I'm Just Sayin'

It’s Sunday night. I am in my usual Sunday night spot–my couch, with the ceiling fan sending wisps of my hair across my face, tickling my nose. The TV is on, but the volume is down, and the murmurings of the actors on the screen blend in with the sounds of the dishwasher sloshing in the next room. I am a good kind of tired. The tired that comes from days filled with fun, from time spent with people you love.

This was a special weekend. It was a time of friendship and celebration. And as I sit here in the quiet, my heart feels full. It feels full from a day of celebrating a sweet friend’s upcoming marriage. Of watching her surrounded by people who love her. Looking back, I realize I was perhaps quieter than normal at her celebration. Because all I wanted to do was sit back and watch. Watch my beautiful, caring, giving friend be covered in the love and prayers and support of the people who love her. It was lovely to watch–and even lovelier to be a part of. My friend loves fully, and how I hope that she knows how fully she is loved in return.

And then today, another celebration. This afternoon I crowded into a house to celebrate the birthdays of one of the most incredible couples I know. Again, I stood quietly, watching. These friends are loved well. Dozens of people crowded into their home, the warm air thick with conversations and laughter. We fanned ourselves with paper plates, until the moment we loaded them with food. It was a beautiful evening of fellowship, celebrating two people I have the pleasure of calling friends.

And tonight, from my spot on the couch, I am thankful. For a life filled with friends. For moments of celebration. For showing love. For receiving love. For living love.

“The soul is healed by being with children.”

A few days ago, a friend of mine posted a list of myths/misconceptions about introverts. And I loved it. Because I am an introvert, and I’ve dealt with my own misconceptions around that. Heck, I’ve had misconceptions about it myself! So I’d like to just clear up some things I’ve noticed in my own life, when it comes to the dreaded i-word!

1. Introverts hate being around people. I think this is the biggest misconception, and the one I’ve had to process through in my own life. For a long time, I would never give myself the grace to feel lonely. I wasn’t supposed to feel lonely. I was an introvert. So not true! I need people, I need relationships! I just don’t need huge crowds of people all the time. There are times I absolutely want to be alone. But there are just as many that I need to be around people. I am fed by my relationship. I may not be energized by being around others–but I am certainly fulfilled.

2. Introverts are party poopers. I love to host things. I love to have guests. I love to throw parties. Hospitality is one of my spiritual gifts. So sometimes, people are surprised by the fact that I’m an introvert. But here’s the thing. I love to throw parties and have houseguests because I love to have my home filled with people I love. When I throw a party, I invite the people I want to spend time with. Now, going to another person’s massive party is a different story. I didn’t get to okay the guest list So while I enjoy gatherings that other people throw, they do tend me to exhaust me, much more than my own shindigs.

3. Introverts are socially awkward. Here’s the deal. I can be socially awkward. I just usually choose not to. It’s almost a “fake it ’til you make it” mentality. Do I always feel like being “on” in social situations? Absolutely not! But I can be. I know what social norms are, and I usually act within those. Sure, sometimes I’m tired and it’s harder. And sometimes I’m just not great at it. But those are the exceptions rather than the rule.

4. Introverts are shy. This kind of ties in with the last one. I actually get that perception a lot, of people thinking I’m shy. But I think shyness implies an uncomfortableness. When I’m in a big crowd, especially if there are a lot of strangers, I am admitedly quiet. But it’s not because I’m fearful or uncomfortable or shy. I’m just a listener. It’s my default. If I have something to add, a story or a comment, I will. But I don’t NEED to hear myself talk, so I often will choose not to.

So what about you? What are some misconceptions people have about your personality?

I didn’t grow up doing sports. Well, I played rec league volleyball for a few years, but that doesn’t really count. Because I was that bad at it. And no actual skill was required.

So I never really knew what it was like to have fans. At least not in the literal sense. Nobody cheered for me. Made signs with my name. Lifted me on their shoulders.

I always wanted that. To be celebrated in a tangible way.

Here I am, a girl in her 30s, no closer to athletic stardom. Much further away, actually.

But get this.

My life is filled with my biggest fans.

I have a friend who believes in me. She cheers me on when I have stopped believing in myself.

A friend who writes words of encouragement to me, who writes my name on a sign and waves it in the air.

And friend after friend who hold me up when I am too tired to continue. Who love me, not because I am an athlete, or because I am famous. They love me because I am me. Most days, that is hard for me to understand. But every day, I am thankful for it.

It makes me want to be my friends’ biggest fan too. Inspires me to support them in their ventures. To speak light into their darkness. To hold up their arms when their burdens are too heavy.

Who is your biggest fan?

And whose biggest fan are you?

One is useless without the other.

In a few months, I have the privilege of being a bridesmaid in a friend’s wedding. I’ve been spending a lot of time lately trying to find the PERFECT dress. And while I have found some lovely dresses, I must say that the not-so-perfect ones really take the cake.

So here you have, in no particular order, the top dresses I will NOT be wearing in my friend’s wedding. With some snarky captions. Because that’s how I roll

I don’t…I don’t understand what is happening here. Are those some kind of receptacles? Could you store snacks in them? Because I’m here to tell you, with as tight as that thing is, snacks may be disastrous.

Speaking of snacks. I’m pretty sure I could line the hips of this bad boy with saran wrap and sneak out some food from the reception.

Those sleeves are lovely. I want to pet them.

I’m almost positive that I had a Barbie with this outfit. And I think it would be as hard to get into this thing as it was to get my Barbies into their clothes. At least with them I could pop off their limbs and grease them up with dish soap. Not that I ever did that.

My mom once made a Christmas angel out of old Reader’s Digest magazines. If you can’t picture that, it looked exactly like this dress.

Okay, what is the deal with all of the pantsuits! They kept popping up when I would search for purple dresses. This. Is. Not. A. Dress. It is a crime against  humanity.

A few weeks ago, I got a tattoo.

Part of me would love to go back 10 years, and tell 21-year-old me that one day she would have a tattoo. I would like to tell that judgmental, know-it-all college student that one day she would permanently mark herself. And then I would laugh at the shock written all over her face.

But 21-year-old me wouldn’t understand my reasons for getting a tattoo. Nor should she. Over the past 10 years, I have done a lot of growing. A lot of questioning. A lot of realizing how little I understand about life.

I am a forgetful soul. I forget that I am loved. I forget that I am rescued. I forget that I am released.

I forget who I am.

I forget whose I am.

That is why I decided to get a tattoo. Something permanent, literally written on my arm, as a reminder.

I believe that Jesus has my name written on His hand. And I believe that one day, He will give me a new name. Just as he turned Saul to Paul. Abram to Abraham. Sarai to Sarah.

I don’t know what that new name will be. Only He does. But the word written on my arm is a placeholder. A symbol. A reminder.

Lael. Belonging to God.

And every time I see that word, that symbol, I will remember. That I belong to my Father. That His love for me is deep and wide.

And on His hand, my new name.

On my arm, a reminder.

“See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands.” (Isaiah 49:16a)

“When we tire of well-worn ways, we seek for new. This restless craving in the souls of men spurs them to climb, and to seek the mountain view.”

Good Idea: Reading before bed.
Bad Idea: Reading a scary book before bed and convincing yourself that a ghost has taken up residence in your closet and will never leave for as long as you live.

Good Idea: Exercising early in the morning.
Bad Idea: Exercising while still sleepy and toppling over while trying to do push ups then laying in the floor lamenting the fact that you need one of those “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” things.

Good Idea: Singing a favorite song in the car.
Bad Idea: Singing a favorite song in the car with the windows down while sitting at a stoplight and realizing that the person next to you is staring in horror at your rendition of “Love Shack.”

Good Idea: Taking an evening stroll in your neighborhood.
Bad Idea: Taking an evening stroll in your neighborhood past a dozen houses with snarling dogs that try to break through the fence to get at your throat, and then falling off the sidewalk as you try to run away.

Good Idea: Getting coffee from your favorite coffee shop.
Bad Idea: Getting coffee from your favorite coffee shop, spilling said hot coffee all over yourself, then trying to suck coffee out of your sweater because it is that darn good and your are just too cheap to buy another coffee.

I have found that it’s the little things, the unexpected things, that ease open the wounds of grief. That bring back the aching. That blindside me and leave me gasping at the weight of my loss.

It can be anything. The smell of a cologne, the taste of a food, the sight of a photograph. The seemingly insignificant suddenly becomes the insurmountable. And I am tossed on the waves of grief, unsure which way is up.

It happened a few days ago. A song this time. A song that my stepfather used to sing on car trips. As I sat in a crowded bar, listening to a piano player sing that song, the memories flooded back. Of station wagons and shared  smiles in the rearview mirror. Of harmonies and love and picnics and safety.

It was as if all of those memories settled in my chest. I had to escape to the bathroom where I sat in a stall and allowed myself a good cry. Allowed myself to grieve and remember. And then, I came gasping to the surface of that grief. I stood up, rinsed my face with cold water  and accepted the hug of my friend who followed me to the bathroom.

As I walked back to the table, I felt the edges of my grief soften. Yes, I have lost…but for years I gained. I gained joy and laughter. I gained music and road trips. I gained the love of a father. For every moment of loss, there is a moment of love.

It’s the little things. That leave you reeling and thankful and raw and ready for the next little thing.

I literally just started three different blog posts. Three posts that I like, and will eventually complete.

But my heart isn’t in those posts today.

Today I feel raw. Like my skin is scrubbed to pink, stinging in the sunlight.

Like every nerve is exposed, shrinking away from the lightest touch.

My mind races in every direction today, slingshotting my emotions. I feel on the brink of tears…not sad, but simmering.

My heart feels tired. Like the very acts of feeling and and loving are heavy stones that rest in my chest.

I am not unhappy. I am not sad. I am not angry.

I am just raw. Laid open. Exposed.

And I fight the urge to wrap up in a cocoon of numbness.

I will let my stinging skin grow warm in the sunshine.

I will let my nerves grow use to touch.

I will let my emotions complete their slipshod journey.

And I will let my heart rest.