I'm Just Sayin'

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.

A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of seeing two of my favorite kids on the planet get baptized. As I sat there and watched them come out of the water dripping and radiant, with a lump in my throat, I couldn’t help but think of the day I was baptized.

I was 13. Thirteen and silly and serious and immature and earnest. I was only beginning to understand grace, to relieve myself from the heavy load of guilt, to run my fingers along slippery the surface of peace.

There was so much I didn’t understand. But I knew that my heart was full of Jesus, and that my flesh was full of sin. I needed to be cleansed. I wanted to be pure.

So that Sunday morning, I pulled a thin white robe over my shorts and t-shirt. I stood waiting, clutching a white handkerchief in my shaking hands. I remember stepping into the water, surprised at how warm it was. Like bath water. I was comforted by that. I couldn’t come clean in cold water, could I?

The pastor asked me questions, about Jesus and faith. Then he nodded to me, and I placed the handkerchief over my face.

I baptize you…

I squeezed my eyes shut.

In the name of the Father…

I wrapped my hand around his arm.

The Son…

I felt the water move up toward my neck.

And the Holy Spirit.

The last words he spoke were swallowed up by the water. I remember thinking, my whole head has to go under, or my scalp won’t be purified. A different take on the story of Achilles.

And then I rose out of the water, sputtering, wiping the water out of my face. The air felt cool after the warmth of the water, and I shivered as I stepped out of the baptismal. I stumbled toward the bathroom, waterlogged and dripping.

I remembered that girl as I watched those two children wrap towels around themselves, dripping holiness all over the floor. I thought about her, and her innocence. There was so much she didn’t understand yet. So much she didn’t even know to guard herself against.

But she loved Jesus. With all of her heart.

And the puddle of grace on the floor.

Warning.

This is a post about Oprah.

Or rather, something I saw on Oprah yesterday.

Please know that this is not a reflection on the topics I agree with Oprah on. Or the topics I disagree with Oprah on. It is not about her politics or her spirituality.

Just wanted to get all of that out of the way.

Yesterday I was watching Oprah. The episode was largely about how she had impacted others. One part in particular had dozens, if not hundreds, of people walking into the arena–each a person Oprah had helped to go to school through her scholarship program.

Each person held a flickering candle, and soon the arena was filled with those pinpoints of light.

I’ll admit it. I teared up a bit. And so did Oprah.

And I sat there, and stared at the screen, and was just amazed at the legacy Oprah is leaving behind.

Of course, my next thought was, “What legacy will I leave behind?”

How will my family remember me? How will I build a legacy with a niece who lives thousands of miles away?

How will my friends remember me? Will I have impacted their lives for good?

How will my co-workers remember me? Will my work live on?

How will strangers remember me? Did my smile ever brighten someone’s day?

I pray that the legacy I leave behind will be one rich with love and loyalty. I pray I will be remembered as one who chased after God. Who tripped and fell, but kept getting back up.

I do not strive for perfection.

I only strive to finish the journey well.

What legacy will you leave behind?

1. Does Bono wear special night vision sunglasses? Because if I wore sunglasses inside, I would probably trip and fall a hundred times a day. Oh wait. I already do.

2. How does one get a cool nickname like The Edge? Because my nicknames just don’t even stand up to that.

3. Does Bono wear baby powder under his leather pants?

4. Where can I get one of those jackets that lights up?

5. What would it take to get Bono to say my name from the stage?

6. If Bono DID say my name from the stage, would I pass out?

7. I wonder of Bono noticed that I was having a good hair day. We were *thatclose* you know.

8. I’m pretty sure he did notice. He looked at my hair appreciatively, I think.

9. When was the last time Bono went to the movies? It must be hard to be Bono and go to the movies.

10. Bono must use the RedBox a lot.

Well, apparently I took a hiatus from my blog. An unplanned one, but a hiatus, nonetheless.

I’ve had plenty to talk about. But never quite sure how to say it.

Sometimes pictures say more than words.

Especially when words evade me.

It’s been a lovely month.

Full of beauty.

But I think I’m ready.

For words again.