It's funny how posting on here in some way is cathartic. You're not sure who will see it, if anyone. A lot of the flares we're throwing up go unseen on a regular basis, but I think occasionally for some people this feels like a flare. It feels like maybe someone, somewhere will see it and know that you need help.
I'm writing a book about a girl who oh-so-desperately needs someone to see that she needs help. I love her character because she is a mess in so many ways that the rest of us are messes.
I think I'm slowly beginning to understand mental illness. One of the most profoundly resonating books I ever read was "Lisa, Bright and Dark". God, I loved that book. There are so few books I read where a character is created (or real) and I say, "Yea. I get her", but Lisa, I got. Deborah Blau from "I Never Promised You A Rose Garden", I got.
I never used to understand depression. I saw the world so beautifully and clearly when I was younger. It was hard for me to fathom a place so dark the light couldn't reach, whether that light was Truth or Logic or Love. All three of those things have saved me on more than one occasion.
I now understand depression. Perhaps it's something bigger than that. I won't pretend to know everything there is to know about the beast that is mental illness. Truth and Logic and Love haven't abandoned at me, but it feels like I'm looking at them through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. It doesn't matter how real they are and how well they present themselves. It feels as though they may as well be offering me a three foot rope for a ten foot hole.
I hate this.
Hate is a word I reserve for knowing that is exactly how I feel about something. I don't want to throw it around loosely. Hate, to me, means I want whatever it is to suffer. And I'm not talking congestion or skipping one meal. I mean, the type of suffering where your soul is screaming out for release, reprieve, hope, for anything better than whatever you're experiencing. Suffering, to me, is complete and total inescapable anguish. It's extinguishing the light called "hope" or dangling it in front you only to snuff it out. Suffering is believing there is nothing better, that nothing better will ever come. The sun will rise tomorrow, but you'll never feel its warmth. You'll receive food, but won't taste its richness or intent.
When I say I "hate" someone or something, this suffering is what I'm wishing on them. This is why I reserve the word and the sentiment for the rarest of occasions.
But this... feeling this way... I hate it. And it is ironic because the very thing that I'm wishing such ill will toward is the very thing that is making me feel that iconic sense of suffering.
I'm a solutions girl. I loved math for the reason that almost everything had an answer. It had a series of steps you followed and either you were right or you were wrong. I don't have a series of steps and I don't know how to shake this.
All of this, above and throughout and in between, I hate it. And I don't know what to do.
15 October 2015
The Most Important Thing I've Ever Written
Last night I had a series of incredibly bizarre dreams, (remind me not to reheat ChickfilA at 11:30 at night) but there was one in particular that has stayed with me all day since waking.
It was about cats. Truth be told, I feel similar ways about cats and babies: "Oh, my gosh! So stinkin' cute! How adorable! Okay. Take it away. Thanks for indulging the girl in me, but I'm good." As long as it's not mine to keep, I'm good. We can circle each other with wary looks, a polite nod. You go your way. I'll go mine. Yes, I'm still talking about both cats and babies.
Anyway. In this dream, there was a cat and she had a litter of kittens--6 to be exact. My whole family was so excited and it brought back memories of when I was quite young and my whole family went to someone's house to pick out two kittens of our very own--so excited because they're so tiny and can barely help themselves.
For whatever reason, I was compelled to make sure all of these cats would stay together, but they kept escaping my room. What was a bit odder was that it was my old room in my parents' house, but with all of my sister's current furniture, who resides there now. So I would catch two or three of the cats, put them back in my room, close the door and go in search of the rest. Every time I would come back to the room to place more of the litter there, the door would be open and they would have escaped.
In my dream, my sister is laying on the floor doing nothing, but I'm assuming it's her that is opening the door and allowing my efforts to be futile. I end up screaming at her because I am incredibly frustrated that these cats keep escaping and I can't get them all together.
At the very end of the dream, the mom cat finally comes with me to collect her litter and we get all of them into the room to be together and the door remains shut. I don't play with the cats or even really acknowledge them after that.
I chalked this dream up to any other strange dreams I've ever had, but almost all of my dreams as of late have been work related and/or are obviously connected to something I'm stressing about or poring over at work.
I took the time to be still and think over the dream. I love the word "interpretation" because it means just about anything can come from whatever it is you're interpreting--it's but one perspective. I do believe certain dreams are significant and shouldn't be ignored. Here is my interpretation after much thought:
In October of 2008, exactly 7 years ago, I was in South Africa in a Christian discipleship program. 7 years ago is when I shared my first kiss with my second boyfriend after having just recently broken up with my first boyfriend and love of 3 years. Keep in mind, I was 18 and a complete idiot (still am), but there was something incredibly innocent about this relationship. ...at first.
Without going to into too much detail, after a very short-lived, naive romance with this boy, he was heading back to the States and I was about to pile into a car with four of my closest friends to make the drive to Cape Town. There was a water tower on campus that I remember in startling detail. It was a bit of a "thing" to break through the gate there and climb to the top. You could see for miles and miles up there and I loved it. It made me feel diminutive. It made me feel like there had to be something bigger.
This last night we were together for months is seared into my brain because I cried about it once when I realized what it did--or rather, what it undid. Up until this point in SA, I had been working toward healing from a lot of things in my past--some self-inflicted while others were a victimization. For the first time in years, I felt light. I felt new. I know that may be hard to comprehend being that then, and even now, I am a child, but I can't explain other than that was how it felt. To me, I had made genuine progress and I felt as though everything could and would be different from then on.
We did a lot of talking on top of that water tower. He did a lot of crying. There was something inside me that tried to force up tears to empathize. After all, I'm a girl. I should be comforting him by showing him how much I was going to miss him as well, but their sincerity was lacking. It felt like a show and that was when I started to feel uncomfortable. We kissed. Again, I don't want to go into detail as the details don't matter, but things got far more physical without my permission and with my urging to slow down.
I think the most terrifying part of the whole experience once I garnered control of the situation was the way I felt after. This girl that had been thrown back to being a child in all of the best ways--innocent, zealous for life and all of its offerings--was replaced by the bitter, closed teenager she had been. In that moment, to me, chastity was dead and more importantly, any hope I had in being chaste was obliterated. It's hard to explain why, but I climbed down the ladder a different girl than I climbed up. It was a relief to not have to see him after that, because I didn't have to face it and with time, I forgot that moment had changed me, and when I saw him again, smiling was easy and so was loving him.
This isn't about painting this boy to be a monster. We are all monsters, especially me. This is about the number 7.
Seven years ago, I had a hope I have never had since. I had hope that I got to be different than who I felt I had been condemned by my friends, acquaintances, family and myself to be. For seven years, I've been fighting to get that girl back--the girl who laughed and loved with abandon, the girl who didn't even bother looking in mirrors or at reflections in a window, the girl who wasn't petrified of being vulnerable and who dreamed with an insatiable appetite for the impossible.
And it may seem silly to you--all these things I've drawn from a dream about cats--but to be honest, I don't care. Because I think I'm going to get all those cats in one room and shut them away.
She'll be wiser and she'll be stronger and she'll be more somber I think, but... I think... I believe I'm going to get that girl back.
It was about cats. Truth be told, I feel similar ways about cats and babies: "Oh, my gosh! So stinkin' cute! How adorable! Okay. Take it away. Thanks for indulging the girl in me, but I'm good." As long as it's not mine to keep, I'm good. We can circle each other with wary looks, a polite nod. You go your way. I'll go mine. Yes, I'm still talking about both cats and babies.
Anyway. In this dream, there was a cat and she had a litter of kittens--6 to be exact. My whole family was so excited and it brought back memories of when I was quite young and my whole family went to someone's house to pick out two kittens of our very own--so excited because they're so tiny and can barely help themselves.
For whatever reason, I was compelled to make sure all of these cats would stay together, but they kept escaping my room. What was a bit odder was that it was my old room in my parents' house, but with all of my sister's current furniture, who resides there now. So I would catch two or three of the cats, put them back in my room, close the door and go in search of the rest. Every time I would come back to the room to place more of the litter there, the door would be open and they would have escaped.
In my dream, my sister is laying on the floor doing nothing, but I'm assuming it's her that is opening the door and allowing my efforts to be futile. I end up screaming at her because I am incredibly frustrated that these cats keep escaping and I can't get them all together.
At the very end of the dream, the mom cat finally comes with me to collect her litter and we get all of them into the room to be together and the door remains shut. I don't play with the cats or even really acknowledge them after that.
I chalked this dream up to any other strange dreams I've ever had, but almost all of my dreams as of late have been work related and/or are obviously connected to something I'm stressing about or poring over at work.
I took the time to be still and think over the dream. I love the word "interpretation" because it means just about anything can come from whatever it is you're interpreting--it's but one perspective. I do believe certain dreams are significant and shouldn't be ignored. Here is my interpretation after much thought:
In October of 2008, exactly 7 years ago, I was in South Africa in a Christian discipleship program. 7 years ago is when I shared my first kiss with my second boyfriend after having just recently broken up with my first boyfriend and love of 3 years. Keep in mind, I was 18 and a complete idiot (still am), but there was something incredibly innocent about this relationship. ...at first.
Without going to into too much detail, after a very short-lived, naive romance with this boy, he was heading back to the States and I was about to pile into a car with four of my closest friends to make the drive to Cape Town. There was a water tower on campus that I remember in startling detail. It was a bit of a "thing" to break through the gate there and climb to the top. You could see for miles and miles up there and I loved it. It made me feel diminutive. It made me feel like there had to be something bigger.
This last night we were together for months is seared into my brain because I cried about it once when I realized what it did--or rather, what it undid. Up until this point in SA, I had been working toward healing from a lot of things in my past--some self-inflicted while others were a victimization. For the first time in years, I felt light. I felt new. I know that may be hard to comprehend being that then, and even now, I am a child, but I can't explain other than that was how it felt. To me, I had made genuine progress and I felt as though everything could and would be different from then on.
We did a lot of talking on top of that water tower. He did a lot of crying. There was something inside me that tried to force up tears to empathize. After all, I'm a girl. I should be comforting him by showing him how much I was going to miss him as well, but their sincerity was lacking. It felt like a show and that was when I started to feel uncomfortable. We kissed. Again, I don't want to go into detail as the details don't matter, but things got far more physical without my permission and with my urging to slow down.
I think the most terrifying part of the whole experience once I garnered control of the situation was the way I felt after. This girl that had been thrown back to being a child in all of the best ways--innocent, zealous for life and all of its offerings--was replaced by the bitter, closed teenager she had been. In that moment, to me, chastity was dead and more importantly, any hope I had in being chaste was obliterated. It's hard to explain why, but I climbed down the ladder a different girl than I climbed up. It was a relief to not have to see him after that, because I didn't have to face it and with time, I forgot that moment had changed me, and when I saw him again, smiling was easy and so was loving him.
This isn't about painting this boy to be a monster. We are all monsters, especially me. This is about the number 7.
Seven years ago, I had a hope I have never had since. I had hope that I got to be different than who I felt I had been condemned by my friends, acquaintances, family and myself to be. For seven years, I've been fighting to get that girl back--the girl who laughed and loved with abandon, the girl who didn't even bother looking in mirrors or at reflections in a window, the girl who wasn't petrified of being vulnerable and who dreamed with an insatiable appetite for the impossible.
And it may seem silly to you--all these things I've drawn from a dream about cats--but to be honest, I don't care. Because I think I'm going to get all those cats in one room and shut them away.
She'll be wiser and she'll be stronger and she'll be more somber I think, but... I think... I believe I'm going to get that girl back.
20 January 2015
Let's Talk About Sex, Baby....
It's ironic to me that my previous post dated almost a year ago was regarding the bravery of my younger sister being that this post is in response to something brave that she has done. She has opened her lap top and pushed key after key, her body in full resistance with each stroke, but she hit "Publish" anyway.
I can empathize with her in that this will not and is not easy for me to write either. I do fear man and their opinions. This is not true daily, but it comes to me in waves especially when it regards my writing or...vulnerability I suppose (as some of you well know I hate more than any other thing being vulnerable).
Leah wrote from the perspective of a virgin looking in on a world that only regards her virginity--and its entire concept--as something of value because ultimately of how physically amazing it feels to take a girl's virginity. It is something that is desired only if you are the one allowed to take it. Otherwise, in a sweeping generalization, it's expendable, a "hot potato".
I want to be very clear. I do not blame anyone else for the decisions I have made in life. When I was younger, I did, but as I grew, I realized I am responsible for my own choices. Too rarely are people willing to point the finger at themselves and evaluate why they made the decisions they made.
I still remember the looks. I remember so vividly being in middle school and high school and proclaiming I wanted to wait for my husband. I remember the bugged out eyes, the incredulous stares, the laughter. I remember the shame I then felt associated with being "prude", with being a virgin.
I remember, then, no longer being a virgin and the stares that followed by those who knew. Triumph from those who knew I wouldn't last or just didn't want me to, didn't expect me to. Disgust from those who had expected me to. Shame and confusion from my own face in the mirror.
This, as so many other things, hardened me as a person. Granted, I allowed it. I was angry. I was so angry with the church for shaming me, with my "friends" for encouraging me, with boys not being men, and with my own naivety.
That's the most twisted part.
I saw my desire to save my virginity, my desire to only ever be with my husband, as naive.
I don't know that I have ever felt healed or whole or had a healthy perspective about who I am as a woman. I remember even after I felt release from the way I was viewed by my peers and even feeling as though I was accepted, I still only believed that I was a tool for the pleasure of men. That's also the twisted thing--it wasn't even about me feeling good. The high I received was from knowing I was giving someone else pleasure, and that they desired me.
I remember looking in the mirror hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, over the years and scrutinizing, wondering what it was they saw. I supposed, objectively, I was an 8 on a good day. The deeper I looked, the more I saw something in which its value was only in its usefulness, and successes, sexually. I began to only see my value in whether or not men looked at me as though they wanted me. And it, truthfully, wasn't vanity. I never once looked in the mirror and thought, "Hell yea! I'm awesome." It was always critical, always scathing.
I hated the way I looked naked. I looked nothing like women in porn. I looked nothing like movie stars or their "body doubles". My hair wasn't long enough. I wasn't tall enough. My eyes should be bigger. My boobs should be bigger.
I suppose that all is so vain. I was self-obsessed. If I didn't feel the approval of a man, I slipped into depression and self-loathing.
I was aware I wasn't happy, but then I'd have sex and I'd be fine again. I was putting a band aid on a gushing wound. I actually believed my abilities in bed and my sexiness were my strongest attributes, were the only things I was good at, at which I would ever be good. I came to the place where I hoped I died young since I knew once I got to a certain age, sex would no longer make me valuable. I would have lived out my usefulness and should, therefore, just kick the bucket.
I need everyone to understand this was a mentality I carried into my marriage. I could sob thinking about the patience and tenderness and love Ray has given me. I have sobbed. There is no man stronger than him, no man more caring or loving. He had to deal with the scars and open wounds that been self-inflicted and inflicted by others and he never once flinched at the sight of them. His love has truly carried me limping and bleeding and not wanting to go on, but his whisper has urged me, his touch has spurred me forward.
We live in a world that places value on promiscuity, but only to a point. I watched an episode of a sitcom where the characters were discussing their "numbers". I noticed that the characters whom had only slept with two or three people said as much out loud, but the show would do cut scenes when others were discussing and the number was obviously higher than that. It has been a trepidatious and even taboo topic to discuss your "number" openly with people. How much is too much? How many is too many? We shame women for their over-promiscuity, call men "animals" for their over-promiscuity. But as long as I've only slept with "x" amount of people, I'm okay? I'm deemed worthy of your time? I'm not tainted or dirty?
I apologize to no one when I say that is absolute bull shit.
I, too, am angry. I'm furious, in fact, that the world has screamed for decades that virginity isn't valuable, that it's shameful and awkward. Leah wrote from the perspective of someone who had to overcome being viewed as innocent and naive and that those were BAD THINGS. I'm writing from the perspective of someone who caved because she was scared of being different, because she was scared of being alone and viewed as odd.
They say "don't live with regrets because you can't change the choices you have made". I would go back. I would go back in a heart beat because I carried too many people into my marriage in my head. You see, when you have more than one partner, those moments stay with you whether you want them to or not. Whether they sucked or were great or they hurt you or they didn't, it's seared into your brain. I can still remember so vividly some moments. And now, I'm with one man--the only man who has ever truly loved every bit of who I am, who has seen my value beyond how I physically please him, who would bring me the moon if I asked him, the man I will spend the rest of my natural days with--and I find I wish regularly it was only ever just him.
For those of you reading this who have also slept with someone outside of marriage and maybe are judging me for feeling the way I do now or laughing at me or are crying because you feel ashamed or whatever, this is just one person's perspective. I challenge you to dig deeper in your brain and take an hour of silence--no phones, no video games, no cars, no music--just get alone and THINK. Whatever the results may be, think about why you have made the decisions you have made. THINK about why you believe what you believe is "good".
I guess one of the last things I'll say that despite being a sexually active person being something that is esteemed in our culture, I never felt respected for the things I had done/was doing. I never felt like people looked at me and were like, "Wow. How cool!" It was more like getting on a boat and everyone was like, "Hey, we're all in the same boat. Cool." Anti-climactic truly.
I think even in posting this, I'm still showing a very small side of it, of me. I'm not being fully vulnerable or open regarding this topic. If anyone wants to sit down and have coffee to talk more or hear more of my heart behind all of this, I would be glad to. Despite this being something that is quite straight-forward and bold, I have been extremely vulnerable in writing it, in exposing myself to the whims of others and their opinions of the woman I am.
This year, I vowed to pursue things I've always wanted to pursue. Wood-working, crafting, creative "food-ing", so many other things. The best part about the very end of last year and the beginning of this year is I'm finally starting to not care what people think of me in a healthy way for the first time. I feel more of myself than I ever have and I find that's why people can say what they will, but I am so deeply and truly loved by at least one, perhaps a few others, and that is enough for me. It has become enough for me.
I hope this serves as a spring board for discussion in the same way Leah's blog does. I hope that whether you are a woman like myself or a woman like Leah, you find freedom. Know that there is no dark place you can go where the light cannot touch and most importantly, you are not alone.
I can empathize with her in that this will not and is not easy for me to write either. I do fear man and their opinions. This is not true daily, but it comes to me in waves especially when it regards my writing or...vulnerability I suppose (as some of you well know I hate more than any other thing being vulnerable).
Leah wrote from the perspective of a virgin looking in on a world that only regards her virginity--and its entire concept--as something of value because ultimately of how physically amazing it feels to take a girl's virginity. It is something that is desired only if you are the one allowed to take it. Otherwise, in a sweeping generalization, it's expendable, a "hot potato".
I want to be very clear. I do not blame anyone else for the decisions I have made in life. When I was younger, I did, but as I grew, I realized I am responsible for my own choices. Too rarely are people willing to point the finger at themselves and evaluate why they made the decisions they made.
I still remember the looks. I remember so vividly being in middle school and high school and proclaiming I wanted to wait for my husband. I remember the bugged out eyes, the incredulous stares, the laughter. I remember the shame I then felt associated with being "prude", with being a virgin.
I remember, then, no longer being a virgin and the stares that followed by those who knew. Triumph from those who knew I wouldn't last or just didn't want me to, didn't expect me to. Disgust from those who had expected me to. Shame and confusion from my own face in the mirror.
This, as so many other things, hardened me as a person. Granted, I allowed it. I was angry. I was so angry with the church for shaming me, with my "friends" for encouraging me, with boys not being men, and with my own naivety.
That's the most twisted part.
I saw my desire to save my virginity, my desire to only ever be with my husband, as naive.
I don't know that I have ever felt healed or whole or had a healthy perspective about who I am as a woman. I remember even after I felt release from the way I was viewed by my peers and even feeling as though I was accepted, I still only believed that I was a tool for the pleasure of men. That's also the twisted thing--it wasn't even about me feeling good. The high I received was from knowing I was giving someone else pleasure, and that they desired me.
I remember looking in the mirror hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, over the years and scrutinizing, wondering what it was they saw. I supposed, objectively, I was an 8 on a good day. The deeper I looked, the more I saw something in which its value was only in its usefulness, and successes, sexually. I began to only see my value in whether or not men looked at me as though they wanted me. And it, truthfully, wasn't vanity. I never once looked in the mirror and thought, "Hell yea! I'm awesome." It was always critical, always scathing.
I hated the way I looked naked. I looked nothing like women in porn. I looked nothing like movie stars or their "body doubles". My hair wasn't long enough. I wasn't tall enough. My eyes should be bigger. My boobs should be bigger.
I suppose that all is so vain. I was self-obsessed. If I didn't feel the approval of a man, I slipped into depression and self-loathing.
I was aware I wasn't happy, but then I'd have sex and I'd be fine again. I was putting a band aid on a gushing wound. I actually believed my abilities in bed and my sexiness were my strongest attributes, were the only things I was good at, at which I would ever be good. I came to the place where I hoped I died young since I knew once I got to a certain age, sex would no longer make me valuable. I would have lived out my usefulness and should, therefore, just kick the bucket.
I need everyone to understand this was a mentality I carried into my marriage. I could sob thinking about the patience and tenderness and love Ray has given me. I have sobbed. There is no man stronger than him, no man more caring or loving. He had to deal with the scars and open wounds that been self-inflicted and inflicted by others and he never once flinched at the sight of them. His love has truly carried me limping and bleeding and not wanting to go on, but his whisper has urged me, his touch has spurred me forward.
We live in a world that places value on promiscuity, but only to a point. I watched an episode of a sitcom where the characters were discussing their "numbers". I noticed that the characters whom had only slept with two or three people said as much out loud, but the show would do cut scenes when others were discussing and the number was obviously higher than that. It has been a trepidatious and even taboo topic to discuss your "number" openly with people. How much is too much? How many is too many? We shame women for their over-promiscuity, call men "animals" for their over-promiscuity. But as long as I've only slept with "x" amount of people, I'm okay? I'm deemed worthy of your time? I'm not tainted or dirty?
I apologize to no one when I say that is absolute bull shit.
I, too, am angry. I'm furious, in fact, that the world has screamed for decades that virginity isn't valuable, that it's shameful and awkward. Leah wrote from the perspective of someone who had to overcome being viewed as innocent and naive and that those were BAD THINGS. I'm writing from the perspective of someone who caved because she was scared of being different, because she was scared of being alone and viewed as odd.
They say "don't live with regrets because you can't change the choices you have made". I would go back. I would go back in a heart beat because I carried too many people into my marriage in my head. You see, when you have more than one partner, those moments stay with you whether you want them to or not. Whether they sucked or were great or they hurt you or they didn't, it's seared into your brain. I can still remember so vividly some moments. And now, I'm with one man--the only man who has ever truly loved every bit of who I am, who has seen my value beyond how I physically please him, who would bring me the moon if I asked him, the man I will spend the rest of my natural days with--and I find I wish regularly it was only ever just him.
For those of you reading this who have also slept with someone outside of marriage and maybe are judging me for feeling the way I do now or laughing at me or are crying because you feel ashamed or whatever, this is just one person's perspective. I challenge you to dig deeper in your brain and take an hour of silence--no phones, no video games, no cars, no music--just get alone and THINK. Whatever the results may be, think about why you have made the decisions you have made. THINK about why you believe what you believe is "good".
I guess one of the last things I'll say that despite being a sexually active person being something that is esteemed in our culture, I never felt respected for the things I had done/was doing. I never felt like people looked at me and were like, "Wow. How cool!" It was more like getting on a boat and everyone was like, "Hey, we're all in the same boat. Cool." Anti-climactic truly.
I think even in posting this, I'm still showing a very small side of it, of me. I'm not being fully vulnerable or open regarding this topic. If anyone wants to sit down and have coffee to talk more or hear more of my heart behind all of this, I would be glad to. Despite this being something that is quite straight-forward and bold, I have been extremely vulnerable in writing it, in exposing myself to the whims of others and their opinions of the woman I am.
This year, I vowed to pursue things I've always wanted to pursue. Wood-working, crafting, creative "food-ing", so many other things. The best part about the very end of last year and the beginning of this year is I'm finally starting to not care what people think of me in a healthy way for the first time. I feel more of myself than I ever have and I find that's why people can say what they will, but I am so deeply and truly loved by at least one, perhaps a few others, and that is enough for me. It has become enough for me.
I hope this serves as a spring board for discussion in the same way Leah's blog does. I hope that whether you are a woman like myself or a woman like Leah, you find freedom. Know that there is no dark place you can go where the light cannot touch and most importantly, you are not alone.
07 February 2014
"I'll take my chances, sir..."
There are few people I know in life who are brave. There are plenty of people I know who would like to think they are brave, that they have courage, but I don't know that it is so. There is one, however, who comes to mind when I think of bravery today.
brave (adj)
1. possessing or exhibiting courage or courageous endurance
courage (noun)
1. the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear.
(idiom)
1. to act in accordance with one's beliefs, especially in spite of criticism.
I don't know that I 100% agree with the first definition of courage. Nelson Mandela said, "I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers fear." Therefore, I don't believe that when you face danger or pain or difficulty without fear that it makes you a courageous person. I think the man or woman who faces great terror or trial and conquers it is one who has courage, is one who is brave.
I think of great movie moments when the protagonist must face a great Fear, something debilitating and paralyzing, but comes out the victor. These moments inspire us because we can deeply relate to these heroes. We all feel fear. We are all afraid of something. Whether it is hearing the words, "I don't love you," or of death, we are all afraid of something.
Facing great trial or trouble without fear isn't courage, it's brashness. I do not mean that there is something wrong with being brazen. At times, I believe it is an invaluable quality. However, I do not believe that courage and brashness are synonymous.
I am brash. She is courageous.
I think she has never made the conscious choice to be courageous or brave. It happened upon her as many dark circumstances do, but it is how one reacts to these circumstances that defines one's character. I've seen her thrown into many a tumultuous wave and I've seen her drown and I've seen her fight tooth and nail for oxygen, for life, for victory.
I think I see her as brave because she is willing to be honest about where she is in any given circumstance. If she's doubting the perfect and loving will of her Creator, she isn't afraid to say it or to cry it out or to sing it. If she feels lost, she'll say as much and with no shame, but only with the fleeting hope that someone or something will help her find her way home again.
She is brave because she is willing to face herself in the mirror and be completely real with the person she sees staring back at her. Nothing is hidden, nothing is secret. Many things, however, are sacred. There is a difference between telling every person your fears and confiding in your Savior.
In the face of adversity, of sorrow, of pain and confusion, she creates. It is an unknowing and unconscious act. She doesn't approach her keyboard or put a pen on paper thinking, "Now that I am broken, I will create something." It's something so much more provocatively beautiful and profound. It is her coping mechanism as writing is mine. It helps make sense of the entropy. But never the conscious thought enters her mind, "I will now create." And I think someone with the power to create beauty unknowingly and unwittingly amidst pain and chaos is brave.
There is no deeper exposure than in the creation of something artistically when you are at your lowest. It leaves you feeling naked and it doesn't always solve what it is you set out to solve by creating. Despite this, you end up feeling less crazy, less lost, because there is concrete evidence of your emotions and how real they are. I think exposing yourself, making yourself vulnerable, through your art form is the bravest thing anyone can do. Because the world is full of critics and of people who will judge your darkest piece and call it "trash" even though it is truly one of the most beautiful things you've ever created because it stems from pain and sorrow. It marks the beginning of your journey to healing because of your willingness to open your heart and admit you are lost and you feel defeated.
Her name means "weary". Her name means "gazelle". Isn't it odd how two such conflicting things can define your namesake? I believe this has been much of the challenge in her life. Life has pulled out all the stops to weigh on her, to make her weary and tired. But I have seen her leap. I have seen her bound. I have seen her triumph. And I think being beautiful and letting all of this make you stronger instead of breaking you, and loving people even when you don't want to takes courage.
She is courageous. She is brave.
You will triumph and run and leap and have joy in this and around this.
I love you. I always will.
--Grace.
brave (adj)
1. possessing or exhibiting courage or courageous endurance
courage (noun)
1. the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear.
(idiom)
1. to act in accordance with one's beliefs, especially in spite of criticism.
I don't know that I 100% agree with the first definition of courage. Nelson Mandela said, "I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers fear." Therefore, I don't believe that when you face danger or pain or difficulty without fear that it makes you a courageous person. I think the man or woman who faces great terror or trial and conquers it is one who has courage, is one who is brave.
I think of great movie moments when the protagonist must face a great Fear, something debilitating and paralyzing, but comes out the victor. These moments inspire us because we can deeply relate to these heroes. We all feel fear. We are all afraid of something. Whether it is hearing the words, "I don't love you," or of death, we are all afraid of something.
Facing great trial or trouble without fear isn't courage, it's brashness. I do not mean that there is something wrong with being brazen. At times, I believe it is an invaluable quality. However, I do not believe that courage and brashness are synonymous.
I am brash. She is courageous.
I think she has never made the conscious choice to be courageous or brave. It happened upon her as many dark circumstances do, but it is how one reacts to these circumstances that defines one's character. I've seen her thrown into many a tumultuous wave and I've seen her drown and I've seen her fight tooth and nail for oxygen, for life, for victory.
I think I see her as brave because she is willing to be honest about where she is in any given circumstance. If she's doubting the perfect and loving will of her Creator, she isn't afraid to say it or to cry it out or to sing it. If she feels lost, she'll say as much and with no shame, but only with the fleeting hope that someone or something will help her find her way home again.
She is brave because she is willing to face herself in the mirror and be completely real with the person she sees staring back at her. Nothing is hidden, nothing is secret. Many things, however, are sacred. There is a difference between telling every person your fears and confiding in your Savior.
In the face of adversity, of sorrow, of pain and confusion, she creates. It is an unknowing and unconscious act. She doesn't approach her keyboard or put a pen on paper thinking, "Now that I am broken, I will create something." It's something so much more provocatively beautiful and profound. It is her coping mechanism as writing is mine. It helps make sense of the entropy. But never the conscious thought enters her mind, "I will now create." And I think someone with the power to create beauty unknowingly and unwittingly amidst pain and chaos is brave.
There is no deeper exposure than in the creation of something artistically when you are at your lowest. It leaves you feeling naked and it doesn't always solve what it is you set out to solve by creating. Despite this, you end up feeling less crazy, less lost, because there is concrete evidence of your emotions and how real they are. I think exposing yourself, making yourself vulnerable, through your art form is the bravest thing anyone can do. Because the world is full of critics and of people who will judge your darkest piece and call it "trash" even though it is truly one of the most beautiful things you've ever created because it stems from pain and sorrow. It marks the beginning of your journey to healing because of your willingness to open your heart and admit you are lost and you feel defeated.
Her name means "weary". Her name means "gazelle". Isn't it odd how two such conflicting things can define your namesake? I believe this has been much of the challenge in her life. Life has pulled out all the stops to weigh on her, to make her weary and tired. But I have seen her leap. I have seen her bound. I have seen her triumph. And I think being beautiful and letting all of this make you stronger instead of breaking you, and loving people even when you don't want to takes courage.
She is courageous. She is brave.
You will triumph and run and leap and have joy in this and around this.
I love you. I always will.
--Grace.
31 October 2013
What I Missed
I wrote this about three weeks ago when I had a pretty profound revelation. I hope it serves as a form of encouragement for those of you that felt as I had in my previous blog posts:
"I've spent so much time seeing the evil and the damned things in me, the parts that are easily condemnable. But I missed the more important thing than knowing that without Christ, I am evil and worthless--that I am Redeemed.
THAT'S my identity. Not this selfish whore that I'm supposed to be fighting with all the time. There's no fight. SHE is dead when I say she is, when Christ said she was. So there isn't any battle to fight. It's simply choosing to walk a different path than the path I chose before. It's choosing a more narrow, straight path instead of the one riddled with weeds and poison.
I was walking the path to destruction without realizing I was condemning myself, walking in an identity that I thought as true. It was true except for one, tiny little fact--He put that to death for me on the cross. He died and came back so I could walk in freedom. Not this "I didn't earn this" attitude with my head hung low, but in the way of a child who doesn't question beautiful gifts; like a child who basks in the love and adoration of an intentional and warm parent.
I've been so busy focusing on my depravity and my ineptitude as a human that I forgot to walk in the "despite" part of my destiny. That despite the fact that at my core, I am evil, He still looks at me and smiles and showers my face with kisses. He LOVES me. That's my identity. Not my depravity. Not anymore."
"I've spent so much time seeing the evil and the damned things in me, the parts that are easily condemnable. But I missed the more important thing than knowing that without Christ, I am evil and worthless--that I am Redeemed.
THAT'S my identity. Not this selfish whore that I'm supposed to be fighting with all the time. There's no fight. SHE is dead when I say she is, when Christ said she was. So there isn't any battle to fight. It's simply choosing to walk a different path than the path I chose before. It's choosing a more narrow, straight path instead of the one riddled with weeds and poison.
I was walking the path to destruction without realizing I was condemning myself, walking in an identity that I thought as true. It was true except for one, tiny little fact--He put that to death for me on the cross. He died and came back so I could walk in freedom. Not this "I didn't earn this" attitude with my head hung low, but in the way of a child who doesn't question beautiful gifts; like a child who basks in the love and adoration of an intentional and warm parent.
I've been so busy focusing on my depravity and my ineptitude as a human that I forgot to walk in the "despite" part of my destiny. That despite the fact that at my core, I am evil, He still looks at me and smiles and showers my face with kisses. He LOVES me. That's my identity. Not my depravity. Not anymore."
29 May 2013
Nuptial Priorities
It isn't hard for me to imagine why, in an instant, you're ready to scream, "It's off! The whole thing is off!" And it's not because you don't want to get married and it's not even because you don't want to marry the person you're about to marry.
It's because of everything and everyone else. It's because of all the demands. It's because of money. It's because at 11 o'clock at night four days before your wedding, your car's alternator decides it's no longer going to function.
And maybe it's just that one thing. Everything up until that point has been stressful, certainly, but nothing that sends you to the edge like that alternator. It's because you have everything planned down to the minute at that point. Your entire weekend from Thursday, on marked out, mapped out, scheduled and perfect.
Now, mind you, I did not plan for the Day to go perfect. I never even expected for it to be even remotely close to perfect. Honestly, I didn't even expect everything leading up to it to go perfectly. But I did expect to have a car. I did expect for me to have control of my schedule.
Yea.
Not so much.
And it's the cause and effect time line that happens in an instant in my head when the head lights go out and the "Volts" light goes on. In an instant, I can see everything wrong happening. I see the "who is going to do this" and "how am I supposed to get here"? What happens when I don't have control?
For those of you who don't know me, I'm a control freak.
Granted, I've made major leaps and bounds in this area, but it lingers there. I used to have to have all my books organized in my locker by height, all my pencils on my desk perfectly sharpened and arranged parallel and perfect. I used to organize items on restaurant tables, used to have to resist the urge to straighten a total stranger's collar for them. And then I'd think about that damned collar for the rest of the day, itching, wondering how if I saw them again, how I could segue into a conversation about collars, how theirs was amiss.
I don't have those issues anymore. I'm content with disarray and disorganization. There are some areas and things, however, where it rears its ugly head and reminds me how badly I need to feel like I have control. And now that I don't, for arguably the most important and special day of my life, it's all shattering.
People have been asking me, "Are you nervous?" "Are your feet cold?" "How do you feel?" And up until an hour ago, my answer was always, "No. I feel ready." "Why would my feet be cold? It's 90 degrees outside?" "I feel great!"
Understand, I am not nervous and I am not getting cold feet. I am frustrated. I'm frustrated that it's not just some party we throw where there's meat and ale and music. I'm longing for simpler times when there weren't wedding programs and seating charts and caterers and tent rentals and rules of do's and don'ts.
My recommendation to those of you whom aren't married? Elope.
I know now why I never dreamed about a ceremony when I was a little girl, why I didn't plan the wedding down to the last detail. There was a very sane part of me that thought, "ARE YOU INSANE? PEOPLE ACTUALLY SPEND TENS OF THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS ON THIS? AND HOURS AND MONTHS AND YEARS OF THEIR LIFE PLANNING THIS?" I mean, what happened? When did it go from "Let's celebrate these two people getting hitched!" to "You put Uncle Ernie next to Cousin Mildred and they hate each other. That needs to change."
I just don't understand. There shouldn't be this much pressure over something that's supposed to be so joy-filled! Who started the tradition of "this should be that" and "do it this way"? If I met them, I'd punch them in their smug, snobbish, upward nose. It's ridiculous. I want to celebrate with you when you get married whoever you are. I don't care if you have hotdogs or filet mignon. I don't care if you have Miller Light or a 1998 Barolo. If you invited me, I take that as you want me to celebrate with you. I sincerely do not care how your ceremony goes, who else is there, or what your favor is.
The reason I cry at weddings is because it is the start of the greatest adventure any human can embark on with another human being. It's beautiful. It's heart stopping. It's fascinating. We've turned it into a show, a circus for the entertainment of our guests and not for the celebration of those whom are being wed.
Look. I'm not being selfish and saying "Why can't the day be all about me?" because I don't give two horse tail shakes. I'm marrying, quite literally, the man I have spent my whole life pining for, wishing for, praying for and you think I want it to be about me? It's about us and when you swoop in with your list of "do's and don'ts", "should's and should not's", "silk or cotton", it changes the whole atmosphere of what weddings are supposed to be about!
My point is... I get why people are ready to throw in the towel when it comes to weddings. It isn't always because of their significant other or because it's all happening so fast. It's because of people. People demanding and expecting things on a day that has nothing to do with them. And then you, the bride, realize you got in way over your head and you can't meet these people's expectations.
And you find yourself, four days before your wedding, staring out the window, every finite part of your being aching and longing and wishing you had run away and been married. That it had been small, simple, with those closest to you. That you had followed it up with a party in your backyard at your new apartment after your honeymoon with whoever wanted to show up.
Being the first to really be a part of a wedding on this level (I've never even been a bridesmaid) that is how I would have done it in hindsight.
Everything is still going to be beautiful and I know, at the end of the day, when we're driving off in whatever car to go home and BE together, I'm not going to give a damn whether everything was in one piece or not. I'm going to look over at him, reach for his hand, and be completely and utterly overwhelmed by the fact that a man as honorable and genuine and loving as he could love me so much that he would choose to spend the rest of his life with me.
So, yup. I'm ready to print a retraction. To apologize to everyone invited and call it a day and just be married quietly, privately, and to disappear. But being that there's no going back, I'm going to go out with a bang instead. And for those of you that actually care about the details, that care about who the caterer was and what kind of flowers I used and what was and wasn't in my ceremony, you can jump off a bridge or better yet, take a good, long look in the mirror and tell me why all that bull matters to you so much on a day that has nothing to do with you.
...
I'm getting married. And a half hour ago, when I started this, I was terrified. But now, after all of this, I remembered why I'm getting married and more importantly, to whom. And it's true that nothing else matters. The rest is a blur and can be a blur. It can thunderstorm and we can get soaked. The entire food table can catch on fire or the sound equipment can break or the electricity short circuit. I'll drive to Wegmans, get burgers, grill 'em up on that fire and dance to the sounds of our hearts beating as one because that's what we'll be--one flesh. And that's something that I have been waiting my whole life for.
It's because of everything and everyone else. It's because of all the demands. It's because of money. It's because at 11 o'clock at night four days before your wedding, your car's alternator decides it's no longer going to function.
And maybe it's just that one thing. Everything up until that point has been stressful, certainly, but nothing that sends you to the edge like that alternator. It's because you have everything planned down to the minute at that point. Your entire weekend from Thursday, on marked out, mapped out, scheduled and perfect.
Now, mind you, I did not plan for the Day to go perfect. I never even expected for it to be even remotely close to perfect. Honestly, I didn't even expect everything leading up to it to go perfectly. But I did expect to have a car. I did expect for me to have control of my schedule.
Yea.
Not so much.
And it's the cause and effect time line that happens in an instant in my head when the head lights go out and the "Volts" light goes on. In an instant, I can see everything wrong happening. I see the "who is going to do this" and "how am I supposed to get here"? What happens when I don't have control?
For those of you who don't know me, I'm a control freak.
Granted, I've made major leaps and bounds in this area, but it lingers there. I used to have to have all my books organized in my locker by height, all my pencils on my desk perfectly sharpened and arranged parallel and perfect. I used to organize items on restaurant tables, used to have to resist the urge to straighten a total stranger's collar for them. And then I'd think about that damned collar for the rest of the day, itching, wondering how if I saw them again, how I could segue into a conversation about collars, how theirs was amiss.
I don't have those issues anymore. I'm content with disarray and disorganization. There are some areas and things, however, where it rears its ugly head and reminds me how badly I need to feel like I have control. And now that I don't, for arguably the most important and special day of my life, it's all shattering.
People have been asking me, "Are you nervous?" "Are your feet cold?" "How do you feel?" And up until an hour ago, my answer was always, "No. I feel ready." "Why would my feet be cold? It's 90 degrees outside?" "I feel great!"
Understand, I am not nervous and I am not getting cold feet. I am frustrated. I'm frustrated that it's not just some party we throw where there's meat and ale and music. I'm longing for simpler times when there weren't wedding programs and seating charts and caterers and tent rentals and rules of do's and don'ts.
My recommendation to those of you whom aren't married? Elope.
I know now why I never dreamed about a ceremony when I was a little girl, why I didn't plan the wedding down to the last detail. There was a very sane part of me that thought, "ARE YOU INSANE? PEOPLE ACTUALLY SPEND TENS OF THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS ON THIS? AND HOURS AND MONTHS AND YEARS OF THEIR LIFE PLANNING THIS?" I mean, what happened? When did it go from "Let's celebrate these two people getting hitched!" to "You put Uncle Ernie next to Cousin Mildred and they hate each other. That needs to change."
I just don't understand. There shouldn't be this much pressure over something that's supposed to be so joy-filled! Who started the tradition of "this should be that" and "do it this way"? If I met them, I'd punch them in their smug, snobbish, upward nose. It's ridiculous. I want to celebrate with you when you get married whoever you are. I don't care if you have hotdogs or filet mignon. I don't care if you have Miller Light or a 1998 Barolo. If you invited me, I take that as you want me to celebrate with you. I sincerely do not care how your ceremony goes, who else is there, or what your favor is.
The reason I cry at weddings is because it is the start of the greatest adventure any human can embark on with another human being. It's beautiful. It's heart stopping. It's fascinating. We've turned it into a show, a circus for the entertainment of our guests and not for the celebration of those whom are being wed.
Look. I'm not being selfish and saying "Why can't the day be all about me?" because I don't give two horse tail shakes. I'm marrying, quite literally, the man I have spent my whole life pining for, wishing for, praying for and you think I want it to be about me? It's about us and when you swoop in with your list of "do's and don'ts", "should's and should not's", "silk or cotton", it changes the whole atmosphere of what weddings are supposed to be about!
My point is... I get why people are ready to throw in the towel when it comes to weddings. It isn't always because of their significant other or because it's all happening so fast. It's because of people. People demanding and expecting things on a day that has nothing to do with them. And then you, the bride, realize you got in way over your head and you can't meet these people's expectations.
And you find yourself, four days before your wedding, staring out the window, every finite part of your being aching and longing and wishing you had run away and been married. That it had been small, simple, with those closest to you. That you had followed it up with a party in your backyard at your new apartment after your honeymoon with whoever wanted to show up.
Being the first to really be a part of a wedding on this level (I've never even been a bridesmaid) that is how I would have done it in hindsight.
Everything is still going to be beautiful and I know, at the end of the day, when we're driving off in whatever car to go home and BE together, I'm not going to give a damn whether everything was in one piece or not. I'm going to look over at him, reach for his hand, and be completely and utterly overwhelmed by the fact that a man as honorable and genuine and loving as he could love me so much that he would choose to spend the rest of his life with me.
So, yup. I'm ready to print a retraction. To apologize to everyone invited and call it a day and just be married quietly, privately, and to disappear. But being that there's no going back, I'm going to go out with a bang instead. And for those of you that actually care about the details, that care about who the caterer was and what kind of flowers I used and what was and wasn't in my ceremony, you can jump off a bridge or better yet, take a good, long look in the mirror and tell me why all that bull matters to you so much on a day that has nothing to do with you.
...
I'm getting married. And a half hour ago, when I started this, I was terrified. But now, after all of this, I remembered why I'm getting married and more importantly, to whom. And it's true that nothing else matters. The rest is a blur and can be a blur. It can thunderstorm and we can get soaked. The entire food table can catch on fire or the sound equipment can break or the electricity short circuit. I'll drive to Wegmans, get burgers, grill 'em up on that fire and dance to the sounds of our hearts beating as one because that's what we'll be--one flesh. And that's something that I have been waiting my whole life for.
01 May 2013
Ferocity Spells Things Like Disaster
I suppose based on my last post you have gathered I don't hold myself in the highest of regards. (Though in an aside, I must inform you that no one else can be me. I am 100% me and although I need very much work, I am the only person who can impact people the way I impact them. In that sense, I am irreplaceable.) I think, again, I just keep realizing how rotten I am--how predisposed I am to wickedness, to selfishness.
I basically came to the place tonight where I realized I don't really love that many people. I think the only person I truly love (in the selfless sense of the word, in its purest form) is Ray. I give of myself every day to that man. I find myself delighted in his every movement, captured by his every word. He is flawed and boy, do I love him incorrectly, but I would do whatever it takes to make him smile. I would search the ends of the earth for whatever his heart desired. I would give and love and pour until there was nothing left because he gives me life. He makes me feel worthy and lovely and adored and precious and significant. But more than all these things, he sees and has seen the wretch I am and can be, and he does not lie when he tells me he loves me. It's so pure, that look in his eyes, when he says it. He hides nothing from me, pretends nothing, forces nothing. It is as much a part of him as is the rhythm of his beating heart, the lifting and falling of his chest. All this I see. All this I know. All this I feel with him.
But it ends with him.
I do not love anyone else as much as I love that man. I suppose it isn't fair to compare since I am romantically in love with Ray... But nevertheless, I am loveless in almost every other way. I have seen glimmers in my busy, planner-filled life. I see it in the message I send to a friend, encouraging her in her true worth. I see it when I stand next to a co-worker and lift her up, tell her this, too, shall pass. I see it in the letter I write that reminds someone that their dreams are worth fighting for, worth chasing at all costs and that they're doing it.
But they are passing. They are like a soft breeze in summer, bringing only slight reprieve but for a moment and then drifting away. You find yourself quickly forgetting there was ever a breeze at all and all that's left is the repressing, heavy unforgiveable heat. It bears down on you reminding you there is nothing but you and it and there will never be release. It will always be this season. You will forever wander in the desert.
I suppose it could come across that loving people brings some self-satisfaction, some self-soothing. And you know what? It absolutely does. Not in the way that I seek it out because it makes me feel better about me, but that when I reach out and touch someone, it reminds me of all the times I needed that or received that and it changed my life when it happened. That's what motivates me to really want to love people--that feeling of connecting with someone. You see that look in their eyes, that profound gratefulness and you may as well be looking in a mirror because you've been there. You've been at the bottom of that blackened hole, crying out for grace, for hope with nothing but the echo of your own voice, mocking you in reply. And when someone reaches down their hand to you, no matter how small or large of a gesture, they may as well be heaven sent.
I remember a time when I regularly reached or dove into these pits, seeking the souls of those whom had given up. I remember when I had so much hope, so much love, so much joy that I was practically ready to come apart at the seams with it. Ironically and truthfully, it happened to be the most broken season of my life, the time I was most alone, most forgotten.
I don't know exactly what it was that made me give of myself so much. It was never to an end or with end. I was filled, always being filled. Each day had its own dawn. It was a renewable resource that came at no price. It was truly daily bread.
I find myself barely eating at all these days. Of course, I mean that figuratively. I am as the Israelites, stowing manna in my tent to save for later, only to find it riddled with maggots in the morning. I am disobedient. I am lazy. I am selfish and so easily forget the promises of God, the miracles He has performed in front of my very eyes. And so, I stow bread and doubt and grumble. I have become the very bible characters I hate reading about.
God, I want to love again. There was a time I wanted you to show me what that meant regardless of what it would cost me. Of course, that was a time when I had nothing left to lose. It had all been taken from me--my dignity, my identity, my purity, my reality... all wrenched from beneath me like a cheap, non-magic carpet and then rolled up in it like the corpse I was, ready to be deposited to the nearest dump. It was glorious. I understand why those who have nothing are so ready and willing to give even more of themselves to you and for you. They are so unattached to their lives or things because they have nothing left to lose. And I, at this point, can lose so much. And I suppose that is the problem right there, that I even see it that way.
I want to love radically. I want to be taken up in it like a great wave and then crashed on the surf. I want it to be violent and real. I want to get sand and salt water in my eyes and ears and nose. I want to choke on it. I want to be invaded by it, overwhelmed with it, overcome by it. I want to show people, really show them through loving them what it's like to get taken away in a wave, to feel the ebb and flow of the current, to be a part of something so teeming with life. I want people to feel the magic of what it means to be so deeply and irrevocably loved that it begins to change the way they see themselves.
I do want this. I want it for Ray. I want it for my family. I want it for those I once loved with a ferocity. I want it for those I encounter even if for a moment. Help me love, Abba, as I am a poor, cracked vessel that often leaks and has forgotten its purpose rather easily. I want to love your way. Because it is the purest example I can find of selflessness and of hope. And because it got deep in my heart and it changed the way I saw myself and saw the world...for the better.
And I don't think I'll ever look back on life when I'm old and gray or on my death bed and regret having loved people truly and deeply and purely...
And that's really all I need to know before I dive into the swell...
I basically came to the place tonight where I realized I don't really love that many people. I think the only person I truly love (in the selfless sense of the word, in its purest form) is Ray. I give of myself every day to that man. I find myself delighted in his every movement, captured by his every word. He is flawed and boy, do I love him incorrectly, but I would do whatever it takes to make him smile. I would search the ends of the earth for whatever his heart desired. I would give and love and pour until there was nothing left because he gives me life. He makes me feel worthy and lovely and adored and precious and significant. But more than all these things, he sees and has seen the wretch I am and can be, and he does not lie when he tells me he loves me. It's so pure, that look in his eyes, when he says it. He hides nothing from me, pretends nothing, forces nothing. It is as much a part of him as is the rhythm of his beating heart, the lifting and falling of his chest. All this I see. All this I know. All this I feel with him.
But it ends with him.
I do not love anyone else as much as I love that man. I suppose it isn't fair to compare since I am romantically in love with Ray... But nevertheless, I am loveless in almost every other way. I have seen glimmers in my busy, planner-filled life. I see it in the message I send to a friend, encouraging her in her true worth. I see it when I stand next to a co-worker and lift her up, tell her this, too, shall pass. I see it in the letter I write that reminds someone that their dreams are worth fighting for, worth chasing at all costs and that they're doing it.
But they are passing. They are like a soft breeze in summer, bringing only slight reprieve but for a moment and then drifting away. You find yourself quickly forgetting there was ever a breeze at all and all that's left is the repressing, heavy unforgiveable heat. It bears down on you reminding you there is nothing but you and it and there will never be release. It will always be this season. You will forever wander in the desert.
I suppose it could come across that loving people brings some self-satisfaction, some self-soothing. And you know what? It absolutely does. Not in the way that I seek it out because it makes me feel better about me, but that when I reach out and touch someone, it reminds me of all the times I needed that or received that and it changed my life when it happened. That's what motivates me to really want to love people--that feeling of connecting with someone. You see that look in their eyes, that profound gratefulness and you may as well be looking in a mirror because you've been there. You've been at the bottom of that blackened hole, crying out for grace, for hope with nothing but the echo of your own voice, mocking you in reply. And when someone reaches down their hand to you, no matter how small or large of a gesture, they may as well be heaven sent.
I remember a time when I regularly reached or dove into these pits, seeking the souls of those whom had given up. I remember when I had so much hope, so much love, so much joy that I was practically ready to come apart at the seams with it. Ironically and truthfully, it happened to be the most broken season of my life, the time I was most alone, most forgotten.
I don't know exactly what it was that made me give of myself so much. It was never to an end or with end. I was filled, always being filled. Each day had its own dawn. It was a renewable resource that came at no price. It was truly daily bread.
I find myself barely eating at all these days. Of course, I mean that figuratively. I am as the Israelites, stowing manna in my tent to save for later, only to find it riddled with maggots in the morning. I am disobedient. I am lazy. I am selfish and so easily forget the promises of God, the miracles He has performed in front of my very eyes. And so, I stow bread and doubt and grumble. I have become the very bible characters I hate reading about.
God, I want to love again. There was a time I wanted you to show me what that meant regardless of what it would cost me. Of course, that was a time when I had nothing left to lose. It had all been taken from me--my dignity, my identity, my purity, my reality... all wrenched from beneath me like a cheap, non-magic carpet and then rolled up in it like the corpse I was, ready to be deposited to the nearest dump. It was glorious. I understand why those who have nothing are so ready and willing to give even more of themselves to you and for you. They are so unattached to their lives or things because they have nothing left to lose. And I, at this point, can lose so much. And I suppose that is the problem right there, that I even see it that way.
I want to love radically. I want to be taken up in it like a great wave and then crashed on the surf. I want it to be violent and real. I want to get sand and salt water in my eyes and ears and nose. I want to choke on it. I want to be invaded by it, overwhelmed with it, overcome by it. I want to show people, really show them through loving them what it's like to get taken away in a wave, to feel the ebb and flow of the current, to be a part of something so teeming with life. I want people to feel the magic of what it means to be so deeply and irrevocably loved that it begins to change the way they see themselves.
I do want this. I want it for Ray. I want it for my family. I want it for those I once loved with a ferocity. I want it for those I encounter even if for a moment. Help me love, Abba, as I am a poor, cracked vessel that often leaks and has forgotten its purpose rather easily. I want to love your way. Because it is the purest example I can find of selflessness and of hope. And because it got deep in my heart and it changed the way I saw myself and saw the world...for the better.
And I don't think I'll ever look back on life when I'm old and gray or on my death bed and regret having loved people truly and deeply and purely...
And that's really all I need to know before I dive into the swell...
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