I'm Just Sayin'

In a little less than a week, I will be back in Baltimore. I will be surrounded by “my people,” people who talk about books and grammar and writing and story. That has been one of my favorite things about starting grad school, is just meeting this amazing group of people that I have little in common with besides the love of story. But that one thing has meant so much.

I know that while I am in Baltimore, I will be asked “how’s your thesis coming along.” And that question makes my stomach knot up. Because, I’m not sure what my thesis (aka my manuscript) topic is. I thought I would know by now. I thought I would be running headlong into my thesis by now.

Instead, as I begin packing for my trip east, my head is a tangle of thoughts. Snippets of story. All warring for my attention. It is nerve wracking. I write for hours and walk away exhausted and confused. I re-read what I wrote and proclaim it drivel. This other piece is so much better. I hack away at that idea. To reveal–more drivel.

I know that I’m too close to it. I know I need some distance, some perspective. But how does one get distance from the story of her life. As soon as I tease out a paragraph, memories rush in, stumbling over each other to get out. They rush from my mind, to my fingers, to my computer, and on neat lines on white paper. And then I break out my red pen (yes, I edit myself with a red pen) and I slash until my memories are sorry they ever got out.

I need to be nicer to them, those memories of mine. Let them whisper to me. Let them tickle my mind until even more memories come forth.

I don’t know what my story will end up being. But I do know I can’t wait to find out!

My word feels so full of words right now.

They bounce around my head. Rouse me out of deep sleep. Eager to be set free.

They stumble from my pen onto legal pads and journals. They trip over themselves and come out loopy, letters out of place, smudges of ink, a jumble of thoughts tangled on the page.

They click from my fingers, neat rows of letters stream across the screen. I pause, all is quiet, and the cursor blinks at me. Waiting for more words.

I read words, words that bounced out of someone else’s head, their words building their stories, some sturdy and strong, others wobbly, built on the wrong words.

I read my own words, printed out, highlighted, crossed out. New words fill the margins, cram into the slim white spaces between the lines.

Words, everywhere the words. Everywhere. Scribbled on envelopes. Spilling out of teetering stacks of books. Slippery words waiting to be written, rewritten, forgotten.

So many words.

Does anybody just want to go to a movie?

I love birthdays.

And with that, I can practically hear my friends all roll their eyes. My poor friends who have had to put up with my countdowns to my birthday, my relation of every date to how many days it is from my birthday, and my general birthday obsession. But what can I say? I. Love. Birthdays.

I’ve loved them for as long as I can remember. I loved my second birthday when my mom made a cat-shaped cake with a huge wax “2″ sticking out of its stomach. My 13th when I had a sleepover and we did Glamour Shots. My 16th which was postponed so many times that we didn’t actually have it until February. My 18th when my friends and I went to see Titanic and swooned over Leonardo DiCaprio. My 21st, when my friends and I played outside in the freezing cold, sliding on ice and having a snowball fight while my mom, stepdad and aunt and uncle played cards in front of the fireplace. My 29th when a dear friend ended up having to celebrate with me no less than four times in a single week. I love the phone calls and the happy birthday songs and the 1,398 Facebook wall posts.

I love birthdays.

I know. It’s not popular for adults to love birthdays. But I’ve rarely done anything that has classified me as popular. But I’m okay with that. Because I would rather feel loved and valued by my friends and family than feel popular. I would rather wear a giant sombrero at a Mexican restaurant and eat sopapillas with wax drips from a lone birthday candle than feel popular. I’d rather squeal over the perfect gift, the one that’s handmade or that reminds me of a beautiful memory, than feel popular.

I love that we each get a day that’s just for us. That the anniversary of the day we were born becomes a celebration. One of cards and cake and hugs and joy. Of course I love the parties and balloons. But more than that, I love feeling…loved. Of course I feel loved the other 364 days of the year. But that one day, that birthday, I can’t escape it. I can’t forget it. There it is in flickering candles and floating balloons and puddles of ice cream by slabs of cake. There it is in the smiles of my friends, the warbled “Happy birthday to you…” voice mails, the precious time with people I love.

Birthdays overflow with love. And I just can’t get enough of it.

So tomorrow, I will be that girl. The one with the cheesy grin and the smear of frosting on her cheek.

The really happy one.

The birthday girl.

So, I’m not a big resolution person. Mainly because I suck at them. I tend to actually do the opposite, which I guess means my resolutions should actually be gain 20 pounds and sit on the couch more.

But over the past few years, I’ve noticed more and more people claiming a word for the new year. And that is something I can get behind. I love me some words. So for the past few days, I’ve been contemplating what my word should be. Pretty early on in the contemplation time, a word came to mind. But I kept thinking it was a strange one. But the more I thought, the more I realized the word stuck in my head is not as strange as I had thought.

So, without further adieu, my word for 2012 is story.

Stick with me here. Story is a word that resonates with me on so many levels. On the surface, there is simplicity, in the sense that I am a storyteller. But it goes so much deeper than that.

This year, I want to remember that every person I encounter has a story. I won’t know most of those stories, won’t get to hear them or experience them. But a story lives in every person. Story is woven in their emotions, in their actions. I need to see people as the complicated, messy, beautiful stories that they are. Some I will encounter for a chapter, others for a page, still others for just a sentence. And when I am particularly blessed, I get to see the whole story.

Another way that story resonates with me is through the idea that I was created in the image of the master Storyteller. I serve a God who is infinitely creative. And that brings me great comfort. The source of my story, my creativity, is never ending. That quiets my fear. It makes writer’s block seem silly. It reminds me that there is purpose in my life. That there is a master plan in the chaos. That my Creator writes my story. He sings my song.

So this year, I will cling to story. My story. The stories of others. The story my creator speaks into life.

What is your word for 2012?

This was my first Christmas away from my family. It was full of ups and downs, emotional highs and lows. But as I prepare to enter the new year, I can leave the old year feeling loved, valued and blessed beyond words.

• Skyping with a room full of people who have never done a video call. Lots of shots of the ceiling, up noses, and foreheads. People forgetting the video aspect goes both ways (you see me, I see you!) Aunts and uncles running away from the camera. Little cousins fully embracing the camera. And one sleeping niece completely ignoring the camera. Love them.
• Listening to the crinkling paper as loved ones open gifts with you on the phone.
• Best friends texting you and wishing you were there, and knowing they mean it.
• Loved ones filling your inbox with words of affirmation and love.
• Having new traditions with just down the street friends.
• Friends who treat you like family. Who greet you at the door in their PJs. Whose kids love you. Who feed you cinnamon rolls and all manners of tasty foods.
• 1-year-olds in Christmas pajamas.
• Singing in the car with a friend who doesn’t cringe at your voice.
• Christmas lights and cinnamon roasted almonds.
• Friends who love you.
• Family who misses you.
• A longing for home that stirs a deeper longing for a different Home.

The lights were dim and through the west window the mountains were were jagged and purple against the cold blue-gray sky. In my hand I rolled a small, white candle, its wax sticky on my fingers. At the front of the sanctuary, two women played Christmas carols on cellos. The tone was deep and humming, and my very heart seemed to vibrate along with the thick strings. It felt heavy in my chest, a heaviness that seemed to echo from my heart, into my head, my chest, my soul. Its vibrations reaching as far as my wax coated fingers.

I sang the songs. I shook hands, brightly said “Merry Christmas.” But my heavy heart felt so far away. I missed my family, missed laughing with my cousins and the comfortable warmth of being with people who have always known you. Always loved you.

But then, into my hands, a basket of bread. The body. The flesh. I took a piece and held it in my palm, balanced it with the candle, the light. Gently lifted a cup, the blood, from the plate as it passed. And for a moment, the heaviness was eased. Lighter by just a breath.

Mary and Joseph weren’t with their family on that first Christmas. Weren’t somewhere comfortable or warm. They were alone, in a city filled with strangers. And Mary struggled to give birth to her Savior. A  baby, wrapped in flesh that would be pierced. Blood that would be spilled. And with my waxy fingertips, I placed the bread on my tongue. Poured the juice in my mouth. And my heavy heart hummed its praise.

A stranger reached over to light the candle I still clutched in my hand. The warmth of it touched my face. Light in the darkness. A drop of wax dripped hot on my hand. Warmth in the cold.

Alleluia. The Deliverer has come. God dwells with us. In the hard places. In the dark places. In the cold places.

Immanuel.

Flesh and blood, born a babe
Flesh and blood, you lived and breathed.
Amazing love, you came and gave
Your flesh and blood to set me free.
– Andrew Peterson

I am pretty content with my life. I have a home that I have slowly made into something I enjoy resting in at the end of the day. I have incredible friends, family who love me, and a fulfilling job.

Most days, it’s enough.

But of course there is that nagging desire. That wish for marriage and a family of my own. I don’t deny it, but I do try to maintain it. Try not to get so tangled in the wishing that I forget about the living.

There are things that I know will make my singleness feel like a burden. Moments will it weighs on me. Weddings and baby showers are bittersweet. When something breaks in my house, I know I will wish I had a husband to fix it. When I have to make a big life decision, I know I will desire a mate to discuss it with.

But sometimes, I am blindsided by my singleness.

That happened to me tonight. I had just spent some time with a friend, and we parted ways in the parking lot. As I walked to my car, the wind felt colder. The walk felt longer. The loneliness felt overwhelming. Literally, seconds before I had laughed with a friend. But the burden of coming home alone, to an empty house, with no one to talk to made my throat close up. I felt the pin-prick of tears as I started the car and held my hands in front of the vents as they blew out hot air.

It’s just the reality of where I am in life. Walking alone to my car can feel like a moment of crisis.

I say none of this to invoke your pity or sadness. I say it only because I think we’re all blindsided by longing. Delayed blessing can lurk in the shadow, stepping out when you least expect it. A word spoken, a memory, a lonely walk across the parking lot, and we’re left limping along.

My prayer is that you and I see the limping, and offer a kind word, or even just a smile. A bit of defense against the blindside.

I fail.

On a regular basis.

That is hard for a people-pleaser like me to admit.

But it’s easy for someone with my insecurities to admit.

I am a walking, tripping, talking, pretending, breathing, wheezing ball of missing the mark.

But my failures remind me of grace. Abundant grace. Grace that washes over me with such force that I am gasping and drenched.

I fail my friends but they love me anyway.

I fail my family but they love me anyway.

I fail at my job but my name badge still lets me in the building.

And that grace continues, staining my fingers with its messiness.

And my fingerprints of grace smudge the world around me.

My friends fail me. But there is the smudge of grace. Forgiveness.

My family fails me. But there is the smudge of grace. Love.

My job fails me. But there is the smudge of grace. Perseverance.

I am stained by grace. And I pray, if you get close enough to me, my grace will stain you.

Beautiful, messy, thumbprints of grace.

As far as the eye can see.

*I am terribly unmotivated lately…so I have deemed it the season to go back and finish up the “drafts” in my posts folder that I never got around to finishing. You are welcome*

July 12, 2011

Tonight was a strange night. A little fender bender (honestly, it wasn’t even that bad, my fender is not even bent) shook my thinking a bit.

I’m not usually thankful for car accidents. And when I felt that other car thud into mine, thankfulness was the furthest thing from my mind. I pulled over, dreading the damage. But when I walked around the car and looked, there was nothing.

I know I didn’t imagine it. I could still smell the burnt rubber.

The guy who hit me stood next to me. “I guess I just hit your tire,” he said.

I guess so.

A few inches back, would have been my gas tank. A few inches forward, major damage to my car. Damage that would have spent me spiraling from the simple logistics of getting my car towed and getting a rental car and entering the purgatory that is insurance world.

But none of that happened. Just a tiny scrape on my tire that wasn’t even worth contacting the insurance folks for, much less calling the police and reporting the accident. So I climbed back into my just fine car, and drove home, hands shaking a bit from the closeness of disaster and the blessing of inches.

The blessing of inches. It’s not something that I bother to be thankful for very often. Close calls make me feel more nauseous than blessed. And so often I focus on the not-misses. The things that went wrong. The damage that wasn’t avoided. And I wonder, where were the inches there?

I will never, ever be able to answer the question of why was this disaster missed while this one wasn’t. Never. It makes my brain hurt to even think about it. But what I can do is be thankful in those moments of “thank goodness” and persevere in the moments of “this sucks.”

I need to live in the inches.

Tonight I found myself at Old Navy, trying to find THE PERFECT outfit for my trip to Virginia this weekend. There was only one problem.

I seriously don’t know how to dress myself.

I mean, yes, I possess skills like buttoning and zipping and tying my shoes.I did, after-all, graduate from kindergarten. But much past that, and I’m hopeless. I don’t know what colors to wear together. What shoes go with what skirt? Tights? No tights? Can I do stripes? Do you have to be skinny to wear skinny jeans?

*HEADEXPLODE*

Often, while shopping for clothes, I often enlist the help of my poor, unsuspecting friends. I basically stand in a dressing room while they bring me clothes and then refuse to come out when I don’t like how things look. It’s totally loads of fun for everyone involved.

But tonight was a last minute trip, so I was flying solo. I wandered around for a solid 30 minutes with one gray skirt in my hand. It was a cute skirt. But I had no idea what to pair it with. That’s when a poor, unsuspecting employee approached me and asked if I needed help.

“I can’t dress myself,” I told her. She laughed. Then she realized I wasn’t kidding.

“Well, you could wear a lot with that skirt. Purple, or pink. You could do stripes. You could do a nice mustard yellow.”

I stared at her blankly.

“Or, um…” she trailed off.

“Oh,” I said, “I need you to actually pick something specific out. I seriously cannot dress myself.”

She was nice enough to pick out a few things which I happily purchased. As I walked out of the front door, she waved.

“Good luck.”

I’ll need it.