When I was a counselor at church camp, we had code words for letting other staff know that there was an issue we don't want the kids to know about. For example, if we saw a stranger/intruder at camp, we would tell another counselor that we saw "a penguin" over by cabin 5. Or, if a camper wet the bed, it "rained in the cabin."
But we didn't always sleep in the cabin. Once a week, we would gather up all our sleeping bags and a tarp, make foil dinners, and hike out to a campsite in the woods for a night under the stars. I looked forward to "out-posting" ...on nights it wasn't rainy.
While the campers played games and gathered kindling, we counselors would labor over the fire (some of us being more experienced than others), and lay the foil dinners on the coals. We called them "hobo meals" before that term became "offensive" and we had to start calling them something nice and sweet and P.C. I think they tried to implement "dragon dinners" since that is obviously way cooler than "foil dinners," but it never got off the ground while I worked there.
Here is the recipe for hobo meals/foil dinners:
Ingredients
foil
potatoes
cooked ground beef
carrots
onions
celery
a "liquid" to keep it from burning (either ketchup or concentrated cream of mushroom soup, depending on your preference)
salt & pepper
some other spices maybe
a permanent marker
fire
tongs (this one is very important but is the one that you will probably forget, in which case, use sticks)
Chop up the veggies.
Make two layers of foil with the shiny side up so that the heat reflects back onto the food. Make a little bowl in the foil with your hands.
Put all the food into your foil bowl, with potatoes being the most prominent because they are cheapest and they fill you up.
Fold up your foil so that nothing spills hopefully. If the foil tears, add a layer. Just like they do at Chipotle.
Write your name or initials on the foil dinner with permanent marker so that you know which one is yours when you have at least a dozen other people making hobo meals. You don't want to mix them up because some people prefer ketchup over cream of mushroom soup for some mysterious reason, or maybe someone put the spiciest spice on theirs, or maybe someone likes onions even though they're gross.
Make a fire and when you have hot coals, put the foil dinners on there until they sizzle when you hold them up to your ear with tongs. Don't forget to flip them at least once.
Put them on the ring of the fire to cool.
Can be eaten with forks (or not). Mop up the gravy stuff left in the dents in the foil with a dinner roll or your tongue.
One particular out-posting night, we were out there with middle-schoolers and the raccoons were particularly bad. Raccoons had the tendency to terrorize us at dusk all over camp, as they like to scavenge the food the kiddos drop (or put in the trash cans), but would apparently rather have that food handed to them on a silver platter. Running at them and making noise usually gets them to run away temporarily, but like I said, this night was particularly bad.
They smelled the food, even though we were relatively deep in the woods, and came pretty close to us, hissing. We warded them off long enough to enjoy the fire and s'mores, but when we went to bed only ten yards away from where we had eaten, we could hear them going to town around the fire ring. Of course, we had gotten rid of our trash, but there were still crumbs. Let it be, we reasoned. They were just interested in the food, not us.
It was just girls this week, which was nice, because when you have boy campers, the counselors have to sleep in between the boys and the girls as a barrier, and boys tend to kick you in the face in their sleep. But in the morning one of my girls found an unpleasant surprise.
"Why is my sleeping bag wet?"
"It didn't rain last night..."
"It smells like PEE!"
"...Did you pee in your sleeping bag?"
"No... my clothes are dry."
We concluded that the pee on her sleeping bag was raccoon pee. It was the only thing that made any sense. Surely none of the girls had peed on her sleeping bag, even in their sleep, and the only other animals roaming the forest large enough to produce that much urine were deer, which were too shy to approach even sleeping humans.
So when we got back to camp, I pulled David aside and said, "Can you help me wash a camper's sleeping bag?"
"What happened?"
"It got pee on it."
"Sure. Do you have her clothes too?"
"No... They're dry."
"How did she pee in her sleeping bag without getting any on her clothes? Didn't you say it rained in the cabin?"
"No, no... it didn't rain in the cabin. It was a raccoon. A raccoon peed on her sleeping bag."
Well that communication, and the situation itself, was hilarious to David, and he went around telling that story for the rest of the summer.
Me? Looks like I'm still telling that story five years later.
I wonder how long the camper will be telling her version. She had a good sense of humor about it.
God bless.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Boy Scout Beach
I've convinced myself that, although some people tell me that in order to get good at writing fiction I need to practice, I really should never write fiction again. I'm not very proud of my last two blog posts; any fiction I seem to produce seems devastatingly hokey to me.
However, I still want to practice story-writing. So I guess I'll try writing stories that actually happened. Wish me luck.
Last summer, I and 19 other women on Juneau Summer Project headed out to Boy Scout Beach to camp. Technically we were backpacking, because we had to hike a mile to the site with our food, tents, etc. loaded onto our backs. This short hike covered a wide range of gorgeous terrains (as many hikes in Juneau do): forest, open field, marsh, beach. The beach was beautiful; the water stretched out almost as far as the eye could see, but was cut off by snow-capped mountains lining the horizon. The beach was soft with sand and stopped abruptly with a field of tall grass.
I occupied myself with building the fire while the other girls set up the tents and galavanted in the rising tide. The fire was of minor importance, as we had already eaten dinner and the weather was relatively warm, but I had a trick I wanted to share with the ladies that Elizabeth had shown us the previous summer: fire breathing.
It was pretty simple: crumple up a piece of newspaper, shove it onto the end of a stick, light it on fire, fill your mouth with corn starch, and blow the corn starch into the blazing newspaper. The result can be pretty impressive when done well, as all the little corn starch pieces catch fire and spread out in the air like a blow torch. I was the first to demonstrate, and the problem I found was that if you don't blow out the corn starch almost immediately after putting it in your mouth, your saliva moistens it and it doesn't want to be blown. Nevertheless, we amused ourselves with this trick for a good ten minutes.
The tide was rising quickly and it was getting dark (not because the sun was really going to go very far below the horizon, but because it was cloudy). I went out into the water with one of the ladies and timed it as the water level traveled about ten meters in a minute. We couldn't really see a line in the sand where we anticipated the water level would stop. We were camping high on the sand close to the grass, which was too tall to camp in. Behind the grass a ways was the beginning of a pine forest with a clean floor where theoretically we could have camped, but we wouldn't have felt it fair to say we had camped on the beach in that case.
We went to bed kind of late, about 11:00 p.m., and fell asleep without a plan regarding what would happen if the tide got too high. We reasoned that we had camped on this beach the previous summer, when the tide had risen at about the same time of day, and hadn't had any issues with the water level getting too high, so why should it be a problem this year?
I awoke at about 1:00 a.m. to the sound of Lexi's voice hissing my name from outside my tent. I had been in deep sleep and was pretty groggy when she explained to me that she had set a frisbee on the sand about ten feet in front of the tents, and that she had stayed up watching the water level with the plan that if the water reached the frisbee, she would wake me up for collaboration. I started coming to; it was decision time. Do we wake the girls up and move our tents to the forest area? Do we wake the girls up and leave altogether? Do we do nothing and risk getting everything, including ourselves, pretty soggy?
We decided to leave. It wasn't worth the risk, and if we were going to have to pack up and go, we might as well go all the way home rather than try to set everything back up elsewhere in the middle of the night just to say we had camped through the night.
We woke the ladies up and everyone sprung into action. Impressively, we were all packed up and ready to go within ten minutes. The water had risen almost to where our tents had been, and we determined we had made the right choice. While everyone was folding tents, gathering bear bags, and packing their packs, I was handed the can of bear spray and told that I was in charge of warding off bears during our mile hike back to the cars. After I packed my bag and everyone was still bustling around me, I sat there studying the instructions on the can with the light from my headlamp trying to figure out how to operate it.
I led the group on the hike out. The trail had flooded as it had started drizzling during the night, and of course it was dark. I marched through the tall grass beside the trail, trying to avoid the flooding, with 19 women parading behind me. We sang songs and tried to be cheerful. I saw dozens of frogs as we hiked, who seemed to be delighting in the puddles. I warned people of them so that they wouldn't get stepped on. Meanwhile, I was armed and ready with bear spray, on the lookout for a furry midnight attacker.
What relief when we reached the cars! We arrived back on campus at 2:00 a.m., dropped our gear, and fell into bed.
Was our camping trip an utter failure? Yes. Was it worth it? Definitely. Sometimes failing brings out more of the adventurer in you than succeeding. All 20 of us have a story to tell now.
God bless.
However, I still want to practice story-writing. So I guess I'll try writing stories that actually happened. Wish me luck.
Last summer, I and 19 other women on Juneau Summer Project headed out to Boy Scout Beach to camp. Technically we were backpacking, because we had to hike a mile to the site with our food, tents, etc. loaded onto our backs. This short hike covered a wide range of gorgeous terrains (as many hikes in Juneau do): forest, open field, marsh, beach. The beach was beautiful; the water stretched out almost as far as the eye could see, but was cut off by snow-capped mountains lining the horizon. The beach was soft with sand and stopped abruptly with a field of tall grass.
I occupied myself with building the fire while the other girls set up the tents and galavanted in the rising tide. The fire was of minor importance, as we had already eaten dinner and the weather was relatively warm, but I had a trick I wanted to share with the ladies that Elizabeth had shown us the previous summer: fire breathing.
It was pretty simple: crumple up a piece of newspaper, shove it onto the end of a stick, light it on fire, fill your mouth with corn starch, and blow the corn starch into the blazing newspaper. The result can be pretty impressive when done well, as all the little corn starch pieces catch fire and spread out in the air like a blow torch. I was the first to demonstrate, and the problem I found was that if you don't blow out the corn starch almost immediately after putting it in your mouth, your saliva moistens it and it doesn't want to be blown. Nevertheless, we amused ourselves with this trick for a good ten minutes.
The tide was rising quickly and it was getting dark (not because the sun was really going to go very far below the horizon, but because it was cloudy). I went out into the water with one of the ladies and timed it as the water level traveled about ten meters in a minute. We couldn't really see a line in the sand where we anticipated the water level would stop. We were camping high on the sand close to the grass, which was too tall to camp in. Behind the grass a ways was the beginning of a pine forest with a clean floor where theoretically we could have camped, but we wouldn't have felt it fair to say we had camped on the beach in that case.
We went to bed kind of late, about 11:00 p.m., and fell asleep without a plan regarding what would happen if the tide got too high. We reasoned that we had camped on this beach the previous summer, when the tide had risen at about the same time of day, and hadn't had any issues with the water level getting too high, so why should it be a problem this year?
I awoke at about 1:00 a.m. to the sound of Lexi's voice hissing my name from outside my tent. I had been in deep sleep and was pretty groggy when she explained to me that she had set a frisbee on the sand about ten feet in front of the tents, and that she had stayed up watching the water level with the plan that if the water reached the frisbee, she would wake me up for collaboration. I started coming to; it was decision time. Do we wake the girls up and move our tents to the forest area? Do we wake the girls up and leave altogether? Do we do nothing and risk getting everything, including ourselves, pretty soggy?
We decided to leave. It wasn't worth the risk, and if we were going to have to pack up and go, we might as well go all the way home rather than try to set everything back up elsewhere in the middle of the night just to say we had camped through the night.
We woke the ladies up and everyone sprung into action. Impressively, we were all packed up and ready to go within ten minutes. The water had risen almost to where our tents had been, and we determined we had made the right choice. While everyone was folding tents, gathering bear bags, and packing their packs, I was handed the can of bear spray and told that I was in charge of warding off bears during our mile hike back to the cars. After I packed my bag and everyone was still bustling around me, I sat there studying the instructions on the can with the light from my headlamp trying to figure out how to operate it.
I led the group on the hike out. The trail had flooded as it had started drizzling during the night, and of course it was dark. I marched through the tall grass beside the trail, trying to avoid the flooding, with 19 women parading behind me. We sang songs and tried to be cheerful. I saw dozens of frogs as we hiked, who seemed to be delighting in the puddles. I warned people of them so that they wouldn't get stepped on. Meanwhile, I was armed and ready with bear spray, on the lookout for a furry midnight attacker.
What relief when we reached the cars! We arrived back on campus at 2:00 a.m., dropped our gear, and fell into bed.
Was our camping trip an utter failure? Yes. Was it worth it? Definitely. Sometimes failing brings out more of the adventurer in you than succeeding. All 20 of us have a story to tell now.
God bless.
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Letter #2: Child to President
You may or may not have noticed that while my blog is more or less a place for me to experiment with writing, I almost never publish any sort of fiction.
I would like to wade into the world of fiction by practicing something that I hope will be easy: fictional letters.
Please allow me to experiment as I try this out. Please feel free to comment below with comments or suggestions. My plan is to create two new people each time; a letter-writer and a letter-receiver, both of which you will hopefully learn a little bit about.
I have no idea how this will go, so again, your comments and suggestions are not only welcome, but I ask them of you.
Dear Mr. President,
I listened to your speech last night and I think you did a good job. Your wife is very good at ironing your shirts. Mom said you were giving a "message of hope," and Daddy said that means you're telling our country that it will all be okay.
I'm not worried, though. I know that bombs and war are bad but things always get better. My brother is a soldier in the army and he says all his friends are very brave.
Guess what. Someday I want to be President of the United States of America too. And I will always give messages of hope to people who are sad or scared.
My friend Katie said if she were president she would make sure all the orphans would have mommies and daddies to adopt them. And Doug said if he were president he would make sure everyone had ice cream every day for free but I told him that was stupid because some people are lactose-intolerant.
Anyway I have to go feed my dog, Rocket now. He's a golden retriever.
Love,
Teagan
I would like to wade into the world of fiction by practicing something that I hope will be easy: fictional letters.
Please allow me to experiment as I try this out. Please feel free to comment below with comments or suggestions. My plan is to create two new people each time; a letter-writer and a letter-receiver, both of which you will hopefully learn a little bit about.
I have no idea how this will go, so again, your comments and suggestions are not only welcome, but I ask them of you.
Dear Mr. President,
I listened to your speech last night and I think you did a good job. Your wife is very good at ironing your shirts. Mom said you were giving a "message of hope," and Daddy said that means you're telling our country that it will all be okay.
I'm not worried, though. I know that bombs and war are bad but things always get better. My brother is a soldier in the army and he says all his friends are very brave.
Guess what. Someday I want to be President of the United States of America too. And I will always give messages of hope to people who are sad or scared.
My friend Katie said if she were president she would make sure all the orphans would have mommies and daddies to adopt them. And Doug said if he were president he would make sure everyone had ice cream every day for free but I told him that was stupid because some people are lactose-intolerant.
Anyway I have to go feed my dog, Rocket now. He's a golden retriever.
Love,
Teagan
Letter #1: Woman to ex-lover
You may or may not have noticed that while my blog is more or less a place for me to experiment with writing, I almost never publish any sort of fiction.
I would like to wade into the world of fiction by practicing something that I hope will be easy: fictional letters.
Please allow me to experiment as I try this out. Please feel free to comment below with comments or suggestions. My plan is to create two new people each time; a letter-writer and a letter-receiver, both of which you will hopefully learn a little bit about.
I have no idea how this will go, so again, your comments and suggestions are not only welcome, but I ask them of you.
Nate-
I don't know if I'm going to send this letter yet or not. Part of me just wants to vent, but the other part can't help but be -kind of- grateful. You've ruined my life and given me everything. Can you even begin to understand that?
You led me to believe things about you that simply aren't true: your trustworthiness, your faithfulness. You didn't bail when things got a little difficult, like when I got the flu and couldn't come to your parents', or when we got in that fight when you came home stinking of booze and weed. We always seemed to make it work somehow. We always said sorry and we always did our parts to fix things. But I guess Mallory was too much for you.
You didn't just leave. You disappeared. I came home from a twelve-hour shift to find the apartment half-empty. No note. Nothing. I found out from a mutual friend that you had moved to Chicago. What? I mean, WHAT?!? Do you realize how heart-breaking that was for me? Do you realize how alone and confused I felt? I am estranged from my parents and friends because of you, and now I'm on my own. I blamed myself for awhile, but it's not my fault. I know it's not my fault.
Eventually I realized that you don't deserve Mallory. I'm glad I finally figured that out.
To be honest, I thought about an abortion. Then I thought about adoption. It was terrible making all those decisions on my own. But if you had stuck around, there wouldn't have been a decision: she would have been ours. The thought of raising her on my own absolutely terrified me. I work full-time and don't make much money. I'm paying rent by myself now. I can barely keep my own life together, let alone take care of someone else's. Why would you put my through this? You perceived the "freedom" to take this situation or leave it, but I never had that freedom. I don't have a choice but to deal with this.
I wonder if you miss me. If you ever wish this had never happened so that we could still be together. Are you happy?
I can't say motherhood isn't kicking my butt. I want to scream 98% of the time but I don't because then I will wake up or scare Mallory and that will just make it worse. Financially, I'm barely scraping by. I still don't have friends or my parents. I lost my freedom. But maybe it was lost all along, from the day I met you.
BUT. Listen to me, Nate. I am so happy to have Mallory. She is my world and my heart beats for her in a way that it never did for you. When I feel like completely giving up, her precious toothless smile brings all meaning back to my life. I live for her. And you would, too, if you would just catch one glimpse of her beautiful blue eyes or her tiny, tiny fingers. I'd send a picture, but you don't deserve that. If you really wanted to love her, you could come see her for yourself. You know where we live.
The other day, my coworker, June (remember her? Sweetest person ever.), asked me innocently if motherhood was worth losing you. The question took me aback because I really haven't talked about the situation much at work. It was really a pretty bold question for her to ask, but she's sweet as honey and I know she was being genuine when she asked me that. I asked her what she meant. "Well, maybe that's not what I meant. Maybe I'm asking if being with him was worth it, rather than losing him. I like you, Shelly, but you made some mistakes, I think. It seems like that guy was no good but you dove into the relationship head-first and now you're suffering the consequences. Easy come, easy go. But you were also rewarded for enduring his abandonment: you have a beautiful daughter. Was it worth it?"
Yes, June, it was worth it.
Yes, Nate, it was worth it. Good riddance.
-Shelly
I would like to wade into the world of fiction by practicing something that I hope will be easy: fictional letters.
Please allow me to experiment as I try this out. Please feel free to comment below with comments or suggestions. My plan is to create two new people each time; a letter-writer and a letter-receiver, both of which you will hopefully learn a little bit about.
I have no idea how this will go, so again, your comments and suggestions are not only welcome, but I ask them of you.
Nate-
I don't know if I'm going to send this letter yet or not. Part of me just wants to vent, but the other part can't help but be -kind of- grateful. You've ruined my life and given me everything. Can you even begin to understand that?
You led me to believe things about you that simply aren't true: your trustworthiness, your faithfulness. You didn't bail when things got a little difficult, like when I got the flu and couldn't come to your parents', or when we got in that fight when you came home stinking of booze and weed. We always seemed to make it work somehow. We always said sorry and we always did our parts to fix things. But I guess Mallory was too much for you.
You didn't just leave. You disappeared. I came home from a twelve-hour shift to find the apartment half-empty. No note. Nothing. I found out from a mutual friend that you had moved to Chicago. What? I mean, WHAT?!? Do you realize how heart-breaking that was for me? Do you realize how alone and confused I felt? I am estranged from my parents and friends because of you, and now I'm on my own. I blamed myself for awhile, but it's not my fault. I know it's not my fault.
Eventually I realized that you don't deserve Mallory. I'm glad I finally figured that out.
To be honest, I thought about an abortion. Then I thought about adoption. It was terrible making all those decisions on my own. But if you had stuck around, there wouldn't have been a decision: she would have been ours. The thought of raising her on my own absolutely terrified me. I work full-time and don't make much money. I'm paying rent by myself now. I can barely keep my own life together, let alone take care of someone else's. Why would you put my through this? You perceived the "freedom" to take this situation or leave it, but I never had that freedom. I don't have a choice but to deal with this.
I wonder if you miss me. If you ever wish this had never happened so that we could still be together. Are you happy?
I can't say motherhood isn't kicking my butt. I want to scream 98% of the time but I don't because then I will wake up or scare Mallory and that will just make it worse. Financially, I'm barely scraping by. I still don't have friends or my parents. I lost my freedom. But maybe it was lost all along, from the day I met you.
BUT. Listen to me, Nate. I am so happy to have Mallory. She is my world and my heart beats for her in a way that it never did for you. When I feel like completely giving up, her precious toothless smile brings all meaning back to my life. I live for her. And you would, too, if you would just catch one glimpse of her beautiful blue eyes or her tiny, tiny fingers. I'd send a picture, but you don't deserve that. If you really wanted to love her, you could come see her for yourself. You know where we live.
The other day, my coworker, June (remember her? Sweetest person ever.), asked me innocently if motherhood was worth losing you. The question took me aback because I really haven't talked about the situation much at work. It was really a pretty bold question for her to ask, but she's sweet as honey and I know she was being genuine when she asked me that. I asked her what she meant. "Well, maybe that's not what I meant. Maybe I'm asking if being with him was worth it, rather than losing him. I like you, Shelly, but you made some mistakes, I think. It seems like that guy was no good but you dove into the relationship head-first and now you're suffering the consequences. Easy come, easy go. But you were also rewarded for enduring his abandonment: you have a beautiful daughter. Was it worth it?"
Yes, June, it was worth it.
Yes, Nate, it was worth it. Good riddance.
-Shelly
Friday, August 14, 2015
Pursuit
For her you planted fields of blooming silk
And with your palette and brush,
You set that field ablaze.
She drives past.
For her you sculpted a body;
The purest pearl as a home for her soul
With dark wisps for eyelashes.
She beats and neglects it.
For her you took your fingertips
And gently lifted the sun
Into the glory of morning.
She turns on her mattress.
For her you created sound waves
That she might joy to hear and to sing
And perhaps return your affections thus.
She would rather weep.
For her you brought yourself to shame
By being slaughtered like cattle,
Letting your blood and tears intermingle.
She forgets to thank you.
Your tortured longing,
Your screams for her
To notice and accept your love
Go ignored.
But you found a servant,
A Jacob for a Rachel,
Who offered all he could to her
And lifted her chin to the heavens.
She turned to you and asked,
Can my Lord love me more than this?
So she bowed and sang
In fields of fiery silk.
God bless.
And with your palette and brush,
You set that field ablaze.
She drives past.
For her you sculpted a body;
The purest pearl as a home for her soul
With dark wisps for eyelashes.
She beats and neglects it.
For her you took your fingertips
And gently lifted the sun
Into the glory of morning.
She turns on her mattress.
For her you created sound waves
That she might joy to hear and to sing
And perhaps return your affections thus.
She would rather weep.
For her you brought yourself to shame
By being slaughtered like cattle,
Letting your blood and tears intermingle.
She forgets to thank you.
Your tortured longing,
Your screams for her
To notice and accept your love
Go ignored.
But you found a servant,
A Jacob for a Rachel,
Who offered all he could to her
And lifted her chin to the heavens.
She turned to you and asked,
Can my Lord love me more than this?
So she bowed and sang
In fields of fiery silk.
God bless.
Overwhelmed
I had a thought this "morning." (I put "morning" in quotation mark because since starting night shift, it would seem that my mornings have become everyone else's afternoons). Anyway, this "morning" I had a thought. I suppose I will tell you what it was:
I recognize that I am young and hopefully have much life to live yet. However, I am slowly getting older and one of the things I find fascinating about getting older is that the more I live, the more pain I see, but also the more beauty I see.
Pain and beauty have been here all along, but in my experiences of them thus far, not only am I more exposed to both of them quantitatively as my life passes through time, I feel the weight of them more strongly.
After having this thought, it came to life in a song called "Mad World," originally by Tears for Fears, but Pandora decided to give me the Jasmine Thompson version. Although this song speaks of almost unspeakable pain, I found it to be profoundly beautiful.
A significant part of my life is devoted to music, but it's not every day I am overwhelmed by it, when I don't feel that I can bear the beauty of it. That was one of those aching moments. The beauty wasn't in the pain of the lyrics; the beauty was in the music in spite of the lyrics. Not that the two do not complement each other extraordinarily.
Anyway. This isn't much of a blog post and I don't really know how to end it. I wish I had the skills to put my thoughts to poetry in this instance but at the moment I find myself incapable. I feel that to put to poetry something that I found to be absolutely overwhelming, my poetry must also be overwhelming, and I'm afraid my writing skills aren't quite there yet. I'm sorry this is all you get. But still, can you relate to my sentiments?
God bless.
I recognize that I am young and hopefully have much life to live yet. However, I am slowly getting older and one of the things I find fascinating about getting older is that the more I live, the more pain I see, but also the more beauty I see.
Pain and beauty have been here all along, but in my experiences of them thus far, not only am I more exposed to both of them quantitatively as my life passes through time, I feel the weight of them more strongly.
After having this thought, it came to life in a song called "Mad World," originally by Tears for Fears, but Pandora decided to give me the Jasmine Thompson version. Although this song speaks of almost unspeakable pain, I found it to be profoundly beautiful.
A significant part of my life is devoted to music, but it's not every day I am overwhelmed by it, when I don't feel that I can bear the beauty of it. That was one of those aching moments. The beauty wasn't in the pain of the lyrics; the beauty was in the music in spite of the lyrics. Not that the two do not complement each other extraordinarily.
Anyway. This isn't much of a blog post and I don't really know how to end it. I wish I had the skills to put my thoughts to poetry in this instance but at the moment I find myself incapable. I feel that to put to poetry something that I found to be absolutely overwhelming, my poetry must also be overwhelming, and I'm afraid my writing skills aren't quite there yet. I'm sorry this is all you get. But still, can you relate to my sentiments?
God bless.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Seven Things I Learned
A year ago today, I committed to fast from dating for one year. I have mentioned it several times on this blog but have never written specifically about it. Now that my year has ended, I would like to share with you some of the things I've learned over the last twelve months (in approximate order of when I learned them).
1) How to not be lonely
An adage I heard once goes, "Lonely single people turn into lonely married people." This lesson stuck with me and it was one of the only lessons I actively tried to teach myself during this last year (as opposed to the ones that I accidentally learned or rather, left the door open to be learned).
There are certain target times for loneliness to strike: when you're alone at night, when you have nobody to share your thoughts with or hang out with when you're bored or accompany you to this or that event. It's easy for single to people to bemoan their singleness in these moments, but if your tendency is to bemoan, it will happen when you're in a relationship too. Even when another person knows you better than anyone else ever has, they can never know you fully, so in a way you will always be ultimately alone. Always.
Fortunately I think I learned how to not bemoan my aloneness; how to not be lonely. While sometimes I may have felt utterly alone and unknown, I reminded myself that God knows me fully; more fully than I know myself (Psalm 39). Turning to him in those moments brought me comfort. I also turned more toward friendship. In a society that glorifies romance, the wonder and strength of friendship often falls by the wayside. Reaching out to friends on nights when I had nothing to do, sharing my deepest thoughts and secrets with them rather than with a romantic interest, brought a vibrant shade back to my life.
In moments where I could not bring myself to be comforted either by God or by friends, I simply prayed and let myself feel lonely. Sometimes I even tried to find enjoyment in my aloneness. I suffered through and am the better for it.
2) How to say no
This was another lesson that I planned to learn. I'm not sure I was successful, however, but I thought it deserved to be discussed.
I mentally prepared for what would happen if someone asked me on a date during my year of fasting from dating. Depending on how I felt about them, I decided I would say either: 1) No, sorry, I'm not interested, or 2) No, sorry, I'm not dating for now, but maybe you can ask me again in August!
I never had to use either of those, though, and I think the reason is because I learned (accidentally) how to imply "no."
3) How to imply no
One of the biggest reasons I made this year-long commitment was because I have dated a lot in the past and knew something was wrong with that cycle. I couldn't really tell why the cycle was happening. I just figured it was an idol of mine that I should purge (which was true, but not the whole picture).
The problem was that I was consistently making myself "available" to date without realizing it. I flirted and I gave men one-on-one attention whether I was interested in them or not because I liked the attention I received back. I was more than willing to be alone with a guy friend and share deep thoughts and feelings with him because I wanted to feel cherished. My behavior made me available.
However, when I had no intention of dating anyone, the way I treated men started to change. I drew boundaries. I pursued my friendships with other women rather than trying to dive deep into my friendships with men. I stopped flirting. I don't think I even realized this change was happening until I started questioning why no one seemed to be interested in me.
Being closed-off can go too far, but in my case I found wisdom in being more careful about who I opened up to.
4) What it's like to be addicted
This is probably the biggest and most important lesson I learned throughout the year. It colored the way I looked at my sin and my past and my year-long fast.
I clearly remember the morning at church when I realized my problem was an addiction. My church didn't often do topical sermons, but in this case, they were doing a four-week sermon series called "The Problem of Pain." This week happened to be on addiction. I sat there during the whole sermon wondering what on earth my "addiction" could be, since Pastor Nick insisted that everyone had some sort of addiction, even if it wasn't substance addiction, even if it was subtle, even if it was socially acceptable. I sat there wondering and for the whole sermon, couldn't put my finger on it.
During worship afterward, though, it hit me like a brick wall. My addiction was relationships with men.
I realized in many ways how much this addiction resembled addiction to substance abuse. I realized how real it was. I clearly saw the ways I jumped through hoops to get my fix. I saw how I shot up, got high, and when I came back down, everything was about my next fix, and I knew how to get it. I knew how to get the attention, how to get guys to like me, how to get the attention I craved.
Then I realized that my year of no dating needed to be more than a behavioral change. I needed to undergo a deep and thorough heart change. I knew if I treated this term like "jail" (i.e. strictly behavioral change), that I would just go back to my drug as soon as I was discharged, just like so many jailed drug addicts do. Rather, I needed to treat my year more like rehab, where I learn how to function and succeed in a world where my drug is all around me, tempting me. I didn't really have a way of doing that except to, like I said before, passively open the door for God to work, but for me that was enough.
5) The Awesome Test
It's been hard for me in the past to decide how much about a person should be a deal-breaker and how much I should let slide; how strict I should be in my "qualifications" for a man. Lexi and I recently found a list of "husband qualifications" that I had written sometime in high school and we had a good laugh at the absurdity and rigidity of my standards (which of course my high school self did not abide by when a prospective relationship presented itself). In many cases, I've settled for less. (Briefly, let me say that some of the "settling" I've done may have been more a symptom of my pride; i.e. "I'm better than this person and deserve someone more at my level" rather than allowing that person dignity and humbling myself to recognize that the problem may have been me.)
At any rate, I realized that I needed to both throw away my checklist and yet be unrelenting in the most important standards. It was then that I developed The Awesome Test. It's very simple, only four facets, but I believe it covers all my bases. Here are the four facets:
1. Does this person find me to be awesome? Do they get excited about who I am as a person?
2. Do I find this person to be awesome? Do I get excited about who they are?
3. Does this person help me to see Jesus as awesome? Do their words and actions help me to become more excited about who Jesus is?
4. Do I help this person to see Jesus as awesome? Do my words and actions help this person to become more excited about who Jesus is?
I have never dated or met a guy who passed all four facets, which is why, I believe, I have so far never had a successful relationship. I now swear by The Awesome Test and concede that if I find someone that passes, I will probably marry him.
6) What it means to "like" somebody
About halfway through my year of no dating, I got a crush on someone. Because of my inability to truly act on my feelings, I spent a lot of time just thinking about it, processing through it with friends, and trying to decide where to go with it. That's when I realized that there is a big difference between being attracted to somebody and really liking them.
I realized that with this particular man, I was merely attracted to his appearance, his skills, and what little I knew of his personality. I realized that this didn't necessarily mean that I liked him. But I didn't know what really liking someone did mean.
Then, a month or two ago, in talking with Lexi I realized that, at least for me, the distinction between attraction and liking someone is whether or not I truly cared about the individual. This may be obvious to many of you, but for me it was incredibly liberating. The man I had had a crush on several months prior, I didn't care about him and his well-being all that much. I just cared about what he could do for me, all the good feelings he could make me feel. It occurred to me how selfish my crush on him had been.
This will help me a lot in the future, I think, when I find that I'm attracted to somebody but don't actually care about him, it will be easier to let my feelings for that person slide away. And when I am both attracted to someone and care about them, I can take my feelings for him more seriously.
7) I can't stop
I have talked about my lessons learned and my little improvements but one of the most terrifying things I've found is that when it comes to my sin, I can't stop.
This area of my life has been being sanctified slowly for several years, not just for the last year. But I face the dreadful truth that I'll never get to the point where I will never slip back into old sin. I will always be tempted to idolize, lust, gorge on attention. I will continue to disappoint, hurt, and fail people. I may improve, but the struggle will always be there, for the rest of my life. It won't be until I've moved on from this planet that that will change and I will finally be completely free from sin.
Of course, in the midst of the grave fact of my unrelenting sin, there's grace. No matter what I do or whom I sin against, God will always forgive me and give me another chance. If I get married, I hope to be married to a husband who also forgives me again and again. And sanctification will continue, even now that my fast has ended.
God bless.
1) How to not be lonely
An adage I heard once goes, "Lonely single people turn into lonely married people." This lesson stuck with me and it was one of the only lessons I actively tried to teach myself during this last year (as opposed to the ones that I accidentally learned or rather, left the door open to be learned).
There are certain target times for loneliness to strike: when you're alone at night, when you have nobody to share your thoughts with or hang out with when you're bored or accompany you to this or that event. It's easy for single to people to bemoan their singleness in these moments, but if your tendency is to bemoan, it will happen when you're in a relationship too. Even when another person knows you better than anyone else ever has, they can never know you fully, so in a way you will always be ultimately alone. Always.
Fortunately I think I learned how to not bemoan my aloneness; how to not be lonely. While sometimes I may have felt utterly alone and unknown, I reminded myself that God knows me fully; more fully than I know myself (Psalm 39). Turning to him in those moments brought me comfort. I also turned more toward friendship. In a society that glorifies romance, the wonder and strength of friendship often falls by the wayside. Reaching out to friends on nights when I had nothing to do, sharing my deepest thoughts and secrets with them rather than with a romantic interest, brought a vibrant shade back to my life.
In moments where I could not bring myself to be comforted either by God or by friends, I simply prayed and let myself feel lonely. Sometimes I even tried to find enjoyment in my aloneness. I suffered through and am the better for it.
2) How to say no
This was another lesson that I planned to learn. I'm not sure I was successful, however, but I thought it deserved to be discussed.
I mentally prepared for what would happen if someone asked me on a date during my year of fasting from dating. Depending on how I felt about them, I decided I would say either: 1) No, sorry, I'm not interested, or 2) No, sorry, I'm not dating for now, but maybe you can ask me again in August!
I never had to use either of those, though, and I think the reason is because I learned (accidentally) how to imply "no."
3) How to imply no
One of the biggest reasons I made this year-long commitment was because I have dated a lot in the past and knew something was wrong with that cycle. I couldn't really tell why the cycle was happening. I just figured it was an idol of mine that I should purge (which was true, but not the whole picture).
The problem was that I was consistently making myself "available" to date without realizing it. I flirted and I gave men one-on-one attention whether I was interested in them or not because I liked the attention I received back. I was more than willing to be alone with a guy friend and share deep thoughts and feelings with him because I wanted to feel cherished. My behavior made me available.
However, when I had no intention of dating anyone, the way I treated men started to change. I drew boundaries. I pursued my friendships with other women rather than trying to dive deep into my friendships with men. I stopped flirting. I don't think I even realized this change was happening until I started questioning why no one seemed to be interested in me.
Being closed-off can go too far, but in my case I found wisdom in being more careful about who I opened up to.
4) What it's like to be addicted
This is probably the biggest and most important lesson I learned throughout the year. It colored the way I looked at my sin and my past and my year-long fast.
I clearly remember the morning at church when I realized my problem was an addiction. My church didn't often do topical sermons, but in this case, they were doing a four-week sermon series called "The Problem of Pain." This week happened to be on addiction. I sat there during the whole sermon wondering what on earth my "addiction" could be, since Pastor Nick insisted that everyone had some sort of addiction, even if it wasn't substance addiction, even if it was subtle, even if it was socially acceptable. I sat there wondering and for the whole sermon, couldn't put my finger on it.
During worship afterward, though, it hit me like a brick wall. My addiction was relationships with men.
I realized in many ways how much this addiction resembled addiction to substance abuse. I realized how real it was. I clearly saw the ways I jumped through hoops to get my fix. I saw how I shot up, got high, and when I came back down, everything was about my next fix, and I knew how to get it. I knew how to get the attention, how to get guys to like me, how to get the attention I craved.
Then I realized that my year of no dating needed to be more than a behavioral change. I needed to undergo a deep and thorough heart change. I knew if I treated this term like "jail" (i.e. strictly behavioral change), that I would just go back to my drug as soon as I was discharged, just like so many jailed drug addicts do. Rather, I needed to treat my year more like rehab, where I learn how to function and succeed in a world where my drug is all around me, tempting me. I didn't really have a way of doing that except to, like I said before, passively open the door for God to work, but for me that was enough.
5) The Awesome Test
It's been hard for me in the past to decide how much about a person should be a deal-breaker and how much I should let slide; how strict I should be in my "qualifications" for a man. Lexi and I recently found a list of "husband qualifications" that I had written sometime in high school and we had a good laugh at the absurdity and rigidity of my standards (which of course my high school self did not abide by when a prospective relationship presented itself). In many cases, I've settled for less. (Briefly, let me say that some of the "settling" I've done may have been more a symptom of my pride; i.e. "I'm better than this person and deserve someone more at my level" rather than allowing that person dignity and humbling myself to recognize that the problem may have been me.)
At any rate, I realized that I needed to both throw away my checklist and yet be unrelenting in the most important standards. It was then that I developed The Awesome Test. It's very simple, only four facets, but I believe it covers all my bases. Here are the four facets:
1. Does this person find me to be awesome? Do they get excited about who I am as a person?
2. Do I find this person to be awesome? Do I get excited about who they are?
3. Does this person help me to see Jesus as awesome? Do their words and actions help me to become more excited about who Jesus is?
4. Do I help this person to see Jesus as awesome? Do my words and actions help this person to become more excited about who Jesus is?
I have never dated or met a guy who passed all four facets, which is why, I believe, I have so far never had a successful relationship. I now swear by The Awesome Test and concede that if I find someone that passes, I will probably marry him.
6) What it means to "like" somebody
About halfway through my year of no dating, I got a crush on someone. Because of my inability to truly act on my feelings, I spent a lot of time just thinking about it, processing through it with friends, and trying to decide where to go with it. That's when I realized that there is a big difference between being attracted to somebody and really liking them.
I realized that with this particular man, I was merely attracted to his appearance, his skills, and what little I knew of his personality. I realized that this didn't necessarily mean that I liked him. But I didn't know what really liking someone did mean.
Then, a month or two ago, in talking with Lexi I realized that, at least for me, the distinction between attraction and liking someone is whether or not I truly cared about the individual. This may be obvious to many of you, but for me it was incredibly liberating. The man I had had a crush on several months prior, I didn't care about him and his well-being all that much. I just cared about what he could do for me, all the good feelings he could make me feel. It occurred to me how selfish my crush on him had been.
This will help me a lot in the future, I think, when I find that I'm attracted to somebody but don't actually care about him, it will be easier to let my feelings for that person slide away. And when I am both attracted to someone and care about them, I can take my feelings for him more seriously.
7) I can't stop
I have talked about my lessons learned and my little improvements but one of the most terrifying things I've found is that when it comes to my sin, I can't stop.
This area of my life has been being sanctified slowly for several years, not just for the last year. But I face the dreadful truth that I'll never get to the point where I will never slip back into old sin. I will always be tempted to idolize, lust, gorge on attention. I will continue to disappoint, hurt, and fail people. I may improve, but the struggle will always be there, for the rest of my life. It won't be until I've moved on from this planet that that will change and I will finally be completely free from sin.
Of course, in the midst of the grave fact of my unrelenting sin, there's grace. No matter what I do or whom I sin against, God will always forgive me and give me another chance. If I get married, I hope to be married to a husband who also forgives me again and again. And sanctification will continue, even now that my fast has ended.
God bless.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Writing A Book
Behold, I have a dream! A dream of writing a book. I would really just love that.
There are a few things that stand in my way of this dream:
1) I have no topics that I feel both competent enough in and passionate enough about to use for an entire book.
2) I lack the writing skills. This blog, however, is a testament to my efforts to change this.
3) I lack the life experience. Whether I write about my own experiences, try to impart wisdom or knowledge, or even write a fiction based on my own experiences, I doubt I will have anything worthwhile to say until I am a few decades older.
I consider myself to be a writer, but a writer must be an expert in something in order to write anything worthwhile. While there are innumerable topics a person could be an expert in, there is one topic everyone is an expert in: our own life.
But a biography about a boring life is not really worth reading.
My goal is to write a book, but my other, more important goal, is to live a life worth writing a book about. Even if a book never gets written, at least I will have lived a worthwhile, productive, adventurous life.
Who knows? Maybe when I am old I will have something to say.
God bless.
There are a few things that stand in my way of this dream:
1) I have no topics that I feel both competent enough in and passionate enough about to use for an entire book.
2) I lack the writing skills. This blog, however, is a testament to my efforts to change this.
3) I lack the life experience. Whether I write about my own experiences, try to impart wisdom or knowledge, or even write a fiction based on my own experiences, I doubt I will have anything worthwhile to say until I am a few decades older.
I consider myself to be a writer, but a writer must be an expert in something in order to write anything worthwhile. While there are innumerable topics a person could be an expert in, there is one topic everyone is an expert in: our own life.
But a biography about a boring life is not really worth reading.
My goal is to write a book, but my other, more important goal, is to live a life worth writing a book about. Even if a book never gets written, at least I will have lived a worthwhile, productive, adventurous life.
Who knows? Maybe when I am old I will have something to say.
God bless.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Life Competence
Last night at Bible study, Page said something along the lines of, Jesus much preferred to being around people who were honest about their lives being messed up to people who pretended like nothing was wrong in their lives. I had honestly never made that specific observation before but it's something I really like about Jesus.
Conversation continued with how the Church is supposed to be a people who are honest about their sin and shortcomings, but since we're generally not, people don't feel welcome into our clique.
And I thought, why would people want to come into a place where they knew nobody had their act together? That's no way to sell a product, so to speak. If people want to learn about how to live their life and figure out what their soul is and what to do with it, shouldn't they go to a place where they feel people are competent in those areas?
For example, as a musician, I would hate to walk into an orchestra where everyone is frankly really bad musicians, and not only that but really open and honest about it. I would think that these people are a bunch of clowns and don't take their music seriously or professionally. It would seem to me that they weren't trying to improve. I probably wouldn't stick around. Who wants a church like that? I would find another orchestra where people had their act together, where the conductor was the only one to point out others' mistakes and everyone else just quietly improved their skills in the practice room, where no one else could judge them.
But then I thought of something I am definitely interested in but much, much less competent in: ultimate frisbee.
One of the biggest reasons I don't make any efforts to even go to pick-up games is because I'm so intimidated by others' skill and so afraid of their judgment of my lack of it. Sports can be kind of unforgiving because of how competitive people get, and even if I don't get directly hollered at for making an error, other players will subtly start avoiding me.
But what if there was an ultimate team where everyone sucked as much as I did and that was okay? What if there was a team where I got gentle pats on the back when I made an error and everyone threw the frisbee to me all the more in hopes of improving my skills? Where everyone else was working to improve their skills as well but happily admitted their many shortcomings? Is that a team I would join? ABSOLUTELY.
So that's how it clicked for me. People who are interested in ultimate frisbee but suck at it feel comfortable learning around other people that suck. And people who are interested in playing in an orchestra but don't know one note from the next are going to be much more comfortable around people who aren't naturally talented musicians either. And people interested in figuring out their lives and souls but don't know where to start are going to be much more interested in walking into a church where everyone else is trying to figure it all out too. No one is competent in the area of life. No one. There are only those who feign competence.
God bless.
Conversation continued with how the Church is supposed to be a people who are honest about their sin and shortcomings, but since we're generally not, people don't feel welcome into our clique.
And I thought, why would people want to come into a place where they knew nobody had their act together? That's no way to sell a product, so to speak. If people want to learn about how to live their life and figure out what their soul is and what to do with it, shouldn't they go to a place where they feel people are competent in those areas?
For example, as a musician, I would hate to walk into an orchestra where everyone is frankly really bad musicians, and not only that but really open and honest about it. I would think that these people are a bunch of clowns and don't take their music seriously or professionally. It would seem to me that they weren't trying to improve. I probably wouldn't stick around. Who wants a church like that? I would find another orchestra where people had their act together, where the conductor was the only one to point out others' mistakes and everyone else just quietly improved their skills in the practice room, where no one else could judge them.
But then I thought of something I am definitely interested in but much, much less competent in: ultimate frisbee.
One of the biggest reasons I don't make any efforts to even go to pick-up games is because I'm so intimidated by others' skill and so afraid of their judgment of my lack of it. Sports can be kind of unforgiving because of how competitive people get, and even if I don't get directly hollered at for making an error, other players will subtly start avoiding me.
But what if there was an ultimate team where everyone sucked as much as I did and that was okay? What if there was a team where I got gentle pats on the back when I made an error and everyone threw the frisbee to me all the more in hopes of improving my skills? Where everyone else was working to improve their skills as well but happily admitted their many shortcomings? Is that a team I would join? ABSOLUTELY.
So that's how it clicked for me. People who are interested in ultimate frisbee but suck at it feel comfortable learning around other people that suck. And people who are interested in playing in an orchestra but don't know one note from the next are going to be much more comfortable around people who aren't naturally talented musicians either. And people interested in figuring out their lives and souls but don't know where to start are going to be much more interested in walking into a church where everyone else is trying to figure it all out too. No one is competent in the area of life. No one. There are only those who feign competence.
God bless.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Comparison of Three Books
Yesterday I finished "Blue Like Jazz" by Donald Miller, and before that I read "A Walk Across America" by Peter Jenkins and before that I read "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry" by Mildred D. Taylor. Needless to say, I have a lot of time on my hands lately.
These three books have very little in common of course. "A Walk Across America" was definitely my favorite, followed by "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry." "Blue Like Jazz" was mediocre in my opinion. It took me awhile to get used to the fact that it was neither a novel nor a book on Christian living, but rather, a collection of seemingly thrown-together blog posts with no real continuity whatsoever and a healthy dose of ignorance and pomposity. (Is it possible for a writer to ever come across as unpompous?) But there were a few things in it that made me think, which of course I enjoy and which made it worth it.
The thing that tied these three books together for me was that they all sent a message: everybody matters.
"Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry" told me that black people matter.
"A Walk Across America" told me that poor people matter.
"Blue Like Jazz" told me that non-Christians matter.
So I put the last book down and think, what's God trying to tell me here?
Who am I treating as though they don't matter?
I'll have to think on it.
God bless.
P.S. Next on the list is "Same Kind of Different As Me" by Ron Hall and Denver Moore. I don't know much about this book at all but maybe it will carry the same theme.
These three books have very little in common of course. "A Walk Across America" was definitely my favorite, followed by "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry." "Blue Like Jazz" was mediocre in my opinion. It took me awhile to get used to the fact that it was neither a novel nor a book on Christian living, but rather, a collection of seemingly thrown-together blog posts with no real continuity whatsoever and a healthy dose of ignorance and pomposity. (Is it possible for a writer to ever come across as unpompous?) But there were a few things in it that made me think, which of course I enjoy and which made it worth it.
The thing that tied these three books together for me was that they all sent a message: everybody matters.
"Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry" told me that black people matter.
"A Walk Across America" told me that poor people matter.
"Blue Like Jazz" told me that non-Christians matter.
So I put the last book down and think, what's God trying to tell me here?
Who am I treating as though they don't matter?
I'll have to think on it.
God bless.
P.S. Next on the list is "Same Kind of Different As Me" by Ron Hall and Denver Moore. I don't know much about this book at all but maybe it will carry the same theme.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Silent Noises
I parked my car in the driveway
To the sound of my engine turning off.
I heard the sound of the car door closing.
I heard the sound of my keys,
My footsteps as I entered my kitchen.
I pulled out my dinner and listened
To the microwave whir
And the mocking beeping.
My fork clinked against the plate.
The silence was deafening.
I sighed.
I opened my computer and heard
The sound of my fingers
Banging the keys as I typed.
My mouth felt lonely and dry.
I heard the leather couch squeak
I heard my little sips of beer.
I heard the glass being set on the table.
Noiselessly, I went upstairs.
I turned on the shower.
Silently, I heard the water
Hitting the tub and my body.
I heard the pat of my wet feet
On the bathroom floor.
I heard my bed groan.
I heard my breathing as I fell asleep
Alone in a dark room.
The next day was the same,
And so was the next.
Quiet.
Alone.
Silent noises.
Eventually,
A firecracker was lit under me.
I yelped and I ran
Until I found my place here.
Love and friendship are magical,
Shocking,
Thrilling.
Today,
silence shirks me.
I hear myself singing
At every turn.
Don't ask me how.
God bless.
To the sound of my engine turning off.
I heard the sound of the car door closing.
I heard the sound of my keys,
My footsteps as I entered my kitchen.
I pulled out my dinner and listened
To the microwave whir
And the mocking beeping.
My fork clinked against the plate.
The silence was deafening.
I sighed.
I opened my computer and heard
The sound of my fingers
Banging the keys as I typed.
My mouth felt lonely and dry.
I heard the leather couch squeak
I heard my little sips of beer.
I heard the glass being set on the table.
Noiselessly, I went upstairs.
I turned on the shower.
Silently, I heard the water
Hitting the tub and my body.
I heard the pat of my wet feet
On the bathroom floor.
I heard my bed groan.
I heard my breathing as I fell asleep
Alone in a dark room.
The next day was the same,
And so was the next.
Quiet.
Alone.
Silent noises.
Eventually,
A firecracker was lit under me.
I yelped and I ran
Until I found my place here.
Love and friendship are magical,
Shocking,
Thrilling.
Today,
silence shirks me.
I hear myself singing
At every turn.
Don't ask me how.
God bless.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Dear One
Dear one,
I'm sorry I've been ignoring you but it's really my only option. It doesn't mean I don't care, and it certainly doesn't mean I've forgotten about you. I will not and cannot forget.
Directly communicating with you is dangerous. Stirring up old emotions would only set both of us back in our quests to move on. Perhaps it's an unfair assumption that you have this same quest as me, but you ought to. Moving on is imperative.
I wonder if I ever fully will.
Our love story will never be published. Its incredible drama will never show up on a movie screen. It's a tragedy that is seared into our minds forever, but once we die, our story will die with us. But we both know how remarkable it was. Love like ours is once-in-a-lifetime, and one of my greatest struggles in my efforts to date others has been the sinking fear that my one-time chance at love is gone.
But that's a lie. We can both fall in love again. We can both live love stories with happier endings. And we should try to allow that to happen rather than constantly looking over our shoulders at the past.
Finding romantic love again is not the most important part of life, though. Finding ultimate love is. I don't know how many times I've told you but I'll tell you again: Jesus loves you.
Not only does Jesus love you; Jesus is blown away by you. He adores you and values your life more than his own. He cannot get enough of you. He pursues you relentlessly, whether you're paying attention or not. He has saved your life, literally, multiple times.
My love couldn't save you, and neither can the love of any other woman. But know that you are loved, and able to be saved.
Please listen to me because I care for you.
Reach out for help from someone if you start to feel hopeless. Do not be ashamed. Your life is worth it.
God bless.
-Maryann
P.S. Thank you for serving homeless people. I am so, so proud of you.
I'm sorry I've been ignoring you but it's really my only option. It doesn't mean I don't care, and it certainly doesn't mean I've forgotten about you. I will not and cannot forget.
Directly communicating with you is dangerous. Stirring up old emotions would only set both of us back in our quests to move on. Perhaps it's an unfair assumption that you have this same quest as me, but you ought to. Moving on is imperative.
I wonder if I ever fully will.
Our love story will never be published. Its incredible drama will never show up on a movie screen. It's a tragedy that is seared into our minds forever, but once we die, our story will die with us. But we both know how remarkable it was. Love like ours is once-in-a-lifetime, and one of my greatest struggles in my efforts to date others has been the sinking fear that my one-time chance at love is gone.
But that's a lie. We can both fall in love again. We can both live love stories with happier endings. And we should try to allow that to happen rather than constantly looking over our shoulders at the past.
Finding romantic love again is not the most important part of life, though. Finding ultimate love is. I don't know how many times I've told you but I'll tell you again: Jesus loves you.
Not only does Jesus love you; Jesus is blown away by you. He adores you and values your life more than his own. He cannot get enough of you. He pursues you relentlessly, whether you're paying attention or not. He has saved your life, literally, multiple times.
My love couldn't save you, and neither can the love of any other woman. But know that you are loved, and able to be saved.
Please listen to me because I care for you.
Reach out for help from someone if you start to feel hopeless. Do not be ashamed. Your life is worth it.
God bless.
-Maryann
P.S. Thank you for serving homeless people. I am so, so proud of you.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Comes and Goes
In the last couple months, I've learned a startlingly infantile lesson: that time passes.
My whole life I've functioned as though the past were something to shake my head and smile at, the present is infinite, and the future is nonexistent. In other words, what I want to have happen needs to happen now or it will never come to fruition. I suppose you could call that either madness or impatience.
This mentality has caused me to do a number of stupid things, such as jump into relationships that weren't meant to be had, lose sleep in January over what my summer plans would be, and fret about savings before I've even been in the work force long enough to build any sort of wealth. Because what is true now will never change so things need to be figured out immediately.
Although I'm not one to plan what I'm going to say for a presentation, what I'm going to do for the day, and what I am going to get so-and-so for their birthday, I do tend to try to plan things that really have no way of being planned, such as the ultimate destination of my career, my hypothetical future marriage, and where on this planet I want to finally sink my toes in. I'm finally recognizing the absurdity of this aimless planning. I grasp for control over things that I have no business controlling at the moment, if ever.
Lucy Schwartz's song "Time Will Tell" has been a ballad of truth for me for almost a year now but even more so recently. It was stuck in my head for almost the entire month of May as I repeated to myself the line, "Time will tell, take it slow." "Time will tell, take it slow." "Time will tell, take it slow."
Time passes. Time happens. The future comes. The present becomes the past. The answers will eventually be revealed. Events will unfold. What do I have to fear? Why do I need to rush?
Another thing that I have had to repeat to myself endlessly is "[Blank] will come and go." I'm not sure where my brain got this particular phrase but it has proved so true and so useful. Mostly I fill in the blank with a date. I was particularly stressed about May 25th, because it was "moving day" for me, a day I'd leave the life I knew and begin again elsewhere. "May 25th will come and go," I'd say to myself, and it has certainly come... and gone.
I have mentioned before that I have committed to a year of no dating. As the end of the year approaches, I am nearly gripped with fear at the prospect of falling back into my old sinful and destructive habits the moment I am "freed" from my commitment, but I am also excited to end this chapter, despite the growth and personal insight that has occurred because of it. Either way, it will be a silently momentous day for me. I have a hard time believing it will actually happen and I'll actually have to deal with walking back into the ominous world of dating.
But that date will come and go. That date will come and go. And simply knowing that time will pass comforts and reassures me.
I still hate waiting. But I have found so much wisdom in the fact that waiting eventually gets you somewhere. Waiting may last a while, but it does not last forever. How good to finally know.
God bless.
My whole life I've functioned as though the past were something to shake my head and smile at, the present is infinite, and the future is nonexistent. In other words, what I want to have happen needs to happen now or it will never come to fruition. I suppose you could call that either madness or impatience.
This mentality has caused me to do a number of stupid things, such as jump into relationships that weren't meant to be had, lose sleep in January over what my summer plans would be, and fret about savings before I've even been in the work force long enough to build any sort of wealth. Because what is true now will never change so things need to be figured out immediately.
Although I'm not one to plan what I'm going to say for a presentation, what I'm going to do for the day, and what I am going to get so-and-so for their birthday, I do tend to try to plan things that really have no way of being planned, such as the ultimate destination of my career, my hypothetical future marriage, and where on this planet I want to finally sink my toes in. I'm finally recognizing the absurdity of this aimless planning. I grasp for control over things that I have no business controlling at the moment, if ever.
Lucy Schwartz's song "Time Will Tell" has been a ballad of truth for me for almost a year now but even more so recently. It was stuck in my head for almost the entire month of May as I repeated to myself the line, "Time will tell, take it slow." "Time will tell, take it slow." "Time will tell, take it slow."
Time passes. Time happens. The future comes. The present becomes the past. The answers will eventually be revealed. Events will unfold. What do I have to fear? Why do I need to rush?
Another thing that I have had to repeat to myself endlessly is "[Blank] will come and go." I'm not sure where my brain got this particular phrase but it has proved so true and so useful. Mostly I fill in the blank with a date. I was particularly stressed about May 25th, because it was "moving day" for me, a day I'd leave the life I knew and begin again elsewhere. "May 25th will come and go," I'd say to myself, and it has certainly come... and gone.
I have mentioned before that I have committed to a year of no dating. As the end of the year approaches, I am nearly gripped with fear at the prospect of falling back into my old sinful and destructive habits the moment I am "freed" from my commitment, but I am also excited to end this chapter, despite the growth and personal insight that has occurred because of it. Either way, it will be a silently momentous day for me. I have a hard time believing it will actually happen and I'll actually have to deal with walking back into the ominous world of dating.
But that date will come and go. That date will come and go. And simply knowing that time will pass comforts and reassures me.
I still hate waiting. But I have found so much wisdom in the fact that waiting eventually gets you somewhere. Waiting may last a while, but it does not last forever. How good to finally know.
God bless.
Friday, June 5, 2015
Finding home
I suppose home began in my mother
In her womb, in her arms,
Safe in her voice, her smile, her presence, her love.
Home expanded
To a building I grew up in,
A city I was raised in,
A "permanent address."
Home became my own,
A place I furnished and filled
As any proper adult should.
"Home is where the heart is,"
So home was also with my friends,
Laughing and drinking beer,
Sharing stories and crying tears.
Then I shook out the blanket
And home became
Wherever I laid my head.
I folded the blanket and put it down
Home would be
Wherever I decided it would be
And I decided on here.
But if home is ever-changing
Alongside life,
Then is its definition defeated?
Or am I an alien
To anyplace forever,
Constantly in transition
Never letting dust settle?
I wonder.
I wander.
At the end, the very very end
though, I know,
Home is where I'll be.
In her womb, in her arms,
Safe in her voice, her smile, her presence, her love.
Home expanded
To a building I grew up in,
A city I was raised in,
A "permanent address."
Home became my own,
A place I furnished and filled
As any proper adult should.
"Home is where the heart is,"
So home was also with my friends,
Laughing and drinking beer,
Sharing stories and crying tears.
Then I shook out the blanket
And home became
Wherever I laid my head.
I folded the blanket and put it down
Home would be
Wherever I decided it would be
And I decided on here.
But if home is ever-changing
Alongside life,
Then is its definition defeated?
Or am I an alien
To anyplace forever,
Constantly in transition
Never letting dust settle?
I wonder.
I wander.
At the end, the very very end
though, I know,
Home is where I'll be.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
For a Guy
Pardon me while I vent.
In a few weeks I'll be moving across the country, and one of the most common assumptions people make is that I'm moving out there for a guy. I frequently get asked, "Oh, is your boyfriend moving out there or something?" Forgive me, but I do not believe it is a fair assumption that I have a boyfriend, let alone that I would move so far away just to be with him.
While I am moving with the support and friendship of Lexi, I'd like to think that I'm making an independent move. I am doing this because I want to, not because I belong to anybody else. I'm a woman, and I'm young but I'm grown, and if you think that doesn't qualify me to make big, independent decisions, well, I really don't know what to say to you.
I almost want to scream, "I'M MY OWN PERSON!" but that wouldn't be entirely accurate. I'm God's person. He bought my soul at a price and in freedom I allowed him to take it. I'm not so sure about all the theological nuances regarding how much of that decision was mine and how much was his, but nevertheless, here I am, God's person.
So while I'd like to think that I'm doing this for me because I'm independent, gosh durnit, that's simply not true.
Once upon a time, in a magical place called Juneau, Alaska, I discovered something about myself, and that is that I feel much closer to my Lord when I am surrounded by his creation. When I am immersed in an untainted environment that he created and is still creating afresh every moment, he feels so much nearer to me, like I am breathing him in. It really is rather intimate. It brings healing and peace to my soul.
I have nothing against being in the city, but I need more access to the wilderness. So while to some people that may sound like a selfish thing ("I want an adventure!"), in essence it is a God thing ("I need to feel closer to my Creator").
Which really has nothing to do with any man, woman, or beast.
God bless.
In a few weeks I'll be moving across the country, and one of the most common assumptions people make is that I'm moving out there for a guy. I frequently get asked, "Oh, is your boyfriend moving out there or something?" Forgive me, but I do not believe it is a fair assumption that I have a boyfriend, let alone that I would move so far away just to be with him.
While I am moving with the support and friendship of Lexi, I'd like to think that I'm making an independent move. I am doing this because I want to, not because I belong to anybody else. I'm a woman, and I'm young but I'm grown, and if you think that doesn't qualify me to make big, independent decisions, well, I really don't know what to say to you.
I almost want to scream, "I'M MY OWN PERSON!" but that wouldn't be entirely accurate. I'm God's person. He bought my soul at a price and in freedom I allowed him to take it. I'm not so sure about all the theological nuances regarding how much of that decision was mine and how much was his, but nevertheless, here I am, God's person.
So while I'd like to think that I'm doing this for me because I'm independent, gosh durnit, that's simply not true.
Once upon a time, in a magical place called Juneau, Alaska, I discovered something about myself, and that is that I feel much closer to my Lord when I am surrounded by his creation. When I am immersed in an untainted environment that he created and is still creating afresh every moment, he feels so much nearer to me, like I am breathing him in. It really is rather intimate. It brings healing and peace to my soul.
I have nothing against being in the city, but I need more access to the wilderness. So while to some people that may sound like a selfish thing ("I want an adventure!"), in essence it is a God thing ("I need to feel closer to my Creator").
Which really has nothing to do with any man, woman, or beast.
God bless.
Monday, May 11, 2015
Wild: A Book Review
"Wild," by Cheryl Strayed is, in my opinion, a complete misnomer.
Perhaps I'm wrong. The word wild can mean a lot of things, or at least take on a lot of different flavors. But when a book bears this title with a worn pair of hiking boots on the cover and claims to be about a woman solo hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), I'm going to assume that this kind of wild implies wanderlust, exploration, utter freedom. It conjures up images of some granola someone scrambling up majestic mountains, dancing as if no one were watching, running, laughing, jumping into water holes from 30-foot cliffs, and perhaps spontaneously weeping in a field of wildflowers.
This book was none of those things. The flavor of wild that it portrayed (although I still doubt wild is an appropriate term) is the type of wild that makes someone commit adultery with strangers, go on heroin binges, walk 1,100 miles with no preparation and no skills or knowledge, get an abortion, chuck a boot over a ledge never to be retrieved again, and hitchhike off the trail every couple weeks with a condom in tow to meet new people and get wasted for a "break from the trail."
So now you know why I think "Wild" is a misnomer.
Despite what I may have led you to believe at this point, I loved it.
Cheryl Strayed was not wild, in my opinion, and she wasn't particularly "a remarkable woman" as the back cover claimed, but she was extremely relatable, and to some degree admirable despite her many blunders on the PCT.
Perhaps I should pause at this point for a brief summary. Cheryl Strayed's mother died at a fairly young age and it was understandably traumatizing to Cheryl, who was in her early 20s at the time. She went through a period of self-destruction and semi-insanity which led to her divorce with a wonderful man. She somehow (it was never clear quite how), she decided to "find herself" or whatever on the PCT. So that's what she did. She hiked up and down these crazy mountains and had six toenails fall off. She met a fair amount of delightful and kind individuals on her trek and a handful of total creeps (enough so that I decidedly would never go on such a hike by myself). She might have almost died a couple times. She finally finished and her life was basically and apparently fixed after that.
I feel like I'm still not doing a good job selling this book. Let me try again to convince you.
Like I said, Cheryl was incredibly relatable. I was really able to get into her shoes (or boots, as it were). When her mom died, my mom died. When she was shooting up, I was feeling the strong but shallow pleasure. When she washed her sore feet in a creek, I felt the cold water rushing over them. When she met someone noteworthy, I felt in their presence the fear, or relaxation, or desire to flirt. When she left her condom behind during the one night she had the opportunity to use it, I felt the disappointment. When she shivered in her sleeping bag when it was rainy with temperatures in the 20s, I buried myself deeper in my blanket. When she despaired that she didn't have enough money or was otherwise unprepared for what she was doing, I vividly felt all the times I have made similar mistakes. When she saw the Bridge of the Gods at the end of her trek, I felt the magnitude of the trail behind me and the proverbial trail ahead.
Also, this book fanned the flame of my desire to go backpacking more often. So that was wonderful.
That's about all I have to say. Probably you should read as long as you're not super prone to just label someone as an idiot and brush them off.
P.S. The movie was good too but it was a little too graphic and the language a little too colorful for my tastes so I probably wouldn't see it again.
God bless.
Perhaps I'm wrong. The word wild can mean a lot of things, or at least take on a lot of different flavors. But when a book bears this title with a worn pair of hiking boots on the cover and claims to be about a woman solo hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), I'm going to assume that this kind of wild implies wanderlust, exploration, utter freedom. It conjures up images of some granola someone scrambling up majestic mountains, dancing as if no one were watching, running, laughing, jumping into water holes from 30-foot cliffs, and perhaps spontaneously weeping in a field of wildflowers.
This book was none of those things. The flavor of wild that it portrayed (although I still doubt wild is an appropriate term) is the type of wild that makes someone commit adultery with strangers, go on heroin binges, walk 1,100 miles with no preparation and no skills or knowledge, get an abortion, chuck a boot over a ledge never to be retrieved again, and hitchhike off the trail every couple weeks with a condom in tow to meet new people and get wasted for a "break from the trail."
So now you know why I think "Wild" is a misnomer.
Despite what I may have led you to believe at this point, I loved it.
Cheryl Strayed was not wild, in my opinion, and she wasn't particularly "a remarkable woman" as the back cover claimed, but she was extremely relatable, and to some degree admirable despite her many blunders on the PCT.
Perhaps I should pause at this point for a brief summary. Cheryl Strayed's mother died at a fairly young age and it was understandably traumatizing to Cheryl, who was in her early 20s at the time. She went through a period of self-destruction and semi-insanity which led to her divorce with a wonderful man. She somehow (it was never clear quite how), she decided to "find herself" or whatever on the PCT. So that's what she did. She hiked up and down these crazy mountains and had six toenails fall off. She met a fair amount of delightful and kind individuals on her trek and a handful of total creeps (enough so that I decidedly would never go on such a hike by myself). She might have almost died a couple times. She finally finished and her life was basically and apparently fixed after that.
I feel like I'm still not doing a good job selling this book. Let me try again to convince you.
Like I said, Cheryl was incredibly relatable. I was really able to get into her shoes (or boots, as it were). When her mom died, my mom died. When she was shooting up, I was feeling the strong but shallow pleasure. When she washed her sore feet in a creek, I felt the cold water rushing over them. When she met someone noteworthy, I felt in their presence the fear, or relaxation, or desire to flirt. When she left her condom behind during the one night she had the opportunity to use it, I felt the disappointment. When she shivered in her sleeping bag when it was rainy with temperatures in the 20s, I buried myself deeper in my blanket. When she despaired that she didn't have enough money or was otherwise unprepared for what she was doing, I vividly felt all the times I have made similar mistakes. When she saw the Bridge of the Gods at the end of her trek, I felt the magnitude of the trail behind me and the proverbial trail ahead.
Also, this book fanned the flame of my desire to go backpacking more often. So that was wonderful.
That's about all I have to say. Probably you should read as long as you're not super prone to just label someone as an idiot and brush them off.
P.S. The movie was good too but it was a little too graphic and the language a little too colorful for my tastes so I probably wouldn't see it again.
God bless.
Monday, May 4, 2015
End of the Beginning
I forgot to clock out on the day I turned in my notice of resignation at work. And I forgot to turn my work cell phone off until it rang when I was sitting in my car in my driveway at the end of the day.
Part of me doesn't want to leave my home state, doesn't want to say goodbye to the world I both know and love, and the rest of me knows I don't have a choice. I have found myself saying that I wish I could pick up my life here and take it with me, just zip it up, strap it to my back, and unload it on the other side of the country where I’m going. Or perhaps I could go fetch the mountains I so ache for and plant them here where my life already exists so I don't have to leave. But I can't. I had to choose, and yet, instincts and destiny and God chose for me. Off I go.
A guy I used to have a little crush on recently got engaged, and my roommate laughed at me when I found out and walked around the house belting out ADELE's "Someone Like You.” That's how I feel about this job that I have to tear myself away from. “Never mind, I’ll find coworkers like you.” “Never mind, I’ll find clients like you.” “Never mind, I’ll find employment like you.”
For those that don't know, I work in a mental health clinic. It’s my first job since graduating from college and I’ve worked there for only nine months. I started working with a caseload of about 35 cases last summer, and it's grown to almost 50. I feel like I've been through it already, and am walking out both heavier and lighter.
I've dealt with the stresses of trying to meet productivity (i.e. literal time spent with clients) while they are too mentally unstable to keep appointments, and been told that my job was in jeopardy because of it. I've dealt with being penalized for doing overtime while not having enough time in the regular workday to get my work done or care for my clients sufficiently. I know this isn't uncommon. Many people deal with workplace stresses and pressures. But there is another level to my job that I think, dare I say, makes it more difficult than most.
The first client that made me cry (because he yelled at me) ended up being my first client to die. In the mere nine months I've worked at this job, I've walked with my clients through countless hospitalizations, most of them due to suicidal ideation or attempts. I've seen my clients cry because they can't stop drinking, or can't overcome their addiction to cocaine, or don't know why they are so endlessly depressed, or for reasons they wouldn't or couldn't even tell me, just silently crying while I sat by, helpless. I've been screamed at and had things thrown at me by people I'd learned to love. I've heard clients say things like, "I just need somebody to actually care and make me a priority" while trying to balance their needs with all my other clients as well as keep my personal life separate and indifferent.
My job has not been all drudgery, of course. There have been countless joys, both big and small, from seeing clients grow closer to God, to clients telling me they’re grateful to me because I’m the only one who ever asks them how they’re doing or feeling, to clients taking a flattering personal interest in me, to clients opening up their deepest selves to me in ways even their families don’t always get to see, to seeing recovery from mental illness and drug use bring hope and restoration to once broken individuals.
All of this has taught me so many valuable lessons, some probably pretty standard to fresh adults like myself, some probably unique more unique to my line of work. Lessons like, "you will want to quit but sticking with it pays off" and "working is good for the soul even though you don't want to go in when your alarm goes off at 6 a.m. day after relentless day" and "people are basically bad" and "people are basically lovable" and "literally everyone is crazy of some kind and to some degree" and "just because you are a Christian and someone else is a Christian doesn't mean you're anything remotely alike, which is a good thing" and "hope exists."
I'm heartbroken to leave a job I grew to hate, then grew to love. After I told my supervisor, I went downstairs, walked out of the building, got in my car, and cried. I feel like I'm abandoning a lot of people by moving away.
At the same time, I know I've learned the lessons I need to learn, and I'm ready to stretch myself more and learn new lessons. Here I go.
God bless.
Part of me doesn't want to leave my home state, doesn't want to say goodbye to the world I both know and love, and the rest of me knows I don't have a choice. I have found myself saying that I wish I could pick up my life here and take it with me, just zip it up, strap it to my back, and unload it on the other side of the country where I’m going. Or perhaps I could go fetch the mountains I so ache for and plant them here where my life already exists so I don't have to leave. But I can't. I had to choose, and yet, instincts and destiny and God chose for me. Off I go.
A guy I used to have a little crush on recently got engaged, and my roommate laughed at me when I found out and walked around the house belting out ADELE's "Someone Like You.” That's how I feel about this job that I have to tear myself away from. “Never mind, I’ll find coworkers like you.” “Never mind, I’ll find clients like you.” “Never mind, I’ll find employment like you.”
For those that don't know, I work in a mental health clinic. It’s my first job since graduating from college and I’ve worked there for only nine months. I started working with a caseload of about 35 cases last summer, and it's grown to almost 50. I feel like I've been through it already, and am walking out both heavier and lighter.
I've dealt with the stresses of trying to meet productivity (i.e. literal time spent with clients) while they are too mentally unstable to keep appointments, and been told that my job was in jeopardy because of it. I've dealt with being penalized for doing overtime while not having enough time in the regular workday to get my work done or care for my clients sufficiently. I know this isn't uncommon. Many people deal with workplace stresses and pressures. But there is another level to my job that I think, dare I say, makes it more difficult than most.
The first client that made me cry (because he yelled at me) ended up being my first client to die. In the mere nine months I've worked at this job, I've walked with my clients through countless hospitalizations, most of them due to suicidal ideation or attempts. I've seen my clients cry because they can't stop drinking, or can't overcome their addiction to cocaine, or don't know why they are so endlessly depressed, or for reasons they wouldn't or couldn't even tell me, just silently crying while I sat by, helpless. I've been screamed at and had things thrown at me by people I'd learned to love. I've heard clients say things like, "I just need somebody to actually care and make me a priority" while trying to balance their needs with all my other clients as well as keep my personal life separate and indifferent.
My job has not been all drudgery, of course. There have been countless joys, both big and small, from seeing clients grow closer to God, to clients telling me they’re grateful to me because I’m the only one who ever asks them how they’re doing or feeling, to clients taking a flattering personal interest in me, to clients opening up their deepest selves to me in ways even their families don’t always get to see, to seeing recovery from mental illness and drug use bring hope and restoration to once broken individuals.
All of this has taught me so many valuable lessons, some probably pretty standard to fresh adults like myself, some probably unique more unique to my line of work. Lessons like, "you will want to quit but sticking with it pays off" and "working is good for the soul even though you don't want to go in when your alarm goes off at 6 a.m. day after relentless day" and "people are basically bad" and "people are basically lovable" and "literally everyone is crazy of some kind and to some degree" and "just because you are a Christian and someone else is a Christian doesn't mean you're anything remotely alike, which is a good thing" and "hope exists."
I'm heartbroken to leave a job I grew to hate, then grew to love. After I told my supervisor, I went downstairs, walked out of the building, got in my car, and cried. I feel like I'm abandoning a lot of people by moving away.
At the same time, I know I've learned the lessons I need to learn, and I'm ready to stretch myself more and learn new lessons. Here I go.
God bless.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Alone
I’m about nine months into a year-long
commitment of no dating. Here’s where I am in my journey, although I wonder if I'd be in the same place regardless of my commitment.
I had learned to be alone
And I had learned to be okay
With hating it.
I go to work.
I do my job.
I come home.
I make dinner for myself.
I fall asleep in a cold twin bed.
Go to work alone.
Come home alone.
Go to bed alone.
Work.
Home.
Bed.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Yesterday, I did not go to work.
Yesterday was a Sunday.
Yesterday, I went to Chipotle.
Alone, of course.
I sat at a table with three other
Empty seats.
I munched my burrito.
People held hands.
People pushed strollers.
People were forced to speak to one another
In glum bondage and acceptance.
My eyes lifted and my mouth
Twitched at the corners.
I didn’t have to share my thoughts.
They were mine.
I didn’t have to share my time.
It was mine.
I had no one to report back to,
My itinerary a secret.
No one except maybe God,
Who was gracious enough
To keep quiet.
I was beautifully,
Peacefully,
Miraculously
Alone.
God bless.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Reflections on a Farewell to Music
When I went to my parents' house for Easter, I tried to talk my freshman-in-high-school brother, Sam, into joining the conservatory of music at my college alma mater. Then I remarked, "if you go into music."
Sam is well aware that I started out in college as a double major in music and psychology. I waited until my junior year to drop my music major, which I wrote about at the time in my post, Trusting God. I told him on Easter that I am glad I made the decision I made. He asked why and I stammered for a couple half-sentences before saying it would take too long to explain.
Music is fantastic. 99% of the population would agree with me. I know I'm not the only one who leans my head back and closes my eyes when that gorgeous chorus comes around and I'm overwhelmed and consumed by it. I know I'm not the only one who feels restored and rejuvenated after expressing myself musically. I know I'm not the only one who feels the music on more than an emotional level, but on a physical level, causing me to tap my foot, dance, or pound my fist into the steering wheel.
It feels good to excel and become skillful at music, whether anyone else is around to admire you or not. In high school I was involved in marching band, concert band, extracurricular honors bands and orchestras, pep band, quintets, competed as a soloist, school choir, church choir, and I took private lessons for three instruments and voice. I loved (almost) every moment of it. Eventually, I tried out for college music departments.
I knew before I even got to college that music would not be my number one career choice. I wanted to go into psychology, and I wanted music to be a hobby to some degree. I was alarmed the summer before I started school to find that I was in about four or five music classes and only one psychology class. I remember calling the dean's office from the camp where I was working as a counselor, and being told that the music program starts out heavy and the psychology program starts out light. I was told that as my school career went on, psychology would become more intensive and music would lighten up.
It was pretty obvious at the conservatory I got into that there was no room for mere hobbyists. I had a professor that made the class chant, "Music is a lifestyle, not a hobby." I wouldn't join in, just sit there and glower at him. The program was intensive and not only was I not prepared, but my heart wasn't in it. I was told I needed to practice four hours a day, but I practiced about four hours a month.
I'm still not exactly sure what changed for me or why I stopped loving the thing that my life once practically revolved around. I still loved music as a concept, but what I was doing felt like a chore. By the time my junior year rolled around, my music requirements were still overwhelming my ability to complete my psychology requirements. I wasn't going to let a false passion override a true one.
I gradually realized something that would frustrate me profoundly. Performing music was not worshipful for me. I could worship God through music easily when part of the crowd, whether around a campfire or at a Cru meeting or in a congregation. But put me in the front of the room and suddenly it was a contest of talent against myself or others. Playing or singing was a selfish pleasure. I asked God that he would help me worship him more through my music, but it didn't happen. He had given me another way of worshiping him: work in the mental health field.
So that's why I left.
I still graduated with a music minor (which I had already earned and far surpassed by the time I dropped my major). I am now doing something far better and well-suited for me. I still love music, but I mourn the fact that it has become such a small part of my life. However, I think it makes those moments of getting lost in the song even more precious.
God bless.
Sam is well aware that I started out in college as a double major in music and psychology. I waited until my junior year to drop my music major, which I wrote about at the time in my post, Trusting God. I told him on Easter that I am glad I made the decision I made. He asked why and I stammered for a couple half-sentences before saying it would take too long to explain.
Music is fantastic. 99% of the population would agree with me. I know I'm not the only one who leans my head back and closes my eyes when that gorgeous chorus comes around and I'm overwhelmed and consumed by it. I know I'm not the only one who feels restored and rejuvenated after expressing myself musically. I know I'm not the only one who feels the music on more than an emotional level, but on a physical level, causing me to tap my foot, dance, or pound my fist into the steering wheel.
It feels good to excel and become skillful at music, whether anyone else is around to admire you or not. In high school I was involved in marching band, concert band, extracurricular honors bands and orchestras, pep band, quintets, competed as a soloist, school choir, church choir, and I took private lessons for three instruments and voice. I loved (almost) every moment of it. Eventually, I tried out for college music departments.
I knew before I even got to college that music would not be my number one career choice. I wanted to go into psychology, and I wanted music to be a hobby to some degree. I was alarmed the summer before I started school to find that I was in about four or five music classes and only one psychology class. I remember calling the dean's office from the camp where I was working as a counselor, and being told that the music program starts out heavy and the psychology program starts out light. I was told that as my school career went on, psychology would become more intensive and music would lighten up.
It was pretty obvious at the conservatory I got into that there was no room for mere hobbyists. I had a professor that made the class chant, "Music is a lifestyle, not a hobby." I wouldn't join in, just sit there and glower at him. The program was intensive and not only was I not prepared, but my heart wasn't in it. I was told I needed to practice four hours a day, but I practiced about four hours a month.
I'm still not exactly sure what changed for me or why I stopped loving the thing that my life once practically revolved around. I still loved music as a concept, but what I was doing felt like a chore. By the time my junior year rolled around, my music requirements were still overwhelming my ability to complete my psychology requirements. I wasn't going to let a false passion override a true one.
I gradually realized something that would frustrate me profoundly. Performing music was not worshipful for me. I could worship God through music easily when part of the crowd, whether around a campfire or at a Cru meeting or in a congregation. But put me in the front of the room and suddenly it was a contest of talent against myself or others. Playing or singing was a selfish pleasure. I asked God that he would help me worship him more through my music, but it didn't happen. He had given me another way of worshiping him: work in the mental health field.
So that's why I left.
I still graduated with a music minor (which I had already earned and far surpassed by the time I dropped my major). I am now doing something far better and well-suited for me. I still love music, but I mourn the fact that it has become such a small part of my life. However, I think it makes those moments of getting lost in the song even more precious.
God bless.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Training
I have the tendency to try to jump the gun on my life, and it's unwise.
I've never done anything too stupid, because fortunately I've almost always realized how foolish it is to get in over my head before I actually do it. But I tend to forget the importance of training; I just imagine myself at the end goal.
Let me try to be a little more specific.
Let's say I got it in my head that I wanted to be a marathon runner. I'd fantasize about being incredibly in shape, running across that glorious finish line, exhilarated, having barely broken a sweat. But I'd hardly consider the fact that first I'd have to get off the couch and run my first treacherous mile to train. In fact, if I did consider it, or even attempt it, I would probably throw the whole dream away.
But that's really no way to live life.
I don't have fantastical dreams about running a marathon (although I would like to get more in shape). For the last few years I have had a dream of becoming a counselor. (Like a psychologist but without having to get a PhD.)
I figured out before I graduated college, fortunately, that I would not be ready for graduate school right away. I would not be able to power through school to get a Master's degree so that I could be a counselor. First I would need training.
I've been training to study, take tests, and write papers all my life. But I've only known a few people with mental illnesses. There's only so much one can understand about abnormal psychology from a book. It has to be seen, observed, conversed with. Few people are "textbook cases," but all of them are real and dynamic, much more than a book lets on. They have unique thoughts, tragic stories, complex relationships.
So I knew that with my dinky but wonderful little bachelor's degree I had to get out into the field and get some experience. I had to train.
After about six months into my first mental health position, I asked myself, Why don't I go back to school? I am only postponing my dream job by waiting.
I had to remind myself not to jump the gun.
Now, I'm moving across the country to continue my training.
I'm going to train physically. I'm going to tread on spiky land instead of flat land.
I'm going to train musically. I've made up my mind to finally learn how to yodel. I don't know why I can't do that here, but it's one of the next goals on my list, so whatever.
I'm going to train linguistically. I intend to take classes in American Sign Language. I think this will be a very valuable skill.
I'm going to train in my writing skills through a project Lexi and I want to try.
I'm going to train spiritually. Wilderness apparently is very good for my soul and I intend to spend more time in it.
Finally, I'm going to train in my career. This is the biggest one. I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing, really. I'm going to work with mentally ill people until I am ready to take the big step toward graduate school and ultimately toward being a counselor.
These next two months before I leave feel like training to train, which is a little awful and a lot exciting.
I'm crossing the threshold between the living room and the weight room.
God bless.
I've never done anything too stupid, because fortunately I've almost always realized how foolish it is to get in over my head before I actually do it. But I tend to forget the importance of training; I just imagine myself at the end goal.
Let me try to be a little more specific.
Let's say I got it in my head that I wanted to be a marathon runner. I'd fantasize about being incredibly in shape, running across that glorious finish line, exhilarated, having barely broken a sweat. But I'd hardly consider the fact that first I'd have to get off the couch and run my first treacherous mile to train. In fact, if I did consider it, or even attempt it, I would probably throw the whole dream away.
But that's really no way to live life.
I don't have fantastical dreams about running a marathon (although I would like to get more in shape). For the last few years I have had a dream of becoming a counselor. (Like a psychologist but without having to get a PhD.)
I figured out before I graduated college, fortunately, that I would not be ready for graduate school right away. I would not be able to power through school to get a Master's degree so that I could be a counselor. First I would need training.
I've been training to study, take tests, and write papers all my life. But I've only known a few people with mental illnesses. There's only so much one can understand about abnormal psychology from a book. It has to be seen, observed, conversed with. Few people are "textbook cases," but all of them are real and dynamic, much more than a book lets on. They have unique thoughts, tragic stories, complex relationships.
So I knew that with my dinky but wonderful little bachelor's degree I had to get out into the field and get some experience. I had to train.
After about six months into my first mental health position, I asked myself, Why don't I go back to school? I am only postponing my dream job by waiting.
I had to remind myself not to jump the gun.
Now, I'm moving across the country to continue my training.
I'm going to train physically. I'm going to tread on spiky land instead of flat land.
I'm going to train musically. I've made up my mind to finally learn how to yodel. I don't know why I can't do that here, but it's one of the next goals on my list, so whatever.
I'm going to train linguistically. I intend to take classes in American Sign Language. I think this will be a very valuable skill.
I'm going to train in my writing skills through a project Lexi and I want to try.
I'm going to train spiritually. Wilderness apparently is very good for my soul and I intend to spend more time in it.
Finally, I'm going to train in my career. This is the biggest one. I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing, really. I'm going to work with mentally ill people until I am ready to take the big step toward graduate school and ultimately toward being a counselor.
These next two months before I leave feel like training to train, which is a little awful and a lot exciting.
I'm crossing the threshold between the living room and the weight room.
God bless.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
In a Way (Untitled Poem)
I wrote this poem about two years ago but I don't think I've ever published it. It was written to be a spoken-word poem that I've performed twice.
In a way,
What she saw in the mirror
Was an upside-down bell curve.
It started before she knew
That body image could exist
And she was blissfully ignorant
Of how beautiful she was
But she knew by fifth grade
That the clothes her mom
Would not let her pick out
That she based on their quality, not style
And whether or not they were cheap
Were weird.
That’s when that ignorance started
To turn
Into the monster of knowledge
At age twelve, she refused
To really smile
for school pictures
Because her teeth were crooked
And her peers had braces already.
But her first year of high school
Was the bottom of the bell.
Not only did she stand
In front of her mother’s
Bathroom mirror
And pull out her eyebrows
Strand by unrelenting strand,
She stopped eating.
He was cute and he said “love” to her
He was as thin and tall as a silver sword
And he made her buy the tickets
To the homecoming dance
The week before the dance,
Her mom took her to a real store
To buy a homecoming dress
Which she honestly
Didn’t get what that meant.
What it was supposed to look like
And how it was different
From what you wear to church
But she stood in the changing room
And looked in the mirror
At her stark, unsuspecting body
And saw, for the first time,
Someone who was too fat.
That last week before the dance,
She learned
How much weight you could lose
And how fast it could be done
But it didn’t matter
Because he wouldn’t speak to her
And he didn’t take her to the dance
And he told her in an email
That they were through.
But it did matter.
Because now she had a secret.
Now she had a solution.
She stopped packing lunches
And told her few friends
That she was fine, not to worry.
She didn’t eat dinner sometimes
either
Because her parents
Might have actually believed her
When she said she felt ill.
She learned to love and welcome
The lion that visited
Her stomach more often than not
She let him stay
But taught him how not to roar.
And every night,
A journal would bear witness
To how much she had eaten
And what she could do better.
It wasn’t about control.
It probably wasn’t about beauty.
It was about love.
She was walking the tracks
Between a world that told her
“I love you unconditionally”
A world where her parents,
her God,
and some of her friends lived
And a world of worldliness
That said
“Do this and I’ll love you.”
“Do this and you might be good enough.”
Who in their right mind would reject the former
And embrace the latter?
Who in their right mind would trade true love
For a plasticized, vomit-filled mannequin of it?
Perhaps that fourteen-year-old
Had discovered insanity.
But
With the devil’s smothering presence
Came a deep fear
Which led her to pray.
She was trapped in a downward spiral
Toward a prison called Anorexia
And she knew it.
And she knew that only
One God
Could help her escape.
The Lord answered.
And she slowly started coming
back up the bell curve.
She now knows she is beautiful.
Even though she longs
for the childhood ignorance.
But more importantly
She knows that she is loved
She knows that love
Cannot be earned
Will never run out
And who in their right mind
Would choose beauty over love
Anyway?
Would choose beauty over love
Anyway?
God bless.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Juneau vs. Colorado Springs: A Venn Diagram (of sorts)
Juneau
Glaciers
Northern Lights
Been there
Small city
On the water
Cool, wet weather
Large Native Population
High rates of depression
Both
Mountains
Hiking
Kayaking?
Beards
Colorado Springs
Career opportunities
Never been there
Large city
Inland
Warm, dry weather
Large Hispanic population
High rates of friendliness (I've been told)
Marijuana
Easier access to more national parks
Which would you choose?
God bless.
Glaciers
Northern Lights
Been there
Small city
On the water
Cool, wet weather
Large Native Population
High rates of depression
Both
Mountains
Hiking
Kayaking?
Beards
Colorado Springs
Career opportunities
Never been there
Large city
Inland
Warm, dry weather
Large Hispanic population
High rates of friendliness (I've been told)
Marijuana
Easier access to more national parks
Which would you choose?
God bless.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
An Open Letter to Carine McCandless
Dear Carine,
I'm sorry, but I don't have your address. However, I have a few things to say.
Thank you for writing "The Wild Truth." Thank you so much. I myself am a huge fan of truth. My friends tell me I am one of the most honest people they know (sometimes too honest). So it comes as no surprise that I fell in love with your brother, Chris, when I read "Into the Wild" because of his love for truth and his absolutely genuine lifestyle. He didn't just say the truth, he lived it as he saw fit. He went to extremes to do what he believed to be the right thing. He shunned the falsities of greed and pride, and shrugged off judgments that might have been cast on him due to his life choices. I aspire to be like him in this way.
I admire and respect him immensely. Our lives overlapped very briefly, as I was only born a few months before he died. I hadn't even heard of him until I was seventeen years old. But my, how my heart swells when I think of him.
And now this book of yours. Even as a child he was a protector; a warrior even. The most noble boy and the most loving big brother.
I don't consider myself to be so ardent in my affections for Chris that I consider him a hero as so many do. I was recently asked, "Do you consider Chris McCandless to be an idiot or a hero?" I said, neither. He made mistakes. He was still learning. He was still growing.
So please don't mistakenly think I'm a mere fan or enthusiast. I admit there is a little shrine for him in my mind, but I don't bow down; I only sit and look and think hard. I would like to think that Chris's story struck a chord in my heart in a unique way, but it seems there are millions like me. Oh well.
I also enjoyed your book because it was a delight to learn about your life. While Chris's strongest quality, in my opinion, was truth, I would say that yours is strength. As you said in your book (paraphrased), perhaps the one facet of your lives where you may have exceeded him is resilience. You seem to me to be both powerful and elegant. I like and admire you, too.
There was one big thing that bothered me about "Into the Wild": Chris's spirituality and the spiritual aspect of his journey. I was upset with Jon for not looking deeper into it, for being so journalistic and for focusing so much on Chris's death rather than his astounding and mysterious life.
I thought, if only I could write a book! I would do my own research, find out about what was really going on in Chris's heart and mind throughout the whole thing. I would write a book about Chris's spirituality. I would get to the bottom of it. Because of Chris's spell-binding goodbye note more than anything, I knew there were still words unspoken.
How eager, ambitious, and passionate I was! But how foolish, misguided, and arrogant as well.
In your author's note, you said, "While I have intended to represent Chris as only I believe I can, I was careful not to speak for him, because I think no one should." You were right. For me to get inside the head of someone I've never met? Impossible. I know little more of him than what I have read in your and Jon's books.
However, I think reading your book eliminated my desire to look deeper. My questions were answered as best they ever will be. I see a much fuller picture of Chris now. You are the closest to an insider's perspective as this world will ever get. I can only hope that in the next life I get to have a nice long chat with Chris himself, finally.
So, thank you. God bless.
-Maryann
P.S. Thank you for baring your own soul in your book. Thank you for being so vulnerable about your life and the lives of your family members. It was an honor and a privilege to glimpse something as intimate as your story.
I'm sorry, but I don't have your address. However, I have a few things to say.
Thank you for writing "The Wild Truth." Thank you so much. I myself am a huge fan of truth. My friends tell me I am one of the most honest people they know (sometimes too honest). So it comes as no surprise that I fell in love with your brother, Chris, when I read "Into the Wild" because of his love for truth and his absolutely genuine lifestyle. He didn't just say the truth, he lived it as he saw fit. He went to extremes to do what he believed to be the right thing. He shunned the falsities of greed and pride, and shrugged off judgments that might have been cast on him due to his life choices. I aspire to be like him in this way.
I admire and respect him immensely. Our lives overlapped very briefly, as I was only born a few months before he died. I hadn't even heard of him until I was seventeen years old. But my, how my heart swells when I think of him.
And now this book of yours. Even as a child he was a protector; a warrior even. The most noble boy and the most loving big brother.
I don't consider myself to be so ardent in my affections for Chris that I consider him a hero as so many do. I was recently asked, "Do you consider Chris McCandless to be an idiot or a hero?" I said, neither. He made mistakes. He was still learning. He was still growing.
So please don't mistakenly think I'm a mere fan or enthusiast. I admit there is a little shrine for him in my mind, but I don't bow down; I only sit and look and think hard. I would like to think that Chris's story struck a chord in my heart in a unique way, but it seems there are millions like me. Oh well.
I also enjoyed your book because it was a delight to learn about your life. While Chris's strongest quality, in my opinion, was truth, I would say that yours is strength. As you said in your book (paraphrased), perhaps the one facet of your lives where you may have exceeded him is resilience. You seem to me to be both powerful and elegant. I like and admire you, too.
There was one big thing that bothered me about "Into the Wild": Chris's spirituality and the spiritual aspect of his journey. I was upset with Jon for not looking deeper into it, for being so journalistic and for focusing so much on Chris's death rather than his astounding and mysterious life.
I thought, if only I could write a book! I would do my own research, find out about what was really going on in Chris's heart and mind throughout the whole thing. I would write a book about Chris's spirituality. I would get to the bottom of it. Because of Chris's spell-binding goodbye note more than anything, I knew there were still words unspoken.
How eager, ambitious, and passionate I was! But how foolish, misguided, and arrogant as well.
In your author's note, you said, "While I have intended to represent Chris as only I believe I can, I was careful not to speak for him, because I think no one should." You were right. For me to get inside the head of someone I've never met? Impossible. I know little more of him than what I have read in your and Jon's books.
However, I think reading your book eliminated my desire to look deeper. My questions were answered as best they ever will be. I see a much fuller picture of Chris now. You are the closest to an insider's perspective as this world will ever get. I can only hope that in the next life I get to have a nice long chat with Chris himself, finally.
So, thank you. God bless.
-Maryann
P.S. Thank you for baring your own soul in your book. Thank you for being so vulnerable about your life and the lives of your family members. It was an honor and a privilege to glimpse something as intimate as your story.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Assured Waiting
I hate to be repetitive, but this post will be similar to the one I wrote last month, Anticipation. I'm going to use a lot of the same examples to discuss the topic of waiting from a different angle. I'm sort of answering my own question, which I will probably ask again later anyway.
This morning in church we sang "All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name;" a new song with old words. Between the "spreading trophies at his feet" and "joining in the everlasting song," I became a little overwhelmed with joy at my hope of entering the most joyful place in existence, and staying there for good. For clarity, I do not mean "hope" (n.) to mean "wish;" I mean hope to mean "knowledge" or "assurance."
I thought about how I will one day "arrive." This world teaches us about all the ways to "arrive" in life. If we become happily married, we've arrived, or if we have a few beautiful and obedient children, or if our salary hits six digits, or if we reach nirvana, or if we secure our dream job... we've arrived. Happiness is ours and our life is complete. We can now sit and rest in our arrival.
But we will never arrive in this life. There is very little good here that can be sustained. As one of my clients put it, we have to keep striving just to maintain. We can't just do nothing and expect to stay where we're at. We have to work out to stay in shape. We have to clean and do construction on our city, or it will crumble in fewer years than you'd expect.
Our true arrival will come, if we've accepted Christ, when we die here.
Something must die before we can move on to a better life. New life begins at birth, right? No, first a baby must serve 9 months' time in the enclosed world of its mother. It will soon move onto a bigger, better, freer world, but at the cost of the life of, well, the placenta. (Hopefully that's not too graphic for my gentlemen readers. Please understand I'm trying to be more than theoretical.)
In "Tortured for Christ," Richard Wurmbrand describes an analogy for convincing someone that there is a life beyond this one, saying that if an infant in the womb had understanding and you could have a conversation with it, you could tell it that there was a life beyond the womb of its mother, and it may not believe you. But if it questioned the growth of its muscles, lungs, etc., which it does not need in the womb, it would realize that they grow in preparation for the next life. Similarly, we grow in wisdom and understanding for the duration of our lives on earth, but for what? We will need them in our next life. We do not grow them only to die with little chance to use them once they are mature.
But that is not my point. My point is that there is real assurance in salvation, in arriving, in a joyful existence after graduating from this laborious one. What it will look like, I wish I knew. Your presents under the Christmas tree hold unknown treasures, but treasures nonetheless, and they have your name on them. You cannot have them yet, but they are already yours. My client who will soon be able to move into a low-income apartment has one with her name on it, but she can't move in until the t's are crossed and the i's are dotted. But it's hers. A virgin who is engaged to be married does not yet know the treasures of intimacy with her husband, but she must only wait before enjoying them. He has already sealed his devotion; the treasures, yet unopened, are hers.
I ate lunch while writing this. I started this post pretty hungry, wrote the second and third paragraphs while cooking lunch, and spent the rest of this post eating and finishing my food. But I noticed that my hunger slowly started to disappear while I was cooking and even when I had the warm and savory meal sitting in front of me, before I took my first bite. The knowledge itself that fullness that was coming for me helped that fullness to happen. I began to be satisfied simply by knowing that I would soon be satisfied.
And that is what I must remember during the pain and trials of life on Planet Earth.
God bless.
This morning in church we sang "All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name;" a new song with old words. Between the "spreading trophies at his feet" and "joining in the everlasting song," I became a little overwhelmed with joy at my hope of entering the most joyful place in existence, and staying there for good. For clarity, I do not mean "hope" (n.) to mean "wish;" I mean hope to mean "knowledge" or "assurance."
I thought about how I will one day "arrive." This world teaches us about all the ways to "arrive" in life. If we become happily married, we've arrived, or if we have a few beautiful and obedient children, or if our salary hits six digits, or if we reach nirvana, or if we secure our dream job... we've arrived. Happiness is ours and our life is complete. We can now sit and rest in our arrival.
But we will never arrive in this life. There is very little good here that can be sustained. As one of my clients put it, we have to keep striving just to maintain. We can't just do nothing and expect to stay where we're at. We have to work out to stay in shape. We have to clean and do construction on our city, or it will crumble in fewer years than you'd expect.
Our true arrival will come, if we've accepted Christ, when we die here.
Something must die before we can move on to a better life. New life begins at birth, right? No, first a baby must serve 9 months' time in the enclosed world of its mother. It will soon move onto a bigger, better, freer world, but at the cost of the life of, well, the placenta. (Hopefully that's not too graphic for my gentlemen readers. Please understand I'm trying to be more than theoretical.)
In "Tortured for Christ," Richard Wurmbrand describes an analogy for convincing someone that there is a life beyond this one, saying that if an infant in the womb had understanding and you could have a conversation with it, you could tell it that there was a life beyond the womb of its mother, and it may not believe you. But if it questioned the growth of its muscles, lungs, etc., which it does not need in the womb, it would realize that they grow in preparation for the next life. Similarly, we grow in wisdom and understanding for the duration of our lives on earth, but for what? We will need them in our next life. We do not grow them only to die with little chance to use them once they are mature.
But that is not my point. My point is that there is real assurance in salvation, in arriving, in a joyful existence after graduating from this laborious one. What it will look like, I wish I knew. Your presents under the Christmas tree hold unknown treasures, but treasures nonetheless, and they have your name on them. You cannot have them yet, but they are already yours. My client who will soon be able to move into a low-income apartment has one with her name on it, but she can't move in until the t's are crossed and the i's are dotted. But it's hers. A virgin who is engaged to be married does not yet know the treasures of intimacy with her husband, but she must only wait before enjoying them. He has already sealed his devotion; the treasures, yet unopened, are hers.
I ate lunch while writing this. I started this post pretty hungry, wrote the second and third paragraphs while cooking lunch, and spent the rest of this post eating and finishing my food. But I noticed that my hunger slowly started to disappear while I was cooking and even when I had the warm and savory meal sitting in front of me, before I took my first bite. The knowledge itself that fullness that was coming for me helped that fullness to happen. I began to be satisfied simply by knowing that I would soon be satisfied.
And that is what I must remember during the pain and trials of life on Planet Earth.
God bless.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Pooping Catzzzz
Lexi suggested I write about "catzzzz."
I have a problem with this for two reasons:
1) I don't like cats. In fact, I rather detest them.
2) "catzzzz" is not a logical way to pronounce "cats" because the word "cat" ends with the unvoiced letter, meaning that, because of the way English works, the "s" at the end will actually sound like an "s," because "s" is also unvoiced. This is in contrast to "dogs," which, when spoken, really sounds like "dogz" because the "g" at the end of the word "dog" is voiced, and therefore so is the "s," which actually turns into the "z" sound rather than the "s" sound. I reiterate: "catzzzz" does not make pronunciational sense.
Yesterday I overheard my roommate Skyping with her friend. I wasn't meaning to eavesdrop but it accidentally happened a little. She was telling her friend about how her old, decrepit cat who lives with her parents got into the habit of pooping all over the house, apparently because she didn't feel like climbing down the stairs to her litter box.
I wish I knew how to thank my landlord for not allowing pets in our house. He is a saint for making my roommate's cat stay at her parents'. (This policy also wisely prevents me from getting a dog, which I want, but am just not ready to take care of.)
Then today, when I was talking to Lexi on the phone, I heard her shriek as she watched her roommate's cat poop on the floor. It just...pooped on the floor. And that, my friends, is not okay.
Conclusion: catzzzz are bad and I should not have written about them.
But Lexi is still my friend for some reason.
God bless.
I have a problem with this for two reasons:
1) I don't like cats. In fact, I rather detest them.
2) "catzzzz" is not a logical way to pronounce "cats" because the word "cat" ends with the unvoiced letter, meaning that, because of the way English works, the "s" at the end will actually sound like an "s," because "s" is also unvoiced. This is in contrast to "dogs," which, when spoken, really sounds like "dogz" because the "g" at the end of the word "dog" is voiced, and therefore so is the "s," which actually turns into the "z" sound rather than the "s" sound. I reiterate: "catzzzz" does not make pronunciational sense.
Yesterday I overheard my roommate Skyping with her friend. I wasn't meaning to eavesdrop but it accidentally happened a little. She was telling her friend about how her old, decrepit cat who lives with her parents got into the habit of pooping all over the house, apparently because she didn't feel like climbing down the stairs to her litter box.
I wish I knew how to thank my landlord for not allowing pets in our house. He is a saint for making my roommate's cat stay at her parents'. (This policy also wisely prevents me from getting a dog, which I want, but am just not ready to take care of.)
Then today, when I was talking to Lexi on the phone, I heard her shriek as she watched her roommate's cat poop on the floor. It just...pooped on the floor. And that, my friends, is not okay.
Conclusion: catzzzz are bad and I should not have written about them.
But Lexi is still my friend for some reason.
God bless.
Crappy Job
Lately I have been feeling like I am doing a pretty crappy job at just about everything I do. I feel guilty and ashamed about it.
For example, at my work, I feel that I have failed several of my clients lately. I got angry and lost my patience with one of my clients who is extremely mentally unstable. I failed to pick up on the fact that one of my clients is much more depressed than normal. (In fact, while I am otherwise very well designed, even created, for the field of mental health, I lack one important piece: the ability to pick up on subtle social cues.) I have not visited my clients that are in the hospital. I have not gotten my paperwork done and am far behind in productivity. I have been unable to help a client who is homeless and hungry.
The other night I was babysitting a one-year-old and he fell and hit his head. I wasn't able to grab him in time. I left the parents with a baby with a bump on his head, and with a very messy house.
I regularly fail my roommates when it comes to patience for their shortcomings and even their innocent quirks. I also fail to do my chores a lot of the time.
I haven't had a decent workout in months and I am gaining weight slowly but surely.
I haven't been writing much.
I committed to go a year without dating but I still struggle to keep this covenant in my mind, i.e. thinking about who I would like to date, longing for past relationships (even the ones that I know I should never have been in in the first place), daydreaming about my future husband, putting marriage on a pedestal. When my eyes are opened to these recurring thoughts, I remember how bad I am at fixing this part of my life on my own and how far I still have to go.
I have skipped my Bible-reading for a number of days now.
I have not practiced my instrument despite the pressure of being in a college orchestra.
It seems like the only area of my life I have been excelling in lately is cooking. For some reason I have been a kitchen magician for the last week or so, resulting in lots of yummy leftovers to save time and money later. But even then, I wonder about the fact that I am probably just making my weight gain worse, and doing a disservice to my roommates by crowding the refrigerator.
I suppose it's good to be reminded that I am a crappy human being who does a crappy job at just about everything.
Thank God for amazing grace.
God bless.
For example, at my work, I feel that I have failed several of my clients lately. I got angry and lost my patience with one of my clients who is extremely mentally unstable. I failed to pick up on the fact that one of my clients is much more depressed than normal. (In fact, while I am otherwise very well designed, even created, for the field of mental health, I lack one important piece: the ability to pick up on subtle social cues.) I have not visited my clients that are in the hospital. I have not gotten my paperwork done and am far behind in productivity. I have been unable to help a client who is homeless and hungry.
The other night I was babysitting a one-year-old and he fell and hit his head. I wasn't able to grab him in time. I left the parents with a baby with a bump on his head, and with a very messy house.
I regularly fail my roommates when it comes to patience for their shortcomings and even their innocent quirks. I also fail to do my chores a lot of the time.
I haven't had a decent workout in months and I am gaining weight slowly but surely.
I haven't been writing much.
I committed to go a year without dating but I still struggle to keep this covenant in my mind, i.e. thinking about who I would like to date, longing for past relationships (even the ones that I know I should never have been in in the first place), daydreaming about my future husband, putting marriage on a pedestal. When my eyes are opened to these recurring thoughts, I remember how bad I am at fixing this part of my life on my own and how far I still have to go.
I have skipped my Bible-reading for a number of days now.
I have not practiced my instrument despite the pressure of being in a college orchestra.
It seems like the only area of my life I have been excelling in lately is cooking. For some reason I have been a kitchen magician for the last week or so, resulting in lots of yummy leftovers to save time and money later. But even then, I wonder about the fact that I am probably just making my weight gain worse, and doing a disservice to my roommates by crowding the refrigerator.
I suppose it's good to be reminded that I am a crappy human being who does a crappy job at just about everything.
Thank God for amazing grace.
God bless.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
A Man More
I thought about writing this as a sonnet, but decided against it. What do you think? Should I rewrite it as one?
~~~
If I saw a man more handsome than you,
My eyes would crust over and blindness
Would afflict me forever.
If I heard a man sing more sweetly than you,
I could never pull myself away,
And would beg for him to continue eternally.
If I spoke with a man more intelligent than you,
My brain would combust, or maybe melt,
And trickle out my ears onto my toes.
If I danced with a man more swift than you,
The air beneath my feet would lift me up
And away into the clouds, or ceiling, depending.
If I beheld the strength of a man more strong than you,
My feminist empowerment would shrivel
And I would faint, cheeks flushed.
If I observed a man more upright than you,
I would constantly follow at his heels
As his puppy-dog and disciple.
If indeed a man exists more wonderful than you,
More wonderful in any or every way,
He would surely be entirely uninterested in me.
~~~
God bless.
~~~
If I saw a man more handsome than you,
My eyes would crust over and blindness
Would afflict me forever.
If I heard a man sing more sweetly than you,
I could never pull myself away,
And would beg for him to continue eternally.
If I spoke with a man more intelligent than you,
My brain would combust, or maybe melt,
And trickle out my ears onto my toes.
If I danced with a man more swift than you,
The air beneath my feet would lift me up
And away into the clouds, or ceiling, depending.
If I beheld the strength of a man more strong than you,
My feminist empowerment would shrivel
And I would faint, cheeks flushed.
If I observed a man more upright than you,
I would constantly follow at his heels
As his puppy-dog and disciple.
If indeed a man exists more wonderful than you,
More wonderful in any or every way,
He would surely be entirely uninterested in me.
~~~
God bless.
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