On Monday I set my alarm an hour early so I could exercise before going to work. I do this occasionally because apparently I like waking up to the smell of fresh failure. Time and time again I prove that Morning Ally is anywhere between 10-175 times less motivated to workout than Nighttime Ally, and so the only calories I burned on Monday morning were the ones that came from my swift response to the alarm while I aggressively pressed snooze. Please note that the only reason I haven't totally destroyed my alarm clock is because it is also my phone.
I'm blaming this on September. After the 8th of May, the rest of the days up until now resemble absolute hell, with all the gnashing of the teeth. It's summer in Texas and there is not a more stupid place to spend this season. As Texans, we all just sit under the oppression, sweating, and wait for our untimely heatstroke provoked deaths. We don't go outside unless we hate ourselves or unless there's water to submerge ourselves into, but usually not even the water is good enough because it feels like a warm bathtub. Don't get me wrong, I love popsicles and baseball and lying by the pool but enough is enough.
Let’s not forget that we have already done all the summer things. Lived it to the full. We went to the lake and drank the margaritas and sent our boyfriends off to summer camp. We watched the fireworks and peeled the sunburned skin off of our noses. We had all the fun, you say! Yes that, but then we are done now. Back me up here, Texans. Summer is too freaking long. Four months of this is unreasonable. What does summer think we are? Machines? I've never done anything well for four straight months in my life.
So now it has been nothing but sweltering heat for all of the minutes of all of the days for infinity days now, but you guys, IT'S OCTOBER NOW. Blessed, wonderful, magical October autumn has swooped in to save us. We survived the summer. We did it.
October is the month of redemption. It offers a shameless appeal for celebration. And it's here. Finally. Bringing with it a long awaited summer reprieve. October is my favorite month of all of the months. (An argument could be made for the month of May, but truly I can only speak for the first week of May and then it kind of goes downhill from there.) October brings everything good for me: the crisp autumn air and colorful leaves, the pumpkins, the scarves! It’s magical.
We can really do anything we want in October. ALL OF THE THINGS. We can wake up early and workout if we want to, or we can sleep in. We can drink hot coffee without wanting to die. We can straighten our hair without sweating profusely. We can organize stuff, like our friend’s freezer! (I am looking at you, Sydney.) We can sleep with our windows open. We can be productive. We can plan trips to the Arboretum. We can watch college football and all of our shows again like New Girl and Modern Family and Scandal. We can be JUST LIKE OLIVIA POPE, all badass and everything. We can dress up, and tell all of our insecurities to hush. We can pick up a new hobby like yoga or something and ooze our yogi zen all over everyone and smile calmly at them, you know, because of all the zen. Most importantly you guys, WE CAN ORDER PUMPKIN CHEESECAKE and eat it unashamedly. Why, you might ask? Because OCTOBER.
This is cause for celebration. October always has the potential to return me to my best self, to deliver me back to the woman that God created me to be after being so awful and pouty all summer. October changes, inspires and enables me to once again see the intricacies of a holy God. It reminds me that He does, in fact, exist. In October, the world is alive for me, exploding with energy and power and detail and dimension and everything is going to be awesome.
We made it you guys. Let's drink our pumpkin spice lattes in all the most #basic ways and play-like it will never EVER be November.
(PS. It's 85 degrees outside right now. Cue nervous manic laughter.)
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
On Idealism
My idealism gets me in trouble sometimes because I think the world is supposed to sparkle. In my mind, it does. Or at least it should. To me, there are endless possibilities of adventure and nothing realistic or boring to ruin the chances of them happening like for example, a lack of funding. Funding doesn't exist in my brain, primarily because trying to fund something awesome with minimal resources is such an epic buzz kill. The vast majority of my days are spent laughing, playing and singing along to loud music. Other days, when the veil of my idealism is removed for even an instant, life is total crap and I feel like I might be suffocated by it.
I want to write a book titled I'm Fine: A Guide to Lying because the truth is that I am rarely fine. My personality does not lend itself to really ever being fine, unfortunately. I am either one thing or another. Euphoric or depressed. Laughing or sulking. Up or down. All or nothing. Consistency is a gift that I do not possess without effort. I never have. Everything that happens in my life is either the best or the worst thing that has ever happened to me.
My little sister and I went to the movies this weekend, which was important because we haven't gotten to spend as much time together since we stopped living in the same room. This weekend we had all to ourselves, just her and I. It was magical. Brittney is my (near) identical twin (3 years younger in age, 10 years older in maturity) whose personality could not possibly be more my opposite, which is perfect because her half and mine make a whole. With her, I am always the truest version of myself.
Brittney and I don't ever fully understand each other, but we desperately need one another. God thought long and hard on how to create each of us exactly right, and we know that there was no mistake. Brit is the realist, and I the idealist. She needs me to tell her jokes and pull her off the couch so she can take part in my imaginary games that make the mundane things in life more fun and memorable. She needs me to paint color in her life of factual evidence. And I need her to steady me, to remind me of what's true when my head tells me a different story, because my feelings are real but they are often unreliable. I need her to talk sense into me when I am too far up or too far down, too far left or too far right. I need her to be stable and consistent. I need Brittney for the truth. She needs me for the adventure.
On our sister date we purchased tickets and settled in to watch what previews promised us would be a funny movie. Turns out, the movie was more about life and loss and a lack of love than it was about humor, despite its hilariously stacked cast. When the credits rolled, every single character was living a life they wish they didn't have. My empathetic heart cringed because I tend to relate personally with the pain of others (even fictional ones) when their worlds don’t sparkle like they should. Brittney left unfazed and hungry. I left disillusioned and anxious.
Apparently, movies now possess the ability to send me into an emotional tailspin when the harsh realities of life mask all of my blind optimism. Brittney can view everything through the lens of her rationality. She sees the good in the world for exactly what it is, and sees the bad for what it is too. It doesn't seem to make much of an impact on her emotional stability - it just kind of is what it is. She accepts it and moves forward, like some kind of superhero of reason.
Not me! No, no no. I need to stop and talk about it, ask some questions and rage a little about all the insanity. To me, all the good in the world feels like streamers and balloons and laughter and parties. On the flip side, the bad feels like unfair punishment, kind of overwhelming and traumatizing. The good seems delightful and the bad seems bleak and hopeless. This is partly why I don't like to read the news, because my heart can't handle all the devastation. The scope of suffering and evil is so wide, the hate and fear and disgusting sexual perversion and darkness so dense, that I just sit in silent shock. The ongoing tragedy of humans is too much for my fragile heart to bear the weight of. So I’d actually prefer to ignore it completely and keep on existing only where it sparkles.
But since I can’t ignore it (because it’s everywhere), I ask Brittney for help. This has been a going theme in my life since 1991.
It doesn't take a genius to know that our lives can turn to absolute crap in a heartbeat. Just look around. One phone call. One wrong move. One conversation. Faster than you can snap you fingers, each of us has the potential to find ourselves in a place where we can't even recognize our lives or ourselves anymore. It's happened before and it will happen again. It’s an unfortunate detail in life that someone forgot to tell us. Or more likely, that we forgot to remember.
I mostly try not to think about this at all because it’s frightening and it whispers into my heart a truth that I don't want to hear. That we can't protect ourselves, or anyone we love. We can't escape suffering. And we can’t shop, sleep or date our way out of it either. Even when we think we can, the feeling only lasts for a while. It seems like God designed this whole thing so that when the time comes, we have to stand in the middle of all of it, under its weight, at the foot of the cross. Which was a terrible plan, in my opinion. No offense.
Sometimes life actually does sparkle. Like for me - right now is full of whimsy. These days I giggle a lot usually because I am being tickled. My best friend kisses me before I go to sleep at night, and I often feel loved and known when Sydney impersonates me or calls me on my (frequent) lies. My sister and I laugh so hard that we cry real tears and have to pull the car over to catch our breath. My current life seems to be sprawling out before me with a million different exciting possibilities. I feel happy and content, for the most part, which is a big deal for me since the temperatures are still in the 90’s and it’s practically October.
Somehow or another, time passes during each season. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has the ability to stop time. The world keeps moving along like wildfire, and it feels a little out of control which is both exciting and terrifying. It's better than being mechanical and predictable I guess, but as it stands, none of us are ever really sure what’s going to happen next. All we can do is keep on waking up. Keep on doing the next right thing. Keep on looking for glimmers of hope. Keep on spending time with people that are different than us because we all need each other to balance out the crazy.
Through it all, we learn, grow and are changed. We come out different on the other side. And we survive. God, in all of his bigness and sovereignty, goes with us - which I think was always our only hope. He is closer than our very skin. He sends us specific people as company along the way to teach us the things we need to know in order to make it home. We lean on each other, hold out a hand, and hang on for dear life. We love each other as hard as we can through all the chaos. Somewhere in that process I can rediscover and appreciate my idealism and even use it to help someone, and maybe that's exactly how it's supposed to be.
I guess at the very least, it’s proof enough for me that love is sovereign - that most of the time, love bats last. It's enough to preserve my optimism and enough for me to keep on expecting good, amidst all the bad. And all the ups and downs, well I guess they make for a better story - a more radiant reality.
I want to write a book titled I'm Fine: A Guide to Lying because the truth is that I am rarely fine. My personality does not lend itself to really ever being fine, unfortunately. I am either one thing or another. Euphoric or depressed. Laughing or sulking. Up or down. All or nothing. Consistency is a gift that I do not possess without effort. I never have. Everything that happens in my life is either the best or the worst thing that has ever happened to me.
My little sister and I went to the movies this weekend, which was important because we haven't gotten to spend as much time together since we stopped living in the same room. This weekend we had all to ourselves, just her and I. It was magical. Brittney is my (near) identical twin (3 years younger in age, 10 years older in maturity) whose personality could not possibly be more my opposite, which is perfect because her half and mine make a whole. With her, I am always the truest version of myself.
Brittney and I don't ever fully understand each other, but we desperately need one another. God thought long and hard on how to create each of us exactly right, and we know that there was no mistake. Brit is the realist, and I the idealist. She needs me to tell her jokes and pull her off the couch so she can take part in my imaginary games that make the mundane things in life more fun and memorable. She needs me to paint color in her life of factual evidence. And I need her to steady me, to remind me of what's true when my head tells me a different story, because my feelings are real but they are often unreliable. I need her to talk sense into me when I am too far up or too far down, too far left or too far right. I need her to be stable and consistent. I need Brittney for the truth. She needs me for the adventure.
On our sister date we purchased tickets and settled in to watch what previews promised us would be a funny movie. Turns out, the movie was more about life and loss and a lack of love than it was about humor, despite its hilariously stacked cast. When the credits rolled, every single character was living a life they wish they didn't have. My empathetic heart cringed because I tend to relate personally with the pain of others (even fictional ones) when their worlds don’t sparkle like they should. Brittney left unfazed and hungry. I left disillusioned and anxious.
Apparently, movies now possess the ability to send me into an emotional tailspin when the harsh realities of life mask all of my blind optimism. Brittney can view everything through the lens of her rationality. She sees the good in the world for exactly what it is, and sees the bad for what it is too. It doesn't seem to make much of an impact on her emotional stability - it just kind of is what it is. She accepts it and moves forward, like some kind of superhero of reason.
Not me! No, no no. I need to stop and talk about it, ask some questions and rage a little about all the insanity. To me, all the good in the world feels like streamers and balloons and laughter and parties. On the flip side, the bad feels like unfair punishment, kind of overwhelming and traumatizing. The good seems delightful and the bad seems bleak and hopeless. This is partly why I don't like to read the news, because my heart can't handle all the devastation. The scope of suffering and evil is so wide, the hate and fear and disgusting sexual perversion and darkness so dense, that I just sit in silent shock. The ongoing tragedy of humans is too much for my fragile heart to bear the weight of. So I’d actually prefer to ignore it completely and keep on existing only where it sparkles.
But since I can’t ignore it (because it’s everywhere), I ask Brittney for help. This has been a going theme in my life since 1991.
It doesn't take a genius to know that our lives can turn to absolute crap in a heartbeat. Just look around. One phone call. One wrong move. One conversation. Faster than you can snap you fingers, each of us has the potential to find ourselves in a place where we can't even recognize our lives or ourselves anymore. It's happened before and it will happen again. It’s an unfortunate detail in life that someone forgot to tell us. Or more likely, that we forgot to remember.
I mostly try not to think about this at all because it’s frightening and it whispers into my heart a truth that I don't want to hear. That we can't protect ourselves, or anyone we love. We can't escape suffering. And we can’t shop, sleep or date our way out of it either. Even when we think we can, the feeling only lasts for a while. It seems like God designed this whole thing so that when the time comes, we have to stand in the middle of all of it, under its weight, at the foot of the cross. Which was a terrible plan, in my opinion. No offense.
Sometimes life actually does sparkle. Like for me - right now is full of whimsy. These days I giggle a lot usually because I am being tickled. My best friend kisses me before I go to sleep at night, and I often feel loved and known when Sydney impersonates me or calls me on my (frequent) lies. My sister and I laugh so hard that we cry real tears and have to pull the car over to catch our breath. My current life seems to be sprawling out before me with a million different exciting possibilities. I feel happy and content, for the most part, which is a big deal for me since the temperatures are still in the 90’s and it’s practically October.
Somehow or another, time passes during each season. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has the ability to stop time. The world keeps moving along like wildfire, and it feels a little out of control which is both exciting and terrifying. It's better than being mechanical and predictable I guess, but as it stands, none of us are ever really sure what’s going to happen next. All we can do is keep on waking up. Keep on doing the next right thing. Keep on looking for glimmers of hope. Keep on spending time with people that are different than us because we all need each other to balance out the crazy.
Through it all, we learn, grow and are changed. We come out different on the other side. And we survive. God, in all of his bigness and sovereignty, goes with us - which I think was always our only hope. He is closer than our very skin. He sends us specific people as company along the way to teach us the things we need to know in order to make it home. We lean on each other, hold out a hand, and hang on for dear life. We love each other as hard as we can through all the chaos. Somewhere in that process I can rediscover and appreciate my idealism and even use it to help someone, and maybe that's exactly how it's supposed to be.
I guess at the very least, it’s proof enough for me that love is sovereign - that most of the time, love bats last. It's enough to preserve my optimism and enough for me to keep on expecting good, amidst all the bad. And all the ups and downs, well I guess they make for a better story - a more radiant reality.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Vulnerability
Marriage has always seemed like a funny concept to me. Like, you just pick someone at random who seems okay at the time and then you promise to spend the REST OF YOUR ENTIRE LIFE FOREVER with this person, even if they end up in a wheelchair or they lose their mind or worse. In my experience, marriages have the tendency to end up crashing down in flames – both spouses hating and resenting each other. It seems they almost never end with "happily ever after" like the movies, fairy-tales, and butterflies promise you they will.
Regardless of devastating statistics, there is still something in my soul that wants to get married. Something deep within my heart that says I was made for it - as a means to glorifying God, of course. I have never felt the call to be single for the rest of my life probably because God knows I'm not that brave. And since sinners are the only available spouse options, I am assured that holiness - not ease or comfort - will be the end goal of that endeavor.
More selfishly, marriage seems like a great way to obtain a built-in adventure buddy for the rest of my life. Plus, you know, double the income to fund the trips.
Being an idealistic girl, I grew up imagining the man that I would spend my life with. I talked about him from time to time, theoretically, at sleepovers. "What kind of guy do you see me ending up with?" I would ask Megan. Her answers were always the best. She told me I should be with someone who could keep up with me, someone funny and loud and probably obnoxious to her. I told her she would end up with someone who was intellectual, chill, liked to hunt. I absolutely nailed it, by the way.
Youth camp counselors encouraged me to make a list of characteristics and traits that I would want in a husband. I always thought that seemed ridiculous and somehow beneath me, so I didn’t do it. How was I supposed to know what I wanted anyways? At the time, I was having a lot of trouble deciding which trinket to buy at souvenir shops. Not to mention, at the time, the primary character quality for the man of my dreams was that he played sports and didn’t wear braces. Living in Texas, this didn’t narrow the options whatsoever.
Despite refusing to make a list, I pictured him being tall, dark and handsome like every girl does. I prayed that he would be an athlete with defined calf muscles because that’s big for me. I always wanted him to have good teeth and decent personal hygiene. I hoped that he would have a sense of humor and that we would have more fun together than we ever had apart. I fantasized all the adventures I would want to go on with him, and how safe I would feel wrapped in his arms. The only thing I thought mandatory was that he distinctly smelled good.
What no one told me though, is that finding this person isn’t the finish line - it’s the starting blocks. I never even considered the vulnerable road I would have to walk with him before ever considering marriage. Vulnerability has never really been my thing, so this came as quite a shock to me.
Come to find out, I am deeply afraid of being fully known. I have insecurity issues masked in bold confidence and a carefree spirit. I hate the feeling of not being understood, and I never want to be bored because boredom usually precedes a feeling of being trapped in it. Feeling trapped gives me anxiety. So I run from that at all cost. Try not to think about it. Distraction helps. I bury fear with attempts at control. I laugh about things that aren’t THAT funny, trying to force myself out of my own head. I think that if I can laugh hard enough I can persuade myself to believe that I'm not scared. Deep down I know better.
This has been my tactic for years.
Seasons of my life have exhausted a sequence of running from fear and vulnerability and seeking something usually just out of reach. I frantically searched for something to quiet my anxiety and give me freedom but also, paradoxically, security. The fear always just ran right along with me. Changing my circumstances didn't give me reprieve, just a new setting.
In college when I started to feel trapped, my throat would feel like it was closing. Heavy weight would press on my chest like I was being crushed and heat would swell in my head. Mind racing and fingers tingling, I had the uncontrollable urge to run, cry, or enter into some kind of adrenaline rush to make it stop. My body tensed. Fists clenched. A counselor told me that this was defined as a “panic attack.” I told her that she was being really dramatic. This coming from the girl having panic attacks.
The idea of marriage sort of evoked the same anxiety in me - less severe but still very panicked. I thought that if I said yes to the rest of my life with somebody, I would never get to be myself ever again. That my free spirit would die, my independence and personality stripped, and I would all of the sudden become a stereotypical housewife with a completely different identity and agenda. Probably bored all the time, I would be forced into a monotonous life of washing dishes and laundry. The only visible perk being that I could have children, biblically, to distract me from how horribly lonely I felt despite lying next to someone every night.
It went against every fiber in my adventurous soul.
My answer to this fear was to keep all men at a safe distance and always have an exit strategy. I went on dates but they never turned into relationships. I laughed off the idea of something serious. I didn’t know what I wanted from anyone besides attention, anyways. I developed a bad habit of drawing people in with no real intention of keeping them close. Plagued by the fear of abandonment, I barricaded my heart because maybe if I didn’t care, it wouldn’t hurt.
Not to mention, I knew all too well that deriving one's identity from another person is a short road to resentment. I had walked that road one too many times and learned my lesson the hard way. So I reveled in singleness, pushing my fear out of sight and out of mind. It was easy for the most part especially because I lived in beautiful Colorado.
Instead of falling in love with a boy, I fell in love with Scripture and with the Rocky Mountains. I fell in love with the crisp mountain air on morning walks around Wash Park. I fell in love with all the friends who helped me figure out what it meant to be authentic in my imperfection. I fell in love with laughing and with road trips. I fell in love with the aspen trees especially in autumn when their little leaves are bursting with color. I fell deeper in love with the God that created it all for me.
God in all His sovereignty guided me through this season. He needed to work out something in me that was buried deep from everything that had led me to that place. Locked down for years. Things I had grown completely numb to. He needed to redefine all the things I believed about love and marriage and so he completely removed me from the suffocating search of finding the perfect person to marry. Instead, He let me breathe easy and let me practice falling in love with other things.
Eventually, God asked me to make the bold decision to stop running from fear, to plant my feet and turn around to face it and find Him forever faithful, as promised. First, He moved me to Dallas. That was the scariest and hardest thing I have ever done. When I got here, He quickly placed me into a relationship where I would learn how to fall in love with a person the way He designed it to happen. God’s way, for God’s will, for God’s glory. I have been squirming through the process of being honest with myself and with this boy for almost a year now.
Ten months ago, I started dating him. He changed everything. Over these months, I have had the most incredibly defenseless conversations of my entire life. Remind me to tell you about the time I told him I was scared he would abandon me on “Love Island” which of course is an imaginary place filled with the shame of unrequited love. With him, I want to be seen as strong and pulled together but I have been found more imperfect and fragile than ever before. I have no way of lying to him about how tough I am because he has seen me cry for no valid reason. One time I cried because I didn’t know what to wear. Another time I cried because he wanted to take me shoe shopping. It’s madness. I can’t hide all of the things I hate about myself in dating him. Not if I truly want it to work.
I could define dating as the biggest vulnerability hangover of my life, but at the same time it feels a lot like falling in love with my best friend. It forces me to release my grip and rest in Jesus, even when I have no certainty and no control of tomorrow’s outcome. I definitely have no control over his decisions. The realization that I am giving another human being the perfect opportunity to wound me in all the deepest ways is thick, but fear does not outweigh all the joys of teaming up with someone I believe in and trust.
God is teaching me that vulnerability is not synonymous with weakness, but is actually the birthplace of everything good. Slowly, He is starting to release me from the panicked tension that screams at me to protect myself at all cost. He replaces my running shoes with a new tactic of pressing into discomfort to tell the messy truth, knowing and believing that I am capable of being loved anyways.
In the midst of all the excruciating vulnerability, I find the freedom and reprieve that I never found running. If I can just weather the storm of being known, the thick cloud of fear will finally catch a ray of the sunlight of belonging and confidence. Then another. Then another.
He is special. Different. He challenges everything I thought I knew. He is funny and makes me belly laugh until I am crying and pleading with him to shut the hell up. He wants to travel the world with me, and I have told him many times that I would leave tonight. He has dark brown hair that I prefer to be messy. He prefers it to look manicured and swept over to one side. I mess it up all the time because he looks good with messy hair. I have studied his face, his hands, and his feet trying to memorize all of the details. He is just tall enough that I have to stand on my tippy-toes to kiss him, and he really likes shoes, watches, and shorts that are entirely too short. He talks with funny voices, makes funny faces, and when he wears his baseball cap I nearly die of giddiness because I think he is the best looking boy in the whole wide world.
We are both such messy works in progress - so madly adored by Jesus that we can hardly stand up under the weight of his love, mercy, and grace. Next to him I feel fearless, even though he knows very well that I am not. With him, marriage doesn’t seem so scary.
As long as my eyes never shift their focus from God in all His glory, I am free to walk boldly into this relationship wherever it leads. I am free to be fully myself, regardless of his response to me. My hesitations are all non-existent in light of the majesty of our God; my crippling fear silenced in His presence. Jesus tells me that YES, I am imperfect and vulnerable and sometimes very afraid, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am also brave and beautiful and worthy of love and belonging. He didn’t need to give me a human to prove that to me but in all of his abundant grace, He has. And the love of Jesus echoes all over the walls of our relationship.
And if I am going to do this whole vulnerability thing with anyone – I so very much want it to be with him.
Regardless of devastating statistics, there is still something in my soul that wants to get married. Something deep within my heart that says I was made for it - as a means to glorifying God, of course. I have never felt the call to be single for the rest of my life probably because God knows I'm not that brave. And since sinners are the only available spouse options, I am assured that holiness - not ease or comfort - will be the end goal of that endeavor.
More selfishly, marriage seems like a great way to obtain a built-in adventure buddy for the rest of my life. Plus, you know, double the income to fund the trips.
Being an idealistic girl, I grew up imagining the man that I would spend my life with. I talked about him from time to time, theoretically, at sleepovers. "What kind of guy do you see me ending up with?" I would ask Megan. Her answers were always the best. She told me I should be with someone who could keep up with me, someone funny and loud and probably obnoxious to her. I told her she would end up with someone who was intellectual, chill, liked to hunt. I absolutely nailed it, by the way.
Youth camp counselors encouraged me to make a list of characteristics and traits that I would want in a husband. I always thought that seemed ridiculous and somehow beneath me, so I didn’t do it. How was I supposed to know what I wanted anyways? At the time, I was having a lot of trouble deciding which trinket to buy at souvenir shops. Not to mention, at the time, the primary character quality for the man of my dreams was that he played sports and didn’t wear braces. Living in Texas, this didn’t narrow the options whatsoever.
Despite refusing to make a list, I pictured him being tall, dark and handsome like every girl does. I prayed that he would be an athlete with defined calf muscles because that’s big for me. I always wanted him to have good teeth and decent personal hygiene. I hoped that he would have a sense of humor and that we would have more fun together than we ever had apart. I fantasized all the adventures I would want to go on with him, and how safe I would feel wrapped in his arms. The only thing I thought mandatory was that he distinctly smelled good.
What no one told me though, is that finding this person isn’t the finish line - it’s the starting blocks. I never even considered the vulnerable road I would have to walk with him before ever considering marriage. Vulnerability has never really been my thing, so this came as quite a shock to me.
Come to find out, I am deeply afraid of being fully known. I have insecurity issues masked in bold confidence and a carefree spirit. I hate the feeling of not being understood, and I never want to be bored because boredom usually precedes a feeling of being trapped in it. Feeling trapped gives me anxiety. So I run from that at all cost. Try not to think about it. Distraction helps. I bury fear with attempts at control. I laugh about things that aren’t THAT funny, trying to force myself out of my own head. I think that if I can laugh hard enough I can persuade myself to believe that I'm not scared. Deep down I know better.
This has been my tactic for years.
Seasons of my life have exhausted a sequence of running from fear and vulnerability and seeking something usually just out of reach. I frantically searched for something to quiet my anxiety and give me freedom but also, paradoxically, security. The fear always just ran right along with me. Changing my circumstances didn't give me reprieve, just a new setting.
In college when I started to feel trapped, my throat would feel like it was closing. Heavy weight would press on my chest like I was being crushed and heat would swell in my head. Mind racing and fingers tingling, I had the uncontrollable urge to run, cry, or enter into some kind of adrenaline rush to make it stop. My body tensed. Fists clenched. A counselor told me that this was defined as a “panic attack.” I told her that she was being really dramatic. This coming from the girl having panic attacks.
The idea of marriage sort of evoked the same anxiety in me - less severe but still very panicked. I thought that if I said yes to the rest of my life with somebody, I would never get to be myself ever again. That my free spirit would die, my independence and personality stripped, and I would all of the sudden become a stereotypical housewife with a completely different identity and agenda. Probably bored all the time, I would be forced into a monotonous life of washing dishes and laundry. The only visible perk being that I could have children, biblically, to distract me from how horribly lonely I felt despite lying next to someone every night.
It went against every fiber in my adventurous soul.
My answer to this fear was to keep all men at a safe distance and always have an exit strategy. I went on dates but they never turned into relationships. I laughed off the idea of something serious. I didn’t know what I wanted from anyone besides attention, anyways. I developed a bad habit of drawing people in with no real intention of keeping them close. Plagued by the fear of abandonment, I barricaded my heart because maybe if I didn’t care, it wouldn’t hurt.
Not to mention, I knew all too well that deriving one's identity from another person is a short road to resentment. I had walked that road one too many times and learned my lesson the hard way. So I reveled in singleness, pushing my fear out of sight and out of mind. It was easy for the most part especially because I lived in beautiful Colorado.
Instead of falling in love with a boy, I fell in love with Scripture and with the Rocky Mountains. I fell in love with the crisp mountain air on morning walks around Wash Park. I fell in love with all the friends who helped me figure out what it meant to be authentic in my imperfection. I fell in love with laughing and with road trips. I fell in love with the aspen trees especially in autumn when their little leaves are bursting with color. I fell deeper in love with the God that created it all for me.
God in all His sovereignty guided me through this season. He needed to work out something in me that was buried deep from everything that had led me to that place. Locked down for years. Things I had grown completely numb to. He needed to redefine all the things I believed about love and marriage and so he completely removed me from the suffocating search of finding the perfect person to marry. Instead, He let me breathe easy and let me practice falling in love with other things.
Eventually, God asked me to make the bold decision to stop running from fear, to plant my feet and turn around to face it and find Him forever faithful, as promised. First, He moved me to Dallas. That was the scariest and hardest thing I have ever done. When I got here, He quickly placed me into a relationship where I would learn how to fall in love with a person the way He designed it to happen. God’s way, for God’s will, for God’s glory. I have been squirming through the process of being honest with myself and with this boy for almost a year now.
Ten months ago, I started dating him. He changed everything. Over these months, I have had the most incredibly defenseless conversations of my entire life. Remind me to tell you about the time I told him I was scared he would abandon me on “Love Island” which of course is an imaginary place filled with the shame of unrequited love. With him, I want to be seen as strong and pulled together but I have been found more imperfect and fragile than ever before. I have no way of lying to him about how tough I am because he has seen me cry for no valid reason. One time I cried because I didn’t know what to wear. Another time I cried because he wanted to take me shoe shopping. It’s madness. I can’t hide all of the things I hate about myself in dating him. Not if I truly want it to work.
I could define dating as the biggest vulnerability hangover of my life, but at the same time it feels a lot like falling in love with my best friend. It forces me to release my grip and rest in Jesus, even when I have no certainty and no control of tomorrow’s outcome. I definitely have no control over his decisions. The realization that I am giving another human being the perfect opportunity to wound me in all the deepest ways is thick, but fear does not outweigh all the joys of teaming up with someone I believe in and trust.
God is teaching me that vulnerability is not synonymous with weakness, but is actually the birthplace of everything good. Slowly, He is starting to release me from the panicked tension that screams at me to protect myself at all cost. He replaces my running shoes with a new tactic of pressing into discomfort to tell the messy truth, knowing and believing that I am capable of being loved anyways.
In the midst of all the excruciating vulnerability, I find the freedom and reprieve that I never found running. If I can just weather the storm of being known, the thick cloud of fear will finally catch a ray of the sunlight of belonging and confidence. Then another. Then another.
He is special. Different. He challenges everything I thought I knew. He is funny and makes me belly laugh until I am crying and pleading with him to shut the hell up. He wants to travel the world with me, and I have told him many times that I would leave tonight. He has dark brown hair that I prefer to be messy. He prefers it to look manicured and swept over to one side. I mess it up all the time because he looks good with messy hair. I have studied his face, his hands, and his feet trying to memorize all of the details. He is just tall enough that I have to stand on my tippy-toes to kiss him, and he really likes shoes, watches, and shorts that are entirely too short. He talks with funny voices, makes funny faces, and when he wears his baseball cap I nearly die of giddiness because I think he is the best looking boy in the whole wide world.
We are both such messy works in progress - so madly adored by Jesus that we can hardly stand up under the weight of his love, mercy, and grace. Next to him I feel fearless, even though he knows very well that I am not. With him, marriage doesn’t seem so scary.
As long as my eyes never shift their focus from God in all His glory, I am free to walk boldly into this relationship wherever it leads. I am free to be fully myself, regardless of his response to me. My hesitations are all non-existent in light of the majesty of our God; my crippling fear silenced in His presence. Jesus tells me that YES, I am imperfect and vulnerable and sometimes very afraid, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am also brave and beautiful and worthy of love and belonging. He didn’t need to give me a human to prove that to me but in all of his abundant grace, He has. And the love of Jesus echoes all over the walls of our relationship.
And if I am going to do this whole vulnerability thing with anyone – I so very much want it to be with him.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Gifts
There are A LOT of things that I am not good at. A list of things I am not good at would include but is not limited to: holding or consoling crying infants, dressing up, 1-800 numbers, untying knots, navigating traffic calmly, painting my fingernails and/or toenails, cleaning up dog poop (I gag - another genetic gift from my father), speaking intellectually about politics, cooking, anything that requires numbers, and avoiding injury. I do not often have success in any of these areas, although I did clean up dog poop this weekend without actually vomiting. Sweet progress.
I am quite okay with being significantly below average in these areas because I don’t have room for shame in my life. I am too forgiven and adored and full of ideas to waste time with something imaginary like shame or embarrassment. Plus, I have never claimed to be a fingernail painting expert, because painting your own nails is hard and because WE CAN'T ALL BE SYDNEY SHRUM.
I have become well accustomed to the shocked silence that follows basically anything I say about cooking or shoes or fashion or my lack of participation in politics. Like the time I told Beef that I had never changed out my make up sponge since maybe middle school, and she politely asked me to shut the hell up and get out of her house. She didn’t actually say those words, but the look of horror on her face said it for her.
Anyways, I am good at other things. I am good at eye makeup and teasing my hair. This should shock everyone to his or her absolute core. I am a quick learner and coordinated, and so I am good at picking up new skills. I am the BEST at being accident-prone, because I can get hurt doing almost anything. I am good at arts & crafts and bonding with teenagers. I am good at getting food in my teeth, hair and eyebrows and good at laughing hard. I am good at empathy, encouragement, and telling stories (even if they are often grossly exaggerated).
Today I’ve been thinking about some of the people I love in my life and how they are SO good at SO many hard things. They all mesmerize me with all their showy giftedness, because I cannot do the things they can do. Some of their gifts are crucial and obviously helpful, and others are odd and unique. I love how different they all are. Becca could not be anymore Bethany's opposite and each one is so very crucial to the rest of us.
I desperately want to encourage my friends in their specific gifts, probably because encouragement is one of mine. Each girl in my life is the best at something, and I want to tell her over and over how much we need her to keep on doing what she does best. We need all the gifts so we can all be complete. Jesus even says so in Ephesians that we all have to do what we were made to do so that all the parts work together and the body can grow and build itself up in love, with Christ as the head. This makes a lot of sense to me. (NOTE: We need all the boys to use their gifts too, like Carson with all of his unspeakable joy.)
BUT THE GIRLS! WOW. The girls are so talented and special and needed. There is no substitute on God's green earth for girlfriends.
Beef is the BEST at sending greeting cards via snail mail. Thank you, Congratulations, Happy Birthday! She takes the time to drive to the store, purchase a card, write something special in it, put postage on it and then deliver it to the literal mailbox so that it magically makes it's way to our houses, sometimes clear across the country. This is absolutely unbelievable to me. Beef never skips a beat with greeting cards. Every significant event in my life has been followed or preceded with a note of encouragement inside a Hallmark card from Beef. (She is also phenomenal at decorating a house and if you have ever been to any house she has lived in, you wouldn't need any further explanation.)
My friend Sydney has the gift of hostessing. She doesn't just use her home to hostess, she uses her whole heart like she was made for it. It comes so naturally to her. I like watching her at the parties she throws because her gift is so fascinatingly foreign to me. She throws open her doors and invites us in, feeds us, celebrates, laughs and cries with us. When we are at Sydney's, we all feel like we're at home but it's better than home because there's also good food there. And cable. And an adequate amount of seating. Being a hostess doesn't stress her out; she loves it. She thrives in it. Welcoming people in is her gift, and she is therefore front and center as the reason Dallas feels like home for me.
Alyssa is the bravest adventurer I know. She's been running around the world for as long as I've known her to explore and travel and meet all the beautiful people and she doesn't plan to stop. I wish I could hop in her backpack because if I could trade lives with anyone in the world, it would be Alyssa. She laughs wildly at every single thing and everyone wants to be around her so that maybe some of her whimsy will spill over onto us.
Karla listens to people like what they are saying is the most important thing that has ever been said. She asks questions and we all think we are her MOST treasured friend because she has the ability to make us all feel like we really, truly matter. It blesses me all the way down to my toes.
Addie can run forever and not get tired. This might be the most confusing gift of all, but oh how I want her to keep on running. I want her to run and run and for her shins to never hurt and for her shoes to always be bright pink. I want to cheer madly when she crosses another finish line because running brings her joy and satisfaction. You can see it on her face and it is contagious.
Kallyn can plan and execute any event on the planet. Her gift is vision. I have zero detail-oriented skills and it's probably because she is hoarding all of them. Kallyn thinks of details in advance that no one in the history of ever would have thought of. Her gift is organization and efficiency. Every good thing that happened at Valor was directly correlated with Kallyn's involvement. And she does it while making everyone laugh like hyenas.
Bethany. I want Bethany to keep on loving the homeless and the hurting like they are her own family because to her, they are. I want to hug her so tight when her heart explodes once again for the sake of another. She has a gift for loving those in the margin in a way that makes all of us just stare at her in amazement. Bethany’s heart makes us all feel warm and fuzzy and HOPEFUL, like the promise is true that there is a better world than the one that we see with our eyes because we all know that somehow Bethany is already living in it.
Becca has a gift of making people feel less alone. Her ferocity and authenticity draws us in because we are intrigued by her realness, and she reminds us that Jesus is there with us. That he understands too. She can relate to anyone, and I think we all feel like she really “gets us.” Becca can speak to the deepest places in all of our hearts, and draw out the hurts, fears, and thoughts that no one ever speaks of with anyone else. Becca makes us feel important.
Emily has the gift of food preparation and cooking. Nuts. When people come to my house, I grab my sister by the shoulders in a panic and say: “WHAT DO PEOPLE EAT?!” Because that’s the thing. I don’t know what people eat and even if I did know what people ate, I wouldn’t know how to prepare that thing.Emily can read a recipe and make those words edible and then serve that food in an acceptable dish straight out of a magazine. Like for example, she has different shaped glasses for water and wine. This is not a luxury you will find at my house, but for Emily it comes naturally, and so we all feel special and privileged at her house.
Lindsay’s gift is quick wit. She can do a lot of things well, but when it comes to wit – no one can out-wit Lindsay.
Cara is a peacemaker. She is constant, steady. She both loves and forgives quickly and there is a level of consistency with her that is unwavering.
Megan has a gift of service. She actually LIKES to do things for other people, just for the sake of doing them, to make them feel loved. She can anticipate a need before anyone knows there is a need, and meet it. Like the time when I turned 22 and nobody cared except Megan. My tone on the phone hinted a need for something and by the time I got to her house, Megan had baked a cake, hung streamers, and organized a night of adventure for me on the fly. Even her speech pathology career is centered around her desire to serve others.
And Brittney, my dear sweet littlest sister, her gift is LOYALTY and wisdom. Brittney makes everyone feel safe, because we all know that she’s not going anywhere. I maintain that God equipped her with an overdose of this gift because He knew that her big sister would be crippled with abandonment issues, and would desperately need someone to stick around for all the ups and downs. Unmoveable. Unshakeable. She is the person to call in crisis, celebration and everything in between. Brittney will listen to any amount of crazy, completely un-phased, and then after you’ve exhausted every ounce of your idiocy, she will offer you about 2 sentences of advice to sum up the hour’s worth of crying you just threw at her. And everything will make sense in the world for a hot minute, because that’s what she does. She creates order out of chaos. Brittney is the one who can make us all finally believe that we are going to be okay. And that even if we aren’t, she will be there. Hers is my favorite gift of all the gifts because she wears it so boldly, fiercely and beautifully - like a cape.
Girls: Keep on doing hard things! We need you. For me, it's writing. Writing and expressing myself effectively gives me joy just by doing that thing, even when blank pages stare at me for hours because writing is hard. My hope is to write things that encourage, build up, and help because I don't want to squander the gifts I am given. I want to keep telling stories and my ADHD has less of an effect on my words when they are written down. So I am going to tell fear to shut up (again) and keep on writing.
There is hope for all of us if we all work together. The world is exhausting and overwhelming and if you think that is dramatic, please pay very close attention to the evening news. But then, in the midst of all that, there is all this goodness to be found. That Jesus! He gets it.
Ephesians 4:15-16 “Rather, speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and held together by every joint with which it is equipped, when each part is working properly, makes the body grow so that it builds itself up in love.”
I am quite okay with being significantly below average in these areas because I don’t have room for shame in my life. I am too forgiven and adored and full of ideas to waste time with something imaginary like shame or embarrassment. Plus, I have never claimed to be a fingernail painting expert, because painting your own nails is hard and because WE CAN'T ALL BE SYDNEY SHRUM.
I have become well accustomed to the shocked silence that follows basically anything I say about cooking or shoes or fashion or my lack of participation in politics. Like the time I told Beef that I had never changed out my make up sponge since maybe middle school, and she politely asked me to shut the hell up and get out of her house. She didn’t actually say those words, but the look of horror on her face said it for her.
Anyways, I am good at other things. I am good at eye makeup and teasing my hair. This should shock everyone to his or her absolute core. I am a quick learner and coordinated, and so I am good at picking up new skills. I am the BEST at being accident-prone, because I can get hurt doing almost anything. I am good at arts & crafts and bonding with teenagers. I am good at getting food in my teeth, hair and eyebrows and good at laughing hard. I am good at empathy, encouragement, and telling stories (even if they are often grossly exaggerated).
Today I’ve been thinking about some of the people I love in my life and how they are SO good at SO many hard things. They all mesmerize me with all their showy giftedness, because I cannot do the things they can do. Some of their gifts are crucial and obviously helpful, and others are odd and unique. I love how different they all are. Becca could not be anymore Bethany's opposite and each one is so very crucial to the rest of us.
I desperately want to encourage my friends in their specific gifts, probably because encouragement is one of mine. Each girl in my life is the best at something, and I want to tell her over and over how much we need her to keep on doing what she does best. We need all the gifts so we can all be complete. Jesus even says so in Ephesians that we all have to do what we were made to do so that all the parts work together and the body can grow and build itself up in love, with Christ as the head. This makes a lot of sense to me. (NOTE: We need all the boys to use their gifts too, like Carson with all of his unspeakable joy.)
BUT THE GIRLS! WOW. The girls are so talented and special and needed. There is no substitute on God's green earth for girlfriends.
Beef is the BEST at sending greeting cards via snail mail. Thank you, Congratulations, Happy Birthday! She takes the time to drive to the store, purchase a card, write something special in it, put postage on it and then deliver it to the literal mailbox so that it magically makes it's way to our houses, sometimes clear across the country. This is absolutely unbelievable to me. Beef never skips a beat with greeting cards. Every significant event in my life has been followed or preceded with a note of encouragement inside a Hallmark card from Beef. (She is also phenomenal at decorating a house and if you have ever been to any house she has lived in, you wouldn't need any further explanation.)
My friend Sydney has the gift of hostessing. She doesn't just use her home to hostess, she uses her whole heart like she was made for it. It comes so naturally to her. I like watching her at the parties she throws because her gift is so fascinatingly foreign to me. She throws open her doors and invites us in, feeds us, celebrates, laughs and cries with us. When we are at Sydney's, we all feel like we're at home but it's better than home because there's also good food there. And cable. And an adequate amount of seating. Being a hostess doesn't stress her out; she loves it. She thrives in it. Welcoming people in is her gift, and she is therefore front and center as the reason Dallas feels like home for me.
Alyssa is the bravest adventurer I know. She's been running around the world for as long as I've known her to explore and travel and meet all the beautiful people and she doesn't plan to stop. I wish I could hop in her backpack because if I could trade lives with anyone in the world, it would be Alyssa. She laughs wildly at every single thing and everyone wants to be around her so that maybe some of her whimsy will spill over onto us.
Karla listens to people like what they are saying is the most important thing that has ever been said. She asks questions and we all think we are her MOST treasured friend because she has the ability to make us all feel like we really, truly matter. It blesses me all the way down to my toes.
Addie can run forever and not get tired. This might be the most confusing gift of all, but oh how I want her to keep on running. I want her to run and run and for her shins to never hurt and for her shoes to always be bright pink. I want to cheer madly when she crosses another finish line because running brings her joy and satisfaction. You can see it on her face and it is contagious.
Kallyn can plan and execute any event on the planet. Her gift is vision. I have zero detail-oriented skills and it's probably because she is hoarding all of them. Kallyn thinks of details in advance that no one in the history of ever would have thought of. Her gift is organization and efficiency. Every good thing that happened at Valor was directly correlated with Kallyn's involvement. And she does it while making everyone laugh like hyenas.
Bethany. I want Bethany to keep on loving the homeless and the hurting like they are her own family because to her, they are. I want to hug her so tight when her heart explodes once again for the sake of another. She has a gift for loving those in the margin in a way that makes all of us just stare at her in amazement. Bethany’s heart makes us all feel warm and fuzzy and HOPEFUL, like the promise is true that there is a better world than the one that we see with our eyes because we all know that somehow Bethany is already living in it.
Becca has a gift of making people feel less alone. Her ferocity and authenticity draws us in because we are intrigued by her realness, and she reminds us that Jesus is there with us. That he understands too. She can relate to anyone, and I think we all feel like she really “gets us.” Becca can speak to the deepest places in all of our hearts, and draw out the hurts, fears, and thoughts that no one ever speaks of with anyone else. Becca makes us feel important.
Emily has the gift of food preparation and cooking. Nuts. When people come to my house, I grab my sister by the shoulders in a panic and say: “WHAT DO PEOPLE EAT?!” Because that’s the thing. I don’t know what people eat and even if I did know what people ate, I wouldn’t know how to prepare that thing.Emily can read a recipe and make those words edible and then serve that food in an acceptable dish straight out of a magazine. Like for example, she has different shaped glasses for water and wine. This is not a luxury you will find at my house, but for Emily it comes naturally, and so we all feel special and privileged at her house.
Lindsay’s gift is quick wit. She can do a lot of things well, but when it comes to wit – no one can out-wit Lindsay.
Cara is a peacemaker. She is constant, steady. She both loves and forgives quickly and there is a level of consistency with her that is unwavering.
Megan has a gift of service. She actually LIKES to do things for other people, just for the sake of doing them, to make them feel loved. She can anticipate a need before anyone knows there is a need, and meet it. Like the time when I turned 22 and nobody cared except Megan. My tone on the phone hinted a need for something and by the time I got to her house, Megan had baked a cake, hung streamers, and organized a night of adventure for me on the fly. Even her speech pathology career is centered around her desire to serve others.
And Brittney, my dear sweet littlest sister, her gift is LOYALTY and wisdom. Brittney makes everyone feel safe, because we all know that she’s not going anywhere. I maintain that God equipped her with an overdose of this gift because He knew that her big sister would be crippled with abandonment issues, and would desperately need someone to stick around for all the ups and downs. Unmoveable. Unshakeable. She is the person to call in crisis, celebration and everything in between. Brittney will listen to any amount of crazy, completely un-phased, and then after you’ve exhausted every ounce of your idiocy, she will offer you about 2 sentences of advice to sum up the hour’s worth of crying you just threw at her. And everything will make sense in the world for a hot minute, because that’s what she does. She creates order out of chaos. Brittney is the one who can make us all finally believe that we are going to be okay. And that even if we aren’t, she will be there. Hers is my favorite gift of all the gifts because she wears it so boldly, fiercely and beautifully - like a cape.
Girls: Keep on doing hard things! We need you. For me, it's writing. Writing and expressing myself effectively gives me joy just by doing that thing, even when blank pages stare at me for hours because writing is hard. My hope is to write things that encourage, build up, and help because I don't want to squander the gifts I am given. I want to keep telling stories and my ADHD has less of an effect on my words when they are written down. So I am going to tell fear to shut up (again) and keep on writing.
There is hope for all of us if we all work together. The world is exhausting and overwhelming and if you think that is dramatic, please pay very close attention to the evening news. But then, in the midst of all that, there is all this goodness to be found. That Jesus! He gets it.
Ephesians 4:15-16 “Rather, speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and held together by every joint with which it is equipped, when each part is working properly, makes the body grow so that it builds itself up in love.”
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Surgery
I was an architect major at Texas A&M University. This decision would fall on my “Top 5 Biggest Mistakes in Life” list. The motivation that led me to study building design was a character (Kirsten Cohen) off of a fictional television show (The OC) whose life I wanted to mimic exactly, minus her alcoholic tendencies. What I learned very quickly at age eighteen was that this was not a great aspiration for my life because 1. I am already prone to alcoholism based solely on my genetics and family history and 2. Jobs don't actually function the way they do when paid actors reading scripts are the employees.
Regardless, I stuck with it for 4 years to the shock of absolutely everyone in my life. The School of Architecture involves a lot of “Studio” classes, which is a fancy word for hell. During Studio, you slave away precious hours of your life that you will never get back constructing tiny replicas of buildings that you imagine to be majestic in your head, but turn out looking disproportional at best. Being the accident-prone human being that I am, hours and hours of cutting matte board with a tiny exacto knife while sleep deprived and hungry is a recipe for disaster.
One particular night in my studio around 2AM, I was working on an exceptionally tedious project with Caleb, Stuart, and Porter who were 3 of the only reasons I survived this season in my life. My cuts were becoming less and less "exact," if you will, as time drudged along. As I pressed down on the blade I made one long hard cut downward and almost immediately realized that I had made a monumental mistake. One of the best indications of a monumental mistake is blood. There was a lot of blood. Apparently I had forgotten to move my left hand, which was holding the matte board in place, and sliced right through my index finger which was now hanging limply from it's original posture, and gushing blood. I marveled at how it was still intact whatsoever. This moment taught me that I either have A.) An exceptional pain tolerance level B.) Extreme delirium effects C.) Unbelievably delayed responses or D.) All of the above.
Before the pain even registered in my brain, Stuart and Caleb had frantically snapped into action. Porter was sitting next to me saying what I assume to be soothing words to comfort me. I didn’t hear a single one of them. Stuart had a paper towel death gripped around my (half) finger, barking out commands, and Caleb had run full speed to the "safety room" for emergency bandaging because apparently this wasn't the first time this had happened to an architecture student.
If you know me at all, you know that my stubbornness is one of the crowning characteristics that mark my life. After a few attempts to spray "blood clotting serum" onto my wound, I boldly and hastily decided that what I REALLY needed was sleep, not stitches. This was the second monumental mistake of my night. The boys pleaded with me to go to the emergency room to get my finger stitched up since I had "cut it in half" but I assured them that the beige Band-Aids currently holding it together were perfectly sufficient.
At 4AM that night, I went to sleep. Around 7AM I woke up in what appeared to be a deadly crime scene. Blood everywhere. I put a new Band-Aid around my finger, tried not to faint, threw my sheets away and turned on an episode of One Tree Hill while eating cereal in bed. I could feel my heartbeat in my finger but I figured that was pretty normal for an injury of this magnitude, so I took Tylenol. About 3PM I passed out from blood loss and my roommate had a panic attack. My roommate was very dramatic. Stuart picked me up and took me to the Urgent Care Facility around 4PM. They informed me that I had passed the 12-hour window for stitches and that instead, they would attempt to glue my finger back together. I agreed only because 1.) COOL and 2.) This seemed like a less painful remedy. Around 6PM a “doctor-in-training” (red flag) applied what I assume was skin superglue and sent me on my way. Stuart was not amused, and unconvinced. At 9AM the following morning I woke up to another crime scene, which pissed me right off mostly because I had just ruined a second set of sheets and sheets are expensive.
Upon my arrival back to the Urgent Care facility, familiar nurses welcomed me with open arms. I told them that I didn't think the skin superglue had worked and they agreed based on the evidence I presented them, and the unbelievable amount of pain that I was in. What happened next is the entire reason that I wrote this story.
In order for my wound to heal properly, the doctor could not just stitch it up (what, with all the blood clot serum and skin superglue and leftover pieces of matte board in there over a 48 hour period of time). Instead, I had to soak my sliced and throbbing finger in some kind of alcoholic liquid that burned like fire to sterilize it. Then, the doctor had to re-cut my wound so that it would have a chance at healing in a way that would make it fully functional again. He carefully and precisely took his blade and cut my finger deeply so as to expose the wounded area. Then I had to sterilize again. This process hurt infinitely worse than the original cut. After that, he carefully stitched my finger up, one stitch at a time. It was very methodical, very slow, very disgusting, and very painful. But, after weeks of having my finger in a stint, with 17 stitches, I am happy to report that it is fully functional, able to point in one direction and everything. To this day, I have no pain and no problems, and there is only a hint of the scar that remains.
The reason I tell you this is because I am fairly positive that this is exactly what is going on in my heart right now. Over the course of my life, I have developed monstrous trust issues based on wound after wound after heart breaking wound. In order to survive, I wrapped up my seared heart in bandages so tightly and just kept moving. I felt unbearable pain, but I toughed it out. I built walls surrounding the damage, so that I would never be hurt like that again. I placed brick after brick in the fortress that I was creating at a soul level, promising myself that I would never let anyone break me and hurt me like that ever again. I covered up all the blood with a Band-Aid, and tried not to faint. Over the years, my heart did heal, but buried deep below the surface were underlying problems and issues that were never exposed or addressed.
Until now. Until I prayed that God would heal my heart at last, so that I might finally be able to fully use it again, without pain. I requested heart surgery.
Over the course of the last few months, God – the all-knowing, loving surgeon – has been making precise, deep cuts into my fragile heart. It hurts like hell and it burns like fire as He methodically wounds me, so that I can fully heal. He is purifying my little heart so that it might be restored to its original function. He is destroying the fortress I built, removing one painful brick at a time as he lovingly bids me to trust Him in the process. My eyes fill with tears in fear and sometimes I wonder if I have made a mistake in requesting this painful procedure. His Word then becomes my morphine, my relief from the wreckage.
Thankfully, God also gave me strong women to hold my hand during the whole thing. My littlest sister, Brittney, metaphorically holds my hand every night, squeezing with the appropriate might as I wince and tears stream from my eyes. Bethany reminds me that the surgery is the only way to freedom because Bethany is a nurse and has more of an eternal perspective than any of us. Becca feels it with me, remembering the pain of her own surgeries and the value in sticking it out. She makes me feel less alone. Beef writes me letters, brings me gifts, encourages me, and makes me laugh because Beef is the best at being a friend in times of need. Camron jumps to action, trying to make me as comfortable as possible and reassures me constantly. I have the most phenomenal support team.
I do not think this surgery is over today, but at least today I am aware that I signed up for this. I remember asking for healing primarily because I wrote it down. The pain is overwhelming sometimes. The fear makes me feel like I am suffocating. The anxiety leaves me crippled often, but I want this. I want the end result. I want God to fix me, heal me, help me. He knows greater things than me. The reward in all of this is Jesus, and the intimacy of trusting Him with my literal life. And Jesus is always enough. Always sufficient. Always right. Always victorious.
So, God:
Whatever you must wound, cut, or create to display your Glory – do it. You alone are good.
Regardless, I stuck with it for 4 years to the shock of absolutely everyone in my life. The School of Architecture involves a lot of “Studio” classes, which is a fancy word for hell. During Studio, you slave away precious hours of your life that you will never get back constructing tiny replicas of buildings that you imagine to be majestic in your head, but turn out looking disproportional at best. Being the accident-prone human being that I am, hours and hours of cutting matte board with a tiny exacto knife while sleep deprived and hungry is a recipe for disaster.
One particular night in my studio around 2AM, I was working on an exceptionally tedious project with Caleb, Stuart, and Porter who were 3 of the only reasons I survived this season in my life. My cuts were becoming less and less "exact," if you will, as time drudged along. As I pressed down on the blade I made one long hard cut downward and almost immediately realized that I had made a monumental mistake. One of the best indications of a monumental mistake is blood. There was a lot of blood. Apparently I had forgotten to move my left hand, which was holding the matte board in place, and sliced right through my index finger which was now hanging limply from it's original posture, and gushing blood. I marveled at how it was still intact whatsoever. This moment taught me that I either have A.) An exceptional pain tolerance level B.) Extreme delirium effects C.) Unbelievably delayed responses or D.) All of the above.
Before the pain even registered in my brain, Stuart and Caleb had frantically snapped into action. Porter was sitting next to me saying what I assume to be soothing words to comfort me. I didn’t hear a single one of them. Stuart had a paper towel death gripped around my (half) finger, barking out commands, and Caleb had run full speed to the "safety room" for emergency bandaging because apparently this wasn't the first time this had happened to an architecture student.
If you know me at all, you know that my stubbornness is one of the crowning characteristics that mark my life. After a few attempts to spray "blood clotting serum" onto my wound, I boldly and hastily decided that what I REALLY needed was sleep, not stitches. This was the second monumental mistake of my night. The boys pleaded with me to go to the emergency room to get my finger stitched up since I had "cut it in half" but I assured them that the beige Band-Aids currently holding it together were perfectly sufficient.
At 4AM that night, I went to sleep. Around 7AM I woke up in what appeared to be a deadly crime scene. Blood everywhere. I put a new Band-Aid around my finger, tried not to faint, threw my sheets away and turned on an episode of One Tree Hill while eating cereal in bed. I could feel my heartbeat in my finger but I figured that was pretty normal for an injury of this magnitude, so I took Tylenol. About 3PM I passed out from blood loss and my roommate had a panic attack. My roommate was very dramatic. Stuart picked me up and took me to the Urgent Care Facility around 4PM. They informed me that I had passed the 12-hour window for stitches and that instead, they would attempt to glue my finger back together. I agreed only because 1.) COOL and 2.) This seemed like a less painful remedy. Around 6PM a “doctor-in-training” (red flag) applied what I assume was skin superglue and sent me on my way. Stuart was not amused, and unconvinced. At 9AM the following morning I woke up to another crime scene, which pissed me right off mostly because I had just ruined a second set of sheets and sheets are expensive.
Upon my arrival back to the Urgent Care facility, familiar nurses welcomed me with open arms. I told them that I didn't think the skin superglue had worked and they agreed based on the evidence I presented them, and the unbelievable amount of pain that I was in. What happened next is the entire reason that I wrote this story.
In order for my wound to heal properly, the doctor could not just stitch it up (what, with all the blood clot serum and skin superglue and leftover pieces of matte board in there over a 48 hour period of time). Instead, I had to soak my sliced and throbbing finger in some kind of alcoholic liquid that burned like fire to sterilize it. Then, the doctor had to re-cut my wound so that it would have a chance at healing in a way that would make it fully functional again. He carefully and precisely took his blade and cut my finger deeply so as to expose the wounded area. Then I had to sterilize again. This process hurt infinitely worse than the original cut. After that, he carefully stitched my finger up, one stitch at a time. It was very methodical, very slow, very disgusting, and very painful. But, after weeks of having my finger in a stint, with 17 stitches, I am happy to report that it is fully functional, able to point in one direction and everything. To this day, I have no pain and no problems, and there is only a hint of the scar that remains.
The reason I tell you this is because I am fairly positive that this is exactly what is going on in my heart right now. Over the course of my life, I have developed monstrous trust issues based on wound after wound after heart breaking wound. In order to survive, I wrapped up my seared heart in bandages so tightly and just kept moving. I felt unbearable pain, but I toughed it out. I built walls surrounding the damage, so that I would never be hurt like that again. I placed brick after brick in the fortress that I was creating at a soul level, promising myself that I would never let anyone break me and hurt me like that ever again. I covered up all the blood with a Band-Aid, and tried not to faint. Over the years, my heart did heal, but buried deep below the surface were underlying problems and issues that were never exposed or addressed.
Until now. Until I prayed that God would heal my heart at last, so that I might finally be able to fully use it again, without pain. I requested heart surgery.
Over the course of the last few months, God – the all-knowing, loving surgeon – has been making precise, deep cuts into my fragile heart. It hurts like hell and it burns like fire as He methodically wounds me, so that I can fully heal. He is purifying my little heart so that it might be restored to its original function. He is destroying the fortress I built, removing one painful brick at a time as he lovingly bids me to trust Him in the process. My eyes fill with tears in fear and sometimes I wonder if I have made a mistake in requesting this painful procedure. His Word then becomes my morphine, my relief from the wreckage.
Thankfully, God also gave me strong women to hold my hand during the whole thing. My littlest sister, Brittney, metaphorically holds my hand every night, squeezing with the appropriate might as I wince and tears stream from my eyes. Bethany reminds me that the surgery is the only way to freedom because Bethany is a nurse and has more of an eternal perspective than any of us. Becca feels it with me, remembering the pain of her own surgeries and the value in sticking it out. She makes me feel less alone. Beef writes me letters, brings me gifts, encourages me, and makes me laugh because Beef is the best at being a friend in times of need. Camron jumps to action, trying to make me as comfortable as possible and reassures me constantly. I have the most phenomenal support team.
I do not think this surgery is over today, but at least today I am aware that I signed up for this. I remember asking for healing primarily because I wrote it down. The pain is overwhelming sometimes. The fear makes me feel like I am suffocating. The anxiety leaves me crippled often, but I want this. I want the end result. I want God to fix me, heal me, help me. He knows greater things than me. The reward in all of this is Jesus, and the intimacy of trusting Him with my literal life. And Jesus is always enough. Always sufficient. Always right. Always victorious.
So, God:
Whatever you must wound, cut, or create to display your Glory – do it. You alone are good.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Meeting Camron
All I knew is that I was hungry. After a full weekend of primping and six months of anticipation, I was happy that October 26th was finally upon us.
The girls were all sitting around in white chairs at the venue killing time because the sound system was malfunctioning. Not only that, but it was hot outside and supposed to rain all weekend which put a real damper on all of the wedding festivities. The bride was stressed out of her mind, and I didn’t know if she needed jokes or scripture to calm her down. I, personally, was just trying to make it to the rehearsal dinner without starving to death. The flower girl was crying real tears and I didn’t blame her at all.
Every bridesmaid arrived at the Rehearsal about two hours earlier than necessary. We were made up, spray tanned, hair done, and dressed to the nines. For me this meant putting on a dress. Taxing, that. I was not wearing heels at this point, so the day thus far had been bearable.
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| Bridesmaids at the Rehearsal. |
The groomsmen apparently did not take punctuality as seriously as we did because a few of them were missing even thirty minutes into the Rehearsal itself. Halfway through the vows, a tall brooding groomsman with an un-tucked shirt strutted casually through the double doors, making everyone very aware of his arrival. He high fived the others and made rounds chatting with parents as my rage began to bubble up.
“Look at this idiot.” I muttered, trying not to make direct eye contact but also making sure to visibly display my disapproval.
It was clear that he was not excited to be there. Weddings were seemingly his least favorite thing of all time, ever. He made a few sarcastic jokes as he shuffled toward the stage, shoved his hands in his pockets and took his place in the line-up. I scowled at him because I knew that meant we had to start all over with the escorting practice. Dinner would be pushed another half hour. I immediately hated him.
As the rehearsal rolled on, I didn't give much more thought to his presence, but I did note that he was easily the most attractive groomsman. This made him a challenge regardless of my initial impression of him. As we were wrapping up, I had a single conversation with him where he talked for 10 minutes about doing ministry in Dallas. He introduced himself as Cam-RON, which I originally thought was a joke but it turns out - is his actual name.
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| Camron not pictured because he had not arrived yet. |
Somehow, someone had roped and/or tricked him into leaving his high-paying corporate job to do youth ministry for a non-profit. This was intriguing information but didn’t make up for the fact that we were still going to be late to dinner. I chimed in with a story about my own experience with mentoring high school students and heard my friends shouting my name to leave. I shrugged, said goodbye, and made a quick exit to the car.
We were assigned seats during the rehearsal dinner, and I was happy to see my good friend Sydney’s name across from mine. Score. Camron’s seat was directly next to Sydney and I rolled my eyes because although he was relatively likeable, I had no interest in faking conversation with a stranger because at this time I was nearly blind from hunger.
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| Camron sitting next to Sydney. Not amused. |
Over the course of the meal, nothing of real significance happened other than the fact that I ordered beef and he ordered chicken - a decision that he would deeply regret. We sparred back and forth making comments under our breath about how awful the other person was. Toasts were made, tears were shed and we headed back to the hotel with full hearts and full bellies to rest before the big day. Resting, for me, included binge eating chocolate candy bars while lying in bed.
I have never prayed for anything harder than I prayed for it to not rain on Becca’s wedding day. My tiny best friend from Texas A&M loves the sunshine more than I love my siblings and it meant the world for her to have an outdoor wedding. I pleaded with the Lord to give us a two-hour reprieve from the 100% chance of rain that afternoon. We just needed two hours, is that really too much to ask? Jesus deeply loves Becca and so in His infinite grace, he did stop the rain. He even sent a few sunbeams to light the backdrop of her walk down the aisle. I cried about this.
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| Crying like the emotional wreck that I am. |
The wedding went exactly as planned, and I made sure to stand with my feet together for the million photos that were taken afterwards. My childhood friend ‘Beef’, who doubled as Miss Teen Texas, had gone over proper wedding photo etiquette with me years ago. As we made our way back to the bridal suite, I violently kicked off my heels and locked in on finding a glass of white wine. DONE. We did it.
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| Please note the only two humans NOT looking at the bride & groom. VAIN. |
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| Feet together. Nailed it. |
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| Camron in the background. He just can't. He's over it. |
I had been wearing heels now for what seemed like an eternity and all the praying for sunshine had exhausted me in a way that I feared I wouldn’t recover from. The energy required at this point to walk around with 5-inch torture devices strapped to my feet was pure oppression, like the Universe was trying to destroy me. And we still had a dance party to attend. All the bridesmaids and groomsmen gathered in our suite to wait for our Reception debut.
“You need to put your shoes back on.” Camron said, out of nowhere.
I cut my eyes at him and then stared blankly.
"What kind of fresh hell is this?" I thought. I didn’t want to answer. I just wanted wine. I was so tired.
I tried to keep my voice relatively calm here because he did not know me, or the hatred I have towards heels and I couldn’t hold that against him.
“I’m not wearing shoes anymore. The wedding is over and anyways, heels make me look like I play in the WNBA.” I responded.
“The WNBA?” he grinned. “Because they make you tall? Or is this a ‘high school hero’ reference to your glory days of playing Varsity basketball?”
Oh that's how it's gonna be? Game on, buddy.
“First off, I did play basketball in High School and it’s very likely that I could still beat you at that sport or any other sport for that matter. And yes, because they make me, like, six feet tall.”
This all seemed obvious to me.
“Look, you are going to embarrass yourself here.”
He handed me a glass of wine. This was the first moment so far that I had not outright hated him.
“WHATEVER! Who even are you? I DON’T CARE! I am not wearing the heels. I am going barefoot. My feet feel like they are on fire.” I snapped.
“Ha, no you are definitely wearing the heels. You aren’t going to be the only bridesmaid without shoes. You look like an idiot.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you too.”
This was the first of about forty-five estimated exchanges of our go-to hate phrase of the night. We didn’t know each other’s last names but we did know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we hated each other. He bent down on his knees and started buckling the straps of my shoes after sliding them back onto my aching feet.
This seems like a good time to note that I am not good at being girly. I am good at other things.
I finished my glass of wine and rolled my eyes. I made a few more sarcastic jabs at him and he barked his own little snide remarks right back.
We made our grand entrance into the Reception, each of us dancing down the aisle - me wearing shoes. I was seated at the Bride and Groom’s table for dinner beside a boy that everyone thought I should date. He was blonde and kind, and I was uninterested. Besides, I hated dating. I had not been on a real date in something like five years and I was weirdly proud of it. Singleness was like my claim to fame, and I was having a blast.
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| Dancing down the aisle WEARING SHOES. |
Announcements were made and I cut in front of everyone in the buffet line because I felt like I deserved it. After all, I had been at the venue since eleven in the morning and these people only arrived an hour ago. Filling up my plate, I made my way back to my table to sit beside the kind, blonde boy and watched Becca dance with Nick for the first time as a married couple. Adorable. I quickly caught eyes with the brooding jerk who had forced me into wearing heels across the room. I looked away immediately, but my eyes kept drifting back to him.
He was funny at least, and a bit fascinating. I couldn’t take that away from him.
As I walked to get dessert, he stood up to meet me.
“Hey so… since we are never going to see each other again after tonight, I insist that you dance with me at least one time.”
“Nahhh.” I laughed and skipped away, making a B-line for the fruit table.
“I hate you!” he yelled. “You are the worst!” His voice faded as I put distance between us.
He asked me to dance a few more times over the course of the next ten minutes, to which my answer was always a flirty “no.” I had an agenda here and it did not involve him. It instead involved being on the self-proclaimed Wedding Fun Patrol Team with Brittney and Sydney and busting out all of my best dance moves.
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| Fun Patrol getting stuff done. |
If I can attribute anything to Becca (Feagin) Hayden, it’s that she knows how to throw a party. All of my Dallas friends gathered in a circle (because that’s what girls do) and jumped around and laughed maniacally like hyenas. Sweaty and giggly, we squealed when "Call Me Maybe" came on because unfortunately we knew every word. In retrospect, I think I spent a little too much time on the stage with the band. I have the tendency to crave attention, and nothing says wedding party better than sloppy bridesmaids on the microphone. I had made it my personal objective to become a karaoke star, and I was well on my way.
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| Karaoke Queen. Imaginary Microphone. |
They didn’t play a single slow song for the first half hour and I was in dance party heaven. Keep the good times rolling! All too soon, however, the band announced that we were to find a dance partner to "slow things down a bit." Kill me. This moment is every single girl's nightmare. I sighed and looked up to catch the eyes of the kind, blonde boy staring back at me.
"Awkward." I thought.
My friends were cheering in the distance, pointing and snickering, excited that he would finally snag a dance with me. I was trapped here. There was no getting out of this.
As I took a hesitant step forward to accept my slow-dance fate, I felt a strong hand grab my arm and spin me around. I was whisked into another dance before I even knew what had happened. I looked up, shocked, into the dark eyes of my most hated frenemy, Camron.
“I told you I just wanted one dance.” He smiled.
“Um yeah I remember! And I told you no!” I complained. We swayed back and forth. “But then again, you totally saved me just then and for that, I owe you.”
I surrendered the argument and collapsed into his strong arms as he directed our steps, confident that at least I wouldn’t have to worry about him hitting on me. He hated me as much as I hated him, making him the safest dance partner I could have chosen. Victory. He spun and twirled me around and laughed while making little remarks about my dance skills, because sarcasm is his native language.
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| The dance, and the death grip I had on Camron's arm. |
My little sister tells me that from that point on, we were joined at the hip. Equal parts fighting and laughing. It felt a lot like a game of tag on the playground in elementary school, but with more wine and nicer clothes. My slurred memory only includes little glimpses of time, which involved me serenading him on the microphone from the stage (again), clinging to his arm during any remotely slow paced song, and then catching the bouquet.
“I caught the bouquet!!! DID YOU SEE THAT!?” I squealed and waved my prize in the air.
“I saw. I tried for the garter but I didn’t want to overshadow the bride’s brother!” he yelled back over the music.
“Yeah right!" I laughed. "I was like Mike Evans out there! You just missed!” I wanted to point out who had won here. Maybe he didn't know this was a competition.
“Yea, that snag was impressive but I still hate you.” He sneered and walked away.
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| The bouquet toss that I caught like some kind of NFL receiver. |
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| Showing off my prize. |
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| The definition of "making complete fools of ourselves." |
I remember Becca asking me during “YMCA” if I knew what I was doing. “Having fun!” was my answer. I remember an emotional Rita screaming at Camron to not kiss me. Kiss? What? This was not a concern. Camron was, at this point, my arch-nemesis. I remember swaying back and forth to the Aggie war hymn and I remember thinking everything was exceedingly funny. We ran outside into the rain and threw flower petals, cheering wildly as Nick whisked Becca away to their honeymoon destination. As the night came to a close, I winked at my dance partner before he disappeared back into the venue.
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| Classic. Selfie game started strong. |
I ran out of the room proudly, equipped with my packed luggage, and a familiar hand grabbed me by the arm and sneaked me out the door.
“What do YOU want?” I sarcastically whined as I looked up at Camron's face. Oh my God, he was so good-looking.
“You knew this was coming.” He smirked, concentrating hard on his pronunciation. “Can I have your number?”
My heart fluttered a bit but I laughed it off. “NO, OF COURSE NOT!”
“I hate you.”
“Shocker there! Okay FINE, are you ready?”
“Yes.” He held his phone too close to his face. Bless it.
“Okay. Its 1-800….”
“Seriously? ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?” He raged. “I hate you.” for the 400th time.
Pleased by his response, I snatched his phone out of his hand and entered my phone number into his Contact List.
First name: You.
Last name: Wish.
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| *Phone Number edited out because safety. |
I am not exaggerating when I tell you that this was the best material I could come up with at the time. Clever. I handed his phone back to him, told him to have a good life and bounced away. It was pretty likely that I would never see him again, just like he had originally said.
My sister agreed to drive me through Whataburger for a post wedding meal on the way back home. I think she was just happy that I was no longer on the dance floor in front of all of our closest friends, and was therefore willing to reward me. We sang loud to the radio with the windows down all the way to our house. As I stumbled into my room, I collapsed onto my bed.
At last. Home sweet home. Shoes off. Sweats on.
Before drifting to sleep, I crafted the most appropriate text I could come up with to send to the boy whom I hated but didn’t hate at all, which read:
“You are an average to below average dancer.”
And so began my greatest adventure yet.
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