Monday, December 3, 2007

Highway 49

The ashes of her youth
floated like prayers across the campus.
She was driving home Saturday when the truck hit her.
The last thing she saw—-an 18 wheeler, t-boned, against the driver's side.
Her scripture cards scattered across the highway
recitations that once occupied her mind--
Psalms in one lane, Proverbs in the other.
She was flown through the ring of glass
and collided with the greedy pavement;
her hair framing her forehead like a bloodthirsty halo.
The wind screamed that night
and the stars weeped in silence
as a bold and willing future was laid to rest.

[This was a class favorite of my final project. Hm. I would've picked a different one.]

Monday, November 12, 2007

W.M.C.



Your arms--
like a hammock on Sunday afternoon
cuddle-close and cradling

Your voice--
soothing and inviting;
familiar as windowless Summer drives

Your eyes--
as dark as the acorns that fall
from childhood's favorite tree

Your hair--
playful and messy
like kindergarten artwork

Your touch--
breaks down walls of safety:
revealing as slumber party confessions

Your prayers--
simple, yet profound
like advice before my first school dance

You are--
Strong and reassuring
like dreamy sleep in night-light glow

Prozac?






Nurse Paul asked if I was depressed.

He leaned in, the body language that always says "I'm concerned about you, but we aren't that familiar with eachother, so I can't give you a hug, so I'll just awkwardly position myself as close to you as I can." I came in because I have been feeling exhausted all the time lately. He tested me for mono and anemia, both which came up negative. Then, he began asking me the psychological questions.

"Do you ever get depressed?"

"Um, no. Not really."

"You know, like do you ever have difficulty getting out of bed?"

"Well, yeah...I guesso."


" what does being exhausted have anything to do with this?

"So, do you sometimes stay in bed because you don't feel like it's worth getting out of bed?"

"Well...maybe sometimes, but I think it's just because I've been really stressed out."

"Ok, ok..." he nods slowly, and I don't know if he's convinced. Or if I even needed to try to convince him.

The truth is, I don't know what I am. Every woman in my immediate family is on some kind of anti-depressants, and the last thing I want to do is follow the trend. But I can't help feeling like there's some weird biological thing going on inside of me.

I find myself laying in bed this morning, at 10 am, and wanting to skip both my classes today, despite the fact that I really enjoy them. I can't really understand why I would willingly skip Photo I at this point. Maybe because it reminds me of how much I suck at photography. I don't know.

Maybe I don't like this stage in my life. I should love it--I'm 21, engaged, and getting ready to graduate college. But I don't love it. Not even close.

I'm engaged, which means I have to wait 7 more months before I can get married, which means until then, there are a million and a half things to do for a wedding. Things that "must be done," they say, like napkins with our names printed on them, which are a ridiculously frivilous expense.

In this moment, all I want is to be with the one I love, to wake up next to him, to breathe him in and out, to not have to answer to anyone but ourselves on how late we should stay out, and what fun we can have. I want to go to sleep with him there, and in the morning, I want him to still be there. And, pathetically enough, not having this is making me ache. And yes, everyone says "It's only 7 months, and then, it's the rest of your life! Enjoy the singledom!" but it's really hard when that 7 months feels like 7 years, and your life as a single woman is basically nonexistant because of school and more school and distant friends.

I don't love getting ready to graduate because that means I have to officially grow up. Although I've poked fun at people that have their diploma, then go back to their home town, live with their parents, and work at the local Piggly Wiggly, I can't blame them. I had this wonderful plan (had I not been married) of moving by myself to east TN and starting a whole new identity outside of Union and everywhere else. I'd have my own little house dog, join a new church, and go hiking on the weekends. But would I have really done it? I would like to think that I would have. I would like to think that after all of these years of going through uncomfortable situations and coming out of them, that I can handle anything. That I would have handled anything. But I guess I will never really know. And that kind of bothers me.

We're not taught how to function after college, really. We have a neverending pool of friends and events, and then it all seems to end. Friends spread across the U.S. and even further, and we're left scrambling for that "how-to" manual they should give you upon graduation. The only comfort I'm going to find is familiar arms, but other than that, I'm just like everyone else. It's like the first day of school all over again, only this time, it's "the first day of the rest of your life." I don't know that's true. I feel I was living more in high school than when I've been at Union.

I'm also beginning to regret the fact that I even went to college. It traps you in a process, and there's no breaking out of it, really. Two years in your office, and you'll realize that the place really does have good benefits, and leaving it would sabotage the future of your children you're going to have three years down the road. All of those hopes and dreams you had of traveling across the U.S., going back to India one more time, starting an orphanage in Latin America, teaching abroad, and living in a big city are just unrealistic, and they soon fade away.

Does receiving a college diploma mean that the dreams stop there? I hope not. Ironically though, I feel that that's what will happen. And I'm not ready to be that conventional. I want to run in the other direction until my heels bleed.

I stick around with the little bit of hope that it won't be like that. I will break the mold, and I will work for two years professionally, and then give it up to do the crazy adventurous things that I always saw myself doing. I can't imprison myself in a cubicle just so I will be comfortable financially. I can't.


God, help me.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Ashes From the Garden

“I really think you should go with the daffodil. It will look better. It's going to be in the springtime. You need those colors to really pop against the background of the season.”
“Mother, you don't even know what it means for a color to pop. You've been watching too much What Not to Wear.”
“I can't help it if it's the only thing on during my lunch break. Besides, they have really good ideas. But that Clinton character. I just don't know about him...I think he's...gay.”
She whispered the word “gay” as if it were some dirty secret that she didn't want to utter in the Baptist sanctuary.
“Just because he wears pink shirts and talks soft doesn't mean he's homosexual.”
“Well, you just never know these days. You'd think we were...”
“In the second hippie movement. I know mother. Before I go burn my bra on Washington, can we please focus here? “
“And he does more than talk soft. He talks like a woman.”
I rolled my eyes and cleared my throat, a technique I unwillingly learned from her.
“Well, I'm just saying is all...ok, ok, ok... so, about the daffodil...”
A grin spread across my face as I interrupted:
“I'm not choosing any colors that are named after flowers. That would make me a conformist to the pattern of roles that women are forced into. It's just one more way society oppresses our rights. Why aren't there colors named after tools and car engine parts? Maybe then we can experience gender equality.”
“I see your Bachelor's degree did you some good, young lady.”
I shifted, balancing myself against a pew. “So, what about macaroni and cheese?”
“I've never heard of such a thing!”
“You're in denial, mother. It was my favorite crayon in my coloring box. Don't you remember the time we argued over the sky on one of my drawings? You tried to explain to me that the sky was blue and should be colored blue, but I told you that it was much cooler to have the sky a macaroni and cheese color because then we could eat it anytime we wanted instead of just on Thursdays.”
She stopped to ponder this for a moment, reviving the wrinkle lines in her forehead. I could tell she was searching long and hard to remember that particular occurrence. She gave up with a sigh.
“I guess we've always had color disharmony.”
I nodded, agreeing. There was a long pause, the kind that bounced off of the walls, hit you, and caused your breath to shorten. I made any attempt I could to fill the empty air.
“So...how do you feel about this, mom? Are you ok with all of this?”
“How ok can a mother be about this sort of thing?”
“What sort of thing?”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about”.
“What?”
Now, if you want something that's sort of orange, I saw this beautiful color the other day. It's called “Sunburst”, and it's nice and cheery and...”
“What sort of thing, mother? Why do you refer to it as that? Why don't you call it what it is?”
“I was just rushing through the sentence. It was a phrase, that's all. Just a phrase.”
“Then why don't you call it what it is?”
“What what is?”
“What this is, the whole reason we're fighting over a ridiculous thing like color choice?”
I saw her fumble a little with her thought process, trying not to let my words connect to her understanding.“Well, I don't know. Listen, can we talk about this later? I'm really wanting to decide on some colors today so we can start placing orders.”
“What orders, mother? Do you even understand what you're saying?!”
“Why is this even an issue, Iris Marie? We had already talked about how this is what we were going to do today; we were going to come here to you father's sanctuary, pick out some colors that fit with the palette, and go shopping. That was the plan. Why has this changed?”
I bit my lip, crossing my arms against the December air that entered through a crack in the window. I understood her confusion. I was the one who had decided to come here today. I was the one who wanted to think about it. But now that I was here, the last thing I wanted to do was admit that this was a reality. The quickest way to do so was to let it manifest itself through our planning. And I didn't want that. I tried to ignore the weakness I felt, and the overwhelming need to sit down.
“I'm going to ask you again, mother. Are you ok with this?”
She shifted her eyes, counting the tiles on the ceiling, the same tiles that had been there twenty years prior. She knew how many tiles there were. My question hung itself from silent gallows.
I ran the palm of my hand over my head. It was weird to not feel hair there anymore. This was the one hairstyle I hadn't decided for myself. The bright side was, I now showered ten minutes less, and I didn't have to worry about going through one shampoo bottle a month.
Her mouth trembled, and I knew the quiet of that moment was the only response I would receive.
“So...what kind of flowers do you think I'll get?” I asked.
Her voice shattered against a concealed sob. I put my hand on her shoulder, waiting for a response, any response, anything to kill the emptiness I felt when silence reigned. She dabbed her wet eyes with a handkerchief, and replied with a forced smile, “Daffodils. Lots of daffodils.”

Saturday, October 13, 2007

wedding=misery

My life has been very annoying lately.
I have decided I hate the process of getting married.
I don't hate the actual act of it; that is wonderful and amazing and a testament of how God brought me and Wesley together. What I hate is everyone thinking that I have to go with what they think I should have, and if I don't, they either see me as A) controlling and snobby or B) trying to make my wedding elaborate. It seems everyone in my family thinks I have an elaborate plan in mind. Nevermind the fact that we're getting married at a place that is fifty million miles in the boonies with no running water because we're trying to save money. Nevermind that we cut our honeymoon in half just so we could save money. Nevermind that we're choosing a reception site that is outside with no bathroom as well, because it's cheap. Nevermind all of that.

So what if I would like for the flower girl dress to not be poofy, seeing as none of the other dresses will be poofy, so that might look weird. And it's not like I'm hell bent on that. I just think it would look better. But I haven't communicated that it's that way or die. Not at all. But if I suggest ANY opinion about my OWN wedding, I'm viewed as this extravagant person.

This is why I want to hop in the car right now and go to Vegas.
And the Aunt I'm closest to has already said she can't help with wedding stuff the day before. Ok, this makes no sense, seeing as she has bent over backwards for people in our family that don't appreciate it. I can't understand why she's decided this, and it's very hurtful. She's one of the main persons I was depending on to help arrange flowers and such.

I know my sister is jealous of what I'm going to have, and she's going to make me as miserable as possible for it. I know she's going to have everything to say about things I choose and she's going to say something about the prices or choices. I know her. I know she is. I can't deal with that on my wedding day. I WON'T deal with that on my wedding day. No one is going to make me miserable. But I know she will try.

This is what's mostly been going on in my life.

Wesley and I did have a breakthrough. And it was beautiful. We both broke down before the Lord, and He has restored us in a supernatural way. I love it.

That is it. I'm just really burdened by my family right now. I don't know how I expected wedding details to go smoothly when they're involved. I don't know what I was thinking.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Runaway

We sat on the edge of the man-made creek which cut between East and Cherrywood Street. We had gone here to escape the reality that was inside the building behind us. We skipped stones, frustrations pushing their force across the Spring air. They collided into the murky creek bed, and the water looked shallow enough that we might be able to cross it barefooted. I marveled at the thought of crossing a body of water the same way Jesus had. I wasn't sure where Jesus was today and why He wasn't giving me the right words to say to the girl beside me. I looked up at the cirrus clouds, hoping a flash of lightening-bolt revelation would find its way into my head. The birds framed the sky, their feathers caressed by the breeze. I wished I could give her those wings. I wished I could pluck several birds right out of the sky, tie her to them, and send her on her way. She didn't need to know where she was going. She only had to know that she was getting away from here.
I didn't like looking at the body. I never understood the reason for a viewing. It seemed to me that it was only a torturous way to prolong grief. Bodies never looked real. I had reached out to touch her once out of curiosity, and she felt waxy and solid. Her wiry gray hair made it look as if she'd just come from the beauty parlor and laid down for a rest. Her hands were clasped, as if she were in eternal prayer. I didn't really understand why she had been posed that way. There would be no praying for her anymore. The fragrance of flowers cradled her, and it reminded me of the scene from The Wizard of Oz when Dorthy laid down to rest in the poppies. The dress fit snuggly, as if it had hung in her closet a year before today. I cried, and I didn't know why. I looked at the husband, now a widow, and I wondered how he would take care of himself after all of those years of being waited on. Most of all, I watched beautiful Nicole. I watched her every move, from each strand of chocolate brown hair pushed strategically behind her ear each time she thought she might cry, to the way she held her red mouth tightly, refusing to let a sob overtake her.
I didn't know the woman. She was my cousin Nicole's grandmother. Nicole and I had met just two Novembers from that date. She wasn't a blood cousin, and we never noticed. Since our encounter, we were given countless rules on long distance phone calls, grounded for breaking those rules, and inseparable when the summer months came. We got little sleep. At night, we ate whole Chocolate cakes and drank liters of Jolt cola. I loved the way her house smelled. The laundry room was usually open, so the scent of Tide would carry into each room of the house, along with dirt from her dad's farm boots and her mother's soft perfume. Most of all, it smelled lived-in. I had recently moved into a new house, and it didn't have that smell. My house was cold and uninviting, like a model car museum.
I knew it was coming that afternoon. Her parents had set me aside, telling me that Nicole's grandmother had died, and asking me if I minded going with them to the funeral. They wanted me to be there when Nicole heard the news. I agreed, but the pressure of not knowing what to do or say left me paralyzed. They sat her down in that inviting living room, and she cried for what seemed like centuries. I held her, letting her tears soak my bare sunburned shoulder. We soon packed up the family van and headed to Pennsylvania. During the ride up, I made silly faces and told stories to keep her mind occupied with meaningless mush.We played Hanson casettes in our tape players and argued over which brother would be ours. I didn't want her to think about the reality any more than she had to. It was typical Ashley and Nicole time. It was, however, slightly sobered with the underlying reason why we were driving twelve hours away from her home.
When we approached the steps to the funeral home, I felt her weight falter under my tightened grip. I hadn't brought any black dresses to Nicole's house that summer. I hadn't expected anyone to die. I borrowed a dress from her aunt. It pinched my skin each time I walked, as if it were angry its original owner had given it to a stranger. I readjusted my grip on her arm, fumbling a bit. The thing I hated the most about funerals was that no one smiled. As we entered, everyones' faces were strained and complicated. I didn't like that. I hoped that at my funeral, people who be smiling and pleasant. But then I thought that might mean that they were happy I was gone; then I decided I wanted everyone at my funeral to look as miserable as possible. We went through the viewing line, and I watched each encounter a person had with the grandmother. Some wept, grabbing her lifeless hands, squeezing them to point where I thought they might break a finger off. Others smiled and had conversations with her, as if they were finally making that phone call they'd put off for so many months. Some sat there in silent nostalgia, while others did quick sweeps to avoid the awkwardness of looking at a corpse. After Nicole and I retreated from the box, she said, “I have to get out of here. I can't be here anymore.” I studied her expression. I knew that look on her face. It was the same look she'd give me when she was explaining something extremely important to me. That is how we found ourselves overlooking the creek.
I sat crouched beneath the afternoon sun. I would glance over at her every moment, wondering if she was waiting for me to say something profound. I usually consoled her during every struggle, but this was one thing I couldn't offer words for. She finally returned my nervous glance, and I knew that she just wanted someone to stay beside her. Nature filled in the gaps of silence, from the dialect of those sky birds to the breeze through blades of grass. I held my breath under the emptiness. My sigh broke the stillness. I squinted against the rays, turning to her silhouette. I motioned toward the water. “Think we could catch a raft and sail away like Tom Sawyer?” Her nose crinkled, the way it would right before she attempted a smile. She had to read the book for summer school, and I remembered how she'd told me that Tom's attempted escapes from his home on a timber boat were enviable and inspiring. She shrugged her fatigued shoulders, and I could tell she had been tensing them just seconds before. A dimple framed her lipstick-worn mouth. “Sure, why not?” I squeezed her flushed hand, and in that moment, we ran. We ran past reality, and imagination stole its place. We ran away from the building behind us, into the space in front of us. We ran until we didn't recognize anything anymore, and we ran to be lost.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

These Walls are Worlds between Us

I noticed the cuts on her wrist as we were pulling away from our trailer. She had slept late again, and I was driving her to school for what seemed to be the millionth time that semester. We sat in the car, the inside stiff with the Mississippi sun that had already heated the dash. She pushed back her sleeves, and that's when I saw them. I knew she felt my eyes on her, and she looked away nervously. She pulled the sleeves back down on her windbreaker, despite the fact that it was close to 80 degrees that day. There wasn't a day that went by that she didn't wear that navy jacket. I hadn't given it too much thought. She had always been insecure, and I just figured it was a security blanket for her. “How did you cut your wrists?” I asked, trying to appear nonchalant. She darted her eyes, as if she were scanning some invisible checklist in the air in front of her. She pretended not to hear me. I had turned the radio on, and she tried to hide behind the lyrics. I reached over and turned down the dial. “Angela...how did you cut your wrists?” I saw her wince at my tone, the tone I could never really perfect to sound nurturing. Instead, it always came out shrill and annoying. “I...I was climbing a tree. I fell, and it scraped the side of my wrist.” I knew she was lying. It wasn't something that surprised me. She had been lying to me for quite some time.
I took the job at Winn Dixie bakery because I couldn't find a position as a Social Worker on the coast. I thought I had made a good decision moving us from the rigid wintry state of Illinois to the South. The beach was fifteen miles from our home, and it reminded me of my parents. I wanted more for Angela. She wasn't making friends at her school. They saw to it that they teased her for her clothing and thick glasses. I couldn't afford to give her what the other mothers had given their daughters, and because of my inability, she was punished. I vowed I would make things different for her. So, on a whim only supported by the location of my brother, we packed our things and moved into a two bedroom trailer just off of Highway 53. It was light green with dark green shutters; we had picked the colors out ourselves. Ashley's favorite color was green, just like her father's. He had died of heart failure fourteen years prior, and I still hadn't gotten used to his absence. But he was always there. Every time Angela smiled, her lopsided grin was identical to his. Her dark chocolate eyes were shaped the same as his had been, and she had the same sweet spirit. I didn't realize that bringing her here would erase that from her.
She began to withdraw about two years later. I worked until six most nights, and when I came home, she was usually locked in her room. I had been through this with her sister and brother, and I wasn't about to admit that there were any problems with her. She had always had it together, and it was simply a phase she would grow out of. I just knew it. She blasted music the same way her brother had when he was younger. Her Korn was his Kiss. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Sometimes, she would stare blankly as I talked to her, as if she were listening to someone behind me. I passed it all off as normal teenage behavior. That was all I could do not to locate any problems I couldn't deal with. I was lucky to even get home safely each day. My body was wearied from long hours at the bakery, and I would usually plop down in my chair as soon as I got home. Back problems from an accident left me hurting all the time, and my patience was always on the fringes of compromise.
The friends she brought to the house were definitely not the type I would have expected her to have. Of course, this was around the time that she had started changing so much. She wore baggy clothes and hung her hair in her face. She talked little to me but would stay on the phone with those friends until three in the morning. I knew this because even when I would tell her I didn't want her on the phone, she would sneak the cordless into her bedroom at night. I had to take the phone out of the wall and keep it in my room to prevent this. That always made her the angriest. When she looked at me in those moments, her dark chocolate eyes had changed from her father's to someone I didn't know at all. Her friends were into witchcraft, and it worried me slightly. But I was so busy trying to keep us from filing bankruptcy that I couldn't worry about the changes that were taking place in her life. She had friends like she always wanted, and that was my goal when we moved to Mississippi. I considered my job well done.
After I dropped her off at school that day, the marks on her arm were fresh wounds in my mind. I hadn't bought her story, not for one second. I knew she had been cutting herself. I tried to piece together all of the warning signs that had preceded this event. Little by little, I connected the distant dots and realized what had been occurring all those months I had been so worried about our finances. She was slipping away from me, and the reason why was simply that I didn't know why.
I tried to make things better. I thought of all the things that had made her happy as a child, and I quickly began throwing them at her depression. One day we would go shopping; the next day to a movie. But throughout all of this, she still remained disconnected. I watched a movie on Lifetime about a girl who would cut herself. My efforts were exasperated, and I called her in to watch it with me. “Do you want to be like this girl?!” I screamed at her. I screamed a lot these days. I never wanted to be a screamer. She gave me a murderous scowl, and returned to the cave she dwelt in. I cried that night, and I wished that her father was there at my bedside. He would know what to do.
The school called me the next day. I had just finished putting a tray of cinnamon buns on the cooling rack when the phone was handed to me. An unfamiliar voice occupied the other line. It explained to me that Angela had brought alcohol to school and would be expelled for the remainder of the year. I gripped the phone, hoping that if I squeezed it hard enough, it would disintegrate into dream dust, and I would wake up from this horrible nightmare. But it only left my arthritic hand aching more. I remember crying harder than I had in a long time, and I'm sure it echoed throughout the store. That drive was one of the longest I had ever made. As I walked into the office, Angela's face was tear-streaked and swollen. She explained to me that she was sorry, but I could barely look at her. The disappointment I felt overcame my ability to offer comfort.
The drive home was silent and stabbing. She sucked her breath in between sobs, pulling at the sleeves of her jacket. We pulled up to the trailer, and instead of walking ahead of me like she had normally done, she waited for me to go inside first. I could feel her eyes on me, but I ignored her. I wished there had been music playing so there would be more of reason as to why I was ignoring her. When she finally gave up on locking eyes with me, she retreated to her bedroom. She slowly edged the door from its position and I turned my back from her. When I felt she had entered her room, I turned around. I saw something I hadn't seen in two years. The door wasn't closed. The crack hung in the air, illuminating the doorframe.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

a normal blog.

Not so normal life...

I saw her today. Sunglasses propped on her head, strategic messy-pretty bun. It was my final test. I don't know why they were at Cracker Barrel. Possibly visiting someone in Jackson. Why come to Jackson after your wedding??? We locked eyes, but I don't think she knew me like I knew her. I thought of how she hurt him, and I got angry. But I also realized that she's got nothing on me. And that was my key to complete security in his past. She looks worn out, but not from good deeds. She looks worn out from indulging too much in herself. And I know that in my tiredest days, it will be because I'm pouring myself out for others. [this is not said to put myself on some god status] I can honestly say that was one of the weirdest days of my life. I felt like I was in a parallel universe. I've thought it over countless times on what I would say to her if I was ever face to face with her. And now that I actually was, I couldn't say anything. But then I realized I wouldn't have had I had the chance. Because it's not worth it. And I could literally jump 10 feet in excitement, just to know that it doesn't bother me anymore. God is my ultimate strength.

Wesley is inquiring about a basketball coaching position at a private school here. They need a girls' coach really badly for the junior high girls. He's set up for an interview on Thursday. I am extremely excited about this, because God has really been opening up that area as a ministry lately. He goes to Muse park every Sunday night and plays basketball for about three hours with whoever is there. It's not exactly the safest thing (last week he went and afterward the guys pulled out some weed and starting smoking) but he is really getting to not only improve his skill, but also build relationships with those he might otherwise not have had a relationship with if it had not been for basketball. Also, while he's been playing, God's been speaking to Him through the word and giving him messages to teach to kids through basketball. That was all happening before this opportunity came out of nowhere (someone actually approached him with it). So, it is clear that this is probably God's will. I don't want to be too hasty though. We know he will coach church league at Englewood when the season comes, but this is another opportunity that seems to have found its way into our lives. And it's completely blindsided both of us. Wesley told me today "Basketball has always been something I've really been passionate about, but I never thought I'd have a ministry out of it." God is full of surprises.

God is currently revealing in our lives that if we're going to have enough money for when we get married, we're going to have to rely on Him alone. Not on how hard we work. Not on how good we save. But on Him alone. Because we are way behind in our savings compared to our goal. And now, with him possibly taking this coaching job, it starts in a couple of weeks, they practice m, w, and f, and their games are on different days. So he's going to be seriously busy, and it doesn't pay a whole lot ($500 for the whole season, I think) and that is seriously scary. He won't have time to work like he's been, which equals less money. Scary.

I did my first Sunday in the nursery. It was so great! I loved it! Hallelujah station is a bit scarier. Wesley and I got our lesson plan for next week. I'm nervous, but excited. I hope the kids like us. They're a tough crowd. That's why I like the nursery. All you have to do is make silly faces and show them how something works, and they're your friend for life. But k-2nd is a bit different. We will be teaching 1st graders.

I look down on my finger sometimes, and I have to remember I'm engaged. I've been trying so hard to not think of it a lot, simply because thinking of it makes me want it more. And I hate that feeling of limbo, so I try to distract myself from it. But when I do remember it, it is overwhelmingly beautiful. It is a reflection of God's heart for me. And God loves me an oceanful.

And that's what I've been figuring out lately. That new season that I've been craving is finally here. Ben was right in what he talked about in chapel. This is still a season of singleness for me. And that's why I'm diving into ministry Women's Bible study and trying to find as many women to mentor me as possible (or as much as I have time for). I'm seeing a small glimpse of the woman I want so desperately to be. My emotions stay sort of level these days, a huge accomplishment from the usual. Every once in awhile they get psycho, and then that's followed by a cycle of psycho, but then I level out again. It's a slow, aching process, but it's a process nonetheless.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Field Day

I checked the plastic Dollar General bag one more time to make sure the Tupperware container hadn't leaked. I wound the handles around it and fastened it with a rubber band. I grabbed the worn-in footstool from its normal spot, beneath the chair mom collapsed in after a day's work at the Winn-Dixie bakery. Opening the top cabinet, I placed the bottle in its original place, minus a cupful of its contents. I looked up at the clock on the wall. I was going to be late if I didn't start walking to the bus stop soon.
My palms were itching as I carried my clear backpack over my flanneled shoulder. I was supposed to meet Lauren and Katie in the girls' bathroom seven minutes before the second bell rang. My eyes shifted over each person in the hallway, searching for anyone with x-ray vision that might penetrate my backpack and see straight through the shopping sack. Entering the bathroom, I immediately noticed Lauren and Katie leaning against the tiled wall. They eyed me knowingly, and I reached into my bag, pulling out the container. The crinkling echoed off of the empty stalls.
I knew exactly how I had gotten myself into this mess. I was home alone, as was usual during most afternoons. I was talking on the phone using three-way. It was my favorite way to talk to Lauren and Katie. We were best friends, beginning that school year of eighth grade. We all had an equal hatred for the popular crowd, so we became the opposite of everything normal. They had regular drinking lives, and although I pretended to know a lot about it, the only alcohol I had ever had was from the communal cup at Catholic mass. That particular Wednesday, I bragged about all the alcohol my mother had in her liquor cabinet. Katie suggested I bring some to school for her, because she was “in the mood for something hard.” I nonchalantly asked her what she preferred, and Vodka was what I poured into the container the night before. I had snuck it right before my mom returned from work. She closed the door, pastry-scented and exhausted. I had butterflies in my stomach, and they were rebelling rapidly against their intestinal cage. Mom always had a psychic sixth sense, and I just knew she would notice what was missing from her collection.
Katie's face twisted in disgust as she drank from the Tupperware. She seemed to choke on it. I wondered how someone who had been so experienced could have such a hard time swallowing it down. “It's too strong for in the morning. Here; take it back. We'll save it for later.” I stepped backward as she tried to hand it to me. My eyes began to shift nervously. “No way. I thought I'd be through with that. I'm not taking it back.” Katie looked at me as if she were going to say something that would send me home crying, but then she turned to Lauren. “Here, you take it. Put it in your jacket.” Lauren had always been an acting minion of Katie's, and she quickly obeyed. I stared at Lauren. She had beady eyes, and she was overweight and intimidating. She stuck the container in her camouflaged pocket and felt my eyes piercing hers. “Whatever you do, do not let them trace it back to me if you get caught. Do not mention my name.” She nodded, and I asked her to verbally promise me that I would remain anonymous. She agreed, and I left the bathroom feeling only slightly comforted.
It was a field day, and the last Friday of classes before exam week. Katie, Lauren, and I had agreed to meet outside and sit on the sidelines, our usual routine for any organized activity. I clutched my yearbook in my hands, hoping that I could collect some signatures before the weekend. When my homeroom left for the halls, I waited by a stone table, the location we had agreed upon. I saw Katie exit from the black double-doors, but Lauren was nowhere to be found. She explained to me that Lauren had been taken to the Principal's office because the container had leaked in her jacket pocket. The Vice Principal was walking down the hall when the scent wafted in front of her. An officer was there to escort Lauren. I frantically asked Katie if she thought Lauren would reveal that I was the main culprit. She shrugged, pushing her dishwater-colored hair behind her ears. I only had fifteen minutes to wonder. My homeroom teacher came up to me, walkie talkie in hand, telling me that they needed me in the Principal's office.
The hallway seemed to stretch longer as I counted the lockers on either side of me. At the end of that walk was the Vice Principal, along with an elderly police officer. They sat me down, with Lauren in the chair beside me. I didn't want to ever look into those beady eyes again. They called my mother, and she sobbed so loud I could hear it from my seat on the other side of the desk. I wouldn't be able to complete the next week of school, they said. I would have to make up my exams the week after school let out.
That summer was the longest break of my life. My mother had decided my friends were bad influences, and so I wasn't allowed to talk to any of them. Rumor had it that Lauren had gotten revenge due to my betrayal. She developed her own story, telling Katie I had explained to the Principal how it had all been Katie's idea, and that I had nothing to do with it. My mother made me go to a psychiatrist. She wore expensive suits and too much makeup, asked me meaningless questions, and charged too much. One session, I told her that sometimes when I got depressed, I would cut my wrists with my razor. I explained how one of my classmates had noticed it once, and I said my cat had done it. I explained to the psychiatrist how that was impossible since I was allergic to cats. She raised her groomed eyebrows and said we would have to talk about that during our next meeting. I never saw her again. They had a hearing at the end of the summer, and although we thought it would look good that I had been to counseling and participated in various community services throughout the summer, they sent me to the Harrison County Alternative School.
Alternative school was a school for the bad kids. I heard stories from many of my classmates about the institution. I had only been in detention a total of three times in my whole educational history. I wasn't a bad kid. I kept to myself, not becoming comfortable with my surroundings until two months into the program. The bus was the worst part. If you didn't know someone, you weren't going to get a seat. I didn't know anyone, and each time I asked to sit with a stranger, they would roll their eyes and cuss underneath their breath. I eventually got in good with Daniel, a creepy, gawky guy who had an obsession with me because of my brown eyes. He called me a few times, always playing songs to me through the earpiece.
Not Katie, Lauren, or any of my other friends tried to contact me the whole time I was there. I was sure the rumor had spread to everyone in my group, and they thought I was a traitor to the circle. But I didn't care anymore. Because I realized the people I had chosen to be around weren't who I was. I had never been a deliquent, and because of them, I had become one. I had begun to sacrifice the integrity my father's family worked so hard to instill within me. It would stop here.
I worked extra hard to make straight A's while in alternative school. The great thing about the curriculum was that it was set at a very average level. I had plenty of time to read, and would often finish whole books in a single week period. I had been experimenting with writing, and began scribbling thoughts, stories, and poems in a notebook. Over time, the stories and poems became more and more developed. I became a favorite among the staff, and they even complained about how much they would miss me. They knew I didn't belong there, and they asked me to come back and visit and let them know how things were going.
My last day, I exited the building and breathed a sigh of relief. I knew the road ahead was going to be a very painful one. I had already encountered Katie and Lauren one morning while boarding the bus. They threw insults at me, shoving me and threatening to beat me up once I returned to our public school. They threw french fries at me during lunch break. They had convinced all of my friends that I was a horrible person, and I never regained the previous friendships I had before. I tried my hardest not to let it affect me. I poured all of my energy into writing and coursework. My teachers complimented me on how well I was excelling, and soon Lauren and Katie were no longer a concern to me. I made new friends; friends that my mom would actually let me stay the night with. Their friendship didn't jeopardize my identity. Instead, they encouraged me and provided support in all areas of my life. These are the friends I still have to this day.
I always laugh when I see the look of shock on someone's face when I tell them my past includes being kicked out of public school. I don't exactly use it as an icebreaker at parties, but it is a wonderful testament to God's divine intervention. They say they can't imagine me ever doing something like that. They try to couple who I am now with that insecure 8th grader, and it is impossible for them to do so. And that is exactly how it is supposed to be.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Hypengyophobia.

I'm sitting here figuring out what I'm going to do for the next 4 hours before photo, and this house is so empty, and I remember when it wasn't like this on campus. There would at least be people coming in and out between classes, half-heard conversations on cell phones, or random knocks on my door when I had skipped a class and Becky had something that she wanted to tell me and only me. I remember how I used to would never be up at this hour if I didn't have to be, and how my dorm windows were covered with navy curtains. The first time I put them up, Becky swore they were black, and in the following weeks, continued to ask me if I was depressed. Now, I have a great big window, and haven't the money to buy blinds, so the sun wakes me up these days.

How is it possible that I have this feeling deep in my pores, this feeling that I've graduated when I haven't even begun this Senior year? Maybe because I've graduated from the typical Union student. I live off campus now, I'm engaged, and I'm a Senior. I think of the future, and pieces of it are exciting, but more of it is scaring me each day. The closer it gets, the more apprehensive I become. It isn't so much a cold feet of getting married. It's cold feet from life. And marriage is a part of this ticking ally, so it's naturally one of the things that I think about often.

I woke up this morning and ate 3 reeses and 2 pull and peel twizzlers from the candy bowl downstairs. I do that often, eat candy for breakfast. I love the way chocolate tastes in the morning. Tasting it as the first taste of the day is one of my favorite things. I only do it every once in awhile, so that it doesn't become routine and so it doesn't lose its appeal. But I have this anxiety that certain things like that are going to fade away from me. I was so much more of an individual when I was in high school. I'm so much less of what I once was. I think college did that, although I don't know if I can blame one thing. College has seemed to have beaten me into conformity, whether I've fought against it or not. So marriage, this next obvious milestone, is it too going to take other things from me, like chocolate in the mornings and watching reruns of the same halloween shows I have taped on a VHS my mother made for me 15 years ago? Will he even like Halloween as much as me?

College was just another high school for me. I had just become confortable with being myself around my Junior year. I wore a childs size batman shirt with a cape on the back, and wore it with confidence. In fact, most of my wardrobe came from the little boys section of goodwill. I had spurts of gothic and punk attire, and I mixed them up until what I had for clothes was anything but ordinary. But then, when I realized I was going to college, I told mom I needed "grownup clothes." So, we bought heels and suit jackets (because that's what they wore in the movies when the kids went to NYU) but tested the waters first to see if I should wear them. What I found was that not many people stood out from the crowd. Most just blended in. At my high school, many people stood out, and it was accepted that you stood out. So, to avoid being too different, t-shirts and jeans was what I wore at Union. Isn't it funny that I chose to stand out back then because it was accepted? Maybe I'm a true poser. I just know that where before I got saved I wanted to be rejected from society, when I got saved, I wanted to be a part of it. And that's actually backward too, isn't it?

This whole history of shapeshifting sometimes has me wondering who I am. I could say that I'm a gothic at heart, but I wouldn't want to wear gothic clothes everyday. I could say I'm just a casual person, but then I would want to wear heels. It's all indecision. And I wonder how much of my "fashion" history was due to what others thought was cool. I was gothic more with my goth boyfriend, punk more with my punk boyfriend. And it scares me and makes me think that now, I'm not necessarily trying to impress anyone, so is this me? Boring, me? But I know that I want to dress differently, and I have this individual side trying to come out, but it's stifled, for whatever reason I still don't know.

And this, of course, is all rambling and digression.

The sum of this is that I am finding myself a bit depressed and worried these days. I'm worried that all of my life's dreams will slip away from me. I'm worried I'll become cookie-cutter and blend in like I have all these years. I'm worried he'll one day wake up and realize we're not as similar as we thought we were, and the little things that I hold dearest he will find unnecessary and silly. Because they are little. Some of them most people don't even know about. Like that I love Halloween so much, that each year I don't get to trick or treat, I actually get really upset. That I will stay on the couch for the whole week before watching nothing but my VHS tape and Halloween specials on t.v. I seriously LOVE Halloween.

Or that I have to have something hot almost every night when it starts to get cold. Hot chocolate is my favorite, but I also like Chai. But my favorite hot chocolate is what my mom used to make, cinnamon hot chocolate. That's what makes me really happy.

We will come together and have favorites from our pasts, and what if the other person can't give that favorite to them? What if I can never make his grandmother's spaghetti like she makes it? What if he doesn't like my Halloween specials? It's all unecessary anxiety, of course. But it just things that you think about when you know that in 9 months, your life will be joined with another's.

We were all sitting around the table in the kitchen trying to name our fish. I sat back, and for the first time since I've lived here, I felt like I hadn't graduated from a typical Union student. The house was loud and full. It reminded me of my sophomore year, what I will currently recall as the best year of my college existance. All-nighters in the photo house, and countless hours in the blazing hot DMS lab. Woods haunted with white t-shirted men, and caravans to various cities for punk concerts.
All of that seems like there's no time for it anymore. I'm working to save up for my life after this place, and what free time I have, I need to spend thinking of grownup things. I hate that there's no time to have pointless fun anymore. The fun must be well-intentioned and thought out. I hope I'm wrong. I really do.


This is why characters like Peter Pan and Pippi Longstocking are created from adult minds. We all try to get back to those days.

I just didn't know that my efforts would come so soon.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Why do I like being sensitive?

I get my feelings hurt entirely too much.
When I do, it feels like the worst thing in the world, as if my whole world is crumbling on top of me. I wouldn't call myself a drama queen; just someone whose universe falls apart when someone (either intentionally or unintentionally) leaves me out, is sarcastic or blatantly mean to me, or just forgets I exist.

I used to stand against the wall in junior high and just try to blend in, that way it would seem as if I wasn't actually being left out from the crowd. I would bring a book with me, and pretend that I didn't care at all if no one on the outside bothered. But I would read the same lines over and over again, and choke back the huge knot in my throat. Then I began to dress in a way that would either call attention to myself (attention that says: leave me ALONE) or just blend in, wear nothing special, and hopefully just become another face. I would wear my hair in my eyes, and a baggy windbreaker, no matter if it was hot or cold.

But this type of behavior starves me. It really does. I'm one that truly desires and wants to stand out in the crowd, someone who wants to be the one that everyone knows, or wants to just be included. I starve little by little. I hate being on the outside of a conversation and not being included at all, especially if the topic at hand leaves me with the desire to comment about it.

It's like when you want to say something really great in response to the topic at hand, and you wait patiently, so as not to be rude, and the topic just whizzes past. You really feel like you could truly contribute to the conversation, and offer an outlook that is worthy, but instead, you are just left with the words in your head, and the imaginary lines that you draw through each sentence, rewriting and revising. But all that work was for not a whole lot at all, but simply to practice your grammatical imaginary people skills that you will never be able to contribute.

I wish I couldn't cry at the drop of a hat. I wish that I would be the type of woman that was so powerful, that she only cried every once in awhile. Like a grandmother. She only cries when things really matter, and that causes everyone to pay attention to what caused her to cry. She contributes new meaning to the subject, and people develop a reverance for it simply because the one who never cries was moved by it.

But no, I cry at hallmark commercials.

Friday, August 3, 2007

Peter Pan syndrome can be overrated.

My room that I've lived in and out of for the past however many years is nearly empty, except for a few miscellaneous things scattered here and there that I chose until last minute to stuff into a box. It's surreal, really. I've moved back to college every year, but this is the first year that I know I won't be coming back again. That's bittersweet. No more momma's girl. I'm going to be a WIFE in almost nine months. It came so much sooner than I expected it to come. I had all kinds of plans growing up.

I visited a r.v. park one year, in North Carolina, in the moutains, and I vowed that when I turned 18, I'd move there to work, and create some new identity for myself. When the pressing knowledge of necessary college education came about, I too vowed I would be someone different. But all of my various attempts at recreating myself always fall apart. I say I'll be bold and make friends, but I stand on the outside. I say I'll be a little less awkward, but my skin still crawls slightly in crowds of societal strangers. I say I'll be less clumsy, but I end up tripping and falling on the sidewalk, or going to the wrong class my first day (true story). Then I think, if I'm so difficult to change, maybe I'm not so bad after all.

After freshman year, I said I would join a journeyman program and stay in a little hut in India. When it was the summer before my junior year, I ached to take a road trip to off the wall places and take a semester off, collecting the stories of others and working odd jobs as I went. Upon the start of Junior year, I said I'd move somewhere outside of gatlinburg and stay in my own apartment, with my own guard dog.

I've had a lot of almosts in my life. Those paths would have all led me down very different roads. But that road would have led me away from my future husband. And even if I would be tempted to go through the "cold feet" syndrome, looking into all of my what ifs and could haves, life has been so much better than the plans I tried to make for myself.

I think the most comforting thing is that I know the one I'm going to be with for the rest of my life would have been absolutely thrilled about taking part in any of those plans that I fantasized about. I think that's why this doesn't seem like such a smothering thing. Some ask me why I'm 21 and thinking about marriage, that I have my whole life ahead of me, and that I need some time to experience the world for myself. But I know that life apart from the one God prepared for me wouldn't be nearly as satisfying. I've never been one to say that I couldn't live without someone, but I know that if I did, I would be missing something so great.

Instead of thinking about what crazy things I'm going to do this semester and making unrealistic resolutions, I think about saving up to make a downpayment for a house, honeymoon, and stephanotis. I wonder how I'm going to balance 18 hours scholastically, 20-25 hour work weeks, and plan a wedding, all without gaining any weight. I scramble to find someone who will use their photographic talent as charity, and take amazing pictures while being offered very little (not due to bad manners on our part, but due to insufficient funds). The pressure to grow into these adult clothes becomes more apparent every day, and that's the scariest part of it all.

I don't like that soon I'm going to be reduced to an 8-5 work week. I can't stand that I'm going to actually want to go to bed at 8:00 every night. I despise that I'll have to dress up everyday for work, when I don't even own more than two good button-up shirts. My heart breaks that I'll have to know the time frame of a bruise according to its color. I'm a hippie at heart, and all I want to do is live in a commune with my closest friends.

But I am torn.

I would never be satisfied being a little kid all the time. Little kids are selfish and naive of the world. They're only concerned with what's going on in their universe, unaware of the heartache that exists outside of it. They don't know much about comforting one another, and they can't give someone a second chance at life. But I will be able to do that. My grownup job requires that I do.

All of this will bring utility bills, schedules, and debt. But it will also give me opportunities to shine light into others' lives. It will give me a life partner, one who will support me in everything I do. It will make me stronger than I could ever imagine.

And that is worth way more than playing with Barbies by myself.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Daddy's Tears

She didn't remember him at all. There were only tiny telling pieces that proved her simultaneous coexistance with him in the world. She knew this through little facts spoken from photographs and grainy stories. The first time he saw her, he had cried. A uniformed Navy man on a crowded deck let tears roll down his scarred nose, twice broken due to sibling rivalry. In the midst of the other men, he held his baby girl in his weather-beaten arms, weeping at the sight of her. She was supposed to be named Nikki, and until the first time he met her, she had always been Nikki. In his letters he wrote to her mother, he always asked how Nikki was doing. But when he looked into her infant, lazy, dark brown eyes, he said simply, "No, she's an Ashley." And that is how her name was solidified.

She had been breathing only four months when he lost his life, collapsing due to heart failure in a twenty five year old body. There were a series of six pictures she had looked at over the course of her life, the only six in which father and daughter were pictured together. There were the photos of the first time he saw her on the shipdeck, a picture of him wiping her face as he fed her, his flesh Indian brown and flushed due to washing the car moments before. Finally, there was the photo of them on a red couch, with him holding her. She kept it in her wallet and in a frame on her dresser, the frame reading, "Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a daddy." At times, she had to remind herself that her father had even existed. It was those times that it began to hurt the most that she knew nothing of a father-daughter relationship.

She grew up in the single parent household, knowing nothing outside her world concerning men. Her uncles and grandpa were the only male figures in her life, with various others stepping in and out due to her mother's unstable relationships. The last one programmed to memory was Randall. He ate shelled sunflower seeds by the handful, loved the Dallas Cowboys, and fished from the banks of the Wabash River. She was his shadow. And then he was gone.

None of her friends in high school had stable households, so the absence of fatherhood was quickly forgotten. He was always a subconscious thought, but very rarely did she recall to remember him. One of the only stories she had heard was a time when he and her uncle had broken a window in the house while their father was away, and their mother came running up the stairs with a shotgun. She always laughed at that story, not because she necessarily connected with it, but simply due to the picture in her head of her sixty five year old grandmother running up the stairs. (Of course, she was much younger then, but it didn't make the situation any less humorous). She also listened to a tape he had made while on the ship. He was soft-spoken with words of endearment to her mother, telling her he couldn't wait to get home. He also recorded their songs on it, with little hearts drawn on the label. It never occured to her how thoughtful he was. He was almost like a character in a book. The trinkets and things left behind reminded her that he had once lived, but if it weren't for those, she would let him fade.

It wasn't until she got to college that she realized how much she ached for her father. One weekend she went home with her best friend, Casey. When Casey's father greeted Casey at the door, arms outstretched, kissing her adult forehead, and asking her how her car was doing, she realized it made her extremely uncomfortable to see it. She hadn't been around much father-daughter affection, and she didn't know how to receive it. She smiled through the awkward feeling, and had to convince herself that this was something that was totally normal, no matter how foreign it was to her in her own life. She then began to open her eyes to all of these relationships at her school. At her University's annual get-together, Family Weekend, she saw the fathers and daughters interact. On the table where the family photos were developed and framed, she saw a picture of a girl and her father, sticking out their tongues and making funny faces at the camera. She wished she had been old enough to make funny faces with her father at the camera that had been taking photos of them. She wished she would have been old enough for her father to take her on what these people call a father/daughter "date". She would have liked that. She would have liked that a lot.

There were reminders everywhere. The morning she woke up from a bachelorette party, the soon-to-be bride's father had been standing outside of the doorway as she walked to the kitchen. He asked if she could go get his daughter. She explained politely that she was taking a shower, but that she would be done shortly. She watched as the man paced back and forth, and from her trips back and forth from the kitchen to the room, he must have asked her two more times if his daughter was ready to speak with him yet. It annoyed her at first, especially since she didn't expect him to be there. It was extremely creepy to wake up to a man in the house. But then, she began to see the reason why this man was so anxious. This was the last morning he was going to have a conversation with his single daughter. She would be her husband's after that day, and those talks wouldn't be as frequent as they had been before. It was clear by his wringing hands and nervous voice how frequent they had been. And that made her sick. She still didn't understand this father-daughter thing. Seeing affection or closeness between father and daughter made her uncomfortable. She felt like that type of closeness shouldn't go on between an older man and a younger woman. She just didn't understand it at all.

At the reception, the floor was cleared after the first dance. She thought it was for all of the guests to dance, but she realized it was for more "father-daughter" stuff. She almost rolled her eyes at the thought. The father and daughter dance. Hadn't their relationship been emphasized enough? The walking down the aisle with the father, the father giving away the daughter to the groom, etc. Why must we all sit here in awkward silence while we watch these two dance to "Butterfly Kisses" and reminisce about the "good old days?" What is the point? To make those that don't have good relationships, or better yet, NO fathers to feel bad about themselves? She tried not to let it bother her. She felt the corners of her eyes twitch against involuntary emotions. Before she could stop it, they rolled down her nose, just like Daddy's. She wiped them away, feeling a distant connection with the biological one who helped create her. Her gaze was empty, into the crowd, searching for the closest sensation to feeling her father physically with her in that moment. The reality that her father would never dance with her on her wedding day was devastating, a thought that had not been recognized until now.

Her eyes continued to pour, and her fiance' reached out and took her hand. He squeezed it, in the way that always assured her that no problem was too complex for him to solve. He wiped a tear away, and put his arm around her. She tried to blend in with the breathless crowd, pretending that the sight of father and daughter pushed only her sentimental buttons, and that these were happy tears. She's sure some people looked on, touched by her compassion. But these were bitter tears. She knew she'd never have that, and that made her want it that much more.

Her fiance' looked into her infant, lazy, dark brown eyes, lifting her chin to his gaze. "When we have our mother-son and father-daughter dance, you can dance with my father." He smiled at her, reassuring and comforting. That sentence made a wave of peace go over her. God was giving her a second chance at a father. By marriage, she was gaining another father, one that she could adopt as her own, and one that could give her the relationship she so desperately wanted. She leaned her head on his shoulder as the song ended.

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Sometimes God has dog eyes.





I have been feeling distant from God for awhile. I think my life has been so busy with other concerns, He has kind of faded in the background. It's not that I'm not conscious of Him, but I don't think I've been conscious of Him as Lord. Plus, any time I pray, I feel my prayers are hitting the ceiling.


My future husband asked me to go out and look at the stars tonight. It was then I realized how far from feeling God I've been lately. I sat, outwardly soundless, emotionless, except for the buckets of tears rolling down my cheeks. I realized how much I missed God.


When I long for God, I long for Him in every way. This includes physically. One of the most bizarre yet serene experiences I've ever had was in a judgement house a few Octobers back. We went through the room in which you supposedly died in a car accident. You approach the throne of judgement. Your name is repeated over the loud speaker, letting you know that you are in the book of life, and that you can enter heaven. Jesus (who is wearing a bad fake wig) comes out in the traditional Jesus garb, walks down the line, and hugs each of the people in the room, welcoming them to heaven. But when he got to me, instead of being freaked out, I clung to him for dear life. I forgot that it was an actor, and I imagined myself actually approaching the physical form of Jesus, and being able to connect with Him past the spiritual. I marvel at those that were actually able to walk with Jesus, and see him sweat, and see him laugh, and see him cry...it all leaves me wishing I had existed and walked in the same steps as Jesus.


But with God, you don't get that physical human connection. That's part of the greatness of Him, that you can still feel close to Him while never experiencing a physical connection with Him. At the same time, that is part of my pursuit, my race toward Him, to possibly touch the hem of His garmet, and feel as close to Him as possible, hoping that one experience will be one step closer to experiencing His physical presence. It's a bittersweet loneliness as well. One of the top things I hope I can experience in heaven is literally going up to Jesus, and getting a close as possible. Like a child following after her father's shadow, I think if human form existed in heaven, I would be the one that would literally be attached to Jesus as He walked around.


I was feeling the presence of God tonight, and longing for that physical connection. Wesley was preaching/discussing (0ne of the things he's great at) and suddenly my dog, Claudia, came up to me. And for no other way to explain this other than it was a supernatural experience, Claudia looked me in the eye, about five inches from my face, and laid her chin on my shoulder. It was the only way a dog could hug. And I felt God saying to me, "I can't be there with you, but I am HERE with you." As bizarre as it sounds, when Claudia looked at me face to face, with that unblinkling stare,with those brown, wise eyes that pierced my soul, I felt like God had specifically directed His creature toward me to offer the only physical comfort He could give me.



He brought me to the banqueting house, and His banner over me was love.

- Song of Songs 2:4

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Don't ever put me on a pedastal.

I will only let you down.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Tired insomnia.




Why is it that when I want (and need) sleep the most, it never comes? My mind (not so much my body, anymore) is weary from the 6 hour shift today, yet I can't seem to get myself to wind down to be relaxed. So, I down cold bottles of water--3 at a time-- and make a trip to the bathroom every five seconds. I sneak rice crispies from the cabinet (and scold myself later) and watch dateline specials about pedophiles and gang violence. I even resort to texting and leaving my boyfriend a voicemail, letting him know he can call me on his drive back home from closing, even though I know he probably won't call because he's the type that when he's tired, he crashes. Five seconds on the pillow, and he's out. And I wish I had some of that.


Instead, I have a tired headache and my eyes will be dry in the morning. It will be difficult to put my contacts in, and I'll accidently drop one on the floor. Then, I'll scrape the lens off and rid it of all the excess lint from the rug below, stick it in my eye, and nearly scream with pain, because I didn't get every fuzzy off from the artificial eyes.


It seems that in the school year, the nights where I need to pull an all nighter the most are the nights that I get the best sleep. You know, those in between studying naps that actually lead to all night naps with only two hours left to study for the test that you should have studied for for two weeks.


But nights like this, with nothing left to do but sleep, and nothing ahead but waking tomorrow at 6:55 to prepare for work... I cannot get my mind to stop talking. And I try not to talk back to it, but it's awfully persistent.


And I just realized how much I actually do miss my boyfriend. And that sucks. 5 days, come quick...and it makes me realize I haven't had a hug in about a week. And that's sad.

I guess the insomnia is my body's way of convincing me how important it is. I never really value sleep that much, unless it's used for procrastination. Isn't it funny that procrastination sleep is the BEST sleep? That and cold medicine sleep. They are both heavenly.
It's also always hot in my room. I don't get any of the air from the house. And if I turn my fan on the 2nd notch, the chain dangles and ticks against the fan, and I can't sleep. The 1st notch shakes the whole fan, so that's too noisy. The 3rd notch produces no noise, but doesn't cool the room very well. There's no comfortable medium. Any noise during sleep usually prevents me from going to sleep. I sleep best in a dungeon: cold, dark, and quiet. I also love soft sleep pants, and I can't sleep without a fluffy comforter over me. These both are almost impossible due to the heat, and so it leaves me shifting positions quite frequently. I don't like anything but sleep pants, and sleeping in shorts is uncomfortable (mostly because I get a wedgie during the night due to the shifting positions, and I wake up with it. Waking up with a wedgie is not fun.) Also, I have to leave my door open to even get any air flow going into the room. And I don't much like that, although I did realize it's starting to become habit-forming. The other night, I shut the door, and got freaked out, so I opened it back up. Something about the way the closing door made me feel. It's weird how some nights, my room is comforting, and other nights, it freaks me out. Some nights the shadows are innocent, and others, they are beastly villains ready to devour me as soon as I feel I'm safe. I think my imagination varies from night to night.


But I love my life, and I'm terribly blessed. I just wish I could sleep when I wanted to sleep.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

untitled.

She found the ring in a box with forgotten things. Dust collected in her fingerprints as she pulled cardboard tops off of box after box. This stretch of time was the summer before she would begin her first full-time job. She knew she was a tire-marked carcass at hand for vultures, digesting her every flaw and weakness. It was a competitive work field, and she would have to resort to nothing short of slitting throats to extinguish any competition that might arise. This involved getting rid of any soft area in her life. This was the cleansing process. With each stuffed animal thrown away, with each love letter fed to a greedy fire, she felt more like what she was supposed to feel like: a woman who could click her heels down a hallway, intimidate coworkers, and always be ready to brown nose and all costs. This was the highly publicized transition from girl to man eater. And she was ready. No man's ego was safe. She would mentally castrate them with her above and beyond approach at everything, and they would soon feel their own transition from man at the top of success to a forgotten fad. She had already practiced within the classroom. The star student, the teacher's pet, the epitome of male power was always replaced with her. She knew people despised her, and she loved it. What had the world offered her in the form of relationships, anyway? She had already figured out she could survive on her own. It was her decision whether she chose to have friends or not, and she would only seek them when it was beneficial to her. Preferably, when it could hoist her one step further on the agency's ladder.

She turned the ring over and over in her dry hands. This was the item she had been looking for. It was the one she held the most contempt for. When she began this process, she had only this item in mind. She filled bags and bags of trash, but she knew this task wouldn't be fulfilled until she found this. It represented all weakness in her life. It was funny how this item stood for everything that had been damaging in her life, and it had done so in several forms. Silver, a diamond and band. The diamond and its match she pawned for student loans, and this silver ring remained. She hated items like this the most. Items that reminded her of pathetic memories. She loathed sentimentality. She didn't want to be reminded of anything that would give her an emotion. Emotions were weak. She couldn't let anything break her now. Not now, not after all the hell and hard work she had put forth. She threw the ring across the room, and it landed beneath the leather sofa. She got up from her cross-legged position and began walking as if someone were following her. She would pick up the ring later. She didn't want to deal with it right now. She threw herself on her bed, and turned the t.v. on. Laguna Beach was going to start in five minutes.

Four days passed before she pulled back the leather flap. She stared at it, shining by the light of the living room lamp. She reached under the sofa, slowly, carefully, as if the ring had a life of its own. And it did. It pierced her with its life. It raced her heart with its life. It made her feel with its life. And she hated it. Gripping it with two fingers, she took the long way to the kitchen. This item deserved a much more brutal death. She walked slowly, meticulously down the less traveled path. It deserved to wait out its fate, nervous and knowingly. Her fingers clenched the band as if attempting to choke the breath out of it. She dropped it into the sink, and started to run the water. The process was halted. She had started to wash dishes earlier, and the plug still covered the opening. She smiled at the thought. Just one plastic plug between this ring and razor sharp teeth ready to devour it while it squealed in agony. She removed the plug, the excess water escaping through the hole. Flushing it down the sink would not be enough for it. She didn't want to imagine the possibility of it escaping, and somehow finding its way back into her house. She had heard one story about a man that had lost a ring while in the ocean and it later showed up inside of a fish he caught three years later. Even though she didn't eat fish, she didn't want to take any chances on this enemy getting away unharmed. She decided to further entertain herself with its demise by switching the blades in motion prior to sticking the band between them. The sound hummed across the counter top, creating a sacrificial Gregorian chant for this ceremony.

She looked down at it once more. She wanted to prove to herself that she could read this ring, read the whole thing, and not be effected by it. She wanted to focus in on it, and feel nothing. She took an adrenaline-coated breath. She saw the first word clearly. Her lips formed around the word, but her throat caught the sound. “True.” She let out another shaky sigh. Just two more words, Belinda. Just two more, and then you can cut this out of yourself. Where has all of your confidence gone? She had stood up to people twice her size in intellect, and she couldn't read the words on a stupid ring? This was ridiculous. She felt the corners of her eyes tickle, but she tried to ignore it. “Love.” She hated that word. She didn't know why it had existed. It was weak. It was weak! Just one more. Her pulse echoed in her ears. You can do it. Her stomach quivered. It's not a big deal, just a word; it doesn't mean anything. “Waits.” She stood up tall, reading the words together, as they were supposed to be read. Empty words. Empty words, that's all they are. Empty. True love waits. True love waits. True love waits. True...love...The ring bounced metallically into the hole. She threw her body against the sink before collapsing to the tile below. No, no, stop it! I don't want to remember! I don't want to feel! I don't want..it.... years of uncried tears began escaping down her cheeks. She tried to stop, tried bouncing her thoughts as she'd trained herself before, focused instead on an essay question she once read in class. The 75 investors each purchased their shares of stock and signed the shareholder agreement...It wasn't working. It wasn't! It wasn't! It wasn't! The 75 investors...No! No! Each purchased! Each, each, pur...chas.. It was too late now. The vulnerability had its way with her. Her mind took her to the place she had been fighting to forget. With each swipe of the blade across the packing tape, she had tried to forget. With each study night instead of sleep, she had tried to forget. With each overdose of sleep medicine, she tried to forget. But it couldn't be stopped now. It had the power she never wanted it to have again: the power to make her feel.

It was written with her favorite pen on July 1998. It was the pink pen with a pink flower and black ink. “I promise.” It was the same summer she had learned what it meant to truly love the Lord. It became the most important thing in her life. She encouraged her friends to promise too. Most didn't, and she was usually there to pick up the pieces after their mistakes. She was so thankful that she had decided to wait until she got married to give that very sacred piece of herself away. She met him her freshman year in college. He was beautiful, in all the ways she imagined her future husband would be. He loved the lord, he read his Bible everyday, and he prayed for her on a daily basis. She had been through several relationships before, and that promise still held true, in every sense of the word. This guy would protect her, she knew. This guy would be in the same fight as she. He had made that pledge as well, and she knew she was safe with him.

It happened a month later in a cheap motel room. They weren't celebrating their first married night together. They didn't have the lingering taste of wedding cake in their mouths. He didn't lift her over the threshhold and out of her dress. They had no rings, except for the purity rings on their right hands. It was all wrong. Both families reveled in their children remaining pure when “So many kids nowadays don't do this sort of thing”and they became living examples to their community. They were youth leaders at their church, and they were even in charge of purity weekends. As she held broken girls in her arms, weeping over their loss of innocence, she was in bed with him every Saturday night, then sat in a pew with him Sunday morning. They decided it was only right that they get married. They couldn't break the addiction, and so, while knowing little about one another, they wed to eliminate the guilt. As she wore her white dress that day, her mother adjusted her veil. With a tearful confession, she told her how proud she was of her and Mark, and that she wished that she would have been more like her daughter. She cried that day, but not out of happiness. It was all wrong.

Six months later, the guilt was still there, and a new guilt had personified. At twenty, she was constantly teased about being married. She was one of the most attractive girls at her school, and the boys couldn't believe that she was taken. Marriage was for old people. Marriage made her feel tired. Tired and undesirable. At 19, she felt 38, and in a mid-life crisis. She met someone, a guy named Tyler. He was flattering, and she needed fresh affection. They stayed out late studying, and one thing led to another. It was all wrong. Mark figured it out less than two weeks later. He told her he still loved her, that he was willing to work through it with her, and they would get through it together. But that wasn't the truth. She couldn't let it be the truth. The truth for her was that Mark was the one who she gave her virginity to. But she was in love with Tyler. She tried to explain this to Mark several times, but he wouldn't have it. They began fighting. They had never fought. She began staying out late, and not coming home. She stayed with Tyler, the man who was perfectly conscious-free about stealing another man's wife. She didn't respect the man, but he was her way out of thearms of the other man she didn't respect: the thief of her youth. It was all wrong. Eight months later, both Mark and Tyler were gone. She was divorced at 20. She had planned on being with one person for the rest of her life. She wanted to have five babies, and live in a house with a two car garage and a yard large enough to play football in. She wanted her daughters to be virtuous and her sons to be leaders.
She wanted to stay in love with her husband through everything, and have the kind of affection for one another that everyone envied. She wanted to be the couple that would never be on a bowling league together. The couple that did exotic things, like backpack through New England and hike through northern California. But it had been none of that. It was all wrong.

“Miss Taylor? You're needed in the conference room to discuss the new proposal.” She shifted her thoughts to Trevor, the young reception trainee that had been hired this week. His voice was irritating, like a untied balloon releasing its air. She leaned her body forward, locking eyes with him. This was the look. Wait, wait for it...wait... her intimidating gaze quickly had Trevor looking at the floor. She smirked at this predictable reaction,turning her chair to the window outside. “I'll be in there momentarily.” “Yes, Miss Taylor.” Her room was quiet again. Trevor had let in all the chaos with his entry. She looked at her rock garden on the desk, and dug her finger in the sand. She had gotten angry one day and had broken the doll house rake that had come with it. She was at the top of her firm. Her name was constantly in the paper, and she had the largest office anyposition like hers had ever been offered. She leaned back and let out a weathered sigh, and gazed over at the mirror on the wall. She stood up, adjusting her hair and blouse. She studied herself, noticing that she was in the best shape of her life. Her skirt framed her figure perfectly, and she was easily the most attractive of all the other women on the floor. Her pay raise had doubled the original, and she had bought two tickets to Northern California for paid vacation.
As she walked to her door, her heels clicking against the stone floor, she turned back, examining her office. Her countless consultations and literature on Feng Shui left it, though oddly positioned, completelybalanced and radiating with positive energy. Looking around the room, studying every detail, she realized she had everything she had ever possibly wanted by way of setting goals. As she walked down the hallway,she caught a moment to stop and take her life in. Even in the midst of all of this, there always remained a sinking feeling that would stay with her until she no longer lived. .It was wrong. It was all wrong.