Unfinished.

It is such an idyllic place. Just a few short yards away from all that is hectic and hurried, all that pushes life along at a frantic pace. As I sit I can hear the cars rushing past. But most of the time I am unaware of the road so close beside me. I have turned off of it, gently bumped down the gravel and meandered down the path to a place of rest.

            I wish I could take you there, to this place so dear to me. I wish my words could take you there. A bench, a single lone bench, sitting small and content beneath the shade of a grandfather tree. I hope you know what I mean by a grandfather tree. I hope you have experienced being nestled in the crook of a tree so ancient. Felt his comfort, felt his history, felt the stories that live within him.

            Perhaps it is merely a byproduct of a childhood lived beneath the spreading arms of venerable old oaks and joyful young birches, perhaps I simply read too many stories of Ents and Nyads, but I have something of a love affair with trees. I still believe there is something magical about them, still believe they hold old souls, and this is true of this particular old oak. As I rest my warm back against his tough skin, I feel his presence like a friend.

            As I climb the hill I see him, see the bench there, and my feet move a little faster. The water comes into view. I sink onto the bench, letting my backpack fall with a thud at my feet. And I simply sit. I sit for a moment, not thinking, but simply being. Clouds scud across the sky. Wind plays with the water, teasing it as it joyfully responds. The grandfather tree stretches his arms to bathe me in speckled light filtered through his leaves. I lie on my back and gaze at the world through his branches, hearing the screeching calls of birds.

            The cars rush past but here I am alone. Alone with my thoughts, with the life built up inside me, with the stories that are longing to be told. Stories have life. They have power, personality, and are as every-changing as the seasons. Why they have chosen to take up residence in my heart, I am not always entirely sure, but they are there and they cry to be told. And it seems they lead me to this place.

            A story is, in many ways, unmanageable. It is as recalcitrant as a child and when it cries to be told it must be told now, in a moment. Sometimes I wait patiently for hours, hoping the story will present itself to me and it never does. But perhaps that is the life of a writer. Hoping for a moment of inspiration, waiting for words to weave themselves into sentences and stories that will change the one who writes them. The one who hears the call and is unable to refuse.

            It is an unspeakable gift, the call of words, of paragraphs and synonyms. Of this gift of language to share the human experience, to let loose the stories living around us, within us. To discover your own soul written on a page. To deny such a call is to live half alive, to somehow disregard the deepest part of yourself.

            I discover the deepest parts of my heart on the page, I understand my own story as I write. And this place, this sunshine and shelter, this gentle breeze and towering branches, this means so much more than escape. I come here to write. I am drawn here, called here to listen to the cry of my heart. To understand myself.

            I come here to write. I write, not to forget, but to reflect. Not to escape but to experience. It is an escape that allows me to return to the real world. And every time I feel my heart sick, joyful, wrenched, overcome, peaceful, every time I hear my heart, I come here. To this place of expressing all that is within me.

           

            The seasons are changing now. The tree is naked, stripped of his leaves. Still he is majestic, but more like an old man, bent and hunched, a shadow of his former strength. The air is too cold to spend the days there. Despite my best intentions, I cannot stay there long without the cold South Dakota air causing me to shiver and soon shake. I cannot type, my fingers slowly become numb.

            And in many ways, it seems like that place is gone. Summer has faded, the sunshine has largely gone, hidden beneath the hooded gaze of grey November clouds. It seems to me that time has flown away with the geese that used to float on the water. My escape has vanished and in its place has come responsibility, deadlines, grades, and constant stress. And in many ways, it seems the sunshine has faded to grey. Freedom, sunshine, joy, and escape, these things have faded. And the naked tree, stretching his arms to the sky, no longer seems to be welcoming me. He simply seems unutterably sad.

             I go there now and the cold seeps into my bones. Things no longer seem so simple. Doubt creeps in like the cold and I wonder if this place is all I thought it was. If this place, this sacred spot, this moment of refuge, really causes me to understand myself. Does it really produce anything of meaning? This escape drains me more than it fills me. And I pick up my bag, trudge down the path, and drive slowly away. Trying to remember the sunshine. Forget the image of his naked arms stretching to the sky, begging for a moment of sunshine, of warmth. Of comfort and reassurance. 

Doubts

Sometimes it’s ridiculously hard to be new. Sometimes it seems impossible to be new, actually. But that’s when you have to stop, turn off the tv, curl up, and simply sit in silence for a moment. Just listen to your own breathing and the sound of your fingers clicking merrily along on the keyboard. I have always loved that sound. The furious typing that signifies a burst of inspiration, a flow of pure self flowing from my fingertips. Sometimes I get distracted from my own writing by the faint image of my own hands reflected in the screen. It’s a beautiful motion. Fluid. Easy. Something it would seem I am meant to do.

After all, how many people live for the sound of a keyboard clicking? For the sound of a pen scratching across the page? How many people fall in love with the fluid lines of ink or the smell of paper? How many people long to write, simply to see the lines form on the page, regardless of what words end up coming out? I certainly don’t know anyone else quite like me. Who hears words, who has ideas, who experiences life, and cannot help but write about it. Who is seemingly paralyzed until she expresses something deep within. Who doesn’t know her own soul until she has splashed it across a page.

And yet writers are a dime a dozen, right? Jobless hipsters, holed up in coffee shops with fingerless gloves to keep their frantic fingers warm, writing poetry and prose. It’s all obscure, it’s all poetic, all romantic, all breaking the mold only to fall conveniently into another… and it all simply seems to add to white noise. After all, what is one more blog? What is 1559 page views out of an entire world full of people? Out of countless blogs, countless souls poured out, countless thoughts expounded upon, countless new ideas endlessly repeated, what does it really mean?

I’ve thought since I was a little girl that I was meant to do something great. I couldn’t tell you why that is. Perhaps because of my life verse, given to me when I was born the youngest child in a clan of six. “I wasn’t planned. I wasn’t expected. And for one terrible moment, I’m sure my parents, only beginning to adjust to “normal” life after finally leaving the hospital with their last daughter, thought, “Why, God? Why now?” I was the last thing on their minds and the last thing they thought they needed, I’m sure.

But they knew God knew what He was doing. They trust Him like no one I have ever known, and they chose to name me Esther and give me a verse that would define my life. “Who knows but that you have come to the palace for such a time as this?” For such a time as this. For a time with hospital stays, doctor’s appointments, a terrifying diagnosis, an upturned life. For a time when we don’t understand. That is what I was born for.

Growing up I was constantly assured that God knew what He was doing when He gave me to my parents. I don’t think I ever realized until right now how incredible such assurances are, and how formative they were in a young girl’s life. I adopted that as an identity – I adopted Esther as my identity. Someone created for a purpose, for a reason. For such a time as this. And from my child’s mind came the idea that my whole life would be that way. That somehow, someway, I would be remembered. I would be important. That I would do something great. For such a time as this.

I first came to doubt that in college. And I was set free from what made me doubt. But now I return to that concept.. and I wonder.. is it true? When you are a child, it is simple to say you will do something great. You have absolutely no idea what or how, nor any concept of how difficult such a thing may be. You simply accept it, rest in it. Rejoice in it. But when you become an adult, when the date of your graduation is fast approaching, when you understand even what seems an infinitesimally small piece of the world, it seems utterly impossible. And you begin to doubt.

And then you realize you actually have a dream. That, my friends, is when things become truly terrifying, when shit gets real, and when you wonder what in the world seven-year-old you was thinking. Because you see, you have a passion, you have a dream. You have a concrete picture in your head of the place you want to be, of the great thing you want to achieve, of the dream you want to see realized, and it fills you with fear. Because, quite simply, what if you don’t reach it? What if, God forbid, you simply can’t reach it? What if somehow you were horrible, tragically wrong about yourself and you were never meant for greatness? What if you were never meant for anything at all?

What if this thing you love, this thing your heart beats for, what if, well…. I hate to break it to you…. But you’re not actually that good. You’ll never get there, kid. You might as well give up now, accept reality, and move on. It’s a tragic scenario, but I think on some level we can all relate. We all know that kid in high school who thinks he’s going to the NFL. And everyone else is painfully aware of the fact that he will never. Ever. Get there. Not for lack of effort, not for lack of drive or passion, but simply for lack of talent. The artist who pours her soul into her art and well… honey… it’s just not that great. The musician who practices six hours a day and well… I’m glad you worked hard. You did your best. But the scholarship’s going to this kid over here who’s been playing since he was three years old.

We all know these stories. We all think these stories are sad, but, if we were honest with ourselves, completely justified. Despite what those motivational posters told us in high school, we can’t do everything we want to do. We can’t realize all our dreams. We can’t be everything we want to be. For a select few, their dreams will be realized. They will achieve their highest goal. But for most of us, we will have to settle for something other than what we dreamed of. And we will simply have to learn to deal with that. It’s better than being delusional, right? Better than being that guy who still thinks his novel will get published, better than that girl who still thinks the art gallery’s going to call her any day for a show. Oh… honey… sorry. Better luck next time.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s what people think of me when I write. If they think, Oh… honey… that’s nice. If they hear me speak about being a writer and think, Yeah, cause that’ll actually happen. Have fun working in a coffee shop the rest of your life. If they think that all I write is emotional fluff with no value. If it’s simply the ramblings of a girl who can’t deal with her ex or who is far too dramatic about, well… everything. And I wonder these things.. and I begin to doubt.

Last Friday was hard. I put myself out there with my writing, and, well, got put back in my place. I cried. I complained. I stopped talking about it. And for all practical purposes, I got over it. But it won’t stop coming back. It won’t stop intruding on my thoughts. What if all I write really is just fluff? Just personal, emotional, un-theological, un-brilliant, un-meaningful fluff that will only ever appeal to teenage girls who just broke up with their exes? It’s a terrible thought, to be sure. But one that has been constantly working its way through my brain lately. Living there like a parasite.

I used to think God sort of, well, wrote through me. That He was the source of my inspiration, that He directed my stories. That when the words seemed to flow and I would come away with a product even I couldn’t have predicted.. that was all Him. And it made it all seem beautiful. It made the dream seem possible. It made me confident. But then there comes the moment when your professor tells you that you simply said what you wanted to say and didn’t actually exegete the text you were supposed to exegete and while it’s all true it’s not theologically sound….. sigh. Then you begin to wonder about things.

And so I’ve been doing a lot of wondering about things. And that’s where this all started I guess. Wondering. Wondering how to be new. Wondering what the truth is in all this wondering. Wandering. I wonder as I wander? Yep. That may in fact describe my life at the moment.

But here’s the thing about Friday, about the moment that instigated all this doubt. I struggled greatly writing that sermon. I struggled because I felt there was a story that I needed to tell. There were words that needed to be said, and in moments of reflection and prayer, they were the words that wrote themselves. I loved those words. And I knew, deep down, they probably weren’t going to get me a very good grade. I knew that. I even wrote that. But I chose to tell the story rather than write for a grade. And then I still expected to get the grade. I wanted the best of both worlds rather than accepting the consequences of my own decision.

So maybe it wasn’t the disaster I thought it was. Maybe it was exactly what needed to happen. Maybe someone needed the words I spoke, Maybe I needed the words I spoke. Maybe I simply needed to let go of a grade. I guess the question is, will I trust?

And maybe my writings aren’t overly dramatic ramblings. Maybe that’s what I do every time I have meltdowns and my writing is, in fact, the way I bring logic and truth and wisdom back into my life. Maybe it’s organizing the chaos, sorting through the emotions, pouring out the drama. Maybe it’s facing my real, ugly, pathetic self, and realizing I can be new.

And yes, maybe 1559 page views, in comparison to the entire world, the entire blogosphere, in comparison to the thousands, millions, even billions of words penned every day, every moment, is nothing. Perhaps it is utterly insignificant. But that fact is, I know that people have been affected by my words. They have caused people to stop, to pause, to wonder about their lives and how they live. To contemplate how to live better. To laugh, to cry. To actually shed tears. My words. MY words, the inspiration pouring through me, has caused people to weep.

They may in fact be helping to change lives. To permanently alter the lives of those around me. To fill a need, to heal a wound, to give closure to a question long asked and never answered. Maybe it’s just me that they’re changing. But I have to think that’s worth it. I have to think that a God who knows the number of hairs on my head, who rejoices over one lost sinner who has been found… rejoices when this lost sinner gets a little more found. When this broken soul gets a little more healed. A little more new.

So I will continue to write. Perhaps it is foolishness. But perhaps in the hands of God the foolishness of this world will be used to shame the wise. Perhaps the heartfelt outpouring of my one little soul will be used to change the world. Perhaps it will only be used to change me. Either way. I’ll continue to write. To write in faith, in continuing faith that it is worth it. That I am worth it. That my words are worth it. That somehow, someway, even if I never see it or understand it, my words will be used for great things.

Who knows? Perhaps they are needed for such a time as this. 

Gomer

Gomer

            It is a moment of utter betrayal. Betrayal of the deepest kind, I think. We are all betrayed in various ways and by various people, by varying degrees of importance and impact. But this one cuts to the core of who we are.

            Our parents do not choose us, nor we them. And so while there is a sense of obligation there, a very real sense of responsibility and of inherent love despite the circumstances, still they were never given a choice. And perhaps given the choice many of us would choose another.

            But this person, this person in front of me, this person chose me. He picked me out from among the crowd and said, with words and with actions, that he had chosen me. Chosen me above all others. Chosen the me he knew and understood, the one he perceived from afar and the one he grew to intimately know.

            I think perhaps that the beauty of love is in being fully known and yet fully loved. In a very real and even tangible way that is what we are all seeking, whether or not we realize it. It is the silent motivator behind so many of our actions. Our lives are an endless struggle of trying to prove we are indeed worth it. We are worth choosing. Worth loving. That in this seemingly endless world full of skinny bodies and beautiful faces, we still rank. That to someone we may even be first.

            We don’t like to admit that. Our pride, our perceived confidence, even our American independence rebels against the concept that we may actually need another’s approval, another’s affirmation, in order to be whole. And so we tell ourselves that we don’t need anyone’s approval. But our actions belie our words. We crave affirmation like a drug.

            One taste is enough, enough to make us crave more. To lead us to base our lives off one more text. One more compliment. Hell, one more smiley face. To analyze every word spoken, every tone, real or imagined, and every glance. Every interaction becomes a contest, a competition, something to be ranked and scored. If by some chance we happen to outscore the people around us, we are accepted. If we do not, well, there’s always next time.

            It is a tiring thing, this way of living. If indeed it can be called living. I think something within us rebels against this form of existence. Something within us knows we were not meant to live this way. Well, of course it does. It is the same piece that craves to be fulfilled. It is what drives us to do these insane things. In fact, it would seem our actions are the very definition of insane as we try the same thing over, and over… and over. And nothing ever changes.

            But the problem is that we know no other form of existence. We do not understand how to live, and so we continue to simply get by. To cope. To make it through one more day.

            Until the day that we find the one thing that changes it all. The one thing that transforms our days and gives us a reason to wake up in the morning. And it would seem for a moment that life is indeed a fairy tale, a chick flick, a romance worthy of immortalizing for all to remember. For as much as we hold ourselves above them, and as much as we roll our eyes and poke self-righteous holes in the paper thin veneer of Hollywood love stories, deep down I think we all want that. Or at least a part of that. At least the sex. At least the comfort. At least the security. At least the friendship.

            Maybe that’s just a girl thing.

            But for us, when you wake up and realize there is someone out there who has chosen you, who sends you flowers, opens doors, gives compliments, takes you on dates, tells you you’re beautiful, and generally bends over backwards in order to prove to you that he is worth it, life seems a little brighter. And perhaps that is because in his quest to prove he’s worth your time and attention, you’ve learned that you’re worth his. You’re worth it. Worth the trouble and the money and the effort. Worth thinking about and investing in. Worth… it?

            Such a simple word. I haven’t the slightest clue what it is, but I sure as hell know we’re all basing our lives around that one ambiguous, unhelpful, agonizing, yet somehow all-important word. Maybe part of the problem is that we have no idea what we’re searching so desperately for. Just food for thought.

            So anyway. Whatever it is, when we think we’ve found it, life changes. And we feel great because someone else is making us feel great and the second they stop making us feel great life crashes down around us and we have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing or what we’re going to do next and life continues at its frantic pace and we simply don’t know what to do with ourselves.

            Yes, I did just type that in one breath. It was difficult.

            Basically, life falls apart.

            And yes, I am being incredibly snarky. But the truth is, that moment doesn’t feel funny. It doesn’t feel entertaining. It feels as if we’ve been punched in the stomach by Mike Tyson, like our insides just ran away to join the circus, like our heart got ripped out Indiana Jones-style and like our lungs decided to magically turn into cement. It doesn’t feel witty and entertaining, complete with pop-culture references from the 1980s. It just feels like our lifeblood drained from our days and we cannot go on.

            Because we’re not chosen anymore. It seems simplistic, but perhaps that’s why we have such a problem with rejection. We can’t stand to be rejected because it implies we’re not chosen. We’re not chosen above anyone else. We’re quite specifically chosen below someone else. And we’re not worth it anymore. To the person who mattered most, to the person we staked our identity in, we’re not worth it anymore.

            I must believe that on some level, no matter how small or seemingly significant, we have all felt that feeling. We have all experienced the pain of rejection, of being passed over, of being left behind in favor of someone newer, someone better. Someone better than we are. It is the iconic picture of the kid picked last for a team, of a young innocent face crestfallen because at that moment it is no longer about sport. It is about purpose, value, and self. And that moment screams into a young life that you are purposeless, valueless, and your self, frankly isn’t worth that much.

            We don’t like to relive those moments, but for a moment let’s go back there. Let’s return to the darkest scenes of our lives, the moment when we heard the words that should never, ever be said. What do you mean there’s someone else? What do you fucking mean there’s been someone else?

            And for a moment you curl into a ball on the floor.

            You scream, you react, you lash out. You hide behind your anger.

            You are frozen. Unable to process.

            Something is wrong. Something is deeply, fundamentally wrong.

            This was never meant to happen.

            I know. It’s hard to go there. We live our lives trying to push down those feelings, trying to explain why it was there fault, trying to piece together our shattered self-esteem and convince ourselves that they never mattered anyway. But the truth is, they did matter. They mattered more than almost anyone else. That’s why it hurts so much.

            I read a story recently about a husband whose wife had cheated on him. And not just once, not just out of anger, not in any way that leaves room for compassion, for seeing her side. But the kind of story that rips your heart out for him, that makes you wonder how he’s going to survive. It is the kind of story that almost requires empathy, and at the least leaves no room for anything but the deepest of pity and sympathy.

            It’s heart-breaking to read, really. He just wants her back. He just wants her to come home, to love him again. He’s angry. Really angry. He said some terrible things, but really, you can understand. She abandoned him without a thought for anyone who would have her. It wasn’t even like she was unhappy and abused so she went and found someone who would treat her better. She couldn’t have been treated better. Everything she could ever possibly want or need he gave her. Lacking nothing, she would not acknowledge him. Quite simply, no matter what he did, he was never enough.

            So he writes this story, and he just pours out his heart. He says things like You don’t deserve to be my wife anymore. You’re a whore, you’re throwing yourself at these people, people who don’t love you, people who are so clearly only using you. You’re running around trying to find completion when all you need is to return to my arms. I gave you absolutely everything I had!

            And it’s like you can hear his heart breaking reading it. It’s as if you’re peering into the deepest most intimate moments between lovers, a bedroom argument. Yet she’s not even there. She’s still gone, still doesn’t care. And so he’s left there, fighting with himself, fighting with reality, with the truth. Reality is, she’s gone. She’s been unfaithful and she doesn’t deserve to be his wife anymore, quite simply. If we’re talking about fairness, about justice, about the reaction we all crave when something like this happens to us or to someone we love, she deserves to be treated the same way.

            Fairness. It’s only fair. You did this. So you get to experience it. We appeal to fairness a lot, don’t we. And while it may seem he’s being vindictive by wishing her to be exposed for what she is, while it may seem he is being cruel, truly he is only being fair. He didn’t deserve this. But she did it anyway.

            So he fights with himself. Pacing back and forth, hands in hair, gesticulating. Expressive hands. Hands that held hers. Hands that ran through her hair, gently caressed her back. He gazes at those hands now, as he sits on the edge of the bed that was once theirs. But then he is too weak and they fall between his knees as he slumps, no longer able to think about it all. She deserves to be thrown out, forgotten. After all, she was no good for him. All she did was hurt him.

            That’s the smart thing to do. The wise thing, even. That’s what all his friends would tell him to do. Get out. Move on. Do what’s right for you.

            But he doesn’t. He doesn’t do what’s right for him. Doesn’t do what’s right, fair, smart, wise. He has made his decision. Stands, a gentle resolve in his eyes.

            I will win her back. I will begin again. I will prove to her my love.

            My love that never ceased. I will prove it to her once again.

            And I’m sitting here reading this and I’m thinking, Dude, what are you doing? Why the hell would you put yourself through that one more time? She’s not worth it!

           

            Wait. What? She’s not worth it? We spend our lives trying to prove that we are indeed worth it. But somehow we are qualified to say when someone else is worth it? To him she is worth it. And frankly, that’s all that matters. He doesn’t give a shit what you think. Because to him, she will always be worth it. No matter what. Regardless of what she does.

            Why? Because he’s the one who gave her worth. His love bestowed on her gives her new worth. Because he’s God, and the unfaithful wife is all of humanity, all of the creatures he poured life into out of the riches of his unending love. We are the outpouring of his love, the overflow of love that could not be contained. We were made to bask in the light of that love, forever, and ever, and ever. For all of time.

            And we didn’t choose that.

            One chose to step away, to step into darkness. And since then we have all chosen the same way. To live in darkness. To chase other lovers. To reject perfect love. To place all of our value in the lives of capricious individuals just like us who, at the drop of a hat will declare, “She’s not worth it.” To give God the feeling of having his heart ripped out, Indiana Jones-style. To, every moment of every day, a million times over, give him the phone call that says, “There’s someone else.”

            You’re just not enough for me.

            And so he paces up and down, gazing at his hands. He gives up, sighs, and rests his head against the wall for a moment, gathering himself. We don’t deserve his love. We’ve done nothing but run away, nothing but betray.

            But he sighs once more and says, “I will start over. I will begin again. I will prove to her my love.”

            She’s worth it to me.

Italian Leather

I am currently in an advanced comp class. And as a result of my return to student-hood, I will probably mostly be posting things that I am forced to write as opposed to my musings.

Oh bother. 

Anyway. This is a new piece for advanced comp. 

A leather jacket. Just a jacket. The sky was overcast, a sheet of grey, spitting rain. That must have been why he chose to wear it. He could not have known its effect. It’s remarkable what the brain remembers. A thousand pictures, frozen in the mind. The so-called important things forgotten and seemingly meaningless details taking root, forming the stories of our past. Forming the moments upon which our lives turn, marking the vital transitions.

            Just an Italian leather jacket, an impulse buy as a tourist in Florence. Haggled over in the bustling streets, teeming with sight-seers from across the globe, it had made its way to America via the oft-searched suitcase of a college student and now represented every good moment of a relationship. As he walked toward me that day, it seemed every stitch screamed of a rare treasured moment. The smell of leather became every embrace, every moment of pixie nose buried in a strong chest. A shoulder that promised to always be there. Could I really give that up?

            I had finally made up my mind that day. A ticket had been given away, independence had been seized, and that window of opportunity had become the gateway to a life of freedom. But as the grey clouds looked on, I could feel myself slipping from brave independence. I could feel myself shrink beneath the sky. Shrink beneath his smug smile. My hands begin to twist.

            Before that moment I had never understood what it meant to wring one’s hands. It always struck me as a terribly strange and awkward phrase. But now I will never find a more apt comparison. My fingers and hands twisted like a dishrag, the latent emotion, the struggle so long dormant was finding its first outlet, slowly releasing from the place I had buried it for so long. My feet shift. He comes closer.

            It really couldn’t have been that bad. Things could have been worse. And things can always be better. It just needs more time. More moments just like this, when I fade beneath that smile and sink back into familiarity. When we talk it out once more and come to the same conclusions we have always reached. When things get better for a week. A day. A moment. A single moment of happiness, of joy. Of forgetting the miserable reality that had defined full years of life. Of hope. And that moment is walking towards me in the form of a leather jacket.

            “Where do you want to go?” He’s smiling down at me now. Grinning. Knowing he’s off the hook. Knowing my spark of independence was just that, an instant of light destined to give way to darkness. And I return his gaze in silence, unable to form a word, shape a phrase. Once again unable to express the emotions living inside of me.

            “Do you want to go to Paris? We’ll go. I’ll take you there. We’ll hop on a plane tonight. Ill take you anywhere you want to go.” Those words were meant to continue the charade, to reinforce the uncertainty caused by something as simple as that leather jacket. To remind me of all the good, of all the sweet words, of all the hopes for change. For a happy future.

            But with those words, a spell was broken. And all I could think was Yes, let’s fly to Paris. Let’s buy more things to make us forget. To represent one happy moment. To convince ourselves we are ok, we are happy. Let’s live for that moment of fantasy and forget reality. Forget the tears, the abuse, the reality of a life lived in misery. My hands drop and I begin to rise. My shoulders square. The sky no longer hangs over me. I stand up under it. And I stand up to him.

            “I can’t do this anymore.” 

For my Parents

I packed a box today.

And as I did I was reminded of a reality that’s been slowly sinking in over the summer.

I will, in all likelihood, never live with my parents for any extended amount of time ever again.

I have said some form of that phrase in numerous conversations and varying emotions. It has been said with excitement, happy that I am spreading my proverbial wings and embarking onto what must inevitably be the next chapter of my life. But it has also been said with stark terror, laced with panic as I consider leaving the shelter of the nest for the last and most permanent time.

I’m such a homebody. When I broke up with my boyfriend last fall, I could be found curled up on my parents’ couch, waiting for them to come home on a Saturday night. And my ex knew exactly where to find me. He knew that, in my most vulnerable moment, I just wanted my parents.

I didn’t intend to go to school in my hometown, just a short fifteen minutes from my parents, but I did. And I loved it. They kept me well-supplied with food, fixed my car, moved me in and out each spring and fall, and kept me afloat in difficult times. As I said, it was to home that I turned when I ended the most difficult relationship of my life. They listened, encouraged, protected, and rebuilt what had been so broken in me.

I called my mom once when it was all simply too much and I just needed to hear her voice. During the course of the conversation, I shared a lot of things about my ex relationship that I had previously hidden from her. It was, for me, simply a moment of sharing and of letting go. But after that conversation, I got a card in the mail each week, rebuilding me, and reaffirming that they loved me and were always there for me.

It’s simple things like that. I don’t think they’ll ever know how much those meant to me. How deeply it touched me that my words were taken to heart.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m in a reflective mood. This back-to-school season has got me pondering lasts and firsts, changes and adventures, losses and gifts.

And so, yes. I am losing something. It is the last of something. It is a change from what has always been.

But it is also a first, a gift, an adventure.

Here’s what I mean. I think this time is a strange one between parents and children. The children are, for all practical purposes, adults. They have graduated high school, are nearly done with college, and have, at least hopefully, assumed most of the responsibility for their lives. Yet, they are still children. Still the sons and daughters of their parents, still the baby girls and firstborn sons. And in many ways, they always will be.

And so this transition to adulthood, this flying from the nest, is a loss and a change. And it is a difficult time. Children want to assert their independence and parents, as much as they understand it must happen, often react against it. They simply want to keep their children close. Fear of loss is a powerful thing.

This fear, this assertion, can often drive them apart. It is a classic case of miscommunication, of clinging and struggling, of misunderstanding, of terse words and hurt feelings. It is loss, loss of relationship, of communication. And it is tragic, really.

Because, quite simply, it doesn’t have to be. I honestly believe that such a time of transition can be beautiful.  It is, at least in my eyes, a transition from parenthood to friendship. For yes, we as children must always honor our parents, must always respect, always, in some ways, submit. But it is no longer parent and child. It is parent and adult. It is adult and adult, two lives, lived, connected, shared.

And this is the chance. The moment of truth. When children given a choice. No longer are they required to speak to, respect, or even acknowledge their parents. It is a moment of utter freedom, in which they choose what the course of that relationship will be for the rest of their days.

I guess in many ways, that’s where I’m standing. And in many ways, I’m simply really freakin scared. I don’t do well with change and I kind of want to be the baby chick that hides in the corner of the nest and never comes out again. I want to look at this as loss, as losing the shelter of my parents and going off alone.

But it’s not. It’s transition. It is adventure. It is gaining a new dimension of friendship with the people who gave me life and gave me a foundation. There was never a question whether or not I would maintain relationship with them here. Never. I simply cannot imagine my life without them.

But it’s still scary. It’s still hard to realize that our relationship is changing, that it is no longer up to them to support, protect and shelter me. It is for them to offer wisdom, advice, and friendship. A new kind of support, protection, and shelter. Not physical, but the support of advice, the protection of shared wisdom, and the shelter of their continuing friendship. 

For Jake

I’m dating a teacher.

That thought became very real to me today. And I was struck by the realization that I am profoundly proud of that fact.

Prior to this, I had never really given much thought to the fact that my boyfriend is a music ed major. It was simply something to tell those who asked the polite questions of Oh, who is he, how did you meet, what does he do. Well, he’s a music ed major and we met in choir. Awkward end of conversation.

Simply put, I focused far more on the music aspect, simply because that is where we connect. I myself was a violin performance major for two years before changing my major to theology & philosophy, and am still heavily involved in music of all sorts. Our mutual nerdiness over music brought us together and continues to connect us.

And to be quite honest, the education department at USF was, for the most part, simply something to complain about, to BS one’s way through, and to be constantly frustrated by. So we stuck to the music.

I don’t think a lot about teachers. And perhaps that is the problem. Most people simply don’t think about teachers. We live our busy lives and forget to take a moment to reflect. To live the examined life that Socrates spoke of. I certainly had not. But now that I have, I, inevitably, have the urge to write about it.

And here are my thoughts on teachers.

Teachers exemplify passion. Whatever area they choose to teach, they have fallen in love with it enough to literally spend their lives sharing that passion with others. They believe so strongly in what they love that they believe it is worth sharing, that indeed, it should be shared, must be shared. For the teacher, silence is simply not an option. Their burning hearts will not allow them to contain what they love so dearly. It has touched their lives in a way that nothing else have, and they believe it will touch the lives of others.

They believe. They believe more deeply than almost anyone in this world, I think. In order to teach something, you must believe it in the depths of your soul. Anything else is simply sharing information. But to teach. That is to share at the level of the soul. To transfer passion from one human being to another.

It is a lonely task, I think. It simply cannot be otherwise. After all, we do not all share the same passion. And to teach is to daily lay out the deepest passion of your heart, often to classrooms full of bored youngsters who simply want to escape. You are, in many ways, simply a cattle-herd, trying desperately to guide hyperactive children or recalcitrant adolescents through nine months of lesson plans and standardized tests.

It must be terribly discouraging sometimes, to be so often rejected. To so often look out on ones students and wonder if they understand, wonder if they will ever understand your heart’s cry or if they will simply stare blankly at you for a year until they can be shipped off to the next grade. And yet they soldier on. They are eternally creative, trying every possible combination to break the lock on their student’s mind and imagination. Because, you see, they believe their passion is worth sharing.

And I think, for every teacher, there comes a moment when they wonder if it’s worth it. Worth dealing with not only the tangled web of teenage emotion and the pure energy encapsulated in a second grader, but with the minefield of red tape that is school boards and administration. Throw in budget cuts, government mandates, and perpetually unsatisfied parents, and it must seem that forces are conspiring against them.

To share passion. That is their only goal. And too often it is the most difficult thing in the world. It is difficult practically, and it is difficult in the most gut-wrenching, personal kind of way. Each failed student is a rejection of what they so dearly love. It is a lost opportunity to help that child discover something beautiful, something they could have loved as well. Simply put, it is personal. It touches the deepest part of them.

But there comes a moment, there must always come a moment, when they manage to touch the deepest part of a student. When they meet a kindred spirit, so to speak, one whose eyes light up as they speak, who hangs on every word, and who leaves their classroom forever changed. I think those moments keep them going. Those moments are what they live for. What they sacrifice each and every day for, what they fight for, struggle for, spend sleepless nights for, weep for, long for.

Moments when they ignite passion.

And I must believe that at that moment, it is all worth it. All the struggles are forgotten, and they devote themselves to pouring as much as they can into that young life.

I have been transformed by such individuals. Such selfless individuals whose office doors are always open, who provide feedback, who challenge, who inspire, and who lead into adventure. In fact, as I reflect upon my life, most major changes in my life have been inspired by brilliant teachers who poured their heart into my life.

There are names that will forever live in my heart because of their willingness to give themselves away to their passion and to sharing that passion, whatever the sacrifice it requires. I can in all honesty say that I would not be who I am or where I am without these individuals. I only hope I can express to them the difference they have made on this one life, this one small life.

So yes. I am dating a teacher. And suffice it to say I couldn’t be more proud. 

A Thousand Things

So. I've been reading this book called 1,000 Gifts by Anne Voskamp. She was challenged to write a list of 1,000 things she's thankful for. I'd like to try my hand.

Obviously, this will be a work in progress. But here's a start. In no order whatsoever.

P. S. The further into this I get, the more beautiful it becomes. Try it, my friends. It is beautiful.

1. The smell of coffee beans roasting

2. Grace

3. Words

4. Sweaters

5. Jake

6. Big, comfy chairs

7. The ability to curl up in said chairs because I’m tiny

8. Hats

9. Summer nights

10. The first chill of fall

11. The colors of fall

12. Espresso

13. The ability to dream

14. Coffea

15. Coworkers

16. Sunsets

17. Tattoos

18. Courage

19. Scars

20. Stories

21. The sound of typing

22. Philosophical conversations

23. Whispers in the dark

24. Trees

25. The smell of autumn

26. Bonfires

27. Texting

28. Joy

29. My parents

30. My family in all its painful forms

31. Melinda

32. Photos

33. Memories

34. Acne

35. Makeup

36. Macbook

37. Music

38. Coffee

39. Mugs

40. Patience

41. Waterbottles

42. Mustard yellow

43. Promises

44. Hope

45. USF

46. Dr. Hiigel

47. Dr. Bender

48. Dr. Gregg

49. Lessons

50. Homework

51. Papers

52. Transformation

53. Repentance

54. The Ransom

55. Freedom

56. Downtown

57. Tornado sirens

58. Instagram

59. Moccasin boots

60. Big comfy sweaters

61. New mercies

62. New mornings

63. Wisdom

64. Second chances

65. Newsie hats

66. Hugs

67. Belief when you can’t believe on your own

68. Warm roasters

69. Brew methods

70. Learning

71. Growth

72. Espresso machines

73. Lattes

74. A place dedicated to excellence

75. Cupping

76. Mustaches

77. Goats

78. Israel

79. Travel

80. Adventures

81. Arrowhead Park

82. Thunder buddies for life

83. The courage to face the geese at Arrowhead Park

84. Sunshine

85. Clouds

86. Aloneness without loneliness

87. The shade of a grandfather tree

88. Blogging

89. Flowers

90. Surprises

91. Rest

92. Assurance

93. How I Met Your Mother

94. The fact that I’ve found a love like Marshall and Lily

95. Audrey Hepburn

96. Thoughtfulness

97. My nephew

98. Fedoras

99. This list

100. A change of identity

101. Nose rings

102. Pixies

103. C. S. Lewis

104. Philosophy

105. Theology

106. Wonder

107. Mystery

108. Syphon brew

109. Bread crumbs

110. Terrifying geese

111. The pure joy of a child’s giggle

112. Wind that nearly sweeps you away

113. Hearing the same short jokes over again

114. Shorty specials

115. Support

116. Encouragement

117. The kone

118. Experts who share wisdom

119. Perfect microfoam

120. Beautiful customers encountered every day

121. Connections

122. Regulars who know your name

123. Regulars who know your name

124. Learning even Rhonda isn’t crazy

125. The courage to realize that others are hurting

126. A moment that lights up a day

127. A best friend

128. No pressure

129. Leeland

130. Esther Ruth Rainbow

131. Friends you can actually, really, truly turn to in need

132. Ipod touch

133. Painted toenails

134. Inspiration

135. Iced coffee

136. Raw sugar

137. Something to look forward to

138. Brews

139. Nights at Esther’s apartment

140. Nights under the stars

141. Camping

142. Guitars

143. S’mores

144. Palisades

145. King Rock

146. Fishing

147. Worm guts

148. The feeling of scales

149. Giddy joy

150. Happy dances

151. Childlike abandon

152. High fives

153. Hugs

154. A moment when two souls meet

155. Wondering how your life became so blessed

156. Charlie

157. Bright eyes

158. A smile only for you

159. A fantastic boss

160. Peace amidst stress

161. Courage in the face of fear

162. New life where there has only been death

163. One who believes you are beautiful

164. Hollister jeans

165. Sales

166. Clearance

167. History

168. Character

169. Vintage

170. Lace

171. Coffee bags

172. Failures learned from

173. Mistakes transformed

174. Pain made joy

175. Scars made stories

176. Disfunction

177. Mailboxes

178. Terrible Saturday nights and the grace that prevails

179. Pausing to bow before the Lord

180. Grace

181. Moments of Holy Spirit takeover

182. The hope of transformation for all

183. Prayer

184. The hope it provides

185. The comfort

186. The reality of help

187. A boyfriend who wants to pray

188. Pesky flies

189. Footstools

190. An ex who makes my love appreciated

191. A love of my life

192. Indescribable eyes

193. Dreams come true

194. Mukluks

195. Notes of thankfulness scrawled across my life

196. Burundi Kiryama

197. God’s omnipresence

198. Realizing He is always there. Surely God is in this place

199. A never-ending list

200. Salt and pepper shakers

201. Grilled peppers

202. Leather

203. Slowing down

204. Living a moment

205. Treasuring life

206. Every day beauty

207. The return of beautiful people

208. Comfort among friends

209. Weakness among trusted friends

210. Grumbling turned to thankfulness

211. People-watching

212. Artwork on walls

213. Pandora

214. Water bottles

215. Warmth derived from steaming coffee

216. Compliments read over shoulders

217. Funerals

218. Wooden doors

219. Stucco

220. Childhood memories

221. Treehouses

222. Healing brought to the past

223. Showers

224. Whitening strips

225. Smooth legs

226. Teal

227. Feeling fabulous in whatever you happen to be wearing

228. Getting to know new coffees

229. Free coffee. Errrvry day.

230. Cupping a mug in your hands as you slowly wake up

231. Long drives to work

232. The breeze on your skin

233. Silent looks that say it all

234. Connections

235. Staff meetings

236. Thankfulness quelling panic

237. The power to overcome

238. The word of my testimony

239. Worship at the Ransom

240. Summer days given to reflect

241. The power of words

242. Scones

243. Warm ovens

244. The Via Delarosa

245. The streets of Jerusalem

246. Street vendors

247. The hope of travel

248. The power of truth

249. Spoken truth

250. Prayer spoken over me

251. How easy it is to find things to be thankful for

252. Moonlight

253. Toes in sand

254. Swings

255. Summer nights

256. Nighttime talks

257. Missing someone so bad it hurts

258. Needing people in your life

259. Unexpected phone calls

260. Moonlight walks

261. Thankfulness transforming a night.

262. Music videos

263. Soulmates

264. Choosing to trust

265. Every day stories

266. Foot massages

267. Mischief

268. Alison’s smile

269. Shenaniganery

270. Driving with the windows down

271. The cool of nighttime after summer heat

272. LIfelight

273. Datenight

274. Coldstone

275. Free coldstone

276. Confidence in everything you were created to be

277. Good books

278. Lessons written across every page

279. A lifetime

280. Anticipation 

281. A morning run

282. Sweat

283. Exhilaration

284. Determination

285. Running further than you thought you could

286. Cramps

287. No cramps

288. Worship mid-run 

289. Praying with eyes wide open

290. Sunrises

291. A morning breeze

292. The smell of freshly mown grass

293. Situps

294. Dietrich Bonhoeffer

295. God’s clear hand working every day

296. Sunglasses

297. Prayer mid-conversation

298. Written prayer

299. Forgiveness and repentance

300. Realizing you were the one in the wrong

301. Seeing transformation in those around you

302. Coloring books

303. Comics

304. Calvin and Hobbes

305. Paydays

306. Optimism

307. A set jaw

308. Gungor

309. All things new

310. Packing

311. Change

312. One more year

313. Timely reminders

314. God’s unending faithfulness

315. Waking up to texts in the morning

316. Conversations

317. Working

318. Accents

319. Surprise visits

320. Conscience prompts

321. Being new every morning

322. Always having a choice to be new

323. Choosing to see God

324. Choosing to acknowledge His glory

325. Choosing to be thankful

326. Ugly things made beautiful

327. Caffeine when you really need it

328. Catnaps

329. Fabulous wall posts

330. ….. Walsh?

331. Dubstep

332. Inside jokes

333. Movie quotes

334. Thunderstorms

335. Running in the rain

336. Finally. Kissing in the rain

337. Dreams come true

338. Knowing more are to come

339. The best first day back ever

340. Lazy days

341. Lazy boy chairs

342. Nap time

343. Work schedules working out

344. Cheesy comments

345. Friends

346. Fears draining away

347. Being new. Every day

348. Admitting the wrong inside of you

349. Notes from mom

350. A window to watch the lightning

351. The best memories of home

352. Growing up

353. A giant Yankees bat sprawled across the living room

354. Couches

355. Chalkboards

356. CB feeling like home

357. Nikki

358. Sierra

359. Lauren

360. The year that is to come

361. Grocery trips

362. Cereal

363. Moving

364. Unpacking

365. Time alone

366. Lists

367. Free groceries

368. Car insurance

369. Jones soda bottles

370. Jacob Arie Versteeg

371. Forgetting the past

372. A new relationship

373. Hope for the future

374. Peaceful moments

375. Not needing words

376. Savoring a sunset

377. Being unable to keep the smile back

378. Real hope, based in Christ

379. Theology classes

380. Not starting work for another week

381. My mommy coming with me to validate for the fourth year

382. A small bill for school

383. No debt

384. Getting to validate with Jake

385. Knowing we are meant to be together

386. Trusting in God’s plan

387. Resting in His love

388. Confidence in who you are

389. Silent nights in the apartment

390. The sound of rain

391. Free food

392. Leftovers

393. Realizing you have let go of the past

394. Owning your own bitterness

395. Jake’s blog posts

396. Realizing you are with someone you truly admire

397. Peace where there has always been stress

398. Constant love and support

399. Freedom from emotions

400. Time to be thankful

401. My last first night

402. My senior year

403. Four years at USF

404. Community

405. Learning to be new

406. Headaches

407. Medicinal coffee

408. Someone to miss

409. Opportunities to get to know new roommates

410. The rush soon to come

411. Choir retreat

412. Pausing to be thankful

413. Finally finishing the book you’ve been working on

414. Time to blog

415. Opportunities

416. Free groceries

417. Parents too generous

418. Parents to adore

419. Parents to turn to every time

420. A paycheck bigger than expected

421. Learning how to be a friend

422. Learning to live fearless

423. Crafty projects

424. Roommate time

425. Random visits

426. Masala lattes

427. Homework time at coffea

428. Homework

429. Greek

430. A meticulous personality

431. Bowling

432. Coffee bags

433. A room full of coffee lovers

434. A good first day

435. British accents

436. 30 Rock

437. ModgePodged notebooks

438. Keep Calm and Carry On

439. Planners

440. Stepping out

441. A devotion that says exactly what you need

442. Baking pies

443. Perfect fall weather

444. Esther 4:14

445. Discovering how much Folgers sucks

446. A classroom full of wonderful people

447. Professors you respect and admire

448. Futons

449. Reminders to be faithful

450. Falling Slowly

451. Learning, slowly.

452. Nights spent reading the Bible

453. Abandoning bowling for prayer

454. Learning from mistakes

455. Zephaniah 3

456. Learning to accept the silence

457. Seeing the adventure in life

458. Challenges that stretch

459. Simple peace

460. Returning to where you should be

461. A page full of Greek letters

462. Homework time with friends

463. Simply being in the presence of others

464. Silence

465. Sunshine through a window

466. A moment to bask in the sunshine

467. My own tree

468. Fighting panic

469. Silencing demons

470. Learning, every single day, to be new

471. Remembering to honor

472. Washing feet

473. Patience when it’s the last thing you want

474. Grapes

475. Hummus

476. Getting homework done

477. Being pleasantly surprised by a class

478. The opportunity to learn from a story

479. Facing challenges as adventure

480. Seeking inspiration wherever it may be found

481. Being nearly halfway there

482. Naps

483. Saying no to anxiety

484. Discovering lasting, real hope

485. Coffee stickers on a computer

486. Working out my faith

487. An infinitely patient boyfriend

488. Learning how to stay

489. Life groups

490. Returning to a list

491. The urge to write

492. Homework time at Coffea

493. Messages that pour out a heart’s cry

494. Goosebumps at God’s power

495. Haircuts

496. Considering God

497. Realizing the upside-down nature of the kingdom

498. Small smiles

499. New tattoos

500. Opportunities to write

501. Learning endurance

502. Learning we are in the fight of our lives

503. Lifegroups

504. The Ransom!

505. Courage to kneel

506. Owning addictions

507. Willingness to fight

508. Others willing to help you fight

509. Gut-wrenching honesty

510. Simple smiles, simple pleasures

511. The opportunity to pray for others

512. Someone to freak out with over classes

513. Random conversations

514. The ability to think deeply

515. Nights spent overwhelmed

516. Emotions that seem to overwhelm

517. The ability to be thankful for the things you don’t understand

518. God’s power to redeem

519. God’s power to teach through the worst

520. Unlimited Gravity shows

521. Unlimited Aspect

522. Choosing to honor

523. A fantastic boss

524. A wonderful job

525. The longest Thursday ever being a fantastic day

526. Learning lessons in the most unlikely of places

527. Post-it notes

528. Advanced comp

529. Reminders to get back on the path

530. Always, always hope

531. Quiet days of homework

532. Homework I can actually enjoy

533. Getting over myself

534. The courage to share myself

535. Lifegroups at The Ransom

536. Excitement

537. Anticipation

538. Surprises

539. Bread fit only for geese

540. Homework time at Arrowhead

541. Getting to see the love of my life

542. Yawns

543. Flashcards

544. The opportunity to learn Greek

545. Senioritis

546. Collier-Baker

547. A family to live with

548. Clipping my nails

549. Randomly discovering I have made an impact

550. Little milestones

551. New mercies and new mornings. Every. day.

552. An amazing job

553. Things that I can be thankful for over and over again

554. A quiet Saturday

555. Getting over myself

556. More post-it notes

557. Jackets

558. Fall

559. Leaves finally changing color

560. Grinning while you drive, seeing the colors

561. The impossibly blue sky of fall

562. Night of worship

563. Being set free from anger

564. Learning how to express anger

565. Sunday dinners

566. Pie. Seriously. Pie.

567. Madrigals

568. Weeding out sin in my life

569. Too many things to be thankful for to count, but still trying

570. Hope for those who have always seemed lost