, No allows the receiver to finally walk away in dignified defeat. No is releasing in its finality. Hope has been disappointed, but now it may cut its losses and invest elsewhere.
But Maybe is another response entirely, if it even counts as a response at all. Maybe fuels confusion, simultaneously giving reasons to give up and to hold on. It creates insecurity in a place of no absolutes or guarantees. It feeds blind hope, enhances vulnerability, and destroys confidence. When Maybe gives way to No, one feels ashamed for ever having expected something from an empty and noncommittal answer. However, when Maybe becomes a Yes, the final security is that much more satisfying, having risked so much in the face of so little assurance.
So what to do when faced with a Maybe? When one's initial instinct is to run far away from the hurtful path of instability? Or perhaps to rush ahead and anticipate the No before the Yes even has time to arrive?
I suppose it all comes down to faith, though what happens when one is found with less and less evidence to support any kind of reasonable hope? Ah, but is that not the very definition of faith? Being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see? So must one keep hoping, waiting for the inevitable verdict of Yes or No?
Maybe. Just Maybe.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
ὑπόκρισις (hypokrisis)
I love acting. Granted, I know I'm not the best, and perhaps one can say what talent I do have springs from my love of literature, not actual understanding of the art itself. I, however, think I'm merely empathetic. I may not know how to perform a character's life, but I often find myself knowing exactly why they do what they do and say what they say.
I could leave it at that. But if I introspect a little farther (as I often do) I realize I enjoy being something I'm not. I like the feel of living in someone else's skin. Maybe it sounds like a glamorous vacation, becoming another person for a little while. But I see it as a sheltering escape. Finally, I'm no longer me. I can be someone who charms, entertains, and captivates. For a few blissful moments, I don't have to deal with reality. Which is nice, because reality generally isn't.
I went home last weekend for Fall Break. I saw my old places, my favorite roads, my coffee spots. I got together with friends, family, and teachers. I saw all the people who made me who I was back in August headed toward the University. Those who, up until that moment in my life, had the greatest influence on me, who poured their lives into mine, giving me exactly what I needed to accomplish everything, come back, and glory with them in my success.
I felt as though I had let them down.
Considering all I came to college with, I'm quite the failure. I'm a bad daughter, granddaughter, and sister who doesn't pick up the phone or email enough. I'm the bad friend who forgets birthdays. I'm still the same student who can't be disciplined enough to not procrastinate or be late for class. And I'm still the same Christian who finds herself in constant need of grace and the humility to accept it.
But this weekend, months since my last stint as an actress, I was on stage again. The audience was unaware. They think I have everything together, that I'm a great success and the University is lucky that other school didn't snatch me up. After returning to campus on Tuesday, I have yet to stop. I'm still playing out the character, finding very few who see through the act or care to look for the reasons behind it.
It's exhausting being what I am not, but it's disheartening being what I am.
So what, so I've got a smile on
But It's hiding the quiet superstitions in my head
Don't believe me
Don't believe me
When I say I've got it down
Am I living it right?
Why, why Georgia why?
I could leave it at that. But if I introspect a little farther (as I often do) I realize I enjoy being something I'm not. I like the feel of living in someone else's skin. Maybe it sounds like a glamorous vacation, becoming another person for a little while. But I see it as a sheltering escape. Finally, I'm no longer me. I can be someone who charms, entertains, and captivates. For a few blissful moments, I don't have to deal with reality. Which is nice, because reality generally isn't.
I went home last weekend for Fall Break. I saw my old places, my favorite roads, my coffee spots. I got together with friends, family, and teachers. I saw all the people who made me who I was back in August headed toward the University. Those who, up until that moment in my life, had the greatest influence on me, who poured their lives into mine, giving me exactly what I needed to accomplish everything, come back, and glory with them in my success.
I felt as though I had let them down.
Considering all I came to college with, I'm quite the failure. I'm a bad daughter, granddaughter, and sister who doesn't pick up the phone or email enough. I'm the bad friend who forgets birthdays. I'm still the same student who can't be disciplined enough to not procrastinate or be late for class. And I'm still the same Christian who finds herself in constant need of grace and the humility to accept it.
But this weekend, months since my last stint as an actress, I was on stage again. The audience was unaware. They think I have everything together, that I'm a great success and the University is lucky that other school didn't snatch me up. After returning to campus on Tuesday, I have yet to stop. I'm still playing out the character, finding very few who see through the act or care to look for the reasons behind it.
It's exhausting being what I am not, but it's disheartening being what I am.
So what, so I've got a smile on
But It's hiding the quiet superstitions in my head
Don't believe me
Don't believe me
When I say I've got it down
Am I living it right?
Why, why Georgia why?
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Night
I've always loved the night sky. I still remember the first time I took time to notice it. I was in 5th grade, on track to be the school's greatest overachiever. We had been studying stars, the earth, moon, heavenly bodies, what have you. Later that week, walking around outside my church after the Wednesday night program, I looked up. I didn't see little dots or "pinpoints of heaven". I saw Orion. Or more specifically, his belt. And I stood there, for a very brief moment (I was only 10), in recognition that what I saw was a lot more than I had ever seen before.
A few years later, I decided I wanted to be an astronomer. I made the mistake of reading a Christian Purpose-Finder type book, which posed the question, "What could you do for a long time without getting bored or tired?" My answer? Look at the stars. Thus, the astronomer dream was born. While I've realized since then my calling does not involve science or math or anything connected to either, I still have a tender, if pedestrian, love for the night's lanterns.
Tonight, after running around the last few weeks like crazy making friends, going out places, and keeping up with classwork (no easy task, I'm finding), I was able to look up again. I had spent the night participating in a whole-campus mission: impossible style scavenger hunt, covered in shaving cream (my team was ambushed). As I walked toward my residence hall, I continued past the front door and on a whim, headed for the vacant soccer field. There, in the seclusion of the cool grass, I reclined and stared up at the dark heavens.
And I thought, I really like college.
Somehow, in this huge universe extending for unfathomable light years in all directions, I am important. Not in a "the world couldn't run without me" kind of way. Just in a "Someone thinks I'm significant" way. Who am I that He is mindful of me? If His blessings are any indication, then apparently, I'm quite something.To Him, at least. He put me here, at "No, it's not Davidson" University, my personal Nineveh, and has blessed in spite of myself. He's doing something. He's using me and guiding me to certain places and people on campus, and only He knows where we're going to end up. Although I'm surprisingly excited to see where that will be. Perhaps it's not as bad as I always anticipate.
"And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun."
A few years later, I decided I wanted to be an astronomer. I made the mistake of reading a Christian Purpose-Finder type book, which posed the question, "What could you do for a long time without getting bored or tired?" My answer? Look at the stars. Thus, the astronomer dream was born. While I've realized since then my calling does not involve science or math or anything connected to either, I still have a tender, if pedestrian, love for the night's lanterns.
Tonight, after running around the last few weeks like crazy making friends, going out places, and keeping up with classwork (no easy task, I'm finding), I was able to look up again. I had spent the night participating in a whole-campus mission: impossible style scavenger hunt, covered in shaving cream (my team was ambushed). As I walked toward my residence hall, I continued past the front door and on a whim, headed for the vacant soccer field. There, in the seclusion of the cool grass, I reclined and stared up at the dark heavens.
And I thought, I really like college.
Somehow, in this huge universe extending for unfathomable light years in all directions, I am important. Not in a "the world couldn't run without me" kind of way. Just in a "Someone thinks I'm significant" way. Who am I that He is mindful of me? If His blessings are any indication, then apparently, I'm quite something.To Him, at least. He put me here, at "No, it's not Davidson" University, my personal Nineveh, and has blessed in spite of myself. He's doing something. He's using me and guiding me to certain places and people on campus, and only He knows where we're going to end up. Although I'm surprisingly excited to see where that will be. Perhaps it's not as bad as I always anticipate.
"And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun."
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Mixed Emotions
I'm here. I've actually been here for a week now, although it feels like a month.
I have an announcement to make: I like my roommate. She's great, and I regret the time I spent worrying about life with her. We both believe in the "Be Considerate" attitude, and what's more, we've had some really great conversations about deep stuff. It's true, you become friends fast in college. That's also held true with one of mine and Roomate's suitmates. She's so kind and genuine. The other suitemate will be interesting to live with, considering she came in drunk at 5:00 am the first day we were here. We'll see.
I've been really enjoying the whole experience. I think I can handle this level of independence, being able to do what I want when I want. The making friends thing isn't that hard, either. People are sad and scared. Putting on a confident, happy face draws them out in droves. It's nice to be their comforter.
That said, it's getting tiresome. The whole week I marvelled at my adjustment (as did Roommate: "Aren't you homesick?"). But then my car's battery died - twice [see last post to understand how devastating that was]. And Roommate went home for the weekend, as well as Nice Suitmate. Drunk Suitmate is goodness knows where. I probably won't see her until tomorrow afternoon. I locked myself out of our room, but no one was there, so I ashamedly had to call security.
I'm really homesick. I miss my family, my friends, my life. I just want to recognize a face or hear a voice I know well. I wish my "I" key wasn't sticky because I let Drunk Suitmate borrow my laptop. I want someone to say my name without a question mark on their face. I want to stop "getting to know" and just "know". I want to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I want to visit a familiar park bench. I want to hug my mom and pet my cats. I'm tired of forgetting people's names. I want to let down this pretense of having it all together. The empty dorm room is getting lonely, and I sincerely wish I had gone home this weekend, that the thought of going home so early wasn't viewed as such a weakness or detriment, that Labor day weekend was closer.
The saddest thing in life is to be needy, because the shame you feel from your condition prevents you from ever directly seeking help.
I have an announcement to make: I like my roommate. She's great, and I regret the time I spent worrying about life with her. We both believe in the "Be Considerate" attitude, and what's more, we've had some really great conversations about deep stuff. It's true, you become friends fast in college. That's also held true with one of mine and Roomate's suitmates. She's so kind and genuine. The other suitemate will be interesting to live with, considering she came in drunk at 5:00 am the first day we were here. We'll see.
I've been really enjoying the whole experience. I think I can handle this level of independence, being able to do what I want when I want. The making friends thing isn't that hard, either. People are sad and scared. Putting on a confident, happy face draws them out in droves. It's nice to be their comforter.
That said, it's getting tiresome. The whole week I marvelled at my adjustment (as did Roommate: "Aren't you homesick?"). But then my car's battery died - twice [see last post to understand how devastating that was]. And Roommate went home for the weekend, as well as Nice Suitmate. Drunk Suitmate is goodness knows where. I probably won't see her until tomorrow afternoon. I locked myself out of our room, but no one was there, so I ashamedly had to call security.
I'm really homesick. I miss my family, my friends, my life. I just want to recognize a face or hear a voice I know well. I wish my "I" key wasn't sticky because I let Drunk Suitmate borrow my laptop. I want someone to say my name without a question mark on their face. I want to stop "getting to know" and just "know". I want to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I want to visit a familiar park bench. I want to hug my mom and pet my cats. I'm tired of forgetting people's names. I want to let down this pretense of having it all together. The empty dorm room is getting lonely, and I sincerely wish I had gone home this weekend, that the thought of going home so early wasn't viewed as such a weakness or detriment, that Labor day weekend was closer.
The saddest thing in life is to be needy, because the shame you feel from your condition prevents you from ever directly seeking help.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Forgive the Déjà Vu
I leave for college today.
If anyone on this earth has semi-faithfully read this blog, they'd pick up on one obvious detail: I really don't want to leave. I like living in my home, seeing my family everyday, hanging out with the best friends I've ever had in my life. Why would I want it to change?
I was upset yesterday, which was really inconvenient, as I was attempting to celebrate my birthday. Don't get me wrong, thanks to some of my dearest friends, I had a great time. But the whole day was overshadowed by the finality of the past week. I've been wished well, told good bye, hugged, and photographed so many times in these last few days, it's really no wonder.
So that kind of explains why I did it.
After visiting my high school for one more (unsuccessful) farewell, I broke down. I could barely make it to my car. Once inside, I started driving. I sought out my bench, but the maintence people were at the cemetery. So I kept driving. For an hour.
I went on my favorite roads, especially the ones by our local "mountain". The kind of curvy ones where the tree cover is so dense, the sun shoots its syncopated blinks through the branches. It was good. I was able to take a break from the meeting and the talking and the packing. I could just be upset. Granted, it didn't solve my problems or change reality. (Which my grandfather confirmed that night when he ignored me as usual.)
My solace is not playing the flute, running, or even deep sleep. It's driving. The funny thing is, on my 15th birthday, I was completely terrified of driving. I was dead convinced (no pun intended) that I was going to kill someone the second I slid behind the wheel. Before I had even tried it, I decided I wasn't going to like it and that it was too dangerous. Unlike most 15 year olds, I avoided getting my permit until my mom dragged me to the DMV.
However, once I started practicing in parking lots with my pugnacious grandmother, I warmed up to it. I went to driver's ed, and actually enjoyed the interstate training. By the time I got my liscense (this time, I did the dragging), I was thrilled.
Driving's a good thing, regardless of what I thought orginally. Could the same be true with college? It's new, terrifying, and dangerous. But perhaps it'll become enjoyable and thrilling.
We'll see. For now, I'd better hit the sack. I have a long drive ahead of me.
If anyone on this earth has semi-faithfully read this blog, they'd pick up on one obvious detail: I really don't want to leave. I like living in my home, seeing my family everyday, hanging out with the best friends I've ever had in my life. Why would I want it to change?
I was upset yesterday, which was really inconvenient, as I was attempting to celebrate my birthday. Don't get me wrong, thanks to some of my dearest friends, I had a great time. But the whole day was overshadowed by the finality of the past week. I've been wished well, told good bye, hugged, and photographed so many times in these last few days, it's really no wonder.
So that kind of explains why I did it.
After visiting my high school for one more (unsuccessful) farewell, I broke down. I could barely make it to my car. Once inside, I started driving. I sought out my bench, but the maintence people were at the cemetery. So I kept driving. For an hour.
I went on my favorite roads, especially the ones by our local "mountain". The kind of curvy ones where the tree cover is so dense, the sun shoots its syncopated blinks through the branches. It was good. I was able to take a break from the meeting and the talking and the packing. I could just be upset. Granted, it didn't solve my problems or change reality. (Which my grandfather confirmed that night when he ignored me as usual.)
My solace is not playing the flute, running, or even deep sleep. It's driving. The funny thing is, on my 15th birthday, I was completely terrified of driving. I was dead convinced (no pun intended) that I was going to kill someone the second I slid behind the wheel. Before I had even tried it, I decided I wasn't going to like it and that it was too dangerous. Unlike most 15 year olds, I avoided getting my permit until my mom dragged me to the DMV.
However, once I started practicing in parking lots with my pugnacious grandmother, I warmed up to it. I went to driver's ed, and actually enjoyed the interstate training. By the time I got my liscense (this time, I did the dragging), I was thrilled.
Driving's a good thing, regardless of what I thought orginally. Could the same be true with college? It's new, terrifying, and dangerous. But perhaps it'll become enjoyable and thrilling.
We'll see. For now, I'd better hit the sack. I have a long drive ahead of me.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
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!
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!
Sunday, July 1, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, May 25, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
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.
"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.
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