Mopey New Year's

A year ago I was sure this year would be better, as the previous one wasn't my favorite. This week, when I began to think about how I felt about 2014, in summation it also wasn't my favorite.

Usually I write some sort of "Year in Review" post about all the highlights, but I feel like this year just wasn't what I wanted it to be; my life wasn't what I wanted it to be. I didn't really live up to making it what I wanted to make it; doing what I wanted to. Some things yes, so I can't say it was an all-around failure, but I think I can say it was another tough year (then again, maybe its end is coloring it as a whole).

Maybe there were some lessons learned, or something to be gained - I don't even really know what. I feel a little like 2014 was the year of nothing. I have blinked and a whole year has gone by. Things I'd eagerly awaited came and went. Things unexpected came and went. Life was lived. In retrospect, it was sort of an underwhelming year. Which is more than was said for 2013, which I think I remember having been quite ready to be done with.

I suppose in some way that determines any possible new year's resolutions - which the only one I remember even having, I managed to maintain: no new TV shows for a year. I could have also been more intentional and so much closer with the Lord this year, but if it wasn't for some clear lessons in His steadfastness, I'd say I kind of completely blew that one. I did a lot of healthier things for a while, but also wasn't as healthy as I'd have liked to have been.

So it is in spite of the slight grump in my demeanor tonight that I close 2014, and again look forward in anticipation to what another year of life may hold. It is another time to begin afresh and so with even a glimmer of hope, may yours be one that is abundantly blessed, and new in as many ways!

Going Home Alone

If I haven't made it clear yet: I am real big into relationships. I always test extrovert. I used to never tire of company and think I could endlessly acquaint myself with people. Key phrase to note here is "used to".

This fall, I went through (or maybe am still on the exit of) a season of struggling, for lack of a more apt word. I felt like I couldn't really be around people. My well was run dry and where I would normally pack my time full of social activity and interaction, I secluded instead. Though it was out of character and I was aware of this foreign behavior, it never worried me. No, it wasn't that sort of seclusion. More the beat-down, worn-out person can't really do the whole be cheerful and engaged thing right now sort. So articulate, I know. I talk about it openly as I've felt like I am on the upswing. I think of it as having been a very strange season, but I also think I learned a lot and still am.

As I know I've written before, God and I have a lot of conversations and subsequent lessons on relationships. I love them, and they try me (which I know isn't specific to me). I am on a two-steps-forward, one-step-back journey of holding relationships open-handed (a phrase that's become Christian-ese to an extent, but is fitting.) There have been other times of being isolated, though unintentionally so, that were gray and painful. There have been relationships severed that have left me feeling broken. I have had to learn how to be with God when I have felt alone; how to be okay when He is the only one I have. That's still hard and I'm still learning, but I think it's good.

As a facet of this learning curve, and by some bizarre plot-twist, this autumn I learned to like to be alone in a way that often confused me. See, I used to hate it and while I'd still mostly rather be with someone than not, I don't loathe being by myself anymore. I value the time to process my day, or just let my mind rest and wander. I had never really thought I would enjoy being alone as much as I have learned to. Though it wasn't an especially enjoyable lesson, it is an important part of further growing up, for me.

My lessons aside, sometimes it is still incredibly difficult to go home alone. I don't mean that in any physical sense, or that of just "taking someone home" - rather, that it's one of the times when being single is the most potent. This was a night when that was difficult. Coming home with the simple desire to talk with someone who knows my story, knows my heart, and that I trust is rooting for me; a desire unquenched. It's a moment that it's hard not to be mad at God. "Yeah, yeah! I get it: lay down relationships, You're here for me - but right now, I just want someone tangible." And I don't mean the inane notion that another human will complete me. No. Companionship, partnership. Not unlike as children, when we returned home at the end of the day, someone was there to be on our side, ask about our day, seek to know our life. There's a comfort in that, and it's part of what makes it home. The lack thereof is what makes ending the day alone hard.

So for every coupled-off person who tells me to "enjoy being single," I can only retort: enjoy having a companion! Enjoy that you have someone to share a thought, that you have a partner in life, that when you lay your head down at night, it's next to someone else. Sure that has its challenges - it is two people in relationship - but I bet it sure beats the hell out of going it alone.

It Doesn't Last Long

It doesn't last long,

Anymore,

And no one is under a guise,

Of any sort.

You're more in love with your thoughts,

Than anything.

In your perceived inferiority,

Pride was the only thing that grew,

As if you thought it would save you,

- the irony.

I am always here,

But you are not,

You will always push,

And pull,

And twist and turn and ruin,

To break the box we've put you in,

So you think.

You've always been constantly on the brink,

Just out of sight and out of reach

From where you're meant to be,

But never would you let another help you to see,

It doesn't last long,

When for a while we get along,

Though I've taught my heart not to hurt,

Anymore.

My [Single] Trajectory

When I think about the trajectory of my life, as a single person the horizon is far and the options expansive. In some respects I don't think it would feel the same if I wasn't single. Maybe that's because I know myself in regards to relationships, or maybe because it's just a reality.

Important relationships require limitations - I think that's why as a self-indulgent culture, we are so bad at them. The idea that one should have to sacrifice because they value relationship with another is just asking too much! Of course there's the flip side of that coin, and we have all probably been in that position in a relationship as well. When a relationship is imbalanced, there is an inevitable tipping point at which the inability for both parties to participate in give-and-take sinks the ship, so to speak. When one is really important, it will likely require some sacrifice, some compromise. We can always hope that we will receive the same in return, but there are limitations.

For as much as I get baby-fever sometimes (in all honesty), and it would be nice to be intentionally doing life with a man, the thought also scares me sometimes. They are things I want - to be a wife and a mother - but I have to throw cold water on my idealism. Reality check: it's not going to be picture perfect. I already have a hard time taking care of myself and everything that adult life requires of me! Then to be someone's emotional support, further someone's literal physical and practical support! Sometimes I wonder if that will ever be possible. I am pretty motivated by relationship, but it doesn't completely squelch my desire for my own passions.

There are things I have thought about that I can really only do now because I am essentially "not tied down." I hate that phrase, because it makes being with someone sound so negative...but it serves its purpose, I suppose. It's one of those things that some really honest married people will tell you to appreciate about being single. "You can do whatever you want." I guess within reason. I still have to pay my bills, and my rent is a little more expensive than if I shared a room with someone...which I definitely cannot do unless I really, really like them. I digress.

There is a silver-lining or two to being single, I'll give the taken ones that, but freedom can sometimes be a little overwhelming. It's a wonder that for so many marriage and having children is such a shock to the system. To go from precious non-work hours spent doing what you need, then what you want, to nurturing highly important relationships! The game changes, and the stakes are higher.

I have been thinking a lot lately about what I want to do and where I want my life to go. I have the space and the ability to pursue what I want, as those decisions only directly affect me. I can chase my dreams, and the direction I'm headed can slightly shift, or shift drastically. Right now, the options seem endless. Each one requiring its own amount of planning and effort. Each one resulting in a different outcome that will change the path by leading to yet another opportunity. There are so many things I want to do in my lifetime, and I know the really worthwhile ones I have done so far have taken time. It's as if, to some extent those have been my important relationships. I guess what I am really getting at here is priorities.

So I question, what do I want to make my next priority?

Talk is Cheap, Grace Isn't

There's an old cliche: put your money where your mouth is. We can all talk, and talk is cheap (there's another, for you). The value of what we say is exemplified in a few phrases, which came from where I'm sure there are many more. The things we stand for will be challenged, and there will be times when we lose our focus. It is completely human and it happens to everyone. The key is what we do when we realize we've gone off track.

The last time she saw me, a cousin of mine who reads much of my writing said, "You're always trying to define yourself." She said it like it was a bad thing, but it's something that, in being hyper-self-aware, I know and am on good terms with. I am someone who likes to know myself, which is a challenge as we are ever-changing beings. So I am constantly trying to define myself. I would almost go so far as to say I fear finding myself at a place where I do not know myself well. It's not necessarily that I pride myself on it, but that I think it's important.

For as much as I aim to know myself and be self-aware, I too am prone to the occasional one step back. I did that recently. As I've talked about before, I went through a partying stage after returning from YWAM (of all things). I call it a stage because there aren't many stupid things I've done that I really care about, but this - this was a stretch of being really stupid. Basically I drank a lot. Thankfully (believe me) I survived said stage relatively unscathed, save for the fact that you can't un-have experiences. I'd realized after a patchy night of celebrating a party-friend's birthday, it wasn't even close to smart and definitely not worthwhile. Ever since, I haven't disappointed myself.

Finally this fall, in spite of out of character isolation in reaction to stress, I felt like I was moving forward, almost exponentially. I was re-entering a heart-understanding of where God has me and what He wants me to do. This amid heights of anxiety and...then I cut loose, a little too hard. Nothing detrimental further than disappointing myself in a way I've been very done with. I don't often wear guilt, but I never want my talk to be cheap; I mean to mean what I say. So I brought it to God, this isn't who I am anymore, how did I do it again? He kindly reminded me of something that He had kindly told me several years ago when I was similarly at a loss on account of my weakness:

You can fail a thousand times, and still...

It wasn't to say there's a limit, but the opposite! That my imperfection isn't a hindrance to His grace; there is no hindrance to His grace.

So I have been lounging in something; not quite guilt, but...a tension. There is this tension of recognizing my imperfection but moving away from it to the best of my ability. There's no promise I won't fail again; that I won't eat my words and swallow my convictions, but because of Grace I can aspire to move forward.

Many people have a misconception about the biblical meaning of "repent". It doesn't just mean to feel sorry, but to turn around and go in the other direction. It's so tricky that Grace allows us to turn around and change that which we would not otherwise have the opportunity, let alone the will to change.

Thoughts on Doing What You Live For

Have you ever asked yourself: what do I live for? Not some morbid question of why am I alive, or even asking The Point - just: what do I live for? What gets your gears turning? What can you pour into yet walk away filled-up? What do you dream about? What do you long to grow in? What fascinates you?

So often we sell ourselves short thinking we don't deserve to do what we love. Whether it's because we deem it irresponsible, or because there's something seemingly more important to do...or several things more important to do. I myself am guilty of this; I sit down for a Writing Day - as I've affectionately and cleverly dubbed them - and do everything but.

See, for a lovely season, I would take my only untouchable hours of the week (my Saturday morning and afternoon) to just write. Whether it be blogging or journaling, or - in rare shining moments - working on a story. It's my introvert activity; when I don't want to be social but I want to be active, I go to write. I'm an ideas person, but not in the entrepreneurial way. Concepts. I'm also a verbal processor. I like stories. I love written communication; it's this complex tool, yet sort of like a Rubik's cube but with multiple solutions. In recent months, this sacred Saturday morning tradition has fallen by the wayside.

I get there, and it seems there are plenty of better things to do...yet when I wrangle myself into doing it, it's exactly what I need. I've had a few conversations here and there about writing. I've had some with folks who are doing what they love and have a passion for, about the leap it takes to prioritize it. These conversations have been encouraging and for lack of a better word, convicting. They help subdue the commit-aphob in me that says I should probably try to learn how to be [a million times] more responsible before I aim to be more creative or invest time and money into learning more about relationships. These conversations silence the voice of insecurity that doesn't even want to try because I'm still learning.

The thing is that when I write, when I problem-solve in relationships, or when I photograph - whatever it may be, if it's life-giving the responsibility falls in line. When I give myself time to do the things I love, I find I have more space and less anxiety when it comes to doing the things I have to do that I have less or no excitement for. And when I'm in the habit of doing these things I love, I'm consistently better at them.

I have spent the last few months bartering my time for low-stress activities, and yet have been neglecting some of the things I really love. In that, I have concluded there is no easier way to come to a stand-still in growth and progress toward your goals than to put the things you love on the back-burner. There's a trendy phrase that my generation and millennials love and I detest, but in spite of my distaste for it, it makes a good point: "If not now, when? If not me, who?" I tend to think of it as inspirational fluff, but a part of me admits here that therein lies a truth. At some point, if we truly want to achieve the things we aspire to, we have to grasp the courage to begin. And beginning requires even the tiniest action...followed by another, and exponentially more. The remaining pieces will fall in line.

[Spoken like a true optimistic idealist.]

The Impeccable Insight of Mom

I can't possibly be the only one who's mom has impeccable insight into their life, right? I could be stubborn as all get out, and here she comes at me with this stone cold truth, smack to the face. I'll begin to argue, but my brain snags the train of thought - wait, this is MOM, she might have a point here; after all, she does know a thing or two about me...

Moms have that strange knack for cutting through the crap, and telling you exactly what you needed someone to break down for you. Mine did that for me this week. "You need to decide what's actually important, and let the other things go." It felt like a zing at first. Then I went with it for a few hours. Oh, my attitude affects my circumstance? Nahhh...

Here she whips out this simple yet powerful wisdom, like a hunter would pull an arrow from the quiver; at just the precise moment. It pierces: let the other things go.

I began to think all those little things made up something big, and I just needed to be told different. Take a step back, take a breath, take it in. Sometimes I mix up taking stock and analyzing. I'm big into analyzing. However, the tendency toward picking things apart and answering the "Why?" can get in the way of knowing where things stand, whereas broadening the frame of view might allow the reality to jump out.

For instance as a photographer, I could nitpick so many things (and I'm sure better ones do), but I often decide upon my subject of focus, frame my shot, open my other eye, adjust the frame, and shoot. Decide, frame, see the rest, re-frame, shoot. The little things tend to just work.

I think often our blind spots -- or maybe rather, the places and things we choose not to see, require others to open our eyes to.

Hope Amid Darkness

Walking through or into darkness, it is often hard to find hope. Moving through turmoil and turbulence doesn't seem to lend aid. You find yourself hungry for the change, but despairing that it might not come. Where in this darkness are you likely to find light? Where in the turbulence is the steadiness?

Though it seems melodramatic to say, as this is hardly comparable to other much darker difficult places I have known, I have found it difficult lately to have hope; to be joyful. This state isn't typically noticeable to those who don't know me all that well. While I've grown more blunt as life has taken the edge off my timidity (I'm sure some would read this and think, "What timidity?"), most people say that I'm always happy.

Case in point, in a very normal occurrence for me, last weekend two strangers remarked at it. One man I met interrupted the flow of conversation to indignantly inquire as to what I was "giggling" at. Of course, not only was I largely unaware I was even doing it, but hadn't a clue as to its inspiration. Not in a crazy, get-her-help sort of way, but it's just something I do all the time - not to mention get called out for regularly. I suppose it's peculiar to not withhold ones outbursts. The other instance was with a French man I met (less surprising that he should take note of my abnormal happiness, as the French tend to be more reserved in their expressions). After hours of conversation, most of which had been translated triangularly due to my out of practice ear, he told our friend he noticed that I smile all the time. I remember explaining this to others when I was in Paris with a cheerful shrug, "Je suis heureuse! [I'm happy!]".

I have been so out of sorts that I have been retreating to be alone as much as I can stand, being a rather undeniable extrovert. Subconsciously yet consciously avoiding that, when in the company of people, they want to talk about things. Further irony is that I'm a verbal processor... This is all exactly what I do when I shut down: isolate and muse. Though it may sound strictly negative, (and maybe someday I'll decide that it is,) I know I'm doing it and yet I'm fairly certain it's just what I need.

There are a few gems of activities where I can distract myself. Thankfully, sleep is still one of them. Running. Volleyball. Prayer. That's the big one. Currently, the idea of sitting down with the Bible is exhausting. Worship has felt a little dry. I felt like I couldn't lead people when I barely have the capacity to ponder my own circumstances, so I put down my small group. But prayer...it's this bizarre space where I'm focusing my energy and my communication with God on others, yet I feel alive and whole. That is my zone right there.

It simultaneously scares and excites me, because I do worry that I'll say the wrong thing, but it's also so great when somehow I say exactly the right thing and I can see the person before me being encouraged. I leave those interactions with more fuel than I came into them with. God showed up, and met someone where they were at, getting at me in the process! It is the only beautiful battle, one where freedom is truly bestowed; that is a sacred space. There, there is joy and there is hope amid whatever darkness.

That is not specific to just me, which I think may be the best part.

Eyeliner Alicia

Recently I was thinking about my adolescent self - who I was before I learned to make decisions without caring what people thought of me. In my mind, to myself, I refer to this as Eyeliner Alicia.

See, not long before high school, I started wearing makeup. I think the "rule" was not before 14. I was thankfully exiting my awkward stage, and transitioning to public school after my initial nine years in private grade school (not as glamorous as it sounds, believe me). Freshman year, I would style my hair every day, sometimes blow-drying it before straightening it. Me factoring an hour into my morning just for my hair! I would put on my makeup, usually during the bus ride to school. I felt plain, and somehow discovered that eyeliner made my eyes more dramatic and hence stand out. It became my staple; I felt naked without it, which only made sense because I was embarrassed of what was underneath: plain old me.

Now, I'll only clarify this once here: I don't say any of this to shame people who wear makeup or like doing their hair - rather to tell the story of how I grew out of it, I suppose. And make no mistake, it was only in recent years that I received the vote of confidence I needed to call it quits.

On some off day sans my usual face, a few of my family sat down to dinner together. My brother Shayne is not really one to dole out compliments or flattery, one might think that the idea wouldn't cross his mind as he only expresses the reality he beholds. Among the smattering of dinner conversation topics with a family of busy-minds, Shayne commented, "You look really nice, what are you doing different?" Not wearing any makeup...and I was sold! Granted, it took a while for people who saw me regularly to stop asking if I was feeling okay, but it was liberating to not have to worry what someone might think if they saw my real face.

Sometimes I think about how many consecutive days of my young life were spent wearing eyeliner; how many hours were totaled up applying the pristine stroke of black crayon under my lashes; how much stock was put in thinking that doing this would make others value me...

In reality that's what it came down to. I can't even say subconsciously because that's not true - if I'm honest with myself, for so long I was afraid of not putting on a face and I knew it. There's nothing inherently wrong with makeup (at least that's how I feel at this point in my life), but I don't like that my security was ever found in a daily work of art other than my natural self. It was wildly freeing for me to stop buying eyeliner - though, scary at first, I should add.

There's something about that piece of my life and the subsequent putting down of the pencil that I see as being a part of my understanding of self and growing in confidence. In my head, Eyeliner Alicia is the same one who was afraid to do so many of the things that I have done since I primarily gave up the ritual. She is the one who got walked on by people. She's the one who was afraid to speak up for herself...or in front of a crowd or even a group! She was the one who needed to know so much more firmly who she is, so as to move forward unshakably into bigger things than she'd imagined.

This evening, I saw a commercial for an anti-aging cream. The woman said she would embrace all that life would bring, except for wrinkles (she called them "frown lines"...okay...). I thought, whether it be baby-weight, age-spots, or laughter lines, I can't wait to embrace whatever life brings me, without pretending that I'm something I'm not.

For My Heart of Hearts

I am someone who can quickly become insecure about whether or not I'm loved by someone. Panic sets in. What are likely irrational thoughts swirl through my mind in a stormy vortex. It is a place I don't want to revisit, but my memory returns me to at the slightest familiarity.

It's not unlike when I was 17 years old, I was in a car accident. It was my first car, and I loved that car. I was driving through a green light, where someone was turning right onto the road I was on, but rolled through the light and turned out wide just as I was passing through the intersection. I saw it happening, but was in slight denial. The comparatively-gigantic, teal Chevy suburban annihilated the front right fender of my tiny '91 Mitsubishi Galant, leaving me with a flat and totaling it. Most who know me well would say I'm a confident driver, but still over seven years later, I flinch and hesitate when someone takes a right turn into the lane next to me.

Everyone will say they love deep; I say I love deep. I love deep within my many limitations. I am the kind of person who when I say I'd do anything, I really would. There have been times in my life where deep love has withstood the pressures of great intimidation. (I say this not to brag, but to help make a point; bear with me.) When I love someone, I want to make sure they know it. Those closest to me are the people I'd do anything for, and I'd like to think they typically know who they are.

One of the hard lessons I have learned in my yet-young life is that of rescinded love. That is love that was once there, though only seen in hindsight as shallow, suddenly dissolved. When it happens to you, it's earth-shattering; reality altering, truly, because love felt so secure. The overwhelming sense of admiration for another person. The place where differences aren't disparities at all, rather glowing elements of near magic that you awe at. You can't imagine life without them if you tried, because it puts a knot in your stomach.

And it happened.

Even having recently received all the answers, it was inexplicable. My heart never hurt so bad. The thought of the pain now, makes my eyes well-up. I can sincerely say, nothing else has hurt like this; to have someone I loved walk away without reason or word, or seemingly care. I have acknowledged it, - do acknowledge it, but the mark this left on my life seems unshakable. I carry that with me into every friendship I have; every relationship in which I deeply invest.

I believe love means never finding a reason good enough to throw in the towel. Some may think that's naive, but it's not. I wish I could go back and live that out, when in times past I've failed to because my experience conditioned me to, and I adapted...whether or not it was right.

Someone recently told me they thought that everyone should get fired once, - spoken like a true person who's probably never been fired, because it's awful. You spend some time wallowing in self-pity, then in the next job you miraculously manage to land, the time that isn't specifically spent doing your job, is spent wondering if you'll get yourself fired.

Having your heart broken teaches you some things that take some unlearning, - like to be afraid of loving deeply because it might get you hurt - but it also teaches you through experience how not to love poorly. This has been a five year lesson for me, and it still aches; it's still awful, sometimes. It also helps me not to give up on the ones I love, because I know how terribly it hurts to be given up on. I strive not to let my love be so weak.

The Baggage We Carry & Intentionality

Relationships are tricky. Supposedly there is a science to them, but they're so unpredictable. They affect who we are. There's nature, and there's nurture. There's some ambiguous time called "The Formative Years" that people will refer to, - whoever knows what that even means - but I think it's a lot longer than it implies...that's a whole other animal.

Relationships. We cannot do without them, and they alter us for better or worse. This is an arena I can speak to only from my own experience. I've always been someone who craves relationship (okay, yeah, who doesn't?), and it's taken me a long time to realize where I have been unhealthy about it. And because relationships are always in the forefront of my mind and generally a facet of life, I have been thinking lately about how ones in my past have affected the me of the present. There are two in particular that have been on my mind.

I will start with the one I messed up. I had this friendship that, if it were still on-going, would be my longest friendship. There's something that when you're immature, you can't appreciate about a lifelong friendship. I have been mourning this relationship again as I near two years that it's been gone. I thrive when I'm known well by a handful of close friends, and conversely I tend to suffer when I feel like I'm not known well by a handful of close friends. Thinking about that, brought thoughts of this relationship back to me. I recently reached a heart-breaking conclusion about the demise of this friendship: I failed. When it happened, and for so long after, (and if I'm honest, still from time to time) I thought I was justified in throwing my hands up and walking away. The truth is that I didn't have enough grace. I didn't want to keep letting my hurt go, so I ran with it. I am officially done letting any part of myself believe that I didn't have a role in things.

Such a realization has helped me. It's humbled me; it does humble me. Granted I carry the predisposition that asking to be treated well may result in another severed friendship, it's taught me to tread those waters lightly. It's taught me that losing someone altogether is a lot worse than struggling to find patience and grace. Among many other things.

I guess I can't say that I didn't mess the other one up either. I had this good friend in high school, two good friends; a guy and a girl, who dated at the time. We were like Three's Company - except I don't think that was ever a love triangle. Anyway, we were all three best friends, one of us a little more...difficult to tolerate than the other two. *Ahem*! I don't want to sound like I'm justifying myself or my actions, but we clicked. Being a naive 16-year-old, I continued having hours-long phone conversations and hanging out late at night with him, letting him try to learn my favorite songs on the guitar - unwilling to acknowledge, or maybe blind to the fact that I was walking into a world of hurt. It wasn't fair to me, but I wasn't wise. I got my heart all tangled up, in a way that an older, wiser me is all too aware was incredibly stupid. One day, I called. They had a talk and were going to be serious about making their relationship work. Cue heartache.

Everything about it had seemed perfect, save for the fact that someone else was his girlfriend...

Ever since, I've been gun-shy. I sit somewhere in wanting most of what that relationship was, and viewing nearly every relationship with a guy through the muddied lens of that one. Pieces of how it affected me only occur to me now. And I'm sure more will come out if ever I do bother with a romantic relationship.

These are just two of the experiences that have marked me. Everyone carries their own experiences, hundreds of them. Some big ones whose impressions take some serious undoing, and some smaller ones that only scrape our surface or buff our hard edges. Thinking about my experiences in relationships on all levels makes me constantly think about the places I have impact and what I choose to do with that.

They have me thinking about the weight and importance of intentionality in relationship. I can do what feels the best or the easiest, or I can intentionally make a choice to do relationship well. We can either constantly live under the weight of our baggage, or we can learn from it and walk forward with intentionality into better, life-giving relationship. A lesson I'm sure I will endlessly learn.

In the Weight of Death is Love

I haven't taken many silent drives in my life, in fact I can probably count them on one hand. This was one.

Even when you know where you're going, mortality is a hard thing to understand. To really sit with the thought that this is goodbye; it's it. A concept you don't expect to be able to comprehend, but in that moment; pondering the finality of that goodbye, it hits. Hard. Confusion that you are even feeling the weight of that moment hits. The impact is accompanied by uncontrollable tears and sobs from the pit of your stomach, not unlike retching. I wasn't ready.

More than anything, I was scared of what I would feel. I was scared of the inevitable pain. I hadn't done this yet, this close. I have experienced a death before and it was a moment that, while it sounds strange to say, I cherish. Being present to that moment was life-changing. When you witness death, you grow up so much in only an instant. And I don't know how anyone could witness such a thing and question the separation of body and being. That's where it hits again: this is real. This is my reality, right now. 

I let myself feel it the whole long drive to the hospital with the words ringing in my mind, the doctors said it's time to come and say our goodbyes. My first reaction was No! not unlike a stubborn child does not want to do what they're told because in their eyes it's unfair. Exactly that, in my eyes this was unfair. The thought slipped through my mind that this was probably a terrible time to be driving: rush hour traffic, hyperventilating slightly, hot as hell, and the waves of reality washing themselves cruelly over me. 

It wasn't until I was about ten minutes from the hospital that I said, "Okay God, I'm ready to talk to you about this; I need to talk to you about this, because I can't go in there without that." Not knowing what I was headed into, knowing these things can sometimes turn around, I asked for the wisdom to know if we were to pray for healing. Healing prayer might be totally off the radar for some, but it's something I believe in, while knowing there are times when it's not going to happen. God told me, no, this is it. The realization sunk deeper in. I asked for wisdom, and was blunt, "I hate this, it's so unfair! I'm not ready." Then without a doubt in my mind, I heard Jesus say, I'm ready, I've been waiting. He's coming to be with me; that's not unfair. As quickly as the reality of the goodbye had come, peace set in and the tears ceased. I could breathe.

The evening that followed in the hospital was beautiful and difficult. Nearly the entire family was there, -- someone said nearly 30 people. We sang hymns together, and I spent much of the night at his bedside, holding his hand and thinking, they just don't make 'em like this anymore. 

For a little over a year now, God had been doing this thing where He rests what I now think is [only] a portion of the weight of His love for another on me. It's overwhelming and heavy, and beautiful, and it takes my breath away. God did that. He continued -- and has continued -- to give me reminders of how overjoyed He was to get to take him home; that it was a celebration of my grandfather going to be with Jesus. That He was jealous for my grandpa.

After he passed, we all stood in the room as again the reality washed over us. Bursts of sorrow came and went, as embraces flowed throughout the room. In the silent lull of tears, we began to sing a few short choruses by memory. Before, I had never really bought into the idea that our loved ones looked down and watched us, but while we were singing one of those short hymns, God comforted me with a small insight. He showed me that He was standing with my grandpa -- in rejuvenated form -- who leaned over quietly, as he would, and said to God so simply and emphatically, "Oh! I like this one; this is a good one." 

I already feel like I have spent the last five days explaining this phenomenon to others. Sunday, I discovered what it is: the peace that passes all understanding.

"When this perishable will have put on the imperishable, and this mortal will have put on immortality, then will come about the saying that is written, “Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law; but thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your toil is not in vain in the Lord." 

The night of my grandpa's passing, there was a woman in the hospital who stopped my mom and I. She was also losing someone; her mother. She said, "I first experienced death when I was young, and I don't know if you have a faith, but if you do, this will make it real." While I agreed, I also sort of shrugged it off, because I had experienced death before and my faith  already was real to me...but she was right. Heart-wrenching, confusing, and unthinkable as it is, in this experience I've become more and more in awe of Jesus and heartbroken for anyone that doesn't have the freedom, peace, and love that relationship with Him brings.

In these last five days, my heart has learned new pain, but the roots of my faith have grown down deeper.

In Loving Memory: Without Apology, With Humility

When in an instant you think of a person dear to you, it's like understanding the meaning of a word without simultaneously rattling off its definition. It's just knowing.

When I think of my grandpa, -- when I really stop to pull apart what comes together to make up who I knew him to be; who he was to me, many things come to mind...

He had a quiet way that was so endearing and comforting; it never seemed as though he was uncomfortable, but merely thinking. You could always trust that he was musing on something, and he was ready to share if you were smart enough to ask. He wasn't eager to stand in the limelight, but carried a waiting wisdom. There was always a calm about him, yet an authority that if he did quietly speak, it demanded attention. I think of his soft chuckle, and then of his hearty laugh. He had a playful spirit, he loved to tease, and had a great wit about him. I have yet, in my life, to meet anyone who more willingly served others. I've certainly never seen a man treat a woman so well as he treated my grandmother. He loved stories, -- told great ones. He was charming, but not in an insincere way. He lived out giving everyone the chance you know that he sincerely believed was after God's own mercy.

The morning after his passing, at breakfast I was even reminded of the way he would pour the cheap little creamers into his bad diner coffee, and stir just so. Everything he did, was just who he was, without apology; with humility.

There are many more pieces that make up who I knew John Dale Baxter to be, and my memories of him will live on in impromptu trips to Dairy Queen, stirring the necessary cream into bad diner coffee, and the quiet strength that drives the wisdom to speak. I was honored to know and love such a man.

In Loving Memory

Summer Night Nostalgia

Sometimes when I'm falling asleep at night, I think maybe I'll wake up in the morning and be a kid again. It's probably nothing short of normal, but I have, since, graduating college felt the sting of the reality of growing up. And there's something about a humid summer night, with only an oscillating fan for relief, that reminds me of childhood. Maybe it doesn't help that I gave up on the idea of holding onto my queen bed for being married some day and returned to a twin, for which I have one old pale pink fitted-sheet from when I was a kid. Laying there, sometimes I slip into thinking, what if I wake up tomorrow and I'm nine again? Nine was a good age, I think. You were still your own person, with reckless abandon.

Today at the beach, I failed to restrain a chuckle as this dad with two children, very close in age, struggled to calm them from the vicious, apparently contagious cry-cycle they were inflicting on one another. I watched his valiant effort to calm and re-dress them while whichever one he wasn't paying attention to burst into crocodile tears. I chuckled, but not out of a mean spirit; rather, I appreciated that this father dared to go it [to the beach] alone. Think me not insensitive, I assumed he was simply taking them on an outing and not forced by some tragic circumstance to parent alone this way all the time. I appreciated him.

My dad, and again not to slight him in any way, was not much of a kid person. I always say I think he likes us a lot better now that we're adults. His version of such an outing was to take us to the Y with him, while he got in a workout, we swam endlessly - and cheerfully - in the pool. On the way home was a Super A, and dad's treat was to stop and let us each get a can of Super America brand pop. There was something extra-good about that soda, even still I think nothing can quite compare. Oddly Shasta is the only thing that's ever quite come close. I think I drank a lot of grape soda back then, but there was also a strawberry-kiwi or watermelon-something...that was dad's excursion, albeit a relatively safe one.

I have what feel to be infinite memories of getting home in the summer time from a family vacation where we roadtripped somewhere. It was usually hot and sticky; it was usually July, sometimes to Duluth and back for Independence day. We always brought our own pillows with us, all piled into the car. Being Losiers, we left late and got home late, so I was almost always asleep when we finally arrived. I learned the feel of the car slowing down on our exit, and my body would wake just enough to sense that we were minutes from the comfort of home. I knew the right, then the hot-left, then the other right, and up into the driveway. I'd sit up and sleepily verify my inferences, looking through the windshield at the house number on the garage, lit by the floodlight above it. 1110.

We'd always unpack the car of at least the essentials. I remember that feeling of mellow-dramatically trekking the stairs to my room, and the sweet relief of plopping on my belly into my familiar, welcoming bed.

Sometimes, in the summer, I imagine that I will wake tomorrow in my white, four-post bed, in my bedroom with the blue wallpaper with little pink bows all over, and stumble downstairs to pour a bowl of Berry Kix.

Something Maybe Crazy

Is it weird that this [my blog] is my bear-all? I don't think so, then again I'm a huge fan of vulnerability and verbal processing. In a way, this feels like verbal processing. And being my personality type, I'm overly concerned with being understood...Anyway, let's really talk about my dating life (or, still, lack thereof).

I did something maybe a little crazy, recently. I had spent way too long wondering, instead of just asking. Somehow, I got the crazy nerve up to just ask; enough time not wanting to give up hope, I guess. Which brought the best rejection I could have ever hoped for, if that was what I had been hoping for. I'm too curious to leave these things up to my assumptions. I wasn't shocked, I wasn't sad -- if anything relieved. And the whole thing left me thinking, why in the heck didn't I do that sooner? I don't believe anything is a waste of time, (other than getting lost and just going home instead, which I have been known to do a time or two...) but I just could have saved myself a lot of...wondering.

We'll see what it means for my future endeavors. At first it meant an impulsive return to dating websites -- and why? Who knows...but it will likely be short-lived, again as I am still basically under the impression it's not for me. Maybe it means taking the chance earlier on to just know, and be more carefree about this whole silly thing that I don't even really know how I feel about it. I mean I know how I feel about politics, coffee, and running, but how do I feel about dating? Who knows! Except that I want to worry about it less. I'm far better than I once was, but it's too easy to obsess, and even harder to not think there's more to everything than there is. Which is especially hard for me, because in life I don't think that anything is as simple as it seems.

It made me feel free. Why didn't I do that sooner? I am admittedly still quite ignorant in this area, but I feel like I grew up a little in that moment. I learned something. I can stand a little taller, even if it was the wimpiest attempt at...whatever it was, ever. If you don't take the risk, you'll never know.

The Art of Settling

As if life and relationship aren't complicated enough, there's this wily pressure to add marriage into the mix, or to be dating with it as an end-goal. I, like I'm sure many other girls, have my moments of pure panic, thinking what if I'm supposed to be doing something right now and I'm not, and then I'll be single forever! Fear of the unknown grabs hold and grips tightly. And while it's different now than the times where at my age I'd already be considered an old maid and a lost cause, there's still a function of society that strikes fear of singleness into our hearts; beyond the healthy desire for companionship.

It's a weird conversation to have, anything revolving around being single and the implication that you shouldn't be. Lately, I've come to terms with one thing about my love-life - or lack thereof: I'd rather be single than settle.

Most people can get behind that statement til they start asking questions. Well, what do you want? Which quickly can turn into, Well, good luck finding that! Exactly. Exactly. There's enough mess to this life and relationships in general, then to go adding in romance and quite possibly a family with someone that sort of meets what you need?

Now, believe me, I've read all the blogs and articles (and some pages of books before I got bored or annoyed), and I'm not saying I expect someone to be perfect! I'm so tired of that retort; I'm not nearly so naive. The people I love the very most in this life have all hurt me at some point, and I'd be surprised if I haven't hurt them. I'm not under some sort of illusion that I will find someone to match all my ideals, but I'm not about to throw them out the window, either!

I am also not naively referring to frivolous wants. I don't think having hobbies in common or even really shared interests is necessary; most of the good couples I know are vastly different in many ways. I like to think that's part of the excitement is learning about someone else's interests and expanding your horizons. But shouldn't certain things be immovable requirements? And can we please stop telling people that they need to leave those behind?! How desperately do we need to remove our singleness? If we weren't a society that held everyone to this unrealistic and unhealthy idea of incompleteness without a romantic relationship, maybe there'd be a little less pressure to take just anything.

This is all not to say that anyone isn't worth your while; that you're too good for anyone, but rather what is healthy for you and what do you need? Where are you at? Almost every time I've gotten frustrated and frankly bored of being single, I circle back to the conclusion that I'm actually okay with it because I still have a lot to figure out. No person is going to make me whole, or complete, or satisfy any unfulfilled part of my life. This is likely different in a secular mindset, so I guess if I even have any non-believing readers...disregard? Then again not, because the reality is that it is not healthy, no matter what your religious affiliations, for your identity to be revealed through the filter of one other person. But that's another rant for another time.

If anything, all I've ever seen from settling is heartache and identity crisis. I recently told a friend who was evaluating a dating relationship, if you have to say the words "we could make it work", it's probably not worth trying to. I think we have a tough time being honest enough with ourselves that we feel insecure being alone. That being alone requires us to walk into parties by ourselves, or have a Friday night with nothing to do, go stag to a wedding and risk sitting at the table while others dance. Rather, I think those moments build character; there's something to be said for learning that you have value for being yourself, without anyone else.

On Going On 24

With my next birthday rolling around, I thought to myself today, Ahh, finally I won't have to say I'm twenty-three.

As if being 24 is all that different. This has been a strange age; I feel like I've never had so many people speak to me in a derogatory nature of 23 year olds as the elite class of especially naive humans. I know not to take offense, as they likely don't mean anything by it -- more than likely they forgot that I am in fact lumped into whatever their ideas are about 23 year olds. The time it bothers me is when it's followed up by, "Ugh!...Wait, how old are you?" I might as well answer "I'm naive, overly self-confident, and stubborn years old." Or when I first meet people, and the age question comes up all-too quickly.

See, being my age doesn't actually bother me, just that anyone would ever assume anything about me based on it, especially that it might automatically make me simultaneously naive and a know-it-all. If anything, that's where the adolescent yearning to age comes from, but the sick and twisted part is that we can never quite comprehend the part about getting older. That part is important. Yet, no matter how much anyone forewarns that getting older is also hard and that you probably don't want to actually get older, you want to because then maybe you'll feel less defined by however young you are.

And in one moment of looking at myself in the mirror, washing my hands and thinking how I will finally answer that question with "I'm 24," -- never mind that oh my gosh I AM getting older -- I realized it does not matter. Chasing after the next mile marker of time only wastes the in-between; the now.

Anyway, those who know me don't write me off based on my age, and those who do [write me off], just don't know me well enough to know better. Another lesson in grace, this one wherein I swallow my pride and listen to running mouths.

What Does Being Christian Even Mean?

I find it interesting that there are so many definitions of what it means to be Christian. There are definitions from the inside, which tend to vary widely between denominations or doctrines, and then there are the perceptions of non-Christians. I often think that being a Christian is a bizarre thing, that if I wasn't one, I myself would probably find quite strange.

However, having been raised Christian, I grew up with some ideas of what being one meant by the things that were rote. We went to church every Sunday like clockwork, my siblings and I went to private grade school, and as a family we rarely ate dinner without praying a simple prayer before hand. Thankfully, in my adolescence, in the midst of some of the great hardship of my thus far young life, God got a hold of me in a way that broke through my misconception. So while I would say I was raised Christian, there is a specific time I'd say I became one. Unfortunately that's not necessarily what I'm writing about here, now.

Growing up in it long before I understood it on a personal level, there were periods of time where I felt like I saw through a lot of things; like there were parts of being a Christian that I didn't like. I took a break from church for a while when I felt like it didn't fit what I was feeling like God is about. Looking back on that time, my faith was by no means on the rocks, but on the contrary there were many moments of deeper intimacy with God than I even feel like I've had in a while, and I'm really thankful for it. I learned a bit about how faith isn't dependent on church, which began what I think is a long journey of figuring out that being a Christian doesn't mean what so many of us think.

Admittedly, I often struggle to tell someone I'm a christian, not at all because of what it means to me, but because of whatever connotation or stigma the word may have to them.

Being a Christian doesn't mean voting republican. It isn't defined by my stance on gay marriage. It's not in my tattoos, or nullified by them. It's also not nullified by swearing, or proved by withstanding. My faith is not upheld by listening solely to Christian music. Being Christian isn't dependent on your ability to abstain from sex outside of marriage. It's not by ritually reading the Bible. It's not in evangelizing from a ladder on a street. It's definitely not holding signs on the street condemning people; it's not condemning people. It's not judging. It's not segregating. It's not obligatory. It's not hinged on saying "Grace" before a meal. It's not hinged on using the right lingo.

To be a Christian means [to me] that you have had a personal revelation of the merit and reality of the death of Christ, as it pertains to your life, and have acknowledged God as giving that gift. There are so many facets and pieces that come after that, but they do not define one's adherence to the identity of being saved by Jesus. The etymology of the word "Christian" even implies a belonging; as in slave ownership. That might sound scary to some, but I think that with the understanding of what that personal realization of the cross is, there is a feeling of indebtedness, of service which is born from thankfulness. It is wanting to serve the One who you know saved you. That is a better definition of "Christian".

No doubt, from this Christian life should come fruit; good things, but those look much different than the many stereotypes would have us believe. It means a selflessness. It is a countenance of grace. It is a life lived with and seeking wisdom. It is self-control. It's showing mercy, and not judgment. A Christian life should display love. A Christian life should display hope. It should display a relationship with God in which He allows you to partner with Him in heavenly works, not because you are doing what a Christian should do, but you have acknowledged your need for Him in your life and are open to following the example of Christ.

The Good & Perfect Giver

If you have ever been burned in a situation you know the feeling of being, as they say, gun-shy. Once it's happened in a big way, it's easier to recognize an arguably justifiable hesitancy in other areas or seasons of life. I have had it happen in my expectations. One particular instance became a mark on my life, even if only to myself.

See, I had a grand plan and expectations from the bottom of my heart to the top: to go to Paris. It might seem frivolous, but it was a life dream of mine and as Audrey Hepburn famously said, "Paris is always a good idea." She wouldn't lie, not with those big glistening eyes! I set my heart right on my own plans that I crafted. I even did all steps to get myself there, save for one thing on which I hesitated...buying my plane ticket.

I had just begun attending my church, and returning to a life immersed in a community of believers after a year and a half of solitary faith. In hindsight, of course, it is so clear to me now - knowing all that I have learned in the just over five years I've spent at Mercy Vineyard - that I didn't even think to really see if I was supposed to go. Thankfully, God steered me in my conscience, and I could not manage to buy that plane ticket. The date edged closer, and though I constantly talked as if I was going, I never bought it. At a point of no particular consequence or significance in my memory, I came to the conclusion it would be irresponsible for me to go, and quite frankly a terrible decision. And again, in retrospect, I was trying to force something that just wasn't.

I didn't really express the disappointment I felt to anyone. In August, shortly following my decision to stay stateside, I went to a Vineyard conference in Duluth with some friends. Again, though insignificant in memory, something in the teaching or singing prompted me to go up to the front to get prayer (in my early months of Mercy every call to receive prayer was for me; I lived up front of the church getting prayer!) Despite what I asked for prayer for being completely unrelated, the woman who prayed for me, Amy (the older sister of my now best friend) having never met me or knowing anything of my life, she spoke right to the part of my heart that broke for my crushed dream. Even her words are lost in my memory, but the sentiment is absolutely not. I was rocked that a perfect stranger not only knew exactly what was on my heart, but took the risk to speak to it what she heard God saying.

Part of it was, God knows the huge disappointment on your heart, but He wants you to know He has something even greater in store. I didn't know the full weight of what that would look like, but in that instant the big dream broken into pieces and the unknown of the immediate future were peripheral. God just spoke to my heart, what I really needed to hear. And He wasn't lying.

To this day, I will say Paris was the best thing I've done in my life. It was far beyond what I could have imagined...just like God had told me through Amy. That time was not only a huge blessing for all it encompassed, but a great lesson in patience, trust, discernment, and wisdom. For me, it is one of the things in my life that exemplifies a characteristic of God that I firmly believe in: He is a good and perfect giver. Often, the reality of having been given such a great gift hits me, and it makes me cry. It's already come and gone, and I still can't believe it was given to me. My heart bobs at the thought; both sad that it's gone, and joyful that it was mine.

Now, when faced circumstances that go against the grain of my wants - though I may have to remind myself - this is the lens I view it through. I find peace in knowing that, whatever comes, He doesn't disappoint, rather He surpasses, and is lavish.

"As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways...declares the LORD." Isaiah 55:9

Re: Dateless

I find it laughable that such an absurd, circular, and slightly nonsensical post such as this ("Dateless") gained so much traffic...and a little sad. See, I've written so much more! I write so many more important things (or so I think). Should I assume that all of my readers (and facebook friends) are highly invested in my romantic status? Do me a favor, go pick another title and read it til the end! Read a freaking poem or two! (Here's a favorite) Have a laugh, take on a challenge...read this weird monologue-y thing.

Well, for whatever reason that is now my most popular post in all the seven plus year history of my blog! Thanks for reading and...I'll keep you updated?

For now, enjoy:
Click here for an awesome song!

Dateless

I am in this really strange limbo in regards to my feelings toward being single. (I tend to stray from writing about it for fear of coming off as pathetic.) The older I get, the more I learn to like it; the more I'm happy that I'm figuring myself out, by myself and I don't need the "help" of a significant other to do that. The more I go through infatuations, the more my taste is refined. There are ebbs and flows, from the moping due to lack of a movie-watching cuddle-buddy, to decidedly deciding that I don't care if I ever "meet somebody"!

Lately it's been: "I just really want to go on a date." It's a boredom stage more than anything, because you see it's not quite so simple as some silly part of me makes it out to be. I don't really want to date.

A friend of mine suggested OkCupid. "You should just go on some dates," she said. Let me tell you, that place is disheartening! That's not to slam people for using it, by any means, it just didn't exactly encourage me in my half-hearted search in any way. It made me scared that having standards of any kind, never mind factoring in interest or attraction, is an impossible feat. Anyway, I don't think e-dating is for me, evaluating the chemistry is too important an initial factor.

Thankfully I am, what I like to call, Happily Picky. While I would love to just go on some dates, I have this nagging pragmatic side that knows it'd be a waste of time. I do not actually have interest in dating random people, for the heck of it. Don't get me wrong, I love meeting people, getting to know them, that's all well and good, but slap the label of a date on it and it changes everything. I'm not afraid to talk to men, in fact I'm an excellent flirt, when it doesn't count. But when I'm interested, nearly all self-confidence tries to leave...usually via the shakes. This had me thinking maybe I could try some dates in an effort to challenge myself, but it'd still be unfair because I know myself well enough to know when it's just not happening. And when it is, I'm nervous as hell.

Whenever anyone inquires as to "what you're looking for", they always seem to follow it with some solid criticism that, "If you don't want to be single you..." might have lower those standards. Forever. Lower my standards forever, or be single forever. (I can already smell the kick-backs of, "Well, not your standards, just some things..." Even then.)

But then, the question really is: do I not want to be single, though? No, I'm okay...but I could go on a date.

Off the Handle

I love you but
I can't always hover
wondering if
you'll fly off the handle
knowing that what I've learned
doesn't even hold a candle
to the way it makes me feel
and makes my heart reel
as the fighter in me rises
and the two struggle to find compromises
so when it settles
I try my best to let it be
I try my best to leave
Only then to fight back tears,
which I've turned into anger over the years
Because it's never been fair
I only just learned to be okay there
Don't bother to understand
Don't dare to try
Because the spare second you can spare
Doesn't show me that you care
That you make me cry
Until the need to be validated and justified
At the expense of others has died
Don't find it a surprise
That I can't always look you in the eyes.

A Closed, Bleeding Heart

I take breaks from really talking to God, from time to time. They're not intentional, or not completely I guess. I had this revelation of sorts, recently, that I sometimes do not address the things on my heart with God, as a coping mechanism to protect myself from feeling. I am an individual with a lot of feelings, and subtly or otherwise, people who don't feel all the feels (as the kids say these days) have treated me like some basket case. It has taken me a lot of time and conscious self-assurance to undo those lies, partially in realizing that to willingly face vulnerability is a strength. Even still, I backslide from time to time, and there are areas where I have taught myself to close off, in the name of self-preservation.

My grandpa was admitted to the hospital on Monday for a small stroke. Being my only living grandpa (married to my only living grandma), I've never experienced anything like this with a close relative. I found myself a little shaken to know that he felt confused and simply "lost" some things from his memory bank, like how to tie his shoes, or my mother's name. Startling, is the best-suited word I've found; it's startling. I continued my workday after the call, because otherwise I probably would've cried at work and felt embarrassed to have feelings. If I'm being really honest, that's what it was.

I waited at my parents' house for my mom to come home that night, I was worried she'd be upset. I discovered where I get my "in-charge" mode from. She said it's not that she doesn't have emotions about it, but things have to get done, too. I was upset, and of course saved it all for the person I trust most. No one has ever seen me a bigger mess than my mother, partially just because she's my mom, and partially because she would never even think to judge me for being too emotional. (Reference here: My Mother the Saint) She let me wrap my arms around her and cry. After she somehow graciously inquired as to my turbulence, I took a deep breath mixed with a sigh and said, "Being empathetic sucks," as we had a laugh. Then she said, "It's great," in that affirming way you'd hope a mother would, but of course mine really, extra means it.

Somewhere along the line, I adopted the idea that emotions are weak. In between trying to find a balance of vulnerability, I bought into crying being embarrassing. Further than that, I started not bringing those feelings to God. It's almost like I decided that if I ignore the way I was made, stuff all those nasty little buggers down into my stomach in the form of knots and up into my head as aches, the things that I feel won't feel. A twisted, self-designed, unconscious but fear-based coping mechanism to being empathetic.

Being empathetic does suck, and it is great. Sometimes when I think about it, I'm convinced it's a form of torture. I've been known to cry as much or more than someone who's actually going through the thing I'm hearing about. And I absolutely can't help it, because I just feel it, deeply. At some point, it became worth it to me to begin ignoring that in me and quit caring - and that sucks!

Thankfully when you're prone to feeling lots of things about lots of things, you can't just turn it off. I say "thankfully" because I know that's how I was designed.

Somewhat consciously, I've also been avoiding taking the hard things back to God in fear that I will only revel in what I feel and not see any change. It's like God has made me able to feel all the difficult things, to the extent that they might as well be happening to me, and then nothing. And it's scary; risky, rather, to put one's heart on the line with God. I know better than to give Him the silent treatment, because all along He quietly beckons as a listening ear and place of comfort. So what have I been waiting for?

It's easy to avoid God, but it doesn't make things any easier. A lesson I think I'm learning. If the Creator of the universe and He who authored selfless Grace and bestowed Mercy, is waiting to hear my heart, how could I keep it?

Say Things Well

It is a personal conviction and aspiration of mine to say things well. There is a way to say something well, or maybe only inherently to me it seems there is, so it's important to try to find it. Not so much in everyday speech, because so often I have no filter between the conception of a thought and its verbal birth, but in ideation, contemplation, and writing, there is a way to make a point and simultaneously, effortlessly make prosaic music.

Lately, I have felt nearly incapable of articulating the way that I want to. As a writer and someone who's generally passionate about communicating effectively, it's been frustrating. At times, embarrassing, that what I said does not even remotely equate to what I wanted to convey. Kind of like writer's block, but maybe more aptly named 'communicator's fog'. It's something no one else would notice or hold against me, except I to myself.

A veritable graveyard of thoughts once thriving and full of potential, my drafted posts list is racking up the longest string of weakly formulated paragraphs in a quite a while. Sadly, most of them will go unfinished, because the thought has landed there only to wither and die. And it's a sort of vicious cycle as there's something in writing that feeds back to me. Maybe it's exactly that: having not taken enough time to write, my articulation muscles are out of shape and practice. Cheers to easing back in...

My Mother, the Saint

When I say "My mom is a saint", if you know me (or her) well at all, you know that I'm not merely spouting flattery; I honestly believe it. Her and I are so vastly different in personality - with similarities here and there, of course - yet we've hardly ever really fought. I'd say a grand total of five good, all-out fights in my life. It wasn't until one of those few recently that I realized she wasn't perfect; twenty-three years in. Even then, I don't know if I believe it.

Sure, some things here or there, such as forgetting to pick us up from school occasionally, should have clued me in, but she's just about the sweetest thing alive and so how could you stay mad at her? I hardly ever lasted the ten minute car ride home.

Year after year she hosts extravagant holiday meals, and she doesn't even like putting on parties! Furthermore, she's an introvert. Somehow, she puts in the hours of preparation, provides a delicious meal even catering to various dietary needs or preferences of guests, and graciously sticks out the entire party, inevitably well-into the night. All so graciously done. And while there may have been a time or two (or more) she's confided in me the desire of a more evident 'thanks', or someone else in our rather large extended family taking a turn, the next year she'll be at it again. Up until 3:00 am the night before thanksgiving, making her famously good pumpkin pies - with a dairy-free one for Grandpa.

She can't help but buy little presents that she sees fit for anyone. She not only eats up the very presence of her two grand sons, but nearly adopts the children of her nieces and nephews. When explaining that I'm one of a now rarely sighted family of six, I usually note my mother's love for babies. I'll never forget, before she had grandchildren the way her face lit up as she gazed on a couple's baby who they brought over to our house. She patiently sat on the couch next to the mother, smiling and admiring the baby's every action. Eventually, after I commented on her exuberance, the mother asked if my own wanted to hold her daughter. I'll never forget the look of pure joy on her face as she happily cuddled and swayed the little one.

My mother was made to be a mom, no doubt about it. She cannot seem to help herself. Many of her selfless mothering actions I would say ask too much, to the point of absurd, but she insists! For instance, nearly every time I visit my parents' house, if there's an opportunity she makes me sit on her lap. I, a grown woman, and her, an aging one, yet she insists. While my brother and his wife stay with them, my mom has taken on his lunch while she makes my dad's. One of few times in my life I was at a literal loss for words was watching her cut up the blueberries for his yogurt because "that's how he likes them."

She's a saint.

Most people have their moments of glaring humanity and imperfection, but we learn to love them in spite of it. My mom is one of those rare types that you tend to wonder where the heck she came from and how come they don't make more like this! The countless hours of her life she has spent just listening to, consoling, and sitting with myself, my siblings, her siblings - let alone my dad! Whenever I finish a bender of a thought-purge and profusely apologize, she replies matter-of-factly, "I don't mind." She carries an incredible amount of patience and grace that seems scarce in this world.

These and at least a hundred other reasons I love that woman, and can confidently say would not be so much of who I am without the example and support she's been for me in my life. I'm wildly blessed to have such a fantastic mother, who is so pleasant to be with and who does so well at putting others before herself in love. If anyone is really responsible for teaching me anything about selflessness in love, it is attributed to her.

To my dear mother, one of the best friends a girl could have, with every last ounce of my heart: Happy Mother's Day.

[...yes, early]

A Time to Get Pissed (Oh, & Guard Your Words)

Sometimes I just get pissed at the devil! Sometimes at people, too, for their perpetuating of his schemes. I'm pissed at the lies he masks as logic, which parades as wisdom! I am angry at countless attempts to steal joy from myself and others, and end it. I'm angry, and I'm ready to fight it, but more often than not I feel like my fellow brothers and sisters are not beside me. Often they are the ones buying in and regurgitating the lies...things will never change, you're not worth it, you can't get free, God doesn't do that, it can't be fixed, you cannot hope, you may never feel happiness...they go on and on. They're told in different ways; sold in different packaging, same product.

Today I heard a statement that a pastor had made that completely dripped of the world's hopelessness, defeatism, and despair - and my blood downright boiled. To claim to know Christ and live to share and serve Him - words like his should never come from a believer's lips! Now I will be among the first to admit that I am not perfect, but if I were counseling another about a detrimental circumstance in their life, I would speak of what the Lord has to offer, or keep my worldly mouth shut. 

Do you not know that your words have weight?! Do you not know that when you talk only in terms of logic without engaging the Spirit in you, you may very well be lending to or furthering the Enemy's work?

I'm beyond frustrated that this happened, - livid is probably a better word - but also beyond that, that it is likely a regular occurrence. My heart pulses and aches at such a thought. That there is freedom, blessing, and healing, yet we dare to repeat the cursing words we have heard before we would call on the Lord. Proverbs is riddled with wisdom about choosing words wisely, and even further the whole Bible is packed full of God's might and love for His people - so why this epidemic?

If you're a believer and you read this, fight with me? Guard your words, and keep those around you accountable to guarding theirs. Speak the truth we know from the Word and by the confidence we have in Jesus. Call out the Enemy, and break down his plans in the name of Jesus! Because if God is not bigger than everything, we might as well quit; stop trying to sell the Kingdom of the Resurrection to if we don't even buy it! I can get pissed at the devil all I want by myself, but it does nothing if my community and the Church don't start talking like this thing we believe in is real. 

And if you're not sure that Christ's blood covers all, don't go becoming a pastor and handing out crap advice. The world doesn't need it.

[Intentionally for discretion's sake, I left out who the pastor is and the subject of his comment.]

This Takes Grace

Life takes a lot of grace, I've been realizing. I have found myself asking for an extra measure here and there. There are several different connotations and uses for the word 'grace', but the one I'm talking about is the one that affords peace and calmness beyond what circumstance may warrant. It's more than patience; patience is for the expected, for the anticipated and enduring the wait. Grace...grace is more.

I would say I'm decent at being content. While my truthfulness about my feelings toward any given circumstance may lead some to believe otherwise, I find it easy to be content. But I have a wandering heart and a wild imagination (thank God), so at times I struggle to look at what's in front of me, instead focusing my attention on what could be. Suddenly, seeing something that reminds my rabbit-trailing mind of another thing, I am spiraling down the rabbit hole of dreaming. I'm not opposed to dreaming (duh, I'm a dreamer, but stick with me), but I've learned that it can detract from being present where you are and hard to accept what comes - regardless of what you wanted to. Enter: grace. Lately, I've been beckoning a short-but-sweet prayer: "God, I need Your grace." Because when you want something to go a certain way but it doesn't look to go that way at all, it takes grace to handle what does come.

I haven't traveled significantly since my DTS in 2011, and for some reason travel is important to me; I can honestly say my heart yearns for it. The realist in me has learned to cut the pained-dreamer short in an effort to save from further tension. The reality of the present is that I'm at a job that God clearly placed me in and I'm wildly blessed to have; I can't up and travel even if I wanted to! Let alone affording it...

I flip-flop back and forth from being okay with being single to hating it...but never really loving it. Others want not to assume, but rather be nice by saying "If marriage is a part of the plan for you...", and to me the reality is: I know what I'm made for. I'm a people-person. I want to be a mom someday, and I'm definitely not good at life alone - not just romantically, but in the sense of total independence. Now, that's not to say that if I knew God was calling me into a life of singleness, I wouldn't just figure it out, but it would take all the more grace! All that rambling aside, just knowing it's a season of singleness, doesn't make it any easier. It's one of those things I do a lot of holding up to God, and asking for His input in my heart on it.

Being single when sometimes you just don't want to be, today - takes grace. Being stationary when you just want to go and see, takes grace. It requires something beyond patience, rather something to sustain me and comfort me in knowing that no matter what tomorrow holds, I'm headed there and following the Lord's leading. Even when it feels like I'm blind. Only by grace can I say You made my heart to crave these things, so I'll go where You take me, but need You to sustain me. It takes grace to say that right where I'm at is okay, even if I'm desiring more, and the more is big and is not easily come by.

My God is good, and He gives the grace...

Just Here, Waiting

just here, waiting, 
don't know exactly what for...
though i think nothing.
it's not that i'm thinking nothing -
no, i'm thinking a hundred things -
so many things i can't keep them straight
and at times they overwhelm me,
the things,
but what for
i don't know;
what i expect
i don't know.
except that it will show
and i'll have my answer
and know
what it's been all about
and the truth to my doubt,
or find pleasant surprise
in all my worries
found as lies.

Sitting with the Pardon

I love Good Friday. From what I gather, I'm in a small minority. I've received a lot of negative reactions for this sentiment. I've heard the arguments that if we've been saved, why should we reawaken guilt; doesn't being sad on Good Friday crucify Jesus all over again? My answer is no. It's different than that; it's more than that, and it's certainly not reapplying guilt.

Much of the last year and of the journey of my faith in general, God has been redefining what I think about some concepts I thought I well-understood. One of the many things it's led me to believe is that I will forever be learning, absorbing, and rediscovering all of what defines my faith and, if you will, God. For as much as I am a feelings person, I'm equal in needing to think. And in all honesty, I can go too long without really thinking about the cross. Then sometimes when I do, I feel like I don't really get it. After all, it is a thing fierce and confounding:
A God who spares Himself for the sake of the undeserved to be able to come close to Him, by taking on their due judgment and thus pardoning the unholiness that is their sin! An unearthly definition that is: Grace. Without God and this story, this concept of Grace doesn't exist. It's part of why the story is so unbelievable; Grace such as this seems out of the realm of possibility.

So there's something good for us in taking one day - if only one - to be somber and sit with the idea of the Great Pardon that was bestowed to us. To contemplate the weight of such a death, and to revel in the bearing of all the brokenness of this world on one man, who was also God. If there is only one day to just feel whatever the intentional musing on the cross makes you feel, there is immense importance in allowing that.

The resurrection can only have full meaning when you take into account the death that led to it. In that one moment, the sinless Christ took on the guilt of many, and as I've heard it preached, the devil was sure he won. And many others never thought Jesus was the Messiah, especially after death. It was the best plot twist. No one expected it, and it's unfathomable; that's the beauty.

So I'm done arguing the importance and the good grit of Good Friday, because the entire thing is bittersweet and I don't think as a Christian you can ever escape that - but it's not something I want to. Living in that tension compels me toward striving to know God more and show the incomprehensible grace I was so kindly shown.

"We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body." 2 Corinthians 4:10

Good Gossip

So I have this thing about affirmation; God's highlighted to me that it is important and, especially in the culture in which we live, as an opposition to the norm of mocking criticism. (In YWAM, they obsessively refer to that as "going in the opposite spirit".)

In the last year or so opportunities to affirm have popped out at me, reminding me of the importance of intentional recognition of identity and gifts. A lot of people, I think, worry about coming off as kiss-butts or as not being genuine. Most of the time, that doesn't bother me, as I know I mean it and expect that to come through.

I also want to tout people to others, something I've coined (as far as I know), Good Gossip. This mainly consists of talking with someone about the good or great things about someone else, then often using that later to tell them you were talking about them...in only good ways.

This might already exist in your life but you don't know it yet. It did in mine as I was on the receiving end and it caught me off guard! It's happened a few times here and there, and by some strange effect, it always makes me feel better than if the person had come directly to me and said it. There's a different kind of something in knowing that people are out there talking good about you; it kind of breaks down that insecurity that, whether we admit it or not, we all face; wondering, what do people think of me? And you have to know it's not just flattery, if someone's saying those things about you to someone else.

It excites me to think about the positive effect of building this admittedly basic concept of Good Gossip into our culture, as Christians or well-meaning people of whatever religious stance. If nothing else, the world needs more positivity to break the cycle of brokenness and misunderstanding.

What would it mean for your life to speak well of people when they're not around?
(I usually don't insert videos, but it's too perfect)

Time & Again

In a strange way, I think I love you.
Surely, I must.
This the pattern of my thought
leads me to trust.
Truth
is that it stings,
but still I can't let go.
And daily I fear
that I'll never know.
I've done this to myself
time and again,
but never remember a time when,
the time and more went by,
and left me aching to know why,
What all the pieces of the puzzle mean,
or if there's a bigger picture to it,
maybe I'm meant to see through it,
- maybe time and again I blew it
And to you it - it seemed
it wasn't of you I dreamed,
Because I hid,
Silent,
From anxiety inside violent.
So I rest in knowing
that I no longer pine,
yet spend my days wishing
you were mine.

The Tired

I think it is full-fledged exhaustion that's set in. My first real day is tomorrow. I have to be back up in six hours, my shower is covered in bleach. My living room is half painted its cheery, lovely blue, while half repulsing me with its former peachy beige. I'm sleeping on a couch for the second night. My room seems to be wall-to-wall clothes; the space feeling mildly claustrophobic after my 500+ sq ft mustard haven. It took me a good half an hour to vacuum that haven once it was empty. My boxes of belongings riddle our new abode like grass in the forest. I'm pretty sure next time I'll just burn it all and start over; no moving. I do know I'm not allowed to buy any more books til I read all the ones I own.

My muscles may never be the same.

I do wonder what I'll eat for breakfast, and what I'll eat it off of...or with. Guess I'll finish cleaning the shower when I shower in the morning.

I don't recommend moving from one upstairs place to another right before starting a new job. The tired.

Disorienting Dis-location

With my tenth move underway, I can safely say that relocation is a strange and disorienting thing. It's both refreshing and incredibly exhausting. The first move is exciting; I was a spring chicken, long-ready to fly the coop. It was so great starting to acquire things like...dishes and furniture. Which now, again, on my tenth move in [laughably] just over five years, I am annoyed to have acquired so much, namely because I have to carry it from one place to the next what averages to be every six months.

Each time, I've either been naive or optimistic - given the context I can never tell which - about a variety of factors. It seems my track record has proved me wrong either way many a time, and something has caused me to only stick out one full-year lease since leaving the nest. To be fair, various things.

The first few moves were exciting, but the older I get and the more I move, I hate moving.

Now it's disorienting. Even any of the times where it was a bad situation worth leaving, moving has still been hard. It may just be that I'm wildly sentimental, but I also think that there's something to be said for the comfort of the familiar. When I started really packing yesterday, I was anxious at the thought of the overwhelming process. Once I'd gotten over the hump and the room was all boxed-up sans furniture, I felt relieved; on to a new chapter. On to the new place, I felt overwhelmed thinking about putting it all together again. I thought about making this place feel like home. Learning the fastest way to get to my usual destinations.

Even if this place hasn't been comfortable for weeks, when I have the choice of my new place, or the place where all of my things have lived for the last seven months: I am not at my new place. It's comfortable here, even if only in its familiarity.

But after many address changes, among the myriad valuable things I've learned is the importance and necessity for my home to be a safe, peaceful place of respite. And so I remind myself that I can find that anywhere, it just takes some time.

Maybe this time I really won't move again until I get married or keel over.

Rants of the Day

So, who are these magical people who can drink coconut water? I think it is the grossest thing I've ever put in my mouth - and I tried a dog biscuit once, I've eaten beef with hairs on it, and plenty of food off the floor of various coffee shops! It's supposed to be really good for hydration, and turns out Naked makes a Lychee version - yum, right? WRONG. Blech, still disgusting. Disappointment and dehydration, colliiiiiiide (music reference anyone?).

The Rainbow I live by is the worst. I always claim that the reason I grocery shop at midnight is because no one's there. While that's true, it implies that somehow the trip goes faster; that it does not. Somehow the cashiers are still slow as molasses, and appear to be completely unaware of this fact. Grocery shopping has in fact turned into a test of patience, who knew? And then there was that coconut water...

I was inquiring of a friend the other day, why a post-education adult would bother to get tested for ADD (you know, out of curiosity). She said it can help understand some of the reasons one does the things they do, for example interrupting. Which sounds a little familiar. Lately, I've noticed that sometimes in conversation if one is taking too long to formulate a thought, I try to finish their sentence. That must drive everyone mad! I mean, I've noticed it before but forgot; probably got distracted. If I've ever done that to you, I don't mean to be rude, I'm actually just really excited for you to get to the point.

Speaking of ADD, I just got distracted Pinning Dave Grohl, because.

Which leaves the standings at Pinterest: 1,633 Alicia: 0.

Today, while imbibing some mud along with a donut, I thought to myself: I should've been a cop! I love kicking ass and taking names (though I've never actually done it), coffee and donuts, and speeding. Suffice it to say, I missed my calling.

Dear Navy, I'm Over It

This weekend was the first time that I was really over the Navy. I told myself, Okay, I'm over it; it can be done now. When Joe left, I thought I got out all the crying I needed to in that one day, and figured I'd be fine because I am most certainly not the 16-year-old I was when he was last deployed. Sometimes I am so utterly wrong. Or maybe it's "wildly optimistic".

The military is an interesting concept, it's something I'm neither here nor there about. It puts people through incredibly difficult things that will mark them forever, it dictates their lives, but it also protects our country. It's also a choice.

When I was younger and much more aimless, I was very patriotic (mostly because that's how I was raised). I still am patriotic, but I also see a decline in our country in way I doubt it will ever bounce back. That's a whole other story. Now, as an adult formulating my own ideas about things based on how I see the world before my own eyes, I love where I was born and am very grateful for that, but also don't always love what we do.

All this to say, it's a bittersweet thing to appreciate and respect, when it makes life hard in a way that wouldn't otherwise exist. And a part of that is that I'm ignorant of strategic politics and warfare; I think, can we just be done now?

Saturday, some poo hit the fan - there's no better way to say it - and I was headed to a family gathering. I thought, Right now is about when I could really use a big bear hug from my big brother. And it became hard again.

I don't even know what the point of writing this is. I certainly don't want to guilt-trip him, or anyone else. It's just such a thing; it is such an inexplicable, unimaginable thing to deal with. It's not my choice, and I don't even have it the hardest. If my brother was here instead of training, I still wouldn't see him every day. Then there are those times, when you would see them, and you know what it would be like to get that hug you need...and it's just hard.