Busy busy busy

I am a horrible blogger.   I haven’t written in well over a month, and still, I’m not sure what to write about.  Work has been busy, so life feels busier.  There’s also the pesky little business of me attempting to buy a house.  I decided that buying a house is a little bit like dating—you’re never really sure what’s going to happen.  And much like dating, I don’t like to talk about it unless it’s official (i.e., a set of keys…or a ring), lest I jinx myself.  Because jinxing is totally a real thing.

There are a lot of things on my mind right now, mostly involving the intersection of faith and culture, faith and politics, faith and, well, the world.  I can sense my position on a lot of issues slowly shifting left, despite my theological conservatism, which isn’t going anywhere.  Maybe it’s because of what I read, but maybe it’s more.  Maybe it’s because after being a single adult for so long, I’m realizing that what the traditional church says isn’t resonating with my generation or the generation behind me.  I know Christians (real ones) who struggle with homosexuality (or same-sex attraction, as some folks put it).  Women around the world and in this country are being victimized, and I don’t see the church taking a stand like it should.  There are more people in slavery in this world than ever before in history, and yet just the other day I came across an actual “Christian” justification of slavery.

And on a less serious note, what does headship and submission really mean when you’re 31 and can support yourself and have a career and buy a house and travel to amazing places, and having a man suddenly be an “authority” over you doesn’t actually seem like all that attractive of an option? 

That’s what’s on my mind lately.  There are better writers and thinking out there, tackling all of this and more, and doing a splendid job.  Just what my voice is or should be, I’m not so sure yet.  So we’ll see.

In the meantime, I’m headed to Italy next week, where I plan on walking ancient streets and drinking wine and eating gelato. And much more amazingness.  Oh Italy, I love you so!

On mercy (and being lazy)

I think I might officially be the laziest blogger in the world (or just badly in need of inspiration).  But in the meantime, there's this (what I wrote for my church's mercy newsletter):

When I was 17, I held a dying child.

 I was in Haiti, my first trip out of the country, at a Catholic orphanage that was understaffed and overcrowded. 

 There wasn’t really much we could “do” in the conventional sense of the word.  We couldn’t feed these children or clothe them or adopt them.  We were there for only a few hours, a fraction of our week in the country, just to see and play and touch.  To have our eyes opened and our hearts expanded. 

These beautiful children wanted nothing more than physical contact.  So I held a 3-year old boy dying of AIDS, so small he looked half his age.  He didn’t make a sound; he just held up his hands to me.  I don’t remember his name, but I remember the feel of his frail body in my arms.

 And then we left, and that precious child, image-bearer of God, probably didn’t live another six months.

 I returned from that trip forever changed.  And angry.  Angry that I couldn’t fix it.  That I couldn’t even save one child. 

All grown up, I still get angry. 

 And I still can’t fix it.  The problems are too varied and complex and systemic for me to be able to do much. I have more resources and more skills than I did at 17 but I still can’t fix it. 

But I can love.

Love and touch and listen and hug and give and walk beside.

And I wonder how often I’ve avoided this hard work because I feel useless, and I think it doesn’t really change anything.  Or because money is easier to give than time.  Or because I’m too busy or too tired.  Or because when my own life gets hard the last thing I want to do is to give any of my seemingly limited resources to someone else.

When I read the Gospels, I am so often struck by the outcasts that Christ loved, the “unclean” people that He touched.  Those society rejected.  Longing for human connection.

With His touch, Christ said, “You are loved. You are clean.  You belong.”

 In the end, isn’t that what we all want? 

To have friends who will journey with us in our suffering, pick us up when we fall and point us to the One who can fix everything.  The One who, one day, will right all of the wrongs of this world.

How NOT to Get a Girl's Number

I told my friend Lindsey I would blog about this story, because it’s so funny and one of those moments where you think, “dude, really?”  Since I’m 30 and not married, I have my fair share of strange dating/guy stories (like the guy who told me I “eat good for a skinny girl,” for example), but what happened to Lindsey has thankfully never happened to me.

                So we went out for drinks on St. Patrick’s Day Saturday night.  We went a little early because we knew it would be really crowded.  We had a bit of a dilemma, both of us loving basketball but not loving insane crowds, so we sacrificed the basketball in order to be somewhere we could sit down and have an actual conversation.  We were having quite a lovely time with our (very) strong drinks and catching up on life, when Lindsey got up from her seat.

                Mistake number one. 

                Because this guy came and sat right across from me.  I told him I was with a friend who would be coming back, hoping he would get the message that he was interrupting girl time (and I love my girl time) and leave, but he was pretty drunk, so no such luck.  Lindsey came back, and he stayed and tried to chat us up.  His friend Reggie came and sat thisclosetome.  Isaac (the first guy) clearly had his eye on Lindsey.  I was all over some bored body language, again hoping he would get the hint and leave.  But drunkenness and male ego won out.  Fun fact I learned in law school—men tend to mistake women’s politeness as actual interest.  Yeah no.  We were both trying to think of an excuse that would get us out of there without obviously lying, but we came up short. 

                When we did finally leave, Isaac asked for Lindsey’s number.  She told him, no, she doesn’t really give her number out to guys in bars.  A legitimate reason, and MOST guys would’ve said ok and either taken it as a rejection and been on their way or offered to give out their own number.

                This is what Isaac did instead.

                He argued.

                He told her she was lying.  He asked for the reason why she didn’t want to give him her number.   He told us we couldn’t possibly be telling the truth because we were out at a bar, so obviously we wanted to get hit on.  And he kept arguing.  I tried to be firm, but he wouldn’t let up.  Finally I got a little sarcastic and he gave in.

                I felt a little bad (only a little), but apparently by the time you’re 30, you stop caring about being polite and friendly to random guys in bars, hence why he asked for Lindsey’s number and not mine.  Although I did have a ready-made reason to tell him no (I’m taken!) had he asked.

                

               A couple of lessons for the fellas on this one:

    1.       As shocking as it may seem, some girls do go to bars for the sole purpose of having a drink or two and just talking.  Also, if you’re looking for some action, the sober girls in jeans are probably not your best bet.

    2.       Arguing with a girl over whether she should give you her number is not actually going to work on anyone who’s emotionally healthy.  In fact, trying to get a girl to do anything by arguing with her and telling her she’s lying is not the best strategy.

Through this encounter, however, Lindsey and I learned that the platypus is venomous via a spur on a hind foot.  True story. 

                 

Kendall Marshall's Wrist

A week or so ago, Time Magazine published an online article arguing that for the sake of basketball in the state of North Carolina, Duke and UNC should root for each other in games against out-of-state opponents.

                Ha.

                Clearly, this writer is clueless.  Not being a North Carolina native himself, he does not understand just how seriously we take our college basketball here.  When he was in middle school and high school, his teachers probably did not wheel in a TV to watch the ACC Tournament daytime games.  He does not know that kids are allowed to stay up past their bedtimes for certain games in this state.

He does not know that the Carolina-Duke game means bragging rights until the next game.  Austin Rivers’ game-winning shot only mattered until the Tar Heels took Cameron and the Duke seniors lost their final home game.

And he does not understand that no self-respecting Carolina fan can cheer for Duke, no matter the circumstances.  I can cheer for any other ACC school, especially in the NCAA Tourney.  Mostly, I want the ACC to do well.  (I was thrilled that N.C. State beat Georgetown. I do not, however, want a rivalry matchup in the regional final because I might have a stroke, so I don’t really want to see them beat Kansas, unless UNC loses to Ohio, in which case, Go Pack!  College basketball math can get a little complicated.)

But you see, Duke and Carolina are not really from the same state at all.  Duke and UNC do not stand for the same things or represent the same values.  We don’t have shared childhood experiences.  Duke basketball isn’t about the state of North Carolina in any way.  A UNC fan cheering for Duke isn’t actually supporting his state.  He’s supporting New England boarding schools. 

Which brings me back to Kendall Marshall’s wrist.  Sort of.

March Madness is one of the best things in the world.  If I didn’t have to work, I could happily sit in front of the TV for 4 days straight during the first two rounds and watch basketball constantly.  But then the unthinkable happens. 

UNC’s point guard gets fouled.  Hard.  Apparently those Nebraskan Catholics play some dirty basketball.  He goes down, and you think, “oh please no!”  Then he comes back, and you think it’s going to be ok.  Except that it’s not.  Kendall Marshall has a broken wrist, and I almost cried.

For real.

I do know, somewhere in the logical recesses of my mind, that an emotionally charged reaction to the injury of a stranger is not normal.  But he’s not really a stranger.  He’s the guy that was going to lead the Heels to the Final Four. And Carolina loves its point guards.

So what happens the day after Kendall Marshall breaks his wrist? 

My pastor creates a Facebook page for Marshall’s wrist (http://www.facebook.com/KendallMarshallsWrist).

And all of Tar Heel Nation anxiously awaits news, and hopes and prays (yes, prays) that Marshall will somehow recover enough to be back on the court Friday by 7:45.  It’s not his dominant wrist, after all. 

And if not?

Well, at least we didn’t lose to Lehigh.  

I Have Lost my Inspiration

There is no longer anything that I’m dying to write about.  I keep starting posts and never finishing them and then erasing them because I don’t really like them.  There are a million things on my mind these days, but I can’t seem to synthesize my thoughts into anything coherent.  In case you’re wondering, a few of things include my upcoming vacation to Italy, the iPhone I’m FINALLY getting this week (yes, welcome to this decade, Emily), buying a house (which I’m planning on doing later this year), and wondering how I’m going to survive living with my parents for a few months in order to save up money for a house house.  There are also larger issues on my mind such as racial reconciliation, how God may be calling me to serve my city, what the role of women is and should be in the church, and how the church can better serve those of us who didn’t get married by the time we were 25.  But other writers have written eloquently on all of those subjects. 

So my mind is a jumbled mess, but I don’t particularly want to write about any of it.  The culprit?  I have a sneaking suspicion it might just be contentment. 

Writing for me has always been a form of catharsis, a way of ridding myself of dark thoughts and plumbing the scary depths of my heart in a safe way that brings me back to Truth.  There are some ongoing frustrations in my life to be sure, but overall, I’m pretty happy.  That could change at any time (a thought that doesn’t exactly give me warm fuzzies), but for right now, I’m trying to find some new inspiration…

For the Love of Durham

I spent the first eighteen years of my life in Durham, NC, and when I left, I never planned on going back.  I didn’t hate Durham and I would adamantly defend it against its (many) critics, most of whom, in my opinion, were sheltered from the realities of life in a diverse city.  Technically, I haven’t lived in Durham for over 12 years, except for a few months here and there, but a strange thing has happened in all that time.  I now love Durham.  And I want to live there, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why God has not yet opened up that particular door.           

                Not only do I love Durham, but I appreciate its history and its problems and all that it taught me in a way that I couldn’t at 18. 

                In the past, my parents have both expressed that they wish they could’ve sent me to private school. But it was not to be, so every single year I’ve spent in education has been in a publically funded institution.  I’m not going to share all my views on different systems of education, but I am so incredibly grateful for going to Durham Public Schools.  They’re not exactly highly-ranked, and my alma mater has been in the news for such unsavory things as weapons, so perhaps it’s a little strange that I have such love for my experiences. 

                But by the time I graduated from high school, I had shared a classroom with people of at least five different races/ethnicities and adherents to all of the world’s major religions.  Durham is a wonderfully diverse place, economically, racially, culturally, religiously.  I didn’t discover issues of race as an adult, I grew up with them, and while I haven’t always (and still don’t) deal with them well, and I certainly don’t have any good answers, I’m glad that people who are not like me were always around me.  I’m glad that the poorer sections of Durham are unavoidable—if you live there, you can’t pretend that poverty and racism don’t exist.  You just can’t.

                Durham isn’t the same place it was in the 90’s.  For one thing, it’s way cooler.  For another, I truly believe that God is moving in Durham in ways I could never have predicted.  People who are passionate about God are working for justice and reconciliation.  New communities are forming, and downtown is vibrant.  Renowned chefs are using locally grown agriculture products, and food trucks have sprouted up for every cuisine imaginable.  Nonprofits have been established that are seeking to serve the city in Christ-honoring ways.

                It’s not perfect. Racial divisions still exist and inexcusable injustices have been committed.  Crime is prevalent.  Public transportation is terrible.  Gangs have long since infiltrated the middle and high schools.  People are broken and not being loved well.  (And, of course, there’s the pesky little problem of that horrible university that’s located in Durham, and no, I’m talking about NCCU.) 

                But I do know that I want to be a part of what God’s doing there.  I am crying out for a truly multiethnic church to be planted downtown.  I am longing for hard conversations and racial reconciliation and a community that isn’t just hip and progressive, but also loves Jesus and pursues His passions. 

                My grandmother can tell me stories about POWs coming through Durham on their way to Butner in World War II.  I have roots in this state that go back over two hundred years.  I don’t know all the reasons why God brought me back to this place that I never wanted to return to, but I want my family’s legacy here to reflect God’s grace, that the good news of Christ might be proclaimed.

The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me,
because the LORD has anointed me
to bring good news to the poor;^a
he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and the opening of the prison to those who are bound

Good Riddance, 2011!

Dear 2011,

                No offense or anything, but you were pretty hard on me.  A year ago, I was confused and miserable and constantly anxious.   I spent the first three months of the year like that.  I spent the next three months of the year grieving and sad.  And the three months after that, trying to adjust to a life I hadn’t really planned on.  You gave me a lot of tears and heartache.

                I’m sure, in the grand scheme of things, that there was a purpose in you.  I know you taught me lessons I haven’t seen yet, and I can already see the good that is coming from you.  In all fairness, you were very kind to me sometimes.  When things were really difficult, you gave me lots of beach trips to help me out.  You also brought my adorable little puppy to me.  And these last few months have actually been pretty great.  I love God more than I did a year ago, I’ve found a church I love, I’ve been given some pretty great friends, and all in all, my life is happy and fulfilling. 

                But nevertheless, 2011, I’m not sad to see you go. 

                So this is goodbye.  Please take your painful memories with you. 

                And here’s to 2012, hopefully full of new adventures and lots of laughter!

Love,

Emily

What Happens?

What happens when we pray?  I know that we pray, we grow in faith, God hears us, and answers our prayers, sometimes in ways we want, sometimes in ways we don’t want.  But on a cosmic level, what really happens?  I ask because I have been privileged to see BIG answers to prayer lately in the lives of people around me, or people who used to be around me.

                Example 1.  A former elder of my church in Atlanta has been fighting cancer for 15 or so years.  He and his precious family were told a few weeks ago that the end was near and he had mere days to live.  So people prayed.  I mean, prayed.  All across the state of Georgia, and elsewhere in the country, people who know this man and people who don’t all got down on their knees and cried out to God for a miracle.  Death retreated, and he’s still fighting, one of Christ’s great warriors on this earth, I know. 

                Example 2.  A couple in India whom I’ve never met adopted an infant boy born with several disabilities, who was unwanted by his mother and would otherwise have been left to die.  They brought him to Chapel Hill for desperately needed surgery, only to find out that they needed $100,000 to actually pay for the surgeries.  So people prayed. And gave.  And $100,000 was raised in one week.  ONE WEEK.  I get chills just thinking about it.  This beautiful child still has a hard journey ahead of him.  This isn’t over.  But God is working.

                So I wonder, what happens when we pray?  Are the powers of God unleashed upon this earth?  Are His warriors sent out to do His bidding and to answer the pleas of His people?  Are the forces of Satan pushed back as the sons and daughters of the Creator raise their voices?  When our hearts are in anguish, does He sing over us words of comfort and healing?

                I think yes.  I know in this lifetime, I will never know what that looks like in the spiritual realm, but oh, what joy it will be to gaze upon the face of my Savior and see how His mighty hand is outstretched over this earth.

What do you write about when there's nothing going on?

There’s a book out there entitled A Long Obedience in the Same Direction.  I’ve never read this book because the title alone scares me to death.  I’m not so good with patience…or boredom…or doing the same thing every day.  I pretty much HAVE to have something to look forward to or I start feeling antsy and going a little bit crazy. 

                The last eight years of my life have been nothing but constant change—jobs, cities, places to live.  Now I find myself in a “situation” that could realistically not change for awhile.  Oh, I’m sure that I’ll probably move to a different apartment or house at some time in the next year or so because that just seems to be my lot in life (one benefit: I am the most efficient packer EVER and I accumulate very little stuff).  But I’m at a stable job that I’m not looking to get out of, in a city that I really don’t see myself leaving anytime soon. 

                I know that God could totally change all of that without a moment’s notice, but what if He doesn’t?   I’ve learned so much over the last decade about how to deal with change, but very little about how to deal with sameness.  I think I’ve had my fair share of heartache and struggle this year, but I have to admit that it’s easier to cry out to God when I can really feel my desperate need for Him.

                It’s a lot harder when there is an established rhythm to life and nothing seems all that difficult.  I find myself a little bit envious of my friend who is living in India or other people I know who are preparing to move to different countries.

                I trust that the “boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places,” but will I be able to continue to believe that even if instead of calling me to go, God calls me to stay?  The sufficiency of God’s grace seems much more real to me in times of struggle and weakness than it does in the small, mundane stresses of everyday life.

                Most of the last 5 years of my life, God has been teaching me to trust in truth, not in my own feelings.  Perhaps this season of life is just a continuation of that.  Or perhaps He’s up to something bigger (He usually is) than I can even dream of. 

                Either way, subjects for blogging are more difficult to find J 

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

You might think I’m talking about Christmas (obviously), or how beautiful and wonderful fall is (it really is).  But nope.

I’m talking about college basketball.

Oh yes.  Carolina opens its regular season this Friday (on 11/11/11!) on an aircraft carrier.  Carolina’s first regular season game is quite possibly one of the highlights of my entire year.  I love it.  I know that from that day until the first Monday in April, I’ll get to watch good college basketball every single week. 

I love good defense and 5-second violations.  I love the emotion and the adrenaline.  I love beating teams by double digits, and I love buzzer beaters just for the rush.  I love hating Dick Vitale.  I love “One Shining Moment.”  I love when the score reaches 100.  I love when the walk-ons put points on the board. And I have a special place in my heart for scrappy point guards (and for Wes Miller). 

For this warm weather girl, college basketball is winter’s one redeeming grace.

I have high hopes for my boys this season, but even if they don’t live up to expectations, a small piece of me will always sing “Hark the Sound” at the end of a game. 

Go Heels! 

A Cure for Road Rage

From time to time, my dad likes to remind me that I'm impatient.  Unfortunately, he's right, as much as I would like to think that I have grown past this particular imperfection.  The main way this manifests itself in my life is in my car.  Not only do I drive too fast, but I also can have a bit of road rage when other people are preventing me from driving too fast.  Having been convicted (spiritually, not legally) of this lately, I decided to pray in the car when I start to get impatient (why this has taken me 14 years of driving to start doing is another issue entirely).

I thought I was doing a fantastic job on my way to church this morning.  I was behind a car with an older couple inside, driving rather slowly, and shortly before the turn to my parking lot for church, the driver of the car stopped and put on his blinker to turn left into his church parking lot.  The driver was a bit hesitant.  Technically, I had enough room in the bike lane to go around him, but I decided that I would be patient and wait the extra 10-15 seconds.  The car behind me had other ideas.  I saw in my rear view mirror a woman obviously yelling at me and gesturing.  The car turned, I moved along and turned into my parking lot.  So did the car behind me.  Huh.  Awkward.

I think one of the reasons road rage is so hard for me is because I'm anonymous.  Nobody knows who I am, and if somebody gets a glimpse of my face as I speed by, well, it's going to be forgotten in an hour.  I've heard it said that for Christian women in particular, the car is the only place we feel we can express anger.  If I'm frustrated at work, I'm probably not going to tell anyone (except maybe my best friend).  If I get angry at people in my private life, it's very rarely expressed.  While I think some of this is probably good and borne out of a genuine desire to be kind, some of it is decidedly less good and borne out of a desire to have everyone like me.  Either way, saving my anger for the road doesn't get rid of the root problem (my frustration when things don't go my way), it just transfers it to a less "dangerous" situation (assuming, of course, that I remain anonymous and nothing bad happens). 

This morning, my first reaction at being on the receiving end of road rage by someone in my church community was to be indignant.  "Um, excuse me, this is church!  I'm being all patient and godly and this woman is just screaming at me!  How dare she!"  The other word for my attitude is self-righteousness.  I go to a pretty small church, so of course, I knew this girl.  I couldn't really figure out a way to make it not awkward to talk to her, so I just didn't.  I'm an excellent conflict avoider. 

Anyway--as the worship service began, I was irritated and defensive, before remembering how often I have done the same thing to other people.  I just have never been on my way to the same non-anonymous place.  I was redoubled in my conviction and my intent to pray for patience in the car.  Woohoo!

Until about 2:00 this afternoon, when I was on my way home from lunch and got behind a car going 10 under in the left lane and I muttered my irritation at the driver instead of praying.  At which point I remembered just how desperately and continually I need Jesus.

I am confident that He who is doing a good work in me will finish it to completion; I just wish it were an easier process. 

Cheap Thrills

Molly tends to provide excellent entertainment---she'll occasionally play fetch with herself, she likes eating bubbles, and sometimes she "talks" or "sings" meaning, she howls and holds notes for a very long time).  But every once in awhile, she chases her tail...and I think it's hilarious.  I think she knows it's her tail, but she just wants to see if maybe she can get it this time.  I finally caught it on video, so I had to share :)

It's been a kind of strange evening--the smoke alarm (or carbon monoxide detector) went off twice, then stopped (I fully expect to be awoken at 2am), and when I went downstairs, I found the front door ajar.  So whatever strange electricity is in the air tonight seems to have affected my puppy as well.  

Choose Joy

Sara is a blogger I discovered a year or so ago, and she also has written for (in)courage, an online community of women writing about God and life.  I became immediately drawn in by Sara’s story, a young woman diagnosed with a debilitating disease and therefore robbed of everything she thought she had and all she thought life was going to hold for her.

In such a circumstance, I probably would’ve shriveled up and given up.  Sara, though, did the opposite.  Homebound for years, she loved and loved BIG.  She poured out her heart and she chose joy (also the title of her blog).

I have never met this woman, and she does not know that I exist, but I am inspired.  I know how often I choose to not choose joy.  I instead choose to complain.  I choose anger at God for what He has withheld from me and frustration at people who do not conform to my expectations.  I choose many things, but not often joy.

Sara’s story has taught me that joy is a choice.  Life will be hard.  Whatever course the rest of my life takes, however long or short, it will contain sorrow and grief and loss and pain.  I cannot prevent it or fix it or delay it.  It is a reality.

But I can still choose to praise the One who rescued me from the grave, the One who bought me from captivity, who gives me breath and life and purpose.  I can choose to be joyful that I stand redeemed and forgiven and whole.

Sarah is on her way home. 

And today I choose joy that one day, I, too, will be welcomed home
into a beautiful, perfect eternity where every sad thing will be undone.

Being Introverted in an Extraverted World

I am an introvert. It is part of my nature that I have fought against and complained to God about incessantly over the years.  I have cried in frustration at this aspect of my personality that I am completely unable to change.  I have begged God to take it away.  I read recently that our basic personalities are set by the time we’re in first grade, so as disheartening as it is, it appears that I am stuck this way.

I have been accused of being stuck up and standoffish, and, in one of the most hurtful things ever said to me, accused of not caring about people. (All of these accusations, by the way, have been made by extroverts.)  

The truth is not that I am uncaring, stuck up, or standoffish.  The truth is that I hate small talk.  I’m horrible at it.  Big groups drain me.  I feel awkward in a roomful of people I don’t well.  When I was living in Atlanta, a friend of mine and I used to drink a beer or two just to gear ourselves up for parties.  Alcohol makes bearable otherwise supremely uncomfortable moments.  I would not recommend employing this strategy on a regular basis, but it has its uses.

These introverted tendencies make being new very difficult, even in a fairly welcoming and inviting environment.  Extraversion is rewarded and praised, even often mistaken for kindness and warmth.  These characteristics can and often do coexist, of course, but the lack of one is not proof of lack of the other.  I have been taken in by outgoing charm, attracted to that which I lack, only to find that charm is, in fact, deceptive. I could’ve learned the same lesson by taking Proverbs to heart, but I’m too stubborn for that.

Introversion has its many overlooked qualities.  We tend, on the whole, to be pretty good listeners.  I love lingering, meaningful conversations with one or two or three other people.  I could get to know you over lunch or coffee, and we would probably walk away friends.  I don’t want to just know what you do for a living, I want to know why you do it.  I want to know what you care about, what you’re passionate about, what you’re struggling with, how you’re hurting, and how I can help. 

The trouble is figuring out how to get from the big groups that I hate to the more intimate setting where I can have the kinds of conversations that I like.  I’m convinced that there is a place in God’s kingdom for all sorts of personalities and talents and gifts; I’m not convinced that the church does such a great job of celebrating all of these differences, especially in a culture that so prizes the more outgoing among us. 

I know that my Father knit me together in my mother’s womb.  I know (usually) that I am wonderfully and fearfully made.  I can’t help but wish at times that I was made differently, but who am I to question God?  Who am I to criticize His creation of my heart?  I want to quietly trust that He has a plan for ALL of me, a plan for me to glorify Him and to love others in His name.  He is the author of my story, and He can’t be the author without writing the characters too. 

Invention and Reinvention

If necessity is the mother of invention, then what is the mother of reinvention?  Desperation?  Despair? Boredom? 

I ask because I find myself wanting to do a little reinvention of my own.  I have to wonder if it’s born out of my desire to control everything.  The major changes of the last 6 ½ months of my life weren’t exactly of my own making, so it’s left me feeling a bit powerless.  More accurately, it revealed just how much I am NOT in control of my own life. 

I also think that after years of school, fall continues to feel like the perfect time for a new start.  That new school year feeling dies hard, as it turns out. 

So this September, I decided to start afresh.  I’m reclaiming football season for my own (that won’t make sense to most people but I’m happy I no longer have to care about SEC football), I just cut my hair shorter than it’s been since college, I’ve given up fast food and takeout, and started my Dave Ramsey Total Money Makeover.  The last of these really just means that in an effort to aggressively pay off my car and my student loans, I can’t afford to do much else, so it coincides nicely with giving up fast food and takeout.  My only fast food before was a weekly lunch at Chick-Fil-A and maybe Quizno’s every now and then, but with no takeout, and a pretty tight eating out budget, I have to cook a lot more.  I like to cook, so this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it requires so much more planning!

While I think these are all beneficial life changes for me right now, I know that nothing I do outwardly will change my heart.  I’ve been meditating on this verse a lot lately: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.  See, I am doing a new thing!  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?  I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.” (Isaiah 43: 18-19)

I need a daily (or hourly) reminder not to dwell on the past, and I love all of the encouragement and promise these verses hold.  God IS doing a new thing—in me and around me.  And my Creator is able and willing to make streams in the wasteland.  Hallelujah!

Fear of the Fall

In this case, I mean that quite literally--the fall, as in the season.  Usually, I love fall.  Even this summer girl needs a break from the heat, and I welcome being able to wear jeans again.  I love sleeping with my windows open and apple cider and football and the beauty of the leaves changing.  I love the smell of leaves burning and the deeper blue of the sky.  But this year, I'm afraid.

I want so badly to move as far as I can away from this spring, so I welcome the passage of time.  But memories are tied to our senses, and all of my good (now painful) memories of my past relationship are located in the fall.  So will the chill in the air remind me of words whispered and promises made in a different fall, promises that fell to the ground and shattered into a hundred pieces?  Will living this fall make last fall seem closer than it really is?  Can I go back to only watching my Heels play football and not giving a damn about the SEC?  (No offense to my many SEC friends--you are the superior football conference, I just happen to hate one of your members.) 

I want to write over the memories that exist for me in September, October, and November.  I want to re-record these months with new experiences, new words, new life.  I want to live this autumn for what it is, without thinking of what used to be. 

The trouble is, I'm not entirely sure how to do that.

That Time I Quit

It has been argued that I can be a bit stubborn sometimes. I don’t like to quit anything, because it feels like giving up.  I can get frustrated easily, but I don't walk away because things are hard.  I'm loyal to people to the point of stupidity.  If my ship is sinking, I usually just go down with it.  I only quit jobs when I have something better lined up, and I feel a ridiculous sense of guilt at even that.  But a year ago, I quit something.  I quit something so big it made my mother cry.  I quit something I was actually really, really good at.

I quit law school.  After one very successful year with no drama or competitiveness and very little stress.  Seriously, I could write a book on how to survive (tip #1: have friends that aren’t in law school).  But regardless of all of that, I didn’t like it.  All I could think of was how high my student loans would be, and how I’d have to work in a job I hated to be able to pay them off so I could go do the type of law I really wanted to do.  It wasn’t worth it anymore. 

Midway through my second semester, I started googling "quitting law school." That's not really a good sign. When I didn't enter the journal competition after exams in May, I knew in the back of my mind what that probably meant.  The day in late June I finally decided to quit I felt nothing but relief.  And the day I officially withdrew I was actually giddy.

It's been a little over a year since I made the decision to quit.  It hasn't been the easiest year of my life, but law school seems a distant memory, like it was a year lived in someone else's life (except for those pesky student loans).  On the rare occasion I drive by the law school, it usually doesn't even register that I spent a year there.

I don't plan on quitting anything else anytime soon.  But I have zero regrets about that decision.  Since the day I last walked out of that building, I haven't looked back.  If only everything was so easy to move on from.

I like it, I love it, I want some more of it

Control, that is.  I like being in control.  I want to be in control all the time.  I am a perfectionist partially because it gives me the illusion of control.  If I can cultivate the image that I’m a good employee, good friend, good Christian, good whatever, then maybe I am in control of my life.  If I can keep myself under control, manage my emotions, always stay calm and rational, then maybe I am actually in control.

My cringe-worthy moments are pretty few and far between.  I’m not a risk-taker, except in controlled environments (like skydiving, for example).  I keep my mouth shut too often mostly because I’m afraid of saying something stupid or saying something that other people will disagree with or get mad at.  I don’t like to make waves or create conflict.  Most people think of me as even-keeled, except those few people who get freak out emails or phone calls from me at random times when I’m in the middle of an emotional crisis or I’ve done something entirely too cringe-worthy for my liking.

Because this control I’ve tried so hard to maintain?  It’s nothing but an illusion, a lie.  I’m not a calm or rational person, at least not when it comes to my own life (I do, however, give very calm and rational advice to others).  I may not let other people in on my secret, but I sometimes act impulsively, I take things too personally, I make decisions out of emotion.  I feel things deeply, and I’m intensely loyal (unless you totally screw me over, and then I give you evil nicknames—this only applies to those with a y chromosome).  And sometimes in my irrationality, I do stupid, cringe-worthy things.  I let myself get caught up in a feeling, a longing, a hurt, and I make a rash decision that I immediately regret but can’t take back.

But I have to ask myself, what’s the alternative?  Do I really want to be a person who’s in control all the time?  Do I really want to be someone who never makes mistakes because she never takes risks?  A person who’s never hurt because she never lets herself truly love anyone?  As C.S. Lewis writes, the only place outside of heaven where a heart can be safe from the dangers of love…is hell.  I don’t want to live in a hell on earth because I’m scared of being hurt.  My desire for control leads me to put up walls, to shut people out, to keep people from getting too close and finding out the truth about me.  I’ve lived like that for far too long.

In truth, I would rather dance inside the flames and really live this one life I’ve been given than never risk the pain that might come from letting go (thank you, Garth).

I want to learn to laugh at myself, to do something stupid, regret it, learn from it, and move on, realizing that MY WORLD DID NOT END just because I’m an idiot sometimes.  I live in freedom under the sovereign hand of God who made me and all of my quirks and my complicated heart, and NOTHING ELSE MATTERS. 

So to all of my cringe-worthy moments, I now say, so what?  You haven’t destroyed me yet, and you never will J  Bring it on.

P.S.:  This month I'm wearing one dress to raise awareness about sex trafficking--many girls who are trapped in the sex trade have only one dress to wear.  I'm blogging about it at one-dress.blogspot.com.  Check it out! 

Sticks and Stones may Break my Bones

But words will break my heart (a bit more honest, no?).  I wonder at what age we realize that the schoolyard taunt is completely wrong.  I was a sensitive child (now a sensitive adult), so I'm sure I shed my fair share of tears over hurt feelings in elementary school.  But it wasn't until 6th grade that I realized just how deeply words can cut.  That particular offense isn't important, but for years afterward I could hear the hurtful words in my head every time I looked in the mirror.  Even now, some eighteen years later, I remember the sting.

There's a lot written about our "inner critic," that voice that constantly criticizes us (especially women, it seems) and tells us we're not good enough.  In my case, though, my inner critic doesn't make things up, it takes things that have actually been said to me or about me and taunts me with them endlessly.  I would give just about anything to erase the memories of harsh words, or at least erase the scars they cause.  But I know that I, too, have probably caused my own fair share of pain.  I can be sharp-tongued, and I was quite the smart-ass when I was younger.  If the words I mutter in secret (like my car) were ever made public, I would be mortified...and most people would be shocked. 

Unfortunately, no matter how many complimentary or encouraging things are said to us, we remember the insults more.  They stick with us seemingly forever, voicing themselves in vulnerable moments, whenever we most need to hear just the opposite.  Also unfortunately, our capacity to hurt and be hurt by words doesn't end when we graduate from high school.  In a weak (and supremely foolish and stupid) moment, I recently attempted to make peace with someone who hurt me.  The response I received was dismissive, contemptuous, and almost hateful.  It left me feeling worthless.  Unlike a flesh wound, it won't just heal over in a few days.  It's going to stick with me for a long time.  I would've preferred being ignored.

God is concerned with our tongues--out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks.  Who we are is revealed by what we say.  And words are powerful--powerful to heal and powerful to destroy.

Thankfully, God doesn't believe I'm worthless.  Instead, He thinks I'm worth dying for.  My Creator, King and Savior has adopted me into His family, calls me His beautiful daughter, and loves me more than I can ever possibly believe.  I have His inheritance and His presence forevermore.  He knows everything about me; I am precious to Him.  He knit me together in my mother's womb.  He counts the hairs on my head.  His is a tender, passionate, jealous, gentle, powerful love.  A love that delights in me, quiets my restless heart and rejoices over me with singing.  A love that conquers all, even my deepest wounds.

What Happens After?

What happens after love has died and all that’s left are the scars?

What happens after the hurtful words have been heard?

What happens after the person you gave your heart to discards it like trash?

What happens after your dreams crumble?

What happens after the anger has dissolved and the tears have been shed?

What happens after you realize you lost yourself in someone else?

If I gave my heart away, am I now nothing but an empty shell?

Am I just a ghost of the girl who once was?

Or maybe…

Emptiness is the beginning of being filled.

The death of one dream means the birth of new ones.

The girl who lost herself can be found again.

My heart never belonged to me; it was always and still is the possession of the One who made it.

I can’t be put together unless I’m broken.

Treasures are found in darkness, deep beneath the earth.

Pearls are formed in secret places from grains of sand.

What comes after is the rest of this glorious, Christ-filled life, stained with tears but still joyful.