Grain of Salt

Reality and I haven't been on good terms lately.

What is it about human beings? We are logical, rational, understanding creatures. We are able to differentiate between the possible and the impossible. We know we cannot do certain things. We are constrained by reality and are constantly reminded of our limitations.

And yet... we hope. We hang on to that last shred of improbability, convincing ourselves that this time will be different. More than that, we dream. Our hopes are so real to us that we base our futures on them, we act on them, we believe in them.

But why? We are always disappointed. We always let down or are let down. Why do we keep trying? Why are we not overwhelmed by the reality of a situation, left in a puddle of faithless inaction?

I am overwhelmed. Reality, the insuperable juggernaut, is winning.

The reality is this: I have performed my last show; tomorrow, I will play my last concert; I will attend my last classes Friday and Monday; I will graduate; I will leave. People grow up. I am growing up. Growing means changing. I am changing, as is everyone else around me. Our relationships are changing, too. Drastically. I will grow apart from many whom I hold close now. Also, I'm finding it hard to believe in new relationships because of the futility involved. Why start now if we're all just leaving anyway?

This is logic. This is actuality. This is real.

So why am I up late once more, crying about things I cannot change and should have anticipated all along? Perhaps I had hoped it wouldn't happen. I really can't say.

But I can say that sometimes, for absolutely no discernible reason whatsoever, reality lets one slip by. A dream comes true. So you smile, scarcely allowing yourself to keep hoping and dreaming.

Reflections

When I was about 6 or so, I got to dress up for Halloween as a bride. Cute, frilly, white dress with white, Easter Sunday shoes, a bouquet of silk flowers that fell out of their bundle every time I breathed, and two elastic headband veils. The veils were what perplexed me the most. Why two? I didn't get it. Mom explained that the bride's face was covered by one when she walked down the aisle, and the groom moved it back later, when he kissed her. But my 6 year old mind found folly in the tradition. I wanted everyone to see my "radiance," if you will, and the veil only got in the way.

Recently, I've been reading 2 Corinthians. In the third chapter, Paul explains the difference between the old ministry of atonement and the new. He references Moses, who had to wear a veil when he experienced the glory of God after receiving the old, fading ministry of condemnation - the Law. Now that we have the new ministry of salvation, how much more glorious will that appear? And how much brighter will we be, no longer veiled by misunderstanding the old?

"And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit." (v. 18)

We're like mirrors, reflecting, not our own glory, but God's. Sometimes our veils get in the way: our pride, our pain, our skewed perceptions, our immaturity. But thanks to God, He is transforming us into His likeness, that we may be covered no longer.

I am beginning to realized that my life is not my story. It is God's. He is the protagonist, and He is the author. It's just not about me.

I want to be an unveiled mirror of His glory. I want everyone to see what Abba's love has done to me, for them to look at me as one who is loved, because I am. And maybe, they will be drawn by that reflection of His brilliant rays, rather than the pathetic, fading beam of my own existence. When I look around and see those who are reflecting His light into my life, I know that I am called to do the same.

When I get married, I'm not going to wear the second veil. I want my groom and everyone else to see what love has done to my countenance. Why would you want to cover that up?

So, that's what I learned in Kindergarten. I guess it's all I really need to know.

Past, Present, and/or Future

Three different people. Three different encounters.

First, a friend I've known for years. We haven't always had the closest relationship, but this year we've become very good friends. I love hearing her dreams, hopes, fears, and frustrations. She accepts my advice as well as my general complaints about the world. We need each other, and we mutually help each other. I am very grateful for our relationship. Today, as we shared a bagel at Panera, I realized how much I'll miss her next year, and I was strengthened in my resolve to keep in touch with her.

Second, another friend I've known for years. We were close earlier this year and before that. She got a boyfriend, and you know how it goes. We drifted. Significantly. I don't blame him. I understand it's the way of things. Recently, it's as though our relationship is barely holding together. Tonight, I realized it won't last past graduation. She hurt me in a very careless way. And while I can understand and rationalize all I want, the fact remains: I am no longer important in her life, nor she in mine.

Third, someone I've known for some time. I fell for him over a year ago. He broke my heart, found out about it, and has been distant ever since. In all honesty, it's fine. I realized today that I have nothing to feel for him. Not love, not bitterness, but not really friendship either.

Three relationships: one thriving, one dying, one dead. It seems all my relationships are in one state or another. Few are thriving; many of them are dying. And I'm floundering, trying to figure out what to do about it. Should I even do anything about it? Should I recusitate the dying? Mourn the dead?

Seems to be the questions that are leaving me in this overwhelming state of unsettling confusion.

Pozzo: "I don't seem to be able... to depart."
Estragon: "Such is life."

Grief

I hate April 19th.

Over the years, I've never really known how to handle 4/19. For a while, I told people about it. Mentioned it during prayer requests at school. "Could you please pray for my family..." But then I began to notice the awkward silence that hit the room as soon as I spoke. So I stopped. Maybe an off-hand comment to a friend. "Yeah, can you believe it will be __ years since..." More silence. I generally can't talk to mom about it. Just makes her sad, though I know my bringing it up wouldn't be the first time it's crossed her mind.

Today, like every year for the past ten years, I didn't really know how to handle it. It was in the back of my mind all day. Honestly, I didn't want to think about it. I wanted to be around people, just listening and enjoying the distraction. But it seemed everywhere I went, they left. So I tried to take a nap. That only gave me more time to dwell on it.

I played my flute. I've been doing a lot of that lately. It was different today, though. I played through a song full of vibrato, carrying a beautiful sadness with each note. It wasn't perfect, but I put so much heart and emotion into it, I physically shook after I played the final fermata.

Then came my monologue during rehearsal. I was fine up until "... And the mystery of death." And when I said, "Somehow, sometimes, things are just as they should be." I had very little conviction. Sometimes things are wrong. They aren't just as they should be. They hurt.

I told no one. No one asked me if anything was wrong, or if something was bothering me. Seems I'm a better actress than I realized.

But now, I want someone to know. So, reader, April 19th, the anniversary of my dad's death, is a hard day for me.

10 years without him and I still haven't figured out how to deal with it.

Blue

When I was a little girl, I had this blue dress. I loved it, for one reason and one reason only: it slightly resembled a dress worn by Belle in Beauty and the Beast. Picture: the busy day of a small town in the French countryside. Belle gracefully skims through near mis-haps while having her head buried in a book. The song she sings describes her craving for adventure, her want for more than her normal life. I, an impressionable child of four, grabbed my thickest book and, wandering around my living room, participated in the scene. And so, I felt exceptionally special whenever I got to wear this blue dress. I felt like her, like a princess, ready to run around, read books, and fall in love.

As happens with most things in life, I outgrew the dress. Mom stored it on the top shelf of my closet, just out of reach (even when I stood on my wooden child-safe stool). I was, as you can imagine, very upset at my loss. The blue dress... I could see it. It was mine. But I couldn't wear it anymore.

Today, I wore another blue dress. One I like very much. I get compliments on it, I like the a-line cut, and the color very closely resembles the Belle dress. And, to be completely honest, I feel somewhat like I felt as a child.

But I am not the little girl who spun around her couch, singing happily. Not anymore. It seems I have grown up. I have new things to think about, cry about, laugh about. And I have no idea how that happened. I'm not entirely sure I appreciate it.

Sure, there are benefits. I can reach the top shelf in my closet now.

Today, in the new blue dress, I realized that not only have I changed, but so have those around me. And they will continue to do so, as will I. I've understood for some time now that they will not be a part of my daily life, but it was only today that I realized I will not be a part of theirs. I won't know their newest crisis, nor their newest joy. I won't be the ears for their complants, nor the arms for their hugs.

In forty or so days, I will wear another blue gown. And I will be a different person then than I am now: a high school graduate, if nothing else.

I will graduate from their school... must I graduate from their lives as well?

Spring At Last

Amazed... there's no other word for me right now.

I know it's absolutely corny, but the illustration holds true: I've experienced an autumn of change. I've been through a winter of pain, doubt, and confusion. But here I am, at the promised spring of peace. All the stuff before had to happen, otherwise I never would have made it. The old leaves had to change colors, die and drop on the ground, or the tree would never have know the beauty of new growth.

I know where I'm going next year. Even though it wasn't what I expected or even wanted at first, I know, without a doubt, that it is where God wants me. And I am so pleased to be wrapped up in the will of God, finally in the right place, with peace-filled assurance. And - here's the greatest part - He has made me glad! I am so excited about next year. Finally! I have a destination, a purpose, a place that God has chosen for me, his daughter... to give me a hope and a future.

"See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come..." - Song of Solomon 2:11-12

You give me hope, and hope it gives me life
You touch my heavy heart, and when you do you make it light
As I exhale I hear your voice
And I answer you, though I hardly make a noise
And from my lips the words I choose to say
Seem pathetic, but it's fallen man's praise
Because I love you
Oh God, I love you
And life is now worth living
If only because of you
And when they say that I'm dead and gone
It won't be further from the truth

Like a Child

I volunteered in my church's nursery this morning, or, as I affectionately (and perhaps more aptly) refer to it, "nursery duty." Funny. Nothing can take your mind off your problems like a bunch of little kids, all clamoring for your attention.

Everytime I'm in the nursery on a Sunday morning, I'm allowed to witness what I call "separation disillusionment." The baby arrives, happy in its parent's arms. Then, it is passed on to a smiling volunteer, such as myself, ready to cater to its every whims. This transaction is normal and very necessary. Does the baby think so? No. It proceeds to ruin the volunteer's ear drums, far past the damage done by her daily ipod use. All the baby knows is the utter loss of normalcy. And no, it's not about to listen to the calm reasoning of "It's ok, they'll be back."

Turns out, the effect of a limited perspective is quite detrimental - to the one misunderstanding and the one being misunderstood.

Babies are extremely dependent, needy creatures. They can do nothing on their own. Even when signs of progress are being made, such as chewing cheerios without choking or toddling around without crashing into furniture, they still must be watched constantly. Even their beds resemble prison. You can't trust them to their own devices. They don't get it yet: what life is or how extremely fragile and unprepared they are for it.

It's a frustrating job, being their caretaker for an hour every month. The leaks, the bad attitudes, the understandable narcissism. Even though you have every right to give up and walk out, you don't. Because, as strange as it may be, their little offering of love, be it in a smile, a laugh, or an earnest invitation to play with them, is impossible to refuse. And you love them back. See, you don't walk in and expect to find adults. You know they're babies, and you accept all the crap (literally and figuratively) that comes along with it.

"Have faith like a child." he says. Well, turns out I am one.