Four years ago, I was eighteen and Grand Valley seemed massive. After my parents unloaded the Jayco and put my dorm room together, I remember asking my dad how long he thought it would take me to find my way around [my effectively linear, two-sidewalk] campus. He looked at me with this look that simultaneously said, “I can’t believe my little girl is starting college today” and “I can’t believe my little girl is such an idiot.”
I fell head over heels in love with college pretty instantly. I remember one specific night sometime in September, one of those perfect autumn nights that make you believe that God designed this season specifically for college campuses. Tuesday. The best nights were always Tuesday during freshman year. YoungLife happened on Tuesdays and YoungLife meant games and cute, older boys and feeling like I belonged to something bigger than myself. I walked across campus that night, surrounded by a cloud of people who seemed too cool and funny to be real. This was my new life and I was so, so happy. That particular moment is tattooed forever in my memory, because for the first time, I knew beyond any doubts or fears that I was fully in the middle of where God wanted me to be.
I still feel that way. I have loved college – loved it. The very best and worst times of my life have been crammed into the past four years and the fact that it is ending in a matter of days is both unbelievable and incredibly appropriate. This season of my life has been about so many things – I have fallen in love with academia and Grand Rapids, with the Writing Center and my professors, with my friends and their families, with writing and cardigans and Crossroads Bible Church and Marie Catribs and oversized rings and small group girls and Grand Valley’s campus in the fall. I spent eighteen years daydreaming about college, four more years existing in it, and in two weeks I am walking away a completely different person than I was when I got here.
And now it is ending. And it’s time for a different dream, a strange place, an unknown community. It is time to leave and meet new people and see new places. And see new places I will – I have just paid a deposit to go on the World Race, an eleven-month mission trip in eleven different countries. Starting in September, I will join a group of strangers to travel the world and make Jesus famous. I will pack everything in one giant backpack, carry a tent and a sleeping bag, and hopefully die to myself a little bit more every day. Easy to say for a girl who considers checking into a Holiday Inn to be a rough equivalent to camping…
This adventure is going to be more than life changing – it is going to be life defining. I trust that God has a plan for it that is both massive and intricate. I am praying that He will break me of my pride and my materialism and show me more and more of who He is and who He wants me to be. I’m more excited and terrified that I can possibly articulate.
College has seemed like a massive adventure to me and I never even left Allendale. If God can work in me and grow me and change me so much here in Southwest Michigan, how much more can He work and grow and change me when I am so far removed from my comfort zone and everything that is familiar? I can’t think of a better, more appropriate next step for my life. I am ready to experience life in a new way, to be more moldable and vulnerable, to surrender my dreams in exchange for His plans. I am ready to base my life on the hope I have for things unseen.
So the next part of the story is up, simultaneously clear and veiled, thrilling and daunting. I’m ready to be done with school, but sad to leave this place. I grew up at Grand Valley. The people I met shaped me and the experiences that we shared have made me who I am; I am so deeply, incredibly, completely thankful for this time in college. But it is time to move and I’m ready to do that. I don’t know exactly what the next year will entail, but so far God has been good on His promises to provide and I have a feeling that the best adventures are yet to come.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
CopyCat
I saw this on a friend's blog recently and have I mentioned that I love lists? Because I love lists. I also like copying things that I think are cool, albeit they always seem less cool once I get my hands on it. Still, I think that this provides a really awesome structure for slowing down a little bit and really noticing what is happening in your life.
Also, it's like I'm writing a baby book for myself. **Julie never could provide evidence that one of those existed for me, so I'm going to have to take the reigns on this one, apparently.
Right now, these are the things I am
Loving:
1. How quickly the final weeks of this semester are flying by
2. Experiencing God's awesome plans and provisions
3. The colorful pages of InStyle Magazine's spring issues
4. Antique stores
5. The time that Shelby spends at GV
6. Planning outfits for spring
7. Quinoa and roasted veggies
8. Prose poetry
9. Thunder and lightning
Not Loving:
1. How quickly the final weeks of this semester are flying by
2. The fact that my ENTIRE family will be in Florida next weekend, sans Carly (...and Drue, but he's probably warm in Arizona, so I'm counting him too)
3. Gas prices
4. The lack of orange juice in my fridge
Accomplishing:
1. Not freaking out about graduation
2. Making some incredible and unbelievably exciting decisions
3. Final projects
4. Yoga
5. Biting my nails less
Preparing:
1. My heart for what comes next
Forgetting:
1. The constant stream of Spanish homework
2. My vow to go to bed early tonight
3. The list of people who I need to email
Reading:
1. The Screwtape Letters, CS Lewis
2. The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros
3. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte
4. Philippians
5. Isaiah 53
6. Forgotten God, Francis Chan
Believing:
1. That God is who He says He is
2. That God can do what He says He can do
3. That I am who God says I am
4. That I can do all things through Him
**I stand corrected. Jewels just came through with the fact that I have not one, but two baby books. Rest assured that my mother was sweet and attentive and lovely and observant during my infancy, childhood, and forever afterward. Sorry for the mix-up, Mama. I never really doubted you ;-)
Also, it's like I'm writing a baby book for myself. **Julie never could provide evidence that one of those existed for me, so I'm going to have to take the reigns on this one, apparently.
Right now, these are the things I am
Loving:
1. How quickly the final weeks of this semester are flying by
2. Experiencing God's awesome plans and provisions
3. The colorful pages of InStyle Magazine's spring issues
4. Antique stores
5. The time that Shelby spends at GV
6. Planning outfits for spring
7. Quinoa and roasted veggies
8. Prose poetry
9. Thunder and lightning
Not Loving:
1. How quickly the final weeks of this semester are flying by
2. The fact that my ENTIRE family will be in Florida next weekend, sans Carly (...and Drue, but he's probably warm in Arizona, so I'm counting him too)
3. Gas prices
4. The lack of orange juice in my fridge
Accomplishing:
1. Not freaking out about graduation
2. Making some incredible and unbelievably exciting decisions
3. Final projects
4. Yoga
5. Biting my nails less
Preparing:
1. My heart for what comes next
Forgetting:
1. The constant stream of Spanish homework
2. My vow to go to bed early tonight
3. The list of people who I need to email
Reading:
1. The Screwtape Letters, CS Lewis
2. The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros
3. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte
4. Philippians
5. Isaiah 53
6. Forgotten God, Francis Chan
Believing:
1. That God is who He says He is
2. That God can do what He says He can do
3. That I am who God says I am
4. That I can do all things through Him
**I stand corrected. Jewels just came through with the fact that I have not one, but two baby books. Rest assured that my mother was sweet and attentive and lovely and observant during my infancy, childhood, and forever afterward. Sorry for the mix-up, Mama. I never really doubted you ;-)
Monday, March 7, 2011
Overdue
Between you and I, I'm really not afraid of that many things. Heights? Not a problem. The dark? No big deal. Failure? No one can avoid it 100% of the time, right? Lest I come across as self-impressed, let me clarify -- I certainly have my weaknesses. It's just that my neuroses are generally limited to the hyper-unusual, like large, inanimate objects underwater. That stuff is TERRIFYING. Sometimes I think that I would rather see a shark swimming under my raft than an unexpected boulder. Also, stairs freak me out. I tend to attribute that particular phobia to a nasty childhood incident, but I digress. The point is that today, I took a major step of faith. It took a lot of courage and growth, but I put on my big girl pants, breathed deeply, and walked straight into the lion's den.
That's right. I went to the Kalamazoo Public Library.
Ridiculous? I think not. The Kalamazoo Public Library system has taunted me for thirteen years, gleaming with all of its multiple locations, millions of books, and presumably knowledgeable staff. Yet for me, it's been off-limits, forbidden, territory to fear ever since one fateful day in fourth grade. Nine-year-old Carly wanted a good book, a challenging book, but she made a bad choice on that day -- she checked out The Swiss Family Robinson by Johann David Wyss. I mean, why not? The Disney movie was a perennial favorite -- Francis and the elephant, Ernst and his self-absorbed intelligence, Mother and Father and that awesome tree house -- what could possibly go wrong?
Answer: EVERYTHING. That book has haunted me ever since I checked it out. First of all, I never even finished it. I think I got as far as to when they somehow got a whale and Wyss spent a full chapter discussing the use of the bones and the blubber for the Family Robinson's survival. Stale reading for a nine-year-old, let me tell you. Second of all, the book wasn't like the movie and my fourth grade self couldn't quite forgive the text its inadequacies. Thirdly, I don't know how much of a chance I ever stood when the text read like THIS:
As we drew near, their curious appearance and singular fruit caused much surprise and also amusement, for we were speedily established among the trees, where, as I chose and cut down the gourds most likely to be useful, every one engaged merrily in the work of cutting, carving, sawing and scooping some manner of dish, bowl, cup, jar or platter, according to his several taste or ability.
Great. Sounds great, Johann. Give a nine year old a freaking break. I hated it.
I tried my best to get through it, but even at a young age, I had a pretty good understanding of when to cut my losses. Given how much great stuff there is to read out there, I cannot justify plowing through miserable books, just to say that I did. Besides, I think Tara Lipinksi had just published yet another autobiography of her fifteen year existence on earth and THAT was pressing. So I gave up on The Swiss Family Robinson and dived into real literature...like Ella Enchanted. Or something.
No big deal, right? Except for the fact that I lost the book. I meant to look for it, but after a month or two, it got embarrassing. What was I going to do, waltz in with a book that was months overdue?? It made more sense just to avoid KPL until they forgot that I forgot and we could all just start fresh.
Years passed and things got worse. KPL was just so big and beautiful and I started to get tired of living like an outlaw. Still, I had passed the point of no return...if I couldn't return a book a couple of months late, how was I supposed to return a book that was YEARS late? Everything seemed complicated and messy and dramatic in my mind, so I continued to bite the bullet and avoid those beautiful books that called my name like a junkie in rehab.
Then I actually started using my brain. I mean, what was KPL actually going to do to me? I realized that my nightmares of blood sensors recognizing me upon entry and cages falling from the ceiling to trap the offender were probably a bit far-fetched. Also, that one image of falling through a trapdoor in the floor into a crocodile-infested moat? Most likely not going to happen. At worst, I would have to pay for the price of the book, which seemed doable and worth it after years of avoiding the best library system in the area. While it would certainly be somewhat embarrassing, I decided that the time had come to grow up. And that time was today.
I walked into the library this afternoon, jumpy and nervous. I walked up to the desk and a frizzy woman looked up at me. "Hi," I said, hedging my way into her day. "Um, I think I need a new library card. Because, um, I had a situation here? A long time ago?" She stared. I cleared my throat. "Um, I checked a book out thirteen years ago. I was nine. And I never brought it back. And now I don't know where it is. So...um. What do I have to do?"
No sirens went off. No lasers trapped me in a lightsaber-like cage. The woman barely blinked. She looked me up in the system and couldn't even find anything. She stared at my ID and said that she didn't see anything under my name and address, so all I needed was a card from my local library and she could make me a reciprocal account. Of course, I conveniently forgot to mention the fact that I moved the summer after fourth grade, therefore my account probably would have been at my old address, but the point is -- I'm free. In fact, I'm better than free -- I'm sneaky. I'm like a library ninja. I'm like the Sydney Bristow of library services. I'm officially the person that the head librarians probably warn new librarians about, like, "Watch out for the library ninjas who lose books, then move, then start accounts nearly a decade and a half later under a new address, thereby abdicating all of their former responsibilities as library patrons. BEWARE." See? I totally win.
Overall, it was a successful day. Granted, I couldn't get the books I wanted, since because of my top-secret move, I'm no longer in the district of my current "local" library, meaning that I need to go to a different district's library to become a member there in order to get my account at KPL, meaning that by the end of this week I will have not one, not two, but three different library cards, but hey -- all in a day's work for a library ninja like myself. Besides, with three different libraries at my disposal, I'll never have to pay late fees again.
I'm really thinking that this ninja gig has long-term potential.
That's right. I went to the Kalamazoo Public Library.
Ridiculous? I think not. The Kalamazoo Public Library system has taunted me for thirteen years, gleaming with all of its multiple locations, millions of books, and presumably knowledgeable staff. Yet for me, it's been off-limits, forbidden, territory to fear ever since one fateful day in fourth grade. Nine-year-old Carly wanted a good book, a challenging book, but she made a bad choice on that day -- she checked out The Swiss Family Robinson by Johann David Wyss. I mean, why not? The Disney movie was a perennial favorite -- Francis and the elephant, Ernst and his self-absorbed intelligence, Mother and Father and that awesome tree house -- what could possibly go wrong?
Answer: EVERYTHING. That book has haunted me ever since I checked it out. First of all, I never even finished it. I think I got as far as to when they somehow got a whale and Wyss spent a full chapter discussing the use of the bones and the blubber for the Family Robinson's survival. Stale reading for a nine-year-old, let me tell you. Second of all, the book wasn't like the movie and my fourth grade self couldn't quite forgive the text its inadequacies. Thirdly, I don't know how much of a chance I ever stood when the text read like THIS:
As we drew near, their curious appearance and singular fruit caused much surprise and also amusement, for we were speedily established among the trees, where, as I chose and cut down the gourds most likely to be useful, every one engaged merrily in the work of cutting, carving, sawing and scooping some manner of dish, bowl, cup, jar or platter, according to his several taste or ability.
Great. Sounds great, Johann. Give a nine year old a freaking break. I hated it.
I tried my best to get through it, but even at a young age, I had a pretty good understanding of when to cut my losses. Given how much great stuff there is to read out there, I cannot justify plowing through miserable books, just to say that I did. Besides, I think Tara Lipinksi had just published yet another autobiography of her fifteen year existence on earth and THAT was pressing. So I gave up on The Swiss Family Robinson and dived into real literature...like Ella Enchanted. Or something.
No big deal, right? Except for the fact that I lost the book. I meant to look for it, but after a month or two, it got embarrassing. What was I going to do, waltz in with a book that was months overdue?? It made more sense just to avoid KPL until they forgot that I forgot and we could all just start fresh.
Years passed and things got worse. KPL was just so big and beautiful and I started to get tired of living like an outlaw. Still, I had passed the point of no return...if I couldn't return a book a couple of months late, how was I supposed to return a book that was YEARS late? Everything seemed complicated and messy and dramatic in my mind, so I continued to bite the bullet and avoid those beautiful books that called my name like a junkie in rehab.
Then I actually started using my brain. I mean, what was KPL actually going to do to me? I realized that my nightmares of blood sensors recognizing me upon entry and cages falling from the ceiling to trap the offender were probably a bit far-fetched. Also, that one image of falling through a trapdoor in the floor into a crocodile-infested moat? Most likely not going to happen. At worst, I would have to pay for the price of the book, which seemed doable and worth it after years of avoiding the best library system in the area. While it would certainly be somewhat embarrassing, I decided that the time had come to grow up. And that time was today.
I walked into the library this afternoon, jumpy and nervous. I walked up to the desk and a frizzy woman looked up at me. "Hi," I said, hedging my way into her day. "Um, I think I need a new library card. Because, um, I had a situation here? A long time ago?" She stared. I cleared my throat. "Um, I checked a book out thirteen years ago. I was nine. And I never brought it back. And now I don't know where it is. So...um. What do I have to do?"
No sirens went off. No lasers trapped me in a lightsaber-like cage. The woman barely blinked. She looked me up in the system and couldn't even find anything. She stared at my ID and said that she didn't see anything under my name and address, so all I needed was a card from my local library and she could make me a reciprocal account. Of course, I conveniently forgot to mention the fact that I moved the summer after fourth grade, therefore my account probably would have been at my old address, but the point is -- I'm free. In fact, I'm better than free -- I'm sneaky. I'm like a library ninja. I'm like the Sydney Bristow of library services. I'm officially the person that the head librarians probably warn new librarians about, like, "Watch out for the library ninjas who lose books, then move, then start accounts nearly a decade and a half later under a new address, thereby abdicating all of their former responsibilities as library patrons. BEWARE." See? I totally win.
Overall, it was a successful day. Granted, I couldn't get the books I wanted, since because of my top-secret move, I'm no longer in the district of my current "local" library, meaning that I need to go to a different district's library to become a member there in order to get my account at KPL, meaning that by the end of this week I will have not one, not two, but three different library cards, but hey -- all in a day's work for a library ninja like myself. Besides, with three different libraries at my disposal, I'll never have to pay late fees again.
I'm really thinking that this ninja gig has long-term potential.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
My Life, According to the Numbers.
1 day until this midterm essay is due.
1500-1800 words required.
0 words written.
3 cds burned this afternoon.
4 days until Spring Break.
1 essay,
1 exam,
3984398 hours in the language lab,
2 embarrassing volleyball classes,
12 shifts,
and 1 conference presentation
until I'm free.
55.01 dollars to fill my gas tank today.
0.01 dollars that I actually paid.
My dad is awesome.
2 more months of rent to pay.
8 more weeks left of school.
61 days until graduation.
1 summer to plan.
1 life to enjoy.
0 left fingernails unbitten.
1 girl ready for the whirlwind that = post-spring break winter semester.
Bring it.
1500-1800 words required.
0 words written.
3 cds burned this afternoon.
4 days until Spring Break.
1 essay,
1 exam,
3984398 hours in the language lab,
2 embarrassing volleyball classes,
12 shifts,
and 1 conference presentation
until I'm free.
55.01 dollars to fill my gas tank today.
0.01 dollars that I actually paid.
My dad is awesome.
2 more months of rent to pay.
8 more weeks left of school.
61 days until graduation.
1 summer to plan.
1 life to enjoy.
0 left fingernails unbitten.
1 girl ready for the whirlwind that = post-spring break winter semester.
Bring it.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Movement
Christine asked me on Friday why I'm not blogging anymore. Was I over that phase? Had I forgotten how to do it? Was I seriously that busy? I had to think about how to answer that question, and I don't think it's any of those things -- it's just that I feel kind of serious most of the time right now. It's odd, because my schedule is pretty packed (the only people I actually hang out with are the individuals who come over to my apartment, so...Jess.) and I guess I've just been looking more inward and upward and forward than scrutinizing my daily life to find funny things to write about. And maybe the things that God is showing me felt too personal or maybe I was scared or just unwilling to share them or maybe I haven't even put the pieces together in a coherent enough order to make them matter, but I guess that whatever the reason, this needs to be said: God is moving. And it is good.
Over the past few months, He has been slowly and gently pulling me around to see myself more like He sees me. I've been learning how to redefine my dreams and goals by His standards and trying to let go of my preoccupation with comfort and material things and status. It is a hard lesson, a humbling season, and it all feels too raw and fresh and new to be able to say much right now, other than it is happening as we speak.
It's a hard process, but it's a beautiful process too. For all the weirdness and betweenness and worry, it has been so, so good. I don't know where I'll be in the fall, but that's okay. I don't now how I'm going to finish my classes this semester, but I know that I can. Jesus has been changing my heart and closing this season of college in the kind of perfect and final way that only He can accomplish. If you would have brought up the topic of graduation with me at the start of the school year or even the start of the semester, I honestly would have refused to talk about it. It seemed too heart-breaking and scary and permanent -- these have been the best four years of my life and you want to talk about the ending?? No thank you.
Recently, though, it is not only a less scary fate, but it is welcome and exciting. I'm so ready for the promise of change right now. It is bittersweet, to be sure; the shifts in community and lifestyle and work dynamics are already difficult, and I know that it is only going to get harder. But the promise of the rest of my life is too exciting for me to cling to the past. I'm ready to go where Jesus leads me, whether that means Europe or Africa or Kalamazoo. I'm ready to jump into friendships and relationships that might have scared me in the past. I'm ready to move forward.
In a lot of ways, this entire blog has been about my thwarted attempts to go on cool adventures and how I've occupied my time while waiting to embark on some sort of epic journey that I always hoped was on its way. I finally realized that I will be forced to take some concrete steps toward that journey in the very near future, and it is time to test my integrity. Do I really want an adventure, or do I just want to talk about it from the safety of my known existence? Am I really spontaneous and willing to follow wherever Jesus calls me, or do I just say those things because they sound cool and that is how I want to be?
I think that in order to change and grow and really actually become that woman, I need to get ready to do something. Part of getting ready means to accept the end of good chapters of life so that I can truly embrace the beginnings of even better ones. So that is what I am choosing to do. It's a weird, incomplete picture, but I know that my next step needs to be acceptance. And I think I'm ready.
Over the past few months, He has been slowly and gently pulling me around to see myself more like He sees me. I've been learning how to redefine my dreams and goals by His standards and trying to let go of my preoccupation with comfort and material things and status. It is a hard lesson, a humbling season, and it all feels too raw and fresh and new to be able to say much right now, other than it is happening as we speak.
It's a hard process, but it's a beautiful process too. For all the weirdness and betweenness and worry, it has been so, so good. I don't know where I'll be in the fall, but that's okay. I don't now how I'm going to finish my classes this semester, but I know that I can. Jesus has been changing my heart and closing this season of college in the kind of perfect and final way that only He can accomplish. If you would have brought up the topic of graduation with me at the start of the school year or even the start of the semester, I honestly would have refused to talk about it. It seemed too heart-breaking and scary and permanent -- these have been the best four years of my life and you want to talk about the ending?? No thank you.
Recently, though, it is not only a less scary fate, but it is welcome and exciting. I'm so ready for the promise of change right now. It is bittersweet, to be sure; the shifts in community and lifestyle and work dynamics are already difficult, and I know that it is only going to get harder. But the promise of the rest of my life is too exciting for me to cling to the past. I'm ready to go where Jesus leads me, whether that means Europe or Africa or Kalamazoo. I'm ready to jump into friendships and relationships that might have scared me in the past. I'm ready to move forward.
In a lot of ways, this entire blog has been about my thwarted attempts to go on cool adventures and how I've occupied my time while waiting to embark on some sort of epic journey that I always hoped was on its way. I finally realized that I will be forced to take some concrete steps toward that journey in the very near future, and it is time to test my integrity. Do I really want an adventure, or do I just want to talk about it from the safety of my known existence? Am I really spontaneous and willing to follow wherever Jesus calls me, or do I just say those things because they sound cool and that is how I want to be?
I think that in order to change and grow and really actually become that woman, I need to get ready to do something. Part of getting ready means to accept the end of good chapters of life so that I can truly embrace the beginnings of even better ones. So that is what I am choosing to do. It's a weird, incomplete picture, but I know that my next step needs to be acceptance. And I think I'm ready.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
On Growing Up
People say that you have to write what you know. Write what you know. That's a nice concept, a pretty idea, but what happens when you sit down to give voice to your thoughts and you realize that that is all you have -- just thoughts. Thoughts are incredible things, powerful, strong, world-shaking things, but they are not necessarily knowledge. The difference between saying, "I think I'm going to travel" and "I know I'm going to travel" glares at a person. It's undeniable -- thoughts and knowledge are far from the same.
I realize that I am still very young and that I am about to feed you a cliche, but go with it: the older I get, the less I know. It's infuriating to think about all of the time I've spent in classrooms and friendships and in the world only to come to this conclusion, but I think that that is part of being twenty-one years old. It's about the time in your life where the world isn't as simple, as straightforward as it used to be. Suddenly, lines that used to be straight look wiggly and black and white pictures have burst into color and prismatic effects. I'm old enough to see dotted outlines of what should be and what should not be, but not yet enough of an adult to fully realize what is actually important right now and what isn't.
I know the basics, the foundations. I know where I'm from and what I believe about God and faith and family, but what about the rest? What about the things that make an individual an actual independent, thinking, breathing, growing individual? What do I actually know now that I can take with me when I leave this place? And what should I know now? What does a twenty-one year old need to have figured out?
I know that I'm young and I need to enjoy it. I know that I need to go on adventures and develop an appetite for new things. This is the time of my life where I can stay up too late and watch Jersey Shore with my little brother and have conversations until the sun comes up about dreams and the future and to walk away from homework every so often, just to breathe fresh air and really live. And I know that I should, because those opportunities won't always be so easy to get to.
I know that I need to catch a balance between work and class and leadership commitments and friendships and learn how to make quiet times in a seemingly endless day. I don't quite understand how to do that yet, but I know that I need to.
I know that good friends should be cherished and that taking advantage of people is wrong. I know that other people should be valued, not used, and that I can't be selfish and petty anymore. People are not toys and they can't be pushed aside like them. I know that I've been wrong in the past and I know that I never want to do it again.
I know that I need be healthy now and that you shave a few minutes off the baking time when you're using a convection oven and that those "vacant" forms in the apartment mail box actually need to be filled out in order to get mail. I know how to make my Mama's chili and how to do makeup to make my friends feel beautiful and how to understand Middle English literature. I know how to make people laugh and I know how to listen and I know how to articulate my muddy, unclear reasoning into a semblance of order...most of the time, at least. I know enough to realize how little I actually know, but I'm ready to learn. And I'm ready to understand. And I'm ready to change.
So please, friends, teach me your wisdom. Tell me what you know and what you think and what you're learning. I need to grow and I want your help.
I realize that I am still very young and that I am about to feed you a cliche, but go with it: the older I get, the less I know. It's infuriating to think about all of the time I've spent in classrooms and friendships and in the world only to come to this conclusion, but I think that that is part of being twenty-one years old. It's about the time in your life where the world isn't as simple, as straightforward as it used to be. Suddenly, lines that used to be straight look wiggly and black and white pictures have burst into color and prismatic effects. I'm old enough to see dotted outlines of what should be and what should not be, but not yet enough of an adult to fully realize what is actually important right now and what isn't.
I know the basics, the foundations. I know where I'm from and what I believe about God and faith and family, but what about the rest? What about the things that make an individual an actual independent, thinking, breathing, growing individual? What do I actually know now that I can take with me when I leave this place? And what should I know now? What does a twenty-one year old need to have figured out?
I know that I'm young and I need to enjoy it. I know that I need to go on adventures and develop an appetite for new things. This is the time of my life where I can stay up too late and watch Jersey Shore with my little brother and have conversations until the sun comes up about dreams and the future and to walk away from homework every so often, just to breathe fresh air and really live. And I know that I should, because those opportunities won't always be so easy to get to.
I know that I need to catch a balance between work and class and leadership commitments and friendships and learn how to make quiet times in a seemingly endless day. I don't quite understand how to do that yet, but I know that I need to.
I know that good friends should be cherished and that taking advantage of people is wrong. I know that other people should be valued, not used, and that I can't be selfish and petty anymore. People are not toys and they can't be pushed aside like them. I know that I've been wrong in the past and I know that I never want to do it again.
I know that I need be healthy now and that you shave a few minutes off the baking time when you're using a convection oven and that those "vacant" forms in the apartment mail box actually need to be filled out in order to get mail. I know how to make my Mama's chili and how to do makeup to make my friends feel beautiful and how to understand Middle English literature. I know how to make people laugh and I know how to listen and I know how to articulate my muddy, unclear reasoning into a semblance of order...most of the time, at least. I know enough to realize how little I actually know, but I'm ready to learn. And I'm ready to understand. And I'm ready to change.
So please, friends, teach me your wisdom. Tell me what you know and what you think and what you're learning. I need to grow and I want your help.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
It Goes Fast
I guess I thought that everyone was lying.
Three summers ago, I was on the brink of the Next Chapter. I craved something new, something different, something way bigger than the life that I knew at home. I bought things for a dorm room, for my new existence at college, and I learned to answer The Questions on autopilot.
"I'm going to Grand Valley... I got into their Honors College."
"I'm going to double major in English and Creative Writing."
"No, I don't want to be a teacher. I think I want to go into publishing or something."
"I'm going in blind. My roommate seems nice."
Rarely was I forced to be more creative than that and rarely was the final statement of the conversation any different. "Enjoy it," the older, wiser person would say. "It goes fast."
When I finished my freshman year five minutes later, I thought it was kind of a joke. I blamed it on poor choices, distractions from paying closer attention to my time. When that first summer magically dragged on and on and yet drew to a close before I actually required antidepressants, I was a little more confused. Then my second year came and went, blending seamlessly into my third, and now the summer is over and I'm sitting here in firm and complete denial that I am on the verge of my last year of college.
It's partially terrifying, because I just can't figure out how. time. did. that. Seriously -- how did time just stretch for eternity during high school and then race past during college? I don't understand that. It's also terrifying because once this year is over, then what? I have no idea what comes next. I don't know if graduation means more school or some sort of job or a long-term volunteering thing -- I have no idea.
Those things all pale in comparison to how strange and scary it is to be finishing college. As in, it's ending. As in, this chapter on my life is closing. I'm suddenly nervous, thinking about the past three years and worrying that I didn't wring every bit of experience out of them. I think about my friends and how everything is changing this semester, let alone next year, and how our time as quasi-adults is drawing to a close and before we know it, life and Jesus and opportunities will whisk us away to different parts of the world to do whatever He wants us to do and we're never going to get to have this prolonged season of simple togetherness ever again. At least, not as far as we can see.
The point is that I'm tired of wasting life and then writing about it, but I'm even more tired of writing about how I want to change that and then not doing anything. That's why I haven't posted in so long. The point is that it does go fast and I don't want to miss anything else. Things are changing and seasons are ending soon and I'm not going to sit around this year and cry about it anymore. The time is ripe, the day is still full of potential and I choose to be thrilled about the opportunities in front of me instead of the mistakes behind me.
My life looks very different than it did a year ago and infinitely different than it did three years ago. I don't know what is going to happen this year or in April when I graduate, but I know that Jesus does and that's good enough for me. So what if college goes by fast? I'm getting a sneaking feeling that life goes by even faster, and it's not meant to be wasted.
Starting today.
Three summers ago, I was on the brink of the Next Chapter. I craved something new, something different, something way bigger than the life that I knew at home. I bought things for a dorm room, for my new existence at college, and I learned to answer The Questions on autopilot.
"I'm going to Grand Valley... I got into their Honors College."
"I'm going to double major in English and Creative Writing."
"No, I don't want to be a teacher. I think I want to go into publishing or something."
"I'm going in blind. My roommate seems nice."
Rarely was I forced to be more creative than that and rarely was the final statement of the conversation any different. "Enjoy it," the older, wiser person would say. "It goes fast."
When I finished my freshman year five minutes later, I thought it was kind of a joke. I blamed it on poor choices, distractions from paying closer attention to my time. When that first summer magically dragged on and on and yet drew to a close before I actually required antidepressants, I was a little more confused. Then my second year came and went, blending seamlessly into my third, and now the summer is over and I'm sitting here in firm and complete denial that I am on the verge of my last year of college.
It's partially terrifying, because I just can't figure out how. time. did. that. Seriously -- how did time just stretch for eternity during high school and then race past during college? I don't understand that. It's also terrifying because once this year is over, then what? I have no idea what comes next. I don't know if graduation means more school or some sort of job or a long-term volunteering thing -- I have no idea.
Those things all pale in comparison to how strange and scary it is to be finishing college. As in, it's ending. As in, this chapter on my life is closing. I'm suddenly nervous, thinking about the past three years and worrying that I didn't wring every bit of experience out of them. I think about my friends and how everything is changing this semester, let alone next year, and how our time as quasi-adults is drawing to a close and before we know it, life and Jesus and opportunities will whisk us away to different parts of the world to do whatever He wants us to do and we're never going to get to have this prolonged season of simple togetherness ever again. At least, not as far as we can see.
The point is that I'm tired of wasting life and then writing about it, but I'm even more tired of writing about how I want to change that and then not doing anything. That's why I haven't posted in so long. The point is that it does go fast and I don't want to miss anything else. Things are changing and seasons are ending soon and I'm not going to sit around this year and cry about it anymore. The time is ripe, the day is still full of potential and I choose to be thrilled about the opportunities in front of me instead of the mistakes behind me.
My life looks very different than it did a year ago and infinitely different than it did three years ago. I don't know what is going to happen this year or in April when I graduate, but I know that Jesus does and that's good enough for me. So what if college goes by fast? I'm getting a sneaking feeling that life goes by even faster, and it's not meant to be wasted.
Starting today.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Lasting Words.
When Shelby and I moved home for the summer, we spent a solid two days unpacking our bedroom together. For the most part, that entailed the major things -- finding corners of the house to hide our dishes in, laundering massive piles of clothes, combining our army of lotion bottles and hair care products. When we started to organize our respective closets, though, we got side-tracked. Shelby and I both have a number of boxes filled with cards and letters and pictures and old journals on those shelves, and when one of us starts to go through all of it, everything turns into If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. If Shelby starts looking at all of her cards from graduation, Carly will want to do the same. If Carly finds a ridiculously dramatic and painfully hilarious diary from fourth grade, Shelby will want to find hers. If Shelby has a particularly juicy piece of gossip from middle school hidden in those pages, Carly will obviously want to get on Facebook and look at pictures of those people... the whole thing morphs into a horribly vicious cycle that is very hard to get out of.
Some of my favorite things to find in those boxes are letters from my sister. I have saved the notes we passed in Spanish class, the MASH commentaries of our lives, the card that she left under my pillow my first night away at college, and no matter where I am in my life, I know that these things will always make me smile. One letter in particular struck me this spring. Shelby wrote it to me the summer after my sophomore year in high school when we were on the verge of something very new and different in our sisterhood -- separation. I was going away to Engineering Camp [laugh with me, please] and Shelby was going to be gone for two weeks at camp right after that,so for the very first time in our lives, we were going to be separated for three weeks. That time seemed insurmountable then, as evidenced by what Shelby wrote me. "We need to brace ourselves," she said. "You know what they say, 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder...' Maybe this will be good for us. Maybe it will teach us not to take each other for granted so much." She went on to admonish me to behave myself and begged me not to do anything stupid and before I acted on a questionable instinct to think, "What would Shelby say?"
In some regards, things have changed a lot. In others, however, nothing will ever, ever shake this friendship. What seemed so frightening all those years ago is now normal -- if I see Shelby every four or five weeks during the school year, I consider myself lucky. I practically stew in jealousy at my friends who go to college with their sisters and I hate the distance between Shelby and I more than I can say.
But maybe fourteen-year-old Shelby was right; maybe this absence does make the heart grow fonder. Maybe it's worth it to be apart so that we can really enjoy being together again. Maybe I wouldn't notice all of the time we have together right now if we always had it. We're starting to fall into a summer pattern, a lifestyle where we act as a unit and simply expect to do nearly everything together. We speak for each other when we plan things now and whether we're running errands or hanging out with friends or just sitting around in our bedroom, we get to do it together.
Today is Shelby's twentieth birthday and it's been freaking her out not to be a teenager anymore. When I stop and think about it, it is kind of weird how much we've grown up in the past few years. We're not little girls anymore; we're learning what it means to be women and how to be sisters who support one another in adult lives instead of the birdcage of childhood. Still, there is one thing that I know in the midst of all of the uncertainty and change that is life as a young adult -- no matter how old we get or how far away from each other we live or what life choices we make, we will always be best friends. I think Shelby said it best in the letter she wrote to me when she was fourteen, so Shelby, in your own words: "You are the human being that knows me the best. I love you more than I love anyone else... soon we'll be together again and between the two of us, I know we'll have a ton of stories to tell each other. I love you soooooooooo much."
Happy Birthday, baby sister. You're half of my heart.
Some of my favorite things to find in those boxes are letters from my sister. I have saved the notes we passed in Spanish class, the MASH commentaries of our lives, the card that she left under my pillow my first night away at college, and no matter where I am in my life, I know that these things will always make me smile. One letter in particular struck me this spring. Shelby wrote it to me the summer after my sophomore year in high school when we were on the verge of something very new and different in our sisterhood -- separation. I was going away to Engineering Camp [laugh with me, please] and Shelby was going to be gone for two weeks at camp right after that,so for the very first time in our lives, we were going to be separated for three weeks. That time seemed insurmountable then, as evidenced by what Shelby wrote me. "We need to brace ourselves," she said. "You know what they say, 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder...' Maybe this will be good for us. Maybe it will teach us not to take each other for granted so much." She went on to admonish me to behave myself and begged me not to do anything stupid and before I acted on a questionable instinct to think, "What would Shelby say?"
In some regards, things have changed a lot. In others, however, nothing will ever, ever shake this friendship. What seemed so frightening all those years ago is now normal -- if I see Shelby every four or five weeks during the school year, I consider myself lucky. I practically stew in jealousy at my friends who go to college with their sisters and I hate the distance between Shelby and I more than I can say.
But maybe fourteen-year-old Shelby was right; maybe this absence does make the heart grow fonder. Maybe it's worth it to be apart so that we can really enjoy being together again. Maybe I wouldn't notice all of the time we have together right now if we always had it. We're starting to fall into a summer pattern, a lifestyle where we act as a unit and simply expect to do nearly everything together. We speak for each other when we plan things now and whether we're running errands or hanging out with friends or just sitting around in our bedroom, we get to do it together.
Today is Shelby's twentieth birthday and it's been freaking her out not to be a teenager anymore. When I stop and think about it, it is kind of weird how much we've grown up in the past few years. We're not little girls anymore; we're learning what it means to be women and how to be sisters who support one another in adult lives instead of the birdcage of childhood. Still, there is one thing that I know in the midst of all of the uncertainty and change that is life as a young adult -- no matter how old we get or how far away from each other we live or what life choices we make, we will always be best friends. I think Shelby said it best in the letter she wrote to me when she was fourteen, so Shelby, in your own words: "You are the human being that knows me the best. I love you more than I love anyone else... soon we'll be together again and between the two of us, I know we'll have a ton of stories to tell each other. I love you soooooooooo much."
Happy Birthday, baby sister. You're half of my heart.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Some Things Never Change
Mrs. Christine Webb will not be living with my family this summer, meaning no more Inside These Crookston Walls, meaning no more hysterical laughing every night as I read her interpretation of my family's insane antics. In her loving memory and to celebrate her wedding a few days late [or just to serve as an introduction...] I would like to offer my own, honorary ITCW entry.
Day 7810:
There is only one entry today, because everything else paled in comparison. Today my mom let her goats out to graze as she rode Charlotte. That was fine, until it was time to put those dumb animals back in their pen, at which point she casually asked me to catch them in the side yard. Sure. The boy goats are stupid and easily caught, but Buttercup is conniving and I swear that she has ulterior motives in life [when I mentioned this to Julie, she just shrugged and said, "Typical girl."]. I casually walked up to her and offered her some grass and she made to eat it from my hand, but then she darted in the other direction. I could practically hear her snickering. I proceeded to chase her into the horse paddock, out of the horse paddock, and back INTO the horse paddock, only to be thwarted each time. At this point, I yelled at my mother, who was leaning against the goat house laughing at me.
"Patience, Carly," she said, casually walking toward me. "You just have to be a little more patient." Carefully, she climbed into the horse paddock and sauntered toward the goat.
"Buttercuuuup," she cooed. "Buttercuuuuup... come here, sweet baby." The horses barely moved as she walked past; they were clearly unimpressed. Consequently, so was Buttercup, because she completely ignored Mom as she sat in the grass near her.
"Buttercup, look what Mama has," Julie said, holding out her phone. That's right -- my mother was trying to lure a stubborn goat to her by waving technology in her face. Effective method. That's not it, though. "Want to see the pictures on my phone, sweetie?" Mom continued to ask the goat, who continued to eat weeds and ignore her. Undeterred, my mother began to look through the pictures saved on her phone. "Oh, here's Shelby after her surgery last week... Buttercup, come see Taylor at the prom. Ooh, this is Mama drinking a pineapple drink in Hawaii - that was a very fun day." At this point, Buttercup may have looked up at Julie, perhaps with the same look of disbelief that was on my own face. "Buttercup, look, here's you in labor!" Mom said next. As Buttercup started to walk away, Julie suddenly lurched and caught her by the hind leg, as if she were some sort of professional cowgirl. My jaw dropped a little; I was equal parts impressed and horrified. Julie looked up smugly. "And that," she said, "is how it is done."
Christine, please move back here and write these things for me... this farm life is too funny not to be documented in some way.
Day 7810:
There is only one entry today, because everything else paled in comparison. Today my mom let her goats out to graze as she rode Charlotte. That was fine, until it was time to put those dumb animals back in their pen, at which point she casually asked me to catch them in the side yard. Sure. The boy goats are stupid and easily caught, but Buttercup is conniving and I swear that she has ulterior motives in life [when I mentioned this to Julie, she just shrugged and said, "Typical girl."]. I casually walked up to her and offered her some grass and she made to eat it from my hand, but then she darted in the other direction. I could practically hear her snickering. I proceeded to chase her into the horse paddock, out of the horse paddock, and back INTO the horse paddock, only to be thwarted each time. At this point, I yelled at my mother, who was leaning against the goat house laughing at me.
"Patience, Carly," she said, casually walking toward me. "You just have to be a little more patient." Carefully, she climbed into the horse paddock and sauntered toward the goat.
"Buttercuuuup," she cooed. "Buttercuuuuup... come here, sweet baby." The horses barely moved as she walked past; they were clearly unimpressed. Consequently, so was Buttercup, because she completely ignored Mom as she sat in the grass near her.
"Buttercup, look what Mama has," Julie said, holding out her phone. That's right -- my mother was trying to lure a stubborn goat to her by waving technology in her face. Effective method. That's not it, though. "Want to see the pictures on my phone, sweetie?" Mom continued to ask the goat, who continued to eat weeds and ignore her. Undeterred, my mother began to look through the pictures saved on her phone. "Oh, here's Shelby after her surgery last week... Buttercup, come see Taylor at the prom. Ooh, this is Mama drinking a pineapple drink in Hawaii - that was a very fun day." At this point, Buttercup may have looked up at Julie, perhaps with the same look of disbelief that was on my own face. "Buttercup, look, here's you in labor!" Mom said next. As Buttercup started to walk away, Julie suddenly lurched and caught her by the hind leg, as if she were some sort of professional cowgirl. My jaw dropped a little; I was equal parts impressed and horrified. Julie looked up smugly. "And that," she said, "is how it is done."
Christine, please move back here and write these things for me... this farm life is too funny not to be documented in some way.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
An Inciting Incident
This is my life. This is what I love. This is what I am called to do. I write. I don’t always write well or consistently, but I write. I write the things that come to me – I put it all down in ink and make sense of it as I go.
It doesn’t seem like an inherently scary process, but it really is. On a good day, it’s like I poke a hole in my heart and let little bits of it trickle onto the page. Other days, it’s as if I use my soul as sidewalk chalk, smearing it across anything I can find. And that’s kind of nerve-wracking. I mean, I write to be read and I write to reveal, but the power of words scares me. What if I say something wrong? What if I misrepresent what I want to say? What if someone reads it and thinks I’m an idiot? What if nobody reads it and I know I’m an idiot? Or worst of all, what if I can’t get it out to begin with?
Those are obviously the wrong questions, though. As a writer, I can’t help but to write – it comes out of me even when I don’t sit down formally and decide to spend time working on my craft. And as a Christ-follower, I can’t help but to do what He asks me to do, to use my gifts, to pursue my passions. For me, that that means that I have to write.
I’ve been blessed with a beautiful network of support. Pam and Kate and Dee, for example, always build me up and encourage my work. Taylor takes it a step farther and assumes ownership of my writing in a way that I would let few people do. But Jackie pursues my writing. She asks for it. She demands it. She promises that I can do it even when I’m sure that I can’t and she lets me read everything to her, even the really awful, boring stuff. I think that she’s just vying for the position of Jordan, Donald Miller’s friend who frequents his books, but her reasoning is secondary at this point; she’s well on her way to securing that position.
Jackie and I sat on the beach talking today, talking about God’s promises and His plans for our lives and the awesome potential for living the epic, whimsical stories that we both yearn for so deeply. She asked me why I haven’t started writing the books that I want to write and I said that I don’t know if I can, that I don’t know if I should, and she just stared at Lake Michigan and listened. Jackie listens. She processes. She takes her time to speak, but it is generally worth the wait. After a while, she just sort of shook her head and said, “I don’t know a lot of things, Carly. But I know that you were created to write. And I think that you should start.”
So I’m left with the question, what if I really am a writer? What if I wrote a book this summer? What if I wrote every day, faithfully, in discipline and in boredom, in joy and in inspiration, when I feel like it and when I don’t? What if I actually tell people about this project and thereby lock myself into it with accountability? What if I took a risk and did what I loved and risked falling out of love with it? What if I allow myself to become so consumed with Jesus that I write everything He tells me, that I turn off my internal editor and just write what He asks me to? What if I did that? What would happen?
I guess the only way to find out is to do it… so I’m going to. I’m going to write all summer. I’m going to beg Jesus for words and for patience and for understanding and for stuff to write about and then I’m going to write it. Because what if I am a writer? And what if I did the scariest thing of all and walked away from my dreams because I was too afraid of them? That sounds worse than being an idiot or being frustrated for a little while, so… here goes nothing.
It doesn’t seem like an inherently scary process, but it really is. On a good day, it’s like I poke a hole in my heart and let little bits of it trickle onto the page. Other days, it’s as if I use my soul as sidewalk chalk, smearing it across anything I can find. And that’s kind of nerve-wracking. I mean, I write to be read and I write to reveal, but the power of words scares me. What if I say something wrong? What if I misrepresent what I want to say? What if someone reads it and thinks I’m an idiot? What if nobody reads it and I know I’m an idiot? Or worst of all, what if I can’t get it out to begin with?
Those are obviously the wrong questions, though. As a writer, I can’t help but to write – it comes out of me even when I don’t sit down formally and decide to spend time working on my craft. And as a Christ-follower, I can’t help but to do what He asks me to do, to use my gifts, to pursue my passions. For me, that that means that I have to write.
I’ve been blessed with a beautiful network of support. Pam and Kate and Dee, for example, always build me up and encourage my work. Taylor takes it a step farther and assumes ownership of my writing in a way that I would let few people do. But Jackie pursues my writing. She asks for it. She demands it. She promises that I can do it even when I’m sure that I can’t and she lets me read everything to her, even the really awful, boring stuff. I think that she’s just vying for the position of Jordan, Donald Miller’s friend who frequents his books, but her reasoning is secondary at this point; she’s well on her way to securing that position.
Jackie and I sat on the beach talking today, talking about God’s promises and His plans for our lives and the awesome potential for living the epic, whimsical stories that we both yearn for so deeply. She asked me why I haven’t started writing the books that I want to write and I said that I don’t know if I can, that I don’t know if I should, and she just stared at Lake Michigan and listened. Jackie listens. She processes. She takes her time to speak, but it is generally worth the wait. After a while, she just sort of shook her head and said, “I don’t know a lot of things, Carly. But I know that you were created to write. And I think that you should start.”
So I’m left with the question, what if I really am a writer? What if I wrote a book this summer? What if I wrote every day, faithfully, in discipline and in boredom, in joy and in inspiration, when I feel like it and when I don’t? What if I actually tell people about this project and thereby lock myself into it with accountability? What if I took a risk and did what I loved and risked falling out of love with it? What if I allow myself to become so consumed with Jesus that I write everything He tells me, that I turn off my internal editor and just write what He asks me to? What if I did that? What would happen?
I guess the only way to find out is to do it… so I’m going to. I’m going to write all summer. I’m going to beg Jesus for words and for patience and for understanding and for stuff to write about and then I’m going to write it. Because what if I am a writer? And what if I did the scariest thing of all and walked away from my dreams because I was too afraid of them? That sounds worse than being an idiot or being frustrated for a little while, so… here goes nothing.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
To The Birthday Girl.
Once upon a time, I was a little baby freshman in college. Having read all of the Cosmogirl and Seventeen articles about making friends, becoming hugely popular, and having the best time of your life in college, I knew the path to success -- get involved. So I did. I looked into about three million campus events, it seemed like, signed up for organizations that I never actually attended [but still receive the club emails] and organized a semi-not-so-successful dorm cookie night every week. My favorite part, though, was YoungLife. Besides the fact that I was a freshman and new so a.) all of the boys were older and b.) all of the boys were cute, [I was obviously in heaven] they did this weekend retreat in September or October -- and I love those. It's the perfect venue for how loud and obnoxious I am, because I REALIZE that I'm annoying at first, but when you spend a WEEKEND with me, you get to see pieces of the less ridiculous part of me, or at least enough to hint that that side might exist, so it piques people's interests and suddenly VOILA! I have friends... or at least I think I do.
Anyway, we were playing those weird bonding games, like variations on freeze tag and blindfolded kickball and ultimate frisbee, and suddenly we were handed towels and instructed to playbeach volleyball... it's basically newcomb with towels and you catch the ball and then try to catapult it back over the net with varying degrees of success. I looked around, searching for one of the seven older boys I had been talking to through the course of the night, when a girl walked up to me. She had crazy, curly hair, tinted orange in what I would later learn was not her natural color, but a freak dye job. Her wrists were covered in braided bracelets and concert wristbands and she had chipped nailpolish on her fingers. "Hey," she said abruptly. "Want to be my partner?" It wasn't really a question, but I was okay with that.
I don't remember much more of Allison specifically from that weekend (I was too busy flirting with boys and making sure that everybody heard me at all times), but that moment sparked a friendship unlike any other in my life. Allison and I started as very superficial friends -- the kind whose Facebook wall to wall looks like this:
Carly: Ah, you disappeared tonight!! I hope you had fun...have a fabulous Wednesday!
Allison: I know! I was so distracted! I meant to go back inside, but I forgot. :)
Carly: Hmph. Miss you. Being home is fabulous/sucky, because I feel like I'm missing out on EVERYTHING!!
Allison: So you are pretty much my love :)
Carly: No no no no...YOU are MY love. Dinner was fun -- we'll have to do it again ASAP. See you today, I'm sure. ♥
I mean, we meant what we said, but we had no real understanding of each other -- there was very little depth to our relationship at that point. Not to mention the fact that we were ANNOYING, but that's another issue entirely.
Then we went on Spring Break to Houston. It was an ugly time in both of our lives; we were working through self-created messes and it seemed [from my perspective, at least] that we were the only other person who had at least the tiniest inkling of how the other felt. It's funny, because just as Allison told me that she had sworn off close friendships with girls, I resolved to be that in her life. Literally, this is how the conversation went:
Allison: I never want a "best friend" again.
Carly: *in my head* Fine. But I'm going to disregard that statement and win. Bahaha.
Long story short -- we both won. Allison has a place in my heart that no one else will every occupy, and to say that I'm thankful for our friendship is the understatement of the year. She is unique and beautiful and giving in her own way. She has a heart for Jesus and a passion to help those who hurt. She fights for what she loves and is not afraid to be wrong when she's seeking truth. She speaks in accents and loves [shopping, not working at] Target and seeing movies instead of doing homework. She hardly ever skips class, but always texts me when she does, because she knows how proud I am of her negligence. She lets me read out loud to her and she shares her writing with me. We wear each others' clothes, eat each others' food, sleep in each others' rooms, laugh with each others' sisters, and in such, we have become sisters ourselves.
I have watched Allison grow and change closer and closer into the woman that God wants her to be over the last three years. The girl I met on the volleyball court freshman year is a distant memory, replaced by a confident, maturing woman. It's been an amazing transformation, and it is far from complete.
I love you, Allison. Happy Birthday!
Anyway, we were playing those weird bonding games, like variations on freeze tag and blindfolded kickball and ultimate frisbee, and suddenly we were handed towels and instructed to playbeach volleyball... it's basically newcomb with towels and you catch the ball and then try to catapult it back over the net with varying degrees of success. I looked around, searching for one of the seven older boys I had been talking to through the course of the night, when a girl walked up to me. She had crazy, curly hair, tinted orange in what I would later learn was not her natural color, but a freak dye job. Her wrists were covered in braided bracelets and concert wristbands and she had chipped nailpolish on her fingers. "Hey," she said abruptly. "Want to be my partner?" It wasn't really a question, but I was okay with that.
I don't remember much more of Allison specifically from that weekend (I was too busy flirting with boys and making sure that everybody heard me at all times), but that moment sparked a friendship unlike any other in my life. Allison and I started as very superficial friends -- the kind whose Facebook wall to wall looks like this:
Carly: Ah, you disappeared tonight!! I hope you had fun...have a fabulous Wednesday!
Allison: I know! I was so distracted! I meant to go back inside, but I forgot. :)
Carly: Hmph. Miss you. Being home is fabulous/sucky, because I feel like I'm missing out on EVERYTHING!!
Allison: So you are pretty much my love :)
Carly: No no no no...YOU are MY love. Dinner was fun -- we'll have to do it again ASAP. See you today, I'm sure. ♥
I mean, we meant what we said, but we had no real understanding of each other -- there was very little depth to our relationship at that point. Not to mention the fact that we were ANNOYING, but that's another issue entirely.
Then we went on Spring Break to Houston. It was an ugly time in both of our lives; we were working through self-created messes and it seemed [from my perspective, at least] that we were the only other person who had at least the tiniest inkling of how the other felt. It's funny, because just as Allison told me that she had sworn off close friendships with girls, I resolved to be that in her life. Literally, this is how the conversation went:
Allison: I never want a "best friend" again.
Carly: *in my head* Fine. But I'm going to disregard that statement and win. Bahaha.
Long story short -- we both won. Allison has a place in my heart that no one else will every occupy, and to say that I'm thankful for our friendship is the understatement of the year. She is unique and beautiful and giving in her own way. She has a heart for Jesus and a passion to help those who hurt. She fights for what she loves and is not afraid to be wrong when she's seeking truth. She speaks in accents and loves [shopping, not working at] Target and seeing movies instead of doing homework. She hardly ever skips class, but always texts me when she does, because she knows how proud I am of her negligence. She lets me read out loud to her and she shares her writing with me. We wear each others' clothes, eat each others' food, sleep in each others' rooms, laugh with each others' sisters, and in such, we have become sisters ourselves.
I have watched Allison grow and change closer and closer into the woman that God wants her to be over the last three years. The girl I met on the volleyball court freshman year is a distant memory, replaced by a confident, maturing woman. It's been an amazing transformation, and it is far from complete.
I love you, Allison. Happy Birthday!
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Against All Odds
I love the moments that fall together, that connect the millions of seemingly random occurrences in our daily lives, that remind us that there is a Plan for how things are going to go. Those moments where the stars align or our eyes are opened or the light turns on in our brain, and for one brief, shining instant, we know peace.
I love that peace is not relegated to those fleeting moments for those who know Jesus, for those who continue to choose to believe, against all odds, that He somehow works all things together for good for those who love Him, for those who understand how small and inconsequential we are, yet how huge and real He is. This knowledge stems from deep within, from something that nobody can truly define, only acknowledge. I don't know how things work, but I know that they do. I don't know where faith comes from, but I know that it is there. I don't know why He chooses to concern Himself with my little life, but I know that He has and that He does and that He will forevermore.
I love that I can look to the past and see the way that He has carried me through, the way that things actually do line up against all odds, the way that somehow, miraculously, in a way that is the antithesis to coincidence, I find myself strangely prepared for what life brings about. I don't always recognize the training, the preparation, and I rarely have the foresight or wisdom to see it for what it is, but in retrospect, it shines. It glows. It pulsates, loud and neon and obvious for anyone who has eyes -- there was a Purpose. There is a Purpose. We are not in vain.
And so, because I can look at the things that were, the times when it seemed like nothing was happening, the times when it seemed like I was on my own or that I had to make the big decisions by myself or that everyone else in my life jaunted off on incredible adventures while I wasted away in a small, boring, inconsequential life only to realize that Jesus had a plan all along, because I can see this track record of faithfulness and goodness and love, I will continue to choose to believe. I don't feel like it, to be frank. I don't feel like waiting quietly, like hoping and praying for just a little bit longer when it seems like the past few months have been so fruitless, but I'm going to. I don't feel like hanging on to this string of hope, like clinging to this precariously small lifevest of faith, because I feel like I'm going to sink. But that's just it -- moments like this will one day become the instance from the past that remind of God's unending promises. Discouragement becomes a matter of a timeline, and I refuse to let my nearsighted perspective pull me from what God has for me. God is good. He is faithful. I choose to live in that hope.
II Corinthians 4:18: So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but one what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
I love that peace is not relegated to those fleeting moments for those who know Jesus, for those who continue to choose to believe, against all odds, that He somehow works all things together for good for those who love Him, for those who understand how small and inconsequential we are, yet how huge and real He is. This knowledge stems from deep within, from something that nobody can truly define, only acknowledge. I don't know how things work, but I know that they do. I don't know where faith comes from, but I know that it is there. I don't know why He chooses to concern Himself with my little life, but I know that He has and that He does and that He will forevermore.
I love that I can look to the past and see the way that He has carried me through, the way that things actually do line up against all odds, the way that somehow, miraculously, in a way that is the antithesis to coincidence, I find myself strangely prepared for what life brings about. I don't always recognize the training, the preparation, and I rarely have the foresight or wisdom to see it for what it is, but in retrospect, it shines. It glows. It pulsates, loud and neon and obvious for anyone who has eyes -- there was a Purpose. There is a Purpose. We are not in vain.
And so, because I can look at the things that were, the times when it seemed like nothing was happening, the times when it seemed like I was on my own or that I had to make the big decisions by myself or that everyone else in my life jaunted off on incredible adventures while I wasted away in a small, boring, inconsequential life only to realize that Jesus had a plan all along, because I can see this track record of faithfulness and goodness and love, I will continue to choose to believe. I don't feel like it, to be frank. I don't feel like waiting quietly, like hoping and praying for just a little bit longer when it seems like the past few months have been so fruitless, but I'm going to. I don't feel like hanging on to this string of hope, like clinging to this precariously small lifevest of faith, because I feel like I'm going to sink. But that's just it -- moments like this will one day become the instance from the past that remind of God's unending promises. Discouragement becomes a matter of a timeline, and I refuse to let my nearsighted perspective pull me from what God has for me. God is good. He is faithful. I choose to live in that hope.
II Corinthians 4:18: So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but one what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Breakdown of an Otherwise Somewhat Healthy Brain.
So... I go through phases.
I can hear you all grumbling right now. You think I can't hear these things, but I can. I hear what you're saying. "My gosh, Carly," you're saying through awful clenched teeth. "WE KNOW!!! Okay?? We get it, we really do. You go through phases - great. Move on already."
Well, I'm sorry, but I can't, because everytime I try to do that, another phase pops up and I have to attend to it, and you can clearly see how that quickly becomes a vicious cycle.
Right now, for instance. All I want to do is cook. And hold a baby. But mainly cook. This soup, for example, looks very doable. Most things that Pioneer Woman talks about look very doable, actually, but I haven't tried most of them yet, and I even own her cookbook. Alas... what is a girl to do on a meager college budget? Practicality must dictate my life, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it is holding me back from my creative genius. Where do I turn in times of such emotional turmoil?? Woe is me.
On a slightly off topic note, but since we're already talking about my beloved Pioneer Woman, is it just me or is she seriously jonesing for another baby? Maybe it's because I was reading back on some of her posts that I have missed lately, but she seems to be in a baby craze...and reading about it has slowly transferred some of that weird, maternal instinct stuff into my own brain. I keep making faces at the babies that seem to continuously surround me everytime I go out in public. I mean, I'm not to the point where I would PAY a RANDOM STRANGER to let me hold their baby like Jackie wants to do... but I wouldn't mind playing with a kid right about now. I don't know why I go through nesting phases... it's not at all practical. Then again, didn't I just say that practicality was ruining my life? Oh no - it's a sign. And I wrote it. Five seconds ago. This cannot be good.
Anyway the point is, I'm dying to cook. And experiment. And try new recipes. And eat delicious food instead of ramen and/or rice and steamed veggies. There are approximately 37 windows open on my browser right now, and all but two of them are foodie websites. Consequently, I am convinced that my life will not be complete until I own decent pots and pans [AND A STOVE THAT DOESN'T SCORCH EVERYTHING IT TOUCHES], which only adds to the growing desire to be an adult with a certain amount of discretionary income so that I can buy the stainless steal sautee pans that will apparently change my life. I digress, once again.
I think this whole thing stems from a severe nutritional crisis on my end... you see, I've staunchly refused to buy groceries again until I absolutely have to [interpretation: funds are at an all-time low], which means that my fresh produce options in my apartment are nonexistent. Today I honestly tried to think of the last time I ate a piece of fresh fruit, and I think the complete lack of memories involving such healthy, delicious goodness answers my lingering questions about a.) my total lack of energy as of late and b.) my scurvy-like symptoms. Just kidding. I don't have scurvy. I did accidentally take a four hour nap yesterday, though... is that a problem? I asked my mom that question and she told me to work out. Helpful. [Mama, if you're reading this, please calm down about my serious nutrient deficiency. I'm aware of the issues at hand. If it makes you feel any better, there was orange filling in some of the Valentine's chocolate that you sent me... I felt the Vitamin C coursing through my veins as I ate it.] Perhaps this self-same lack of any healthy influences in my diet also effects my ability to stay on-topic while writing a blog? Interesting...
The way I see it, my options are this: I either tough it out and wait until I go home for Spring Break where I can use my parents' kitchen to play and run horribly a muck while trying new recipes OR I could find some hungry, quasi-lazy, adventurous individual around here who wants to supply the groceries and I'll supply the labor. My schedule is daunting and I am painfully shy, but I would be more than willing to pencil in an audience for the premiere of my imaginary cooking show. Just think about it... that's all I'm saying.
And if not for my sake, then maybe for my mother's... she might be in for a long week come Spring Break.
I can hear you all grumbling right now. You think I can't hear these things, but I can. I hear what you're saying. "My gosh, Carly," you're saying through awful clenched teeth. "WE KNOW!!! Okay?? We get it, we really do. You go through phases - great. Move on already."
Well, I'm sorry, but I can't, because everytime I try to do that, another phase pops up and I have to attend to it, and you can clearly see how that quickly becomes a vicious cycle.
Right now, for instance. All I want to do is cook. And hold a baby. But mainly cook. This soup, for example, looks very doable. Most things that Pioneer Woman talks about look very doable, actually, but I haven't tried most of them yet, and I even own her cookbook. Alas... what is a girl to do on a meager college budget? Practicality must dictate my life, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it is holding me back from my creative genius. Where do I turn in times of such emotional turmoil?? Woe is me.
On a slightly off topic note, but since we're already talking about my beloved Pioneer Woman, is it just me or is she seriously jonesing for another baby? Maybe it's because I was reading back on some of her posts that I have missed lately, but she seems to be in a baby craze...and reading about it has slowly transferred some of that weird, maternal instinct stuff into my own brain. I keep making faces at the babies that seem to continuously surround me everytime I go out in public. I mean, I'm not to the point where I would PAY a RANDOM STRANGER to let me hold their baby like Jackie wants to do... but I wouldn't mind playing with a kid right about now. I don't know why I go through nesting phases... it's not at all practical. Then again, didn't I just say that practicality was ruining my life? Oh no - it's a sign. And I wrote it. Five seconds ago. This cannot be good.
Anyway the point is, I'm dying to cook. And experiment. And try new recipes. And eat delicious food instead of ramen and/or rice and steamed veggies. There are approximately 37 windows open on my browser right now, and all but two of them are foodie websites. Consequently, I am convinced that my life will not be complete until I own decent pots and pans [AND A STOVE THAT DOESN'T SCORCH EVERYTHING IT TOUCHES], which only adds to the growing desire to be an adult with a certain amount of discretionary income so that I can buy the stainless steal sautee pans that will apparently change my life. I digress, once again.
I think this whole thing stems from a severe nutritional crisis on my end... you see, I've staunchly refused to buy groceries again until I absolutely have to [interpretation: funds are at an all-time low], which means that my fresh produce options in my apartment are nonexistent. Today I honestly tried to think of the last time I ate a piece of fresh fruit, and I think the complete lack of memories involving such healthy, delicious goodness answers my lingering questions about a.) my total lack of energy as of late and b.) my scurvy-like symptoms. Just kidding. I don't have scurvy. I did accidentally take a four hour nap yesterday, though... is that a problem? I asked my mom that question and she told me to work out. Helpful. [Mama, if you're reading this, please calm down about my serious nutrient deficiency. I'm aware of the issues at hand. If it makes you feel any better, there was orange filling in some of the Valentine's chocolate that you sent me... I felt the Vitamin C coursing through my veins as I ate it.] Perhaps this self-same lack of any healthy influences in my diet also effects my ability to stay on-topic while writing a blog? Interesting...
The way I see it, my options are this: I either tough it out and wait until I go home for Spring Break where I can use my parents' kitchen to play and run horribly a muck while trying new recipes OR I could find some hungry, quasi-lazy, adventurous individual around here who wants to supply the groceries and I'll supply the labor. My schedule is daunting and I am painfully shy, but I would be more than willing to pencil in an audience for the premiere of my imaginary cooking show. Just think about it... that's all I'm saying.
And if not for my sake, then maybe for my mother's... she might be in for a long week come Spring Break.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Tired. Thankful. Lists.
The Surface
I am tired of college.
I am tired of being physically exhausted.
I am tired of winter.
I am tired of Edgar Allan Poe.
I am tired of feeling materialistic.
I am tired of not being able to wear my contacts.
I am tired of being confined to other people’s schedules.
I am tired of fantasizing about being an adult.
I am tired of being irritable and short with the people I love.
I am tired of talking about myself.
I am tired of being two faced.
I am tired of never knowing what my next step is.
I am tired of wondering what I’m supposed to be doing this summer.
I am tired of feeling like I have to have things together.
I am tired of having absolutely nothing together.
I am tired of my pride.
I am tired of the temporary nature of college.
I am tired of biting my nails.
I am tired of being so pale.
I am tired of never eating the yogurt that I buy.
I am tired of deciding that I’m going to stop drinking pop and not being able to stand life without Diet Coke.
I am tired of missing my mom.
I am tired of feeling like I don’t pursue the people around me enough.
I am tired of where I am right now.
Perspective Shift
I am thankful that God is who He says He is.
I am thankful that I am who God says I am.
I am thankful that God has a plan for me.
I am thankful that He has brought me to a community where I can be myself.
I am thankful that I very, very rarely feel like I need to put on a show for anybody.
I am thankful that I am part of a small group of girls that loves God and wants to know Him more.
I am thankful for the opportunity to get an education.
I am thankful that I have heat and warm blankets and a space heater that looks like space ship.
I am thankful that I never have to question if my family is there for me.
I am thankful that I can express myself through writing.
I am thankful for stories and for friends who laugh at my stories and to have grown up in a family that loves to tell stories.
I am thankful for the scent of sandalwood vanilla and pine candles.
I am thankful for Iron&Wine.
I am thankful for twinkly lights.
I am thankful for the ability to look back over my writing and see growth.
I am thankful that I have these amazing, warm slippers.
I am thankful that my professors always let me get away with whatever I want.
I am thankful that God has something really exciting in store for me.
I am thankful that I will never have to settle or compromise.
I am thankful that my friends are beautiful and funny and that they love Jesus.
I am thankful that I found a gel pen in my backpack this week.
I am thankful that no one has ever tried to dissuade me from being a writer.
I am thankful that even in the hard, annoying, tiring times, I can still find so many things to be thankful for.
I am thankful that God is gracious and patient and that He loves me and pursues me, despite my occasionally rotten attitude.
Amen.
I am tired of college.
I am tired of being physically exhausted.
I am tired of winter.
I am tired of Edgar Allan Poe.
I am tired of feeling materialistic.
I am tired of not being able to wear my contacts.
I am tired of being confined to other people’s schedules.
I am tired of fantasizing about being an adult.
I am tired of being irritable and short with the people I love.
I am tired of talking about myself.
I am tired of being two faced.
I am tired of never knowing what my next step is.
I am tired of wondering what I’m supposed to be doing this summer.
I am tired of feeling like I have to have things together.
I am tired of having absolutely nothing together.
I am tired of my pride.
I am tired of the temporary nature of college.
I am tired of biting my nails.
I am tired of being so pale.
I am tired of never eating the yogurt that I buy.
I am tired of deciding that I’m going to stop drinking pop and not being able to stand life without Diet Coke.
I am tired of missing my mom.
I am tired of feeling like I don’t pursue the people around me enough.
I am tired of where I am right now.
Perspective Shift
I am thankful that God is who He says He is.
I am thankful that I am who God says I am.
I am thankful that God has a plan for me.
I am thankful that He has brought me to a community where I can be myself.
I am thankful that I very, very rarely feel like I need to put on a show for anybody.
I am thankful that I am part of a small group of girls that loves God and wants to know Him more.
I am thankful for the opportunity to get an education.
I am thankful that I have heat and warm blankets and a space heater that looks like space ship.
I am thankful that I never have to question if my family is there for me.
I am thankful that I can express myself through writing.
I am thankful for stories and for friends who laugh at my stories and to have grown up in a family that loves to tell stories.
I am thankful for the scent of sandalwood vanilla and pine candles.
I am thankful for Iron&Wine.
I am thankful for twinkly lights.
I am thankful for the ability to look back over my writing and see growth.
I am thankful that I have these amazing, warm slippers.
I am thankful that my professors always let me get away with whatever I want.
I am thankful that God has something really exciting in store for me.
I am thankful that I will never have to settle or compromise.
I am thankful that my friends are beautiful and funny and that they love Jesus.
I am thankful that I found a gel pen in my backpack this week.
I am thankful that no one has ever tried to dissuade me from being a writer.
I am thankful that even in the hard, annoying, tiring times, I can still find so many things to be thankful for.
I am thankful that God is gracious and patient and that He loves me and pursues me, despite my occasionally rotten attitude.
Amen.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Choose.
Don't feel sorry for yourself.
What do you have to regret? You have been forgiven, you have been redeemed, you have been promised enormous, beautiful, great things. So live in those promises.
Choose to believe God.
Choose to believe Him when it doesn't feel like His promises are true.
Choose to live in joy, even when your heart hurts.
Choose to bask in that freedom and peace, because the God of the universe created you for this moment.
So choose this day who you will follow -- your own flawed heart, the same thing that beats in your chest and has misled you every day of your life, or the One who created it. Who created you. Who designed you with a purpose.
Your sacrifices are very small in the very large picture that is Christ's plan.
He has more for you.
More.
So much more.
He promises... so believe.
What do you have to regret? You have been forgiven, you have been redeemed, you have been promised enormous, beautiful, great things. So live in those promises.
Choose to believe God.
Choose to believe Him when it doesn't feel like His promises are true.
Choose to live in joy, even when your heart hurts.
Choose to bask in that freedom and peace, because the God of the universe created you for this moment.
So choose this day who you will follow -- your own flawed heart, the same thing that beats in your chest and has misled you every day of your life, or the One who created it. Who created you. Who designed you with a purpose.
Your sacrifices are very small in the very large picture that is Christ's plan.
He has more for you.
More.
So much more.
He promises... so believe.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Felt.
It's not that I'm a pack rat or even particularly nostalgic most of the time. I just save some things. Special things. Things with sentimental value. Small things that people give me that impact me deeper than they know.
Things like a letter my dad slipped in my suitcase when I went to Chicago for the weekend in fifth grade. He told Shelby and I to practice the Fruits of the Spirit while we were with our mom and Mimi and Aunt Bambi and Bailey and then he put some "American money" in it for his "two favorite American Girls."
Or the bracelet that one of the Brazilian girls pressed into my hand when I was in Village and the letters written in Portuguese, which, even though I cannot read them, I understand completely.
Or the silly mantras that my sister and I wrote at three in the morning or lists that we compiled through years and years of angst and secret crushes or the notes that got us through our boring high school classes or a sketch of a bottle of saline that brings tears to my eyes for the memories surrounding it.
Or all of the letters that my mom has written me over the years, full of encouragement and admonishment and compassion and anger and love, a mother's heart toward her oldest daughter on paper.
Or the playlists written out in scrawling, boyish handwriting, the result of painstaking hours of meticulous choosing and narrowing and deleting songs, subsequently burning memories into my heart just as permanently as they were burned onto a CD.
Or the pictures of Shelby and Bailey and I that I have hidden away... the ones from childhood and high school and then last fall...the ones that are too hard to look at regularly, but that I need to have easily accessible at all times.
Or the silver dollar that Papa randomly mailed to me one day so that I would always remember him, as if he were in danger of being forgotten, the very idea of which is endearing and laughable and heart- warming and -breaking all at once.
Or pieces of my own writing, scribbles on scraps of paper that range in topic from sermon notes to recently invented metaphors to letters to myself, outlining goals and dreams and hopes and desires. The handwriting is familiar, but not mine; it belongs to someone else, a different version of me.
All of that and more lives in a small box on my desk, and what I realized tonight is that it can all be consolidated into one idea -- words. Thousands and thousands of words sit in that box, words from my family, my friends, my mentors, people who have affected my life profoundly without even knowing it. I live on words. I toy with them like playthings and if I don’t get them from others, a piece of me shrivels up inside, like a plant without water. I need them. I need them because they are tangible and permanent and easy to reread. I need them because they connect me to people that I am far from, physically or emotionally or both. I need them because they link the past and the present, because they tattoo memories onto my skin, because they remind me in the hard times that I am loved, I am supported, I am known. Words help me to understand where I end and where the rest of the world begins, but they also give me links and bridges to communicate. I need words.
It makes it even more difficult, though, when I suddenly cannot say what I need to say. I’m sitting here like a captive, joy and heaviness warring for territory in my heart. How do I define this? Who do I turn to? What am I supposed to say?
Times like these make me wholly dependent on the Word, the one Letter that I have that can keep me going. How I define something does not matter in light of the fact that I have the Truth at my fingertips. What I say does not matter when I’m talking to the One who can interpret all of my sighs and tears and laughs and gasps. I am so grateful to be able to turn Jesus whenever I need Him – constantly. How sweet it is to have a Book so precious and valuable and flowing with love and encouragement whenever I need it.
It’s not a quick fix, but it is the best preemptive strike possible. It’s all that I know. It’s all that I have. It’s all I can do. And lately, at the end of the day, it’s all that I want.
Things like a letter my dad slipped in my suitcase when I went to Chicago for the weekend in fifth grade. He told Shelby and I to practice the Fruits of the Spirit while we were with our mom and Mimi and Aunt Bambi and Bailey and then he put some "American money" in it for his "two favorite American Girls."
Or the bracelet that one of the Brazilian girls pressed into my hand when I was in Village and the letters written in Portuguese, which, even though I cannot read them, I understand completely.
Or the silly mantras that my sister and I wrote at three in the morning or lists that we compiled through years and years of angst and secret crushes or the notes that got us through our boring high school classes or a sketch of a bottle of saline that brings tears to my eyes for the memories surrounding it.
Or all of the letters that my mom has written me over the years, full of encouragement and admonishment and compassion and anger and love, a mother's heart toward her oldest daughter on paper.
Or the playlists written out in scrawling, boyish handwriting, the result of painstaking hours of meticulous choosing and narrowing and deleting songs, subsequently burning memories into my heart just as permanently as they were burned onto a CD.
Or the pictures of Shelby and Bailey and I that I have hidden away... the ones from childhood and high school and then last fall...the ones that are too hard to look at regularly, but that I need to have easily accessible at all times.
Or the silver dollar that Papa randomly mailed to me one day so that I would always remember him, as if he were in danger of being forgotten, the very idea of which is endearing and laughable and heart- warming and -breaking all at once.
Or pieces of my own writing, scribbles on scraps of paper that range in topic from sermon notes to recently invented metaphors to letters to myself, outlining goals and dreams and hopes and desires. The handwriting is familiar, but not mine; it belongs to someone else, a different version of me.
All of that and more lives in a small box on my desk, and what I realized tonight is that it can all be consolidated into one idea -- words. Thousands and thousands of words sit in that box, words from my family, my friends, my mentors, people who have affected my life profoundly without even knowing it. I live on words. I toy with them like playthings and if I don’t get them from others, a piece of me shrivels up inside, like a plant without water. I need them. I need them because they are tangible and permanent and easy to reread. I need them because they connect me to people that I am far from, physically or emotionally or both. I need them because they link the past and the present, because they tattoo memories onto my skin, because they remind me in the hard times that I am loved, I am supported, I am known. Words help me to understand where I end and where the rest of the world begins, but they also give me links and bridges to communicate. I need words.
It makes it even more difficult, though, when I suddenly cannot say what I need to say. I’m sitting here like a captive, joy and heaviness warring for territory in my heart. How do I define this? Who do I turn to? What am I supposed to say?
Times like these make me wholly dependent on the Word, the one Letter that I have that can keep me going. How I define something does not matter in light of the fact that I have the Truth at my fingertips. What I say does not matter when I’m talking to the One who can interpret all of my sighs and tears and laughs and gasps. I am so grateful to be able to turn Jesus whenever I need Him – constantly. How sweet it is to have a Book so precious and valuable and flowing with love and encouragement whenever I need it.
It’s not a quick fix, but it is the best preemptive strike possible. It’s all that I know. It’s all that I have. It’s all I can do. And lately, at the end of the day, it’s all that I want.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
It is Good.
It is good to sink back into writing for the sake of writing. It is good to be sitting down to write for myself, to give voice to ideas and thoughts apart from literature assignments and emails. My entire being feels that contented feeling of finally finding the comfortable spot in bed after restless tossing and turning. This is it. This is where I am hunkering down for a while. This is good.
Things have been happening in my life lately. Big things, little things, things that change the way I think, the way I see, the way I live. I'm in a process of discovering Jesus in a new way, a process of learning obedience and love and faith with a deeper, more meaningful understanding. Ergo, I am also in a process of discovering myself in a new way. What does He want for my life? Where does He want me to go? How can I serve Him? He's been bringing amazing opportunities my way lately and things can't help but to change. My eyes have been opened to His face in a new way...even in my salvation, I was lost, but now I am found. I was blind, but now I see. My life will never be the same, simply for the fact that it can't be.
I hope that change is reflected in this blog. I hope you can see it in my face, in my writing, that you can hear it in my voice and my laughter. I hope that even in my failures and moments of weakness, God is glorified. I hope that this fire within me grows and grows and grows, steady and strong and ready to go where He calls.
So yes, it's been two months since I've written, but it's been a packed two months. Sorry about the hiatus. I could write a post about how I really want to practice discipline this year... I do. I want to lead a more structured life [I use the term "want" loosely - you know, I want-ish to lead a more structured life...] this year than I did last year. I've been reading a lot lately, and it seems to me that in order to improve my craft, I actually have to do it. Fancy that. I want to develop a more consistent writing time, a place in my day where I sit down to write even if I don't feel like it. That's what I want. I also want to pay rent and buy groceries and pass my classes and deepen my relationships, though, so it might be a toss up some weeks. The point is, I really have missed this. I've missed this a lot. I'm going to try to be better, and not because I have an inflated sense of importance, like anyone who might read this has some sort of deep need for it or something, but because it's important. It helps keep me sane. Again, I use the term "sane" quite loosely.
Besides, what happens in my life that people want to hear about? I got my tonsils out, I turned twenty-one with the most epic birthday week ever, I met one of my favorite authors on a whirlwind surprise trip to the city, I sold more panties over Christmas break, I went to the Passion conference in Atlanta and saw Jesus, I've made more new best friends and met more of the MOST INTERESTING PEOPLE EVER, I've had some great conversations, I figured out how to paint the nails on my right hand decently, and my journey towards cooking improved when I got two new cookbooks for Christmas. I mean, do you want to know something? Is there a story in there? I don't know. You tell me.
Anyway, the point is I am a writer, as clearly defined by myself at an obnoxiously high rate. Therefore, I must write. I would love to write for you as often as I can, if you're still around, that is. So...can we be friends again? Pretty please?
Things have been happening in my life lately. Big things, little things, things that change the way I think, the way I see, the way I live. I'm in a process of discovering Jesus in a new way, a process of learning obedience and love and faith with a deeper, more meaningful understanding. Ergo, I am also in a process of discovering myself in a new way. What does He want for my life? Where does He want me to go? How can I serve Him? He's been bringing amazing opportunities my way lately and things can't help but to change. My eyes have been opened to His face in a new way...even in my salvation, I was lost, but now I am found. I was blind, but now I see. My life will never be the same, simply for the fact that it can't be.
I hope that change is reflected in this blog. I hope you can see it in my face, in my writing, that you can hear it in my voice and my laughter. I hope that even in my failures and moments of weakness, God is glorified. I hope that this fire within me grows and grows and grows, steady and strong and ready to go where He calls.
So yes, it's been two months since I've written, but it's been a packed two months. Sorry about the hiatus. I could write a post about how I really want to practice discipline this year... I do. I want to lead a more structured life [I use the term "want" loosely - you know, I want-ish to lead a more structured life...] this year than I did last year. I've been reading a lot lately, and it seems to me that in order to improve my craft, I actually have to do it. Fancy that. I want to develop a more consistent writing time, a place in my day where I sit down to write even if I don't feel like it. That's what I want. I also want to pay rent and buy groceries and pass my classes and deepen my relationships, though, so it might be a toss up some weeks. The point is, I really have missed this. I've missed this a lot. I'm going to try to be better, and not because I have an inflated sense of importance, like anyone who might read this has some sort of deep need for it or something, but because it's important. It helps keep me sane. Again, I use the term "sane" quite loosely.
Besides, what happens in my life that people want to hear about? I got my tonsils out, I turned twenty-one with the most epic birthday week ever, I met one of my favorite authors on a whirlwind surprise trip to the city, I sold more panties over Christmas break, I went to the Passion conference in Atlanta and saw Jesus, I've made more new best friends and met more of the MOST INTERESTING PEOPLE EVER, I've had some great conversations, I figured out how to paint the nails on my right hand decently, and my journey towards cooking improved when I got two new cookbooks for Christmas. I mean, do you want to know something? Is there a story in there? I don't know. You tell me.
Anyway, the point is I am a writer, as clearly defined by myself at an obnoxiously high rate. Therefore, I must write. I would love to write for you as often as I can, if you're still around, that is. So...can we be friends again? Pretty please?
Friday, November 13, 2009
My Favorite Boy In the World
Yes, yes, I know. Don't start with me. I realize that it's been ten years since I've written, but I refuse to justify it. I'm not going to whimper about how busy I've been or any such nonsense -- you've heard it before. Besides, I don't feel like making excuses, quite frankly. So there.
Obviously, it must take a very, very special thing to break such an impressive hiatus from this beloved old blog of mine. Special indeed. Today [yes, boo boo, I'm counting it as today, because I haven't gone to sleep yet, ergo, it is STILL your birthday day. Trust me. I pulled an all nighter last year on my birthday, just to continue basking in the glory. I know what I'm talking about.] is my baby brother's birthday.
My baby brother isn't really a baby anymore; at seventeen, he's much taller and stronger than me, which puts a damper on our old days of forced dress up games. I left for college and when I came back, I found my baby brother to be a little man, full of testosterone and hormones and angst and a voice that originates somewhere around his knees. Where has my cute, baby-faced baby brother gone? Where is the little boy whose largest concern during childhood was his complete inability to make scones? Where did the little boy who needed to be physically dragged out of my bedroom every night disappear to? And when did I start to like this replacement version so much?
It is a gift to have a little brother four years younger than you; you start to come into your own [at varying levels] at about the same time. As Taylor was maturing into a teenager, I began the process of maturing into an adult. These times are strangely similar; everything is new and exciting and terrifying all at once. The stakes seem so high, the possibilities so endless. Taylor and I share our outlook, our passion, and our dreams in a way that few siblings can understand. Truly, I left for college and when I came home again for the first time, the annoying baby brother had been replaced with a lifelong best friend.
I think that is what I love so much about Taylor; we have so much in common. We often say that our parents had two kids, just the male and female version of each and Taylor is my counterpart. I've never met someone whose dreams honestly rival my own. I've never met someone with such an innate desire to see the world, to experience new things, to talk to different people, to play a foreign role in new situations, to make friends and flirt with everybody as a way of life. Taylor embodies all of these and more, and I love and respect his individuality more than I can say.
The thing is, Taylor is exactly who he is. He can't always understand it, necessarily, but he doesn't hide behind trends or subscribe to labels. If he wants to try something that is against the grain and unusual, he's not afraid to take a risk. I love that about him. I've come to expect it, actually. Taylor generally operates at a level that is beyond his years and his bold decisions attest to that fact, so when he actually acts his age, it always throws me. Taylor is not your average teenager... he is so, so much more than that.
Perhaps I am biased. Perhaps I am blinded. Perhaps everyone in the world who is so enamored with my brother is biased and blinded too... but I don't think that is the case. Taylor is an incredibly special man, one who will accomplish anything that he sets his mind to and do amazing things for God. He is loyal and fierce and protective, and the best is yet to come. Happy Birthday, boo boo bear. You are my favorite boy in the world... I would never ignore you for another. ;-)
xoxo.
Obviously, it must take a very, very special thing to break such an impressive hiatus from this beloved old blog of mine. Special indeed. Today [yes, boo boo, I'm counting it as today, because I haven't gone to sleep yet, ergo, it is STILL your birthday day. Trust me. I pulled an all nighter last year on my birthday, just to continue basking in the glory. I know what I'm talking about.] is my baby brother's birthday.
My baby brother isn't really a baby anymore; at seventeen, he's much taller and stronger than me, which puts a damper on our old days of forced dress up games. I left for college and when I came back, I found my baby brother to be a little man, full of testosterone and hormones and angst and a voice that originates somewhere around his knees. Where has my cute, baby-faced baby brother gone? Where is the little boy whose largest concern during childhood was his complete inability to make scones? Where did the little boy who needed to be physically dragged out of my bedroom every night disappear to? And when did I start to like this replacement version so much?
It is a gift to have a little brother four years younger than you; you start to come into your own [at varying levels] at about the same time. As Taylor was maturing into a teenager, I began the process of maturing into an adult. These times are strangely similar; everything is new and exciting and terrifying all at once. The stakes seem so high, the possibilities so endless. Taylor and I share our outlook, our passion, and our dreams in a way that few siblings can understand. Truly, I left for college and when I came home again for the first time, the annoying baby brother had been replaced with a lifelong best friend.
I think that is what I love so much about Taylor; we have so much in common. We often say that our parents had two kids, just the male and female version of each and Taylor is my counterpart. I've never met someone whose dreams honestly rival my own. I've never met someone with such an innate desire to see the world, to experience new things, to talk to different people, to play a foreign role in new situations, to make friends and flirt with everybody as a way of life. Taylor embodies all of these and more, and I love and respect his individuality more than I can say.
The thing is, Taylor is exactly who he is. He can't always understand it, necessarily, but he doesn't hide behind trends or subscribe to labels. If he wants to try something that is against the grain and unusual, he's not afraid to take a risk. I love that about him. I've come to expect it, actually. Taylor generally operates at a level that is beyond his years and his bold decisions attest to that fact, so when he actually acts his age, it always throws me. Taylor is not your average teenager... he is so, so much more than that.
Perhaps I am biased. Perhaps I am blinded. Perhaps everyone in the world who is so enamored with my brother is biased and blinded too... but I don't think that is the case. Taylor is an incredibly special man, one who will accomplish anything that he sets his mind to and do amazing things for God. He is loyal and fierce and protective, and the best is yet to come. Happy Birthday, boo boo bear. You are my favorite boy in the world... I would never ignore you for another. ;-)
xoxo.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
I Never Claimed to be Domestic...
Okay. Here's the thing. I come from a long line of amazing cooks. Mimi's food is amazing -- she could seriously hand me a plate with sliced cheese and pickles out of a jar on it, and for some reason, it's just better than any other sliced cheese or pickles that I could find anywhere else. I'm not even going to talk about her real cooking, because it will make me too hungry for it. My mother's food is equally legendary and it's not like I took it for granted growing up, but I certainly miss it a lot when I'm away at school. And Shelby? I mean, it's just ridiculous. Shelby just knows things about cooking, about how things work in a kitchen. Truly, it's a gift.
One that I clearly do not have, I might add.
Now, I've come a long way from my cookie melt down the summer before my senior year. I no longer burst into tears at the sight of a burnt mess and choke out my fears that my future children will need counseling, due to the fact that I cannot bake them the cookies that they so clearly desire, thereby ruining their childhoods and shunting them off to their perfect Aunt Shelby so that their baking needs can be met. Nearly four years have passed, and I am pleased to say that I am now capable of baking a batch of cookies and apple pie.
And it's not like I can't take care of myself at school; I can cook. Kind of. At least, I have improved a lot over the past year or two -- I made these meatloaf things last year that Rachael Ray published and they were delicious. I make excellent stir-fry and I am the queen of anything Mexican [although as some people so generously point out, anyone can chop vegetables into salsa]. I'm not quite at the point where Shelby actually lets me help in the kitchen, but I can fumble through a recipe pretty convincingly.
But it is time for me to take the next step. I sauté my food as if my life depends on it: I'm ready for the next challenge. Besides, come October every year, I am in a constant state of craving chilli and pot roast, and I have no way of making it for myself. When I told Mimi this, she did the only logical thing.
She bought me a crockpot and a cookbook.
The possibilities seemed endless. I had instant fantasies about myself coming home after a long, cold day on campus to the aromatic seduction of something hot and delicious and ready to eat. Plus, the way that Mimi talked about it, the crockpot seemed like a magical cauldron for stone soup -- all I had to do was throw things in it and walk away. Even I can do that, right?
I guess I should double check to make sure I'm throwing the right things in, though, because today I set out on a brand new adventure. I decided that, being a blustery fall day, I needed that chilli that I've been craving for weeks. Now, Jewels makes the best chilli in the world [and no, I am not falling prey to my superlative overdose at the moment... I am extremely serious]. I called her, got her recipe, did the grocery shopping, and woke up this morning craving a masterpiece of my own. When I went to brown the meat, however, I realized that I am the dumbest person in the world; I didn't get ground beef. I got something else that looked equally brainy and intestiney, but much less crumbly.
Here's my question: how can someone mess that up? I mean, who can’t differentiate between the stuff of hamburgers and tacos and… I don’t know, something else? I know it isn’t really that big of a deal; after a few frantic texts to my sister and mother, I dealt with the situation. It just meant that I chopped a little more than would have been otherwise necessary, which was fine. If nothing else, my problem solving skills have skyrocketed due to this new cooking situation. And in the end, my chilli? Oh my gosh, soooo good. My mother would have been proud. But still. It’s annoying to make such basic mistakes.
Oh well. As Julie says, she's been married twenty-five years -- she's supposed to know all of the things that I don't, and once I've been married for that long, maybe I'll have some more stuff figured out. I'm sure she's right, but that doesn't really comfort me about next week...see, I bought this pot roast... but I'm sure it will all be fine, as long as I warn the fire department in advance, right?
One that I clearly do not have, I might add.
Now, I've come a long way from my cookie melt down the summer before my senior year. I no longer burst into tears at the sight of a burnt mess and choke out my fears that my future children will need counseling, due to the fact that I cannot bake them the cookies that they so clearly desire, thereby ruining their childhoods and shunting them off to their perfect Aunt Shelby so that their baking needs can be met. Nearly four years have passed, and I am pleased to say that I am now capable of baking a batch of cookies and apple pie.
And it's not like I can't take care of myself at school; I can cook. Kind of. At least, I have improved a lot over the past year or two -- I made these meatloaf things last year that Rachael Ray published and they were delicious. I make excellent stir-fry and I am the queen of anything Mexican [although as some people so generously point out, anyone can chop vegetables into salsa]. I'm not quite at the point where Shelby actually lets me help in the kitchen, but I can fumble through a recipe pretty convincingly.
But it is time for me to take the next step. I sauté my food as if my life depends on it: I'm ready for the next challenge. Besides, come October every year, I am in a constant state of craving chilli and pot roast, and I have no way of making it for myself. When I told Mimi this, she did the only logical thing.
She bought me a crockpot and a cookbook.
The possibilities seemed endless. I had instant fantasies about myself coming home after a long, cold day on campus to the aromatic seduction of something hot and delicious and ready to eat. Plus, the way that Mimi talked about it, the crockpot seemed like a magical cauldron for stone soup -- all I had to do was throw things in it and walk away. Even I can do that, right?
I guess I should double check to make sure I'm throwing the right things in, though, because today I set out on a brand new adventure. I decided that, being a blustery fall day, I needed that chilli that I've been craving for weeks. Now, Jewels makes the best chilli in the world [and no, I am not falling prey to my superlative overdose at the moment... I am extremely serious]. I called her, got her recipe, did the grocery shopping, and woke up this morning craving a masterpiece of my own. When I went to brown the meat, however, I realized that I am the dumbest person in the world; I didn't get ground beef. I got something else that looked equally brainy and intestiney, but much less crumbly.
Here's my question: how can someone mess that up? I mean, who can’t differentiate between the stuff of hamburgers and tacos and… I don’t know, something else? I know it isn’t really that big of a deal; after a few frantic texts to my sister and mother, I dealt with the situation. It just meant that I chopped a little more than would have been otherwise necessary, which was fine. If nothing else, my problem solving skills have skyrocketed due to this new cooking situation. And in the end, my chilli? Oh my gosh, soooo good. My mother would have been proud. But still. It’s annoying to make such basic mistakes.
Oh well. As Julie says, she's been married twenty-five years -- she's supposed to know all of the things that I don't, and once I've been married for that long, maybe I'll have some more stuff figured out. I'm sure she's right, but that doesn't really comfort me about next week...see, I bought this pot roast... but I'm sure it will all be fine, as long as I warn the fire department in advance, right?
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