for him.

dear sweet children,

i am twenty-two and at home. i am five months from twenty-three and will probably still be here. i am living off of the gratitude of my parents. and i am thankful. they have poured me milk and have left me the back parking when i am out late. i am typing on this computer because of them. i have internet access because of them. but it is difficult sharing a home with two people who don't much like each other anymore. who have suffered difficult lives. who have offended each other. who have shut one another out. who cannot hold a conversation about much.

when comparing you to your father i want it to be good things. you are creative, intelligent, curious, adventurous, spontaneous, goofy, philosophical - just like him! you honor people the way he does. you have a rough sort of affection like he does. they might not be those specific things but they will be good things. you will surely mimic all his nettlesome habits but i will not rattle on about those. i will correct where correction is needed, but i will praise you for the good things. i want you to know that i love your father. and that life and marriage can be a tumble at times but that i am for him. i want you to see - even when you are twenty-two - that we work with eachother not against eachother. i will share my bankaccount and not just my bed with the man i marry, the man you know as your father. trust, sweet ones, trust will be something tangible and bright. it will make us resilient. we will be a team who makes decisions together. we will hold each other and you will see by the way he tickles my sides and the way i trace the backs of his ear to his neck that we are a team. you will see by the way we argue. and the way we make up.

at twenty-two i want to be honest with you about the road. i want to confide in you that the road is this or that. i am not sure of the road yet. i am not on it; i am not married. but i know some things of importance. and i have some hopes for what it will be like, even on those bad terrible days where i'd rather be in alaska than right where i am. which is saying a lot, because i shiver easily.

with love,
a twenty-two year old who is praying tenderness into her parents, who is showing love to them when they cannot show it to each other, who is hopeful for the future.

wednesday morning

each morning i coax myself out of bed. i think of reasons to stop pressing the snooze button. sometimes i do this aloud, which will be a surprise for the man i marry as i mumble reasons and affirm one, each morning, with an "of course" that shoots my head off of the pillow.  this morning cereal prompted my eyes to fight the elixir of half-sleep. honey nut cherrios and whole milk are my vice (one of many). i would have it no other way. quickly suited in highwaisted pants and a grey half-tucked shirt, i wiped off left over mascara and eyeshadow from last night. glasses beat out contacts because they meant cereal was one minute closer. teeth brushed, lips tinted, and hair unwashed i left to work. the morning was strikingly chilled like a foggy glass just pulled from the ice box.  which reminds me - i wore a scarf for ten minutes this morning - a miracle considering the record temperatures that have inspired frequent use of air conditioning and lengths of bare skin.

it takes only two streets to get to work (three if you count the .2498467 of a block before i turn in the parking lot). it was at the major intersection that i saw him: black hoodie, black jeans, black boots, blue eyes, and red skin like crumpled paper. homeless. the descent of his hoodie down the back of his head revealed a spotty shave. the whole spectrum of whites, greys and blacks on his head. the numbness of those colors on his face. and in my car - my dirty, dusty car - played a triumphant song. freedom! shouted the singer. and this man passed in black. this man who i have seen in old towne and on corners and always by that denny's. what does he know of freedom?

i think

so i've decided to live. and that's not a shocking new decision. i mean how many times have you, in your realization that you've lamented one or ten months too long, decided to live? how many times have you, after you've overcommited yourself for the twentieth time, decided to live? it's too common a decision and is made by people who usually don't mean it. or by romanticists who idealize adventure, spontaneaity and the ease of life. and especially by those who don't give a damn enough to follow through.

it's actually a terrible way to put it. a description of what i mean to do might be more helpful.

i've decided to read more than self-help, christian lifestyle books. because i don't think these are as helpful as we give them credit for. sometimes i need a story. sometimes the story is more helpful with it's death and depravation and descent into humanity than the former.  it usually is.  i've decided to go out on a limb and make jokes. even if i'm not a riot like mindy kaling.  even if i'm cheesier than colby-jack. even if i know nothing about pop culture or have the wit of a rodent.  i've decided to budget. i looked over my account statements the past three months, my direct deposits, and projected my monthly income/expenses. loans are factored in. as are the upcoming trips to washington (lex) and new york (the feller and friends). as is the hope of an apartment next summer. i've decided to show up and lend a hand when friends are in the middle of moving. did the snooze button sweet talk me this morning? yes. but these people were the ones who showed me that people could actually care. that they wouldn't walk over you. that they would say sorry. that they would pursue friendship. that they could be gracious and honest. i've decided to take afternoons for myself and drink tejava and watch mean girls. i've decided to (possibly) get a third job because i'm twenty-two. i had teacher in high school. he was short, petite and wrinkled. he probably had a great left hook. he was from the east coast and had worked upwards of twenty jobs in his life. he had stories. he is the only reason i enjoyed ap u.s. history. i promise if history books were written in his voice, i would have remembered something. so i'm applying at different places in hopes of accumulating another job instead of doing the most logical, straight-forward thing that any smart graduate would do: get one job that pays well. i want stories, friends. i want deviations and squiggles. ones that are well-planned (oh, you thought i was giving in...), but circles and stops and zig-zags nonetheless. i want a beautiful life. one that is rich with agony and every strain of happiness.  one that is messy. one that is vibrant. and do you know what? do you know the secret to such a life? i think it has something to do with a steady gaze. with not looking to the left or to the right. it has something to do with being responsible for the one thing you have a say in: your life. the only one given to you.

it seems too simple,

saturday night the feller and i doubled with a couple i wasn't well-acquainted with. and before i could think about their kindness or their humor or appreciate their uniqueness, i assumed. and based on assumptions, which were (probably) true i tried to correct everything they (might) have been told about me.  because well, when people are angry with a situation they talk - a lot - and to a lot of people. i worried they were measuring me up against the picture sketched with the frustrations of another. i, the young woman who was sure of herself weeks ago, was confident she could hold her own weeks ago, was worried. while twirling my linguini around my four pronged fork and making swirls in the marinara sauce, i thought. thinking, in my case, can lead to devasting conclusions. i am a class one, self-diagnosed (appropriate, yes?) hypochondriac. and i worry about red eyes and slightly bulging veins and tight breathing. my hypochondria isn't limited to medical emergencies. no, i look behind me when i walk to my house from the street at night. i check my back seat before i enter my car lest a murderer or rapist be lurking (or contorted) in the back seat somewhere. and when it comes to relationships and friendships it might be worse. sometimes i conclude it's better to leave everyone (because they secretly want to leave me but won't out of pity), to suffer the losses, and prepare for the next time i'm forced to leave (because they secretly want to leave me but won't out of pity). i worry. my thoughts tend towards the worst outcomes. saturday night i thought of things they might have been told. i thought of how their opinions of me have been swayed. i wondered if they were comparing me to you. i wondered if they could see you at the table rather than me. i was less myself because of these worries. i laughed less and couldn't think of the right things to say.  it was still a good night. my sheepishness likely went unnoticed since they don't know me well. the feller knew. he knows. i love that.
early sunday morning, God reminded me who i am. daughter. strong. silly. wise. beautiful. and who He is. anchor. rock. truth. He reminded to keep my gaze steady. you see, i do look to the left and to the right. i look. and i worry. i assume. and i worry. i think. and i worry. a steady gaze sheds worry.  a steady gaze requires i not overanalyze, twirling thoughts like i do linguini. it is good to be reminded that, at the end of the day, one persons sketch of me as this or that holds no water like His does. but until i lock my eyes with His, i will torment myself with the what-ifs of that sketch endlessly.  the former is just a better way to live. sunday night, in an attempt to escape my easy-bake-oven of a house, the feller and i went to in-n-out and our faithful gelato supplier. i was honest with him about our double. he assured me that proving myself benefits nobody, achieves nothing. that he loves me and that the sketch isn't worry-worthy. vulnerability is great, friends. it builds trust. it increases intimacy. it gives space to bleed. it gives space to heal.

a note on this post:
i penned the above yesterday morning. but on my bed last night, after a bout of anxiety that only preys on the sleepy and sensitive, i opened my bible of ten years. (because sometimes you know you aren't strong enough to pass up the good words of a good God). the leather cover isn't attached to the pages anymore but i still stuff the bound pages between the cover like a pita.
john 5. jesus asked "do you want to be made well?"there was not even a "yes" or a "no" but a reason as to why he hasn't been able to be well. he is an invalid. he needs the assistance of another. no one will help. other people are made well. he is overlooked. and i'm sure he is used to this. perhaps even looks pessimistically towards getting better. perhaps even looks bitterly at passerbys. jesus didn't need a "yes" to know. and He wasn't off-put by the mans pessimism or bitterness. apathetic as the man may have been, He made him well. last night i was reminded that jesus asks me if i am through with sitting on my mat, crippled and despising my condition. he asks me if wellness is my hearts desire. am i through with being a victim of sickness and mistreatment? well, yes. but i have been walked over lord. i have been dragged through shit. and there are people who help me (the feller, lex, sister, jackie, etc.) but sometimes i don't let them. i am understandably jaded, lord. and at the end of the day, it is hard to shake the familiarity i have with the titles invalid, victim, and (because of these things) worried skeptic. despite my condition and my titles He still asks. and i say yes. it seems too simple, but i say yes. and he says "stand up, pick up your mat, and walk!"

it reminds me of isaiah 1: "stop doing wrong, learn to do right." or in john 8: "go and sin no more." these are unnervingly direct commands. there are no prefaces or buts or ands or ifs. there are certainly no explanations, which usually stave off change and quiet courage. sometimes they come after His kindness or healing. even so, they say we have a part in being made well. so i recognize my weakness and i say it. i describe it. i learn it. i do this so i can spot it from afar. i do this so i can articulate situations to loved ones in the most true way i can. it equips them to help. or to tell me to help myself! i do this so i know where i need Him most. so i can make specific requests of Him. so i can invite Him into these areas to do as He desires. i stop worry in its tracks. and i don't, out of boredom or stress, navigate social media sites such as facebook and blogger and twitter. i kill the beast. i redirect my thoughts. i replace them with the current state of affairs, which are lovely. i exercise confession and honesty. i present myself bare before loved ones. i rejoice in vulnerability. and i celebrate the ones who make vulnerability possible.

confession is the way out.

i had a brief stint in a book club full of girls two summers ago, 2010 i believe.

we read the weight of silence and the particular sadness of lemon cake.

the first i enjoyed, the second, well... i could appreciate.
schedules are the death of many things. 

people moved and got busy, that was the end of that book club.

in 2011 i met with some friends and we opened up james frey's a million little pieces. besides the oprah scandal, which i think was overwrought and silly and don't give much weight to anyways, it was wonderful.

stream-of-concsiousness alway steals my heart. lack of quotations marks is quirky and we all know that the best break the rules. fragmentation. quick and short and long and quick. repetition. base needs given pulse in his torrential excess of words. it seemed his way out of addiction was a hole of blackness and whiteness - both blinding. the hole was terror. the hole was fury. the shovel was loss of dignity. he wriggled out with confession. frey showed me - at a time where i could continue in deception (of self, of others) - that truth is paramount. the. only. thing. that. matters.  confession is the way out. this slightly fictionalized memoir wrapped thick cloth around my wrist and dragged me through the hole. and i experienced pain and agonizing isolation and estrangement. i took heed of the destruction deception ensures. monstrosity. 

if frey is one thing, he is self-aware (distorted, depressing awareness but aware). aware of what he feels he deserves. nice things or nice people are not some of those things. small kindnesses are too beautiful a gift. pardon from his sins is laughable. he is responsible for the sorrows of others. he has ruined all good things with carelessness and avoidance. he disqualifies every human thing in him thus creating a boundary that keeps people out and away. his sentiments about light and being exposed and his uncomfortability with both are, i think, universal. darkness provides cover. his sabotage. self-loathing. shaming. are best done in the dark.  he feels akin to darkness. darkness is escape to those unworthy of forgiveness. of breath. of space. of opportunity. darkness is friend to the irreparable. 

he said:

"we are all awful."

and with little reservation, i say - yes. yes we are.

there were lots of stories of similar men and women in similar holes. and there was hope. 

but the one thing that gave me the courage last summer, was frey's conviction that the truth was the only thing that mattered. it gave me the courage to uncover lies and to stop lying. so i told the truth and was met with understandable frustration and grace grace grace (not expected, but given nonetheless). i had been awful, just awful to those i loved. but i took responsibility for it. i had been hurt by those who never took responsibility for their recklessness, for their omission, for their sins. i refused to be that. i may have been awful, but i refused to continue to be such a person. that summer i heard the voice of God in an addict. yes, frey gave me courage. and that fall i began seeing a therapist on campus that semester. we talked about loss and deception and letting go. it was good. one thing became apparent: small decisions and big decisions lead to a life style. i could choose, like frey, to say no to self-destruction. unlike frey, i knew that my salvation was not self-reliance but was instead a God of grace and power. it was the continued support of friends and family who knew me. it still is.

filled me.

in lieu of my absence here, i have been living my life well. it is like the slow unfolding movement of one's limbs mid-stretch. i can't get enough of it.

last night the feller showed me this song.



we sat at his picnic dining table. my sharp chin balanced on my hand, elbow atop the dark wood.
he traced the gentle curves of my collarbone, he pressed his lips against the subtle slope of my shoulders.
my eyelids were heavy with satisfaction, my body inebriated with rest and peace and goodness.
blake's voice filled the feller's apartment.
and the feller's love filled me.