gratitude

Today I am thankful for Justin.  It will have been a year and a half this coming week… and what a true joy it has been to call this man my husband.  That whole “looking around and wondering how this became my life” thing is still a near-daily occurrence.  As is gut-laughing at some of his crazy antics.  No one told me marriage could be this much fun.  Then again, I haven’t seen too many kids masquerading as grownups get married.  It kinda comes with the territory, I think.

Today I am thankful for the folks helping me out at physical therapy.  I came back from Spring Break with some serious aches and pains and they not only have me feeling better, they have me getting stronger.

Today I am thankful that the Office is on tonight.

Today I am thankful for the kind words people said to me as I left a job whose people I would miss.  Hugs were all around, and I felt very blessed to feel like I’d made a difference, no matter how small.

Today I am thankful that I nailed an A on a tough exam this week!  I’m thankful for teachers who have taken an interest in me and help me along the way with encouraging words.

Today I am thankful that I have an interview for a new job this next week… one I’d really love to have.

Today I am slowing down to be thankful.  God, sometimes I have no idea how to send good words your way, but I do want to be good at saying “Thank you.”  So thanks.

 

head-on

We’ll be doing some exercises in my class regarding memory, so I’ll probably post some of them here.  If nothing else, this quarter won’t turn into one where my last post is months ago.  Which helps me feel better. 

What kills me about my earliest vivid memory is that I was unconscious for so much of it. I would rail against the idea of sharing this memory in favor of sharing something more complete from my childhood, something a little more coherent, perhaps… but then again, when trying to remember significant moments and events from my early days, I realize that I was unconscious for lots of other long stretches, ones without as valid an excuse. This memory, in its tattered and piecemeal state, will do just as well as anything else.

Here’s what I do remember: I was five years old, and riding my lavender bike without training wheels was the pinnacle of childish achievement – so far. What a thrill – autonomous mobility and sparkly handlebar tassels! This skill conquered, I quickly became dissatisfied with merely riding my bike in circles around La Mesa Court. That, quite frankly, was boring. Completely unimpressive. Any old kid can ride a bike in circles all day.

What I needed was a little finesse.

I attempted a new trick: riding my bike head-on into the curb to get up onto the sidewalk, just like I’d watched all the older and cooler Big Kids do. What my five-year-old, soon-to-be-damaged little brain failed to realize was the significant weight difference between my somewhat spindly self and the Big Kids, god-like in their vast knowledge and mysterious powers and superior size.

When the big moment came and I revealed my new talent to the world, my bike hit the curb and jerked to a sudden halt. I did not. I feel it worth mentioning here that the year was 1985, and bike helmets weren’t exactly all the rage. Not yet, anyway.

I am quite serious in my declaration that I would pay money to have been my neighbor watching through her window when I launched myself over the handlebars of my bike and landed in a head-first heap on the cement. I’d like to think the sight of some kid Superman-ing over the handlebars amused someone, at least. Whether she laughed for a split second or not before realizing I was hurt, I’ll never know, but the kind lady promptly ran out to me, scooped me up, and carried me home. I don’t remember my neighbor, but I remember the sensation of being scooped into her arms and lifted from the warm cement, being carried to my front door. I remember the relief that a Grown Up was near, soon to be joined by my mother.

The last thing I remember is lying on the couch with an ice pack and reminding Mom for the thousandth time that my head hurt. It’s not that she was unfeeling – but my brother and I were more than a little accident-prone and if we went to the doctor’s office for every goose-egg and bloodied knee, we’d never leave the place. A requisite waiting period always needed to be fulfilled before bringing in the professionals.

It turns out that I was actually hurt, knocked-unconscious hurt, and the best parts of this story remain ones I can’t remember – although I was filled in later on all the pertinent details. My mother told me later of her terror, driving to the pediatrician, with me moaning and rambling on in complete gibberish from the backseat, alternately snatching at invisible airborne objects and trying to unlock my door while the car was moving. I was told that as soon as my mom carried me into the doctor’s office, I promptly puked everywhere (or at least I’d like to believe it was everywhere – I might as well enjoy making a big scene here). Gentle Dr. Kramer, the world’s noblest pediatrician, scooped me up herself and carried me back out to the car, with instructions to take me straight to the emergency room. I remember hearing of my mother’s red-headed fury when a hurried and unfeeling young doctor roughly ripped some tape from my forehead after running some tests on my malfunctioning cranium. I have no idea why, but in my mind’s eye the tape in question has always been a thick duct tape. I laugh to myself now, realizing this idea is ridiculous. Duct tape has many uses – but as far as I know the medical field is not one of them.

The next thing I remember is a deeply comforting glimpse of a moment, a still picture that remains fairly clear, even 22 years later: waking up in the hospital bed around ten o’clock the next morning, with Mom and Dad – exhausted and relieved – by my bedside. There was a little television in the corner of the small room, and we watched Gumby. It is strange to me that the thought of the three of us watching a weird cartoon in a hospital room evokes such feelings of warmth and coziness – but it does.

For the moment, all was well. I was content to let Big Kid-hood and all its corresponding coolness wait — at least until I’d been conscious a full 24 hours and definitely not before I had a helmet. 

Probably not before I had a helmet.  I really don’t remember.

stomach-churnyness

Hello, dear friends and strangers.

Never thought I’d say this — but I’m thrilled to be back in school!  Thrilled, and slightly terrified, though I’ve learned to welcome this stomach-churnyness.  It’s always a sign that growth is near.

I’m taking Intro to Creative Non-Fiction this quarter, and while I think it will be a genuine stretch, it will also be such an opportunity to grow.  I’m reminded once again of what a strange person I am.  I got ridiculously nervous attempting to come up with good lies for our classroom icebreaker, 2 Lies and a Truth.  (My friends, The Neck-Splotches, returned in full force to welcome me back to a new quarter and my perennial self-consciousness.  Justin didn’t exactly help when leaned over and said, “Hey, buddy, you’re turning all red again,” but I deferred strangling him til a later date).  I’m doing my best to avoid thinking about the fact that coming up with 2 lies makes me nervous — and trying to bravely embrace the thought of in-class writes and small-group critique.

It took me til this very moment to appreciate an exercise we had to do in my last class that wrangled me into a better writer.  We were instructed to divide our paper into a 2 x 8 column.  Column One: What I Think This Poem Means.  Column Two: Why I Think This.  Michael put a poem up on an overhead (yeah, he’s old-fashioned like that), but placed a piece of paper over it and only revealed a line or two at a time.  In fact, our first writing about the poem was before he had shown us any of it.

Let me start by saying, Poetry isn’t really my friend.  I don’t think this is because we wouldn’t have grown to like each other had we met on our own terms – but I was given a negative impression of Poetry early on by someone else, and it has forever poisoned our relationship.  Whoever introduced us intimated that Poetry had a secret that she would never ever divulge, at least not to a person like me.  I’d ask her questions.  I’d listen closely to her words.  But it would all be a big huge tease and I’d never understand in any kind of meaningful sense what the hell she was referring to.  She’d share the secret with others who were much smarter and deeper than I was.  She’d merely mock my efforts, however, and I would be left to feel like — well, like an ass, basically.

In short… this wasn’t my favorite exercise.  Responses ran a little like so, as he showed us more and more of the poem:

What this poem is about:

I don’t know.

Why I think this:

Because Michael hasn’t even shown us the title yet.

What this poem is about:

Um… someone’s grandfather.

Why I think this:

Seemed like a good guess.

What this poem is about:

(blank)

Why I think this:

(blank) 

What this poem is about:

This poem is about aliens.

Why I think this:

No idea.

I’m sure I wrote something down in at least a few more of the 16 boxes, but many of them were along the lines of how screwed I was.  Once the poem was fully uncovered, I understood the basic gist of the thing, but I was too furious with my well-meaning prof for conspiring with Poetry to care.  I glared at the poor guy out of my tear-filled eyes and yearned for class to be over.  Had I looked around at the other students around me, I’d have realized that I wasn’t alone, but I was too immersed in my own embarrassment to notice.

A month or two later, I was able to laugh about it with some of those other students and appreciate what the exercise did for me.  1)  It made me horribly uncomfortable.  2)  It forced one more piece of me that needs to be certain of the right answer to die.  Painfully.

As I go into this new class, one I desperately want to perform well in (this particular area of creative writing is the one I came back to school for, and I really don’t want to discover that I totally suck at it) – I’m trying to remember to give myself permission to be really bad at this at first.  To not know what I’m doing.  To be totally afraid of messing up, yet have enough courage to throw my stuff out there anyway in hopes that I’ll be even a tiny bit better at this once I come out the other side.

For me, it’s usually the fear of not doing something well that prevents me from doing it at all, so I’m trying to move forward anyway, splotches and nervous guts and all, and see what happens.  I think back to being in school nine years ago, and being paralyzed, unable to write a single word on that white screen.  From here, even a crappy paragraph seems quite a bit like victory.

So.  To being scared!  To growing anyway!  (Cheers). 

back to school

This past Wednesday I returned to school for the first time since 2003.

A clash of worlds, really, like one of those dreams where your best friend from junior high is suddenly eating lunch with you at your current job, and in the dream, it somehow makes perfect sense — then you wake up, disoriented, thinking What the hell…

Trudging up the stairs from the parking lot, hand in hand with my husband, I felt the colliding and was caught off-guard by it.  Justin knows me, knows as many stories as I’ve been able to think to tell him, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was, in some weird way, introducing him to me at twenty-two.

New husband.  Old school.  Old memories.  Old self.

Collision.

Some things are, thankfully, very different than when I last called Bellingham home.  The car accidents that prompted my departure from school in the first place don’t have the prevalence (in my body and in my thoughts) they did then.  That shoulder is still a little achy at times, and the damp Western Washington cold does nothing to encourage my knees to quit complaining, but the pain is nothing to what it was before, and my percoset-free state proves it. 

I’m thrilled about my studies (in creative non-fiction), which is something I couldn’t say before.  What a huge difference this makes!  Studying Communication back then, I knew I wasn’t being honest with myself about what I truly wanted, deep-down in my guts (my guts know more than I give them credit for, and yours probably do, too).  I knew I was chasing the wrong thing for the wrong reasons, but I didn’t have the courage to admit a misstep and take a new direction.  There’d already been too many false starts.

In an odd and exquisitely painful way, the accidents were a blessing.  They forced a different course.

In other ways, my 27-year-old self isn’t much different.  I’m still neurotically insecure, the queen of critical thoughts.  Once Justin headed toward his class and I toward mine, I began thinking about where to look as I was walking by myself through campus.  I’m serious.  I had an entire thought process built around Do I stare blankly ahead, past all the oncoming faces?  Do I make eye contact?  Smile?  Should I look down to make sure I don’t trip on a brick out here in front of God and everybody? 

Does looking straight down make me look like some kind of freak?

Don’t get me started on what to do with my hands.  The whole stationary/swinging back and forth debate stole another few minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

Not that I expected it to, but I don’t find that marriage has “fixed” any of my self-consciousness.  Being loved and embraced in all my oddness, I squirm a little less, that is all.  Squirming less, that is all – but what a relief I’ve found, even in that.  (I’ve said it before, but sometimes it’s real important to measure growth in millimeters). 

Going back to school is equal parts excitement and sheer terror for me.  I feel rusty and out of practice.  A little old, perhaps.  I listen to the magnitude of what people much younger than me know — the history, the philosophy, the facts and dates — and feel quite candidly that I’ve arrived at this party a little late; I wonder if I’ll ever be able to catch up.  I think about my decade-long pursuit of a degree and have to gulp down my very real embarrassment at not having had a more direct and successful path to an illustrious piece of paper saying I’ve finally finished something.  I think about how unfinished and un-figured-out I still am.  

Then, mercifully, I remember me at 22.

At 22, I didn’t know shit.  At 22, I don’t think anyone does.  Degree or not, I’m not sure anyone has a very good grasp on what they want to be when they grow up until they’re about 30, or, in the far more serious case of writers, 40.  Five years ago, I was on a very determined and steady, responsible path — in the wrong direction.  It happens.  For a lot of us, that’s part of the journey we travel toward becoming grown-up human beings.  For a lot of those barely-out-of-high-school faces I see in my classes, those twists and turns and changes-of-majors are not far off. 

I wouldn’t go back. 

This is my joy in returning to school now, clumsy and awkward as I am:  I still don’t know shit, but at least I know I don’t know shit.  Even though I’m not completely at peace with that, it seems like a good place to begin.  Humbled, perhaps – deep-red-blush embarrassed at times – but ready, at last, to learn.

So — here’s to not knowing shit.

fifty years and retirement

In the sleepy, silent, still-dark of this morning, I woke.  As I often do when I wake up this early, I break my own rule.  I untangle myself from the sheet, inch my way over from My Side of the Bed and find a comfy spot on Justin’s chest to lay my head.  He’s usually still half asleep when this happens, but his arms always pull me in tight by way of welcome.  I can’t sleep like this — my always-too-warm body will never successfully nod off — but some mornings I just need the closeness more than I do the sleep.

I still marvel that, in over nine months of nights, I’ve never slept alone.

This morning, a very clear thought entered my drowsy little mind: “None of this is guaranteed.” 

You know, I’m better than I used to be.  This is a little hard to admit (although I suspect I’m not alone in this newlywed tendency), but when we were first married, I could hardly bear to let Justin out of my sight.  It was difficult to let him drive to the store down the street without me, for fear that something might happen to shatter our charmed existence.  I’d say I didn’t want to go, but over and over again, at the last minute, I’d throw on some shoes and jump in the car to drive the three blocks with him to Albertsons. 

All of a sudden my heart was walking around outside my body.  And I was very, very conscious of it.

Am very, very conscious of it.  

*****

Less than a year after I left Bible college, I attended the funeral of someone I’d known more of than had actually known personally.  He was super-involved in campus life (famous for some of his hilarious stunts), and was a friend of several of my friends when I attended Northwest.  When his memorial service was set at a church less than twenty minutes from my home, I decided to go.

I have been to many memorial services.  Even as a life is celebrated, still — the loss breaks me every time.  This one was especially hard, in a very unique way.  Paul had married his sweetheart only about a month before he died in a freak accident (the basic gist was that he was scoping out camping spots for his youth group, got out of his car to look, and his car slipped out of gear and pinned him underneath).  His wife seemed as strong as she was broken at the service – they played her recorded words at the memorial, and as she honored her husband and shared her heart with us, I was amazed.  They also told lots of funny Paul stories, played a video of one of his most out-there sermons.  It was so strange to be laughing as much as we were crying. 

But I’ve never forgotten how small she looked in the front pew.  I’ve often wondered about her since, have said prayers for this girl I didn’t know.  And I’ve often remembered, because of her, that none of us are promised fifty years and retirement together.

*****

“None of this is guaranteed.”

As he slept, I prayed this morning in the darkness.  I’m not good at praying, but this one, I’ve gotten good at.  I asked God to keep Justin safe and protect him as he goes about his day.  I asked him to bring us both back together once our day’s work is done.  I ask him often to give us many more days and nights and months and years together. 

I’m not afraid to ask God for fifty years and retirement.  (I think all of us ask God for it, whether we form the words or not).

I also ask God for the strength to still trust him and serve him if, someday, that prayer isn’t answered the way I hoped it would be.

Most of all, I ask God for the grace to love Justin as much as I can today, on purpose.  I’m expecting a lot more days, of course, but I’m also squeezing as much laughter and hand-holding and heart-filled words as I can out of the one day I know I’ve got.  Hoping for the best, but not taking it for granted as a sure-thing.  It’s the only way I know of to let my heart walk around outside my body and still know some peace.

It’s also the best way I know of to spend fifty years or so.

a little gratitude goes a long way

A few things that I am grateful for today…

–I talked to Julie for over an hour last night.  It’s been a few weeks, and the catch-up was sorely needed.  Our conversations wander all over the place and back, from topic to random topic, but at the end of our conversations I always feel grounded and centered and comfortable in my own skin.  I’m glad that though more of our friendship has been spent far away from each other than near (has it really been three years in Bend?), we’re as close as ever.

–Better sleep is officially on its way!  Justin and I bought a new mattress today.  The bed we have is nearly ten years old, kind of dips in the middle, and shakes for a good 3-4 seconds when someone turns over in their sleep.  The new bed is larger (a king size — I can finally SPRAWL!), dip-free, non-motion transferring (hallelujah!) and arrives Saturday.  Justin is not as excited as I am — the cuddlebug in him is fearful that now I can get away from him — but I think he’ll adjust okay when he realizes that he’ll actually be able to fit all 6′5″ of him on the bed with little effort.  Yay for us!

–Anne Lamott just came out with a new book of essays on faith, and I couldn’t be happier about the title: Grace (Eventually).  We have a rule that I can’t buy new books until I read the last one I bought (a good thing, since I have a tendency to buy books and sometimes don’t jump directly into them before my attention is drawn to yet another book.  ”Hey look!  Something shiny!”), so I’m going to have to finish A Long Way Gone before I can savor Anne’s good words.  I’m really looking forward to it, though.  I didn’t know she was coming out with something new, so this was an unexpected joy.

–I’m enjoying my job and getting to know the people I work with.  I know it sounds weird to enjoy sticking people’s fingers and making them bleed, but I am.  Along with that, I have some healthy inner dialogue happening about setting boundaries for myself.  In the past, I haven’t been especially adept at separating the business side of my life from the personal (to me, it’s all personal), and it’s gotten me in a world of hurt.  I tend to make decisions based on what I feel is best for the people I work with, and then find myself surprised when they make a decision that is best for the company.  At two different jobs I gave more than two weeks notice because I was concerned about the transition going well, and both times, I took it right up the kazoo.  There are lessons I’ve taken with me from those experiences, and while I hope they don’t make me jaded or bitter, I hope they make me wiser and perhaps a little more guarded.  I want to be a friendly and supportive person to my coworkers, but at the end of the day what matters is that I put my head down, get the job done, and come home to the rest of my life.  We’ll see how well I do… I tend to struggle here, but I’m glad that at least I’m thinking about this so early on in my experience.  I hope I’ve grown.

–We’re visiting our families next weekend!  I’ve missed my folks like crazy.  Also, Justin’s mom just moved up, so we’ll get to spend some good time with her as well.

–Justin and I had a date night and went to Woods Coffee tonight after dinner.  He had a bunch of homework to do, and I read, but it was nice just to slow down for a bit together.  I love that no matter what we’re doing, whether it be playing online poker together, doing the dishes together, watching Dr. Phil (ha ha — we’re outed), or just talking about our day before we fall asleep, we have a good time and are well connected.  It’s telling that Justin’s favorite pet name for me is “Buddy.”  We’ll have been married six months tomorrow, and I know that I know that I know — I chose well when I chose Justin to share my life with.  I was reading someone else’s blog tonight — she just celebrated her first anniversary last week, and said that people had always told her the first year is the hardest.  She then went on to share how rough she’s had it, you know, him having her watch TV for a bit while he cooks dinner, him helping her take care of the house when people are coming over, him telling her one thing he loves about her before they fall asleep. 

The situations look a little different (Justin makes me a lunch and a mocha in the morning while I’m finishing getting ready for work — then grabs a Sharpie and scrawls a mushy love note on the outside of the brown bag; he puts my cellphone, glasses, and keys in my purse so I’m not searching at the last minute, which is me in typical form; he writes me love letters often; I fall asleep and wake up to him telling me that I’m beautiful and that I’m loved and cherished)… but I know exactly what she’s talking about.  I know we’ll have struggles and moments that stretch us both now and in the future, but seriously, this has been the best time of my life and I’m savoring each moment of it.  Most difficult year?  Not remotely. 

It’s been pretty rough so far, but somehow… somehow… I think we’ll manage.

Thank you, God, for my life.  I know I take it for granted far more than I should, but thank you for blessing me with so many loving people and beautiful moments. 

twenty-five percent

A few days ago I was pestering my poor husband, asking him the kinds of questions that girls sometimes ask when they’re trying to sort out what someone meant when they said a certain thing, and whether it reveals some dislike or concern. 

I do this sometimes.  Okay, okay — somewhat often.

I wish that I could say that I’m this rock of self-confidence; I’m not.

Justin’s reponse is as typical and unchanging as it is wise, and it usually follows this theme: “Who cares?  If they have a problem with you, [screw] them.”

The other day, I retorted, “Easy for you to say.  You haven’t given a damn in years.”

Which is true.   In sharing my husband’s world each day, I’ve come to realize that, sure, he does have some insecurities, but they rarely ever concern they or them.  The number of people he has given permission to impact the way he views himself and his actions is quite small.  He meets people easily.  Quick-witted and funny, he is adept at making new acquaintances.  But “acquaintances” they remain for a long time.  I’ve realized that only passage of time and proving of trustworthiness will build what he would consider a friend.  

In some respects, I would kill for this.  I worry about measuring up in the eyes of people I’ve barely met.  Worse, I sometimes worry about the views of people I don’t even really like or respect. 

Justin jokingly told me that maybe after some time, his disdain for the world in general would rub off on me a little and I’d only care what people thought of me about 75% of the time.  We both laughed, and conversation drifted easily on to other topics, but I’ve been thinking about it some ever since.

The thing is, while I’ve grown some in this area out of necessity (you either adapt or you go crazy), I’m not yet “there,” wherever “there” is.  Ridiculous things still get to me that shouldn’t.  Justin has a friend who hasn’t adjusted well to this new married state of things.  Their friendship has changed — things aren’t like they used to be back in the day for a thousand reasons, but in this person’s mind, I’m the cause, and he hasn’t been very kind about it.  I know Justin tries to shield me from it as he sorts through how to move forward, but some things still get through, and every single time, it hurts, and I rant and rave to myself how I’ve tried, and how I’m not really like that, and how he needs to quit it. 

The thing is, I know that I’ve tried hard to be warm and friendly when it would have been easy to be otherwise.  I know the accusations don’t have any grounding in reality.  I know that they don’t affect Justin’s thoughts about me or our marriage.  But every time, I eat my heart out, equal parts hurt and frustration.  It shouldn’t by now, but it throws me for a loop every time and it’s several long conversations with Justin before I’m reassured again. 

I have everyone – from this guy, to coworkers from two jobs ago, to an annoyed-that-I-quit supervisor at Starbucks, to the girl who cut my hair this morning – on my radar of “What does this person think of me?”  Much of it happens without me even knowing it.  In an instant, the thought process is complete.  I get nervous and begin awkwardly searching for the cool thing to say, or, I go on the defensive, becoming silent and standoffish.  Neither are who I really am, or who I really want to be, for that matter.

Too much power has been surrendered to those whose place in my life doesn’t warrant it. 

The way one person described it (who knows if it was in conversation or if I read it somewhere, it’s been so long) was that there is a conference room in your head, complete with a huge conference room table, and there are people sitting there whom you’ve chosen.  These people are people you’ve given permission to tell you about yourself, good and bad.  Beyond that, depending on the power you give them, they influence everything from decisions that you make to how you feel about yourself when you stumble bleary-eyed to the bathroom first thing in the morning and come face to face with you.

I have far too many people in chairs around that table, that’s for certain.  I don’t tend to choose with any discretion.   

I am operating on automatic pilot too often to be able to sort these thoughts out as they happen, but I’m going to try to pay more attention.  There are some folks who simply need to go.  There are others who know me deeply, but nevertheless who love me and are for me, that need to be given a microphone at the table (my husband, Julie, my family, Daniel).  I sometimes give strangers’ words more volume than theirs, even if only momentarily. 

There is also the not-small matter of God seeing me through gracious eyes and knowing who this messiness will someday become.

Easier said than done, of course, but the work of paying attention to what goes on inside my head and heart can be nothing compared to the exhaustion of having to monitor so many perceptions. 

So, here I go.  Wish me luck.  Not caring at least 25% of the time seems lovely.

a life upgraded

So Justin is over in Seattle tonight, hanging out with all the dudes for their annual Fantasy Football draft.  I don’t really know exactly how it all works, but he’s all excited (you’ve never seen guys talk on the phone so much), and… well, I’m learning to be.  It’s all become this huge joke really.  I get a star everytime I demonstrate I know something — anything — about football.  I recognize Hasselbeck?  Star.  Point out Shawn Alexander?  Star.  Oh yeah, that’s coach Mike Holmgren.  Yep.  That’s right.  Star.  I go see Invincible with him?  Double star.  (Was actually a pretty good flick).

I used to be (okay, still am) the consummate fairweather fan.  If the Seahawks were kicking some major butt like they were last season, I’d catch the last several games.  If not, I’d probably use the Superbowl as an annual excuse to eat way too much in front of the TV. 

This season… will be a little different. 

It occurs to me that a few things in my life are changing.

I’m pretty sure tonight is the first or second evening we’ve spent apart since he moved over here in late June.  I mean, we’ve hung out with friends, enjoyed the company of others, but always — together.  And this is the way we like it — it’s hard enough just to say goodbye and have him drive the 15 minutes back to his place around midnight.  We simply like being together as much as possible.

Still, this is a huge divergence from the quiet nights on my own here in the LBH.  It’s been an adjustment, not a difficult one by any means, but it’s a big shift.  I’m not ashamed to admit that I was truly excited for him to go and hang out with just the guys… because it also meant that I’d have a bit of time to hang out with just myself.  I think that’s okay to say.  I think it’s also okay to say that it wasn’t long after I’d dropped him off at the ferry that I missed him and started looking forward to him being back home again.  Fifteen minutes, perhaps? 

There are the briefest of moments when I remember my quiet nights alone at the LBH with the tiniest of longings.  It usually has to do with missing some of the things I used to do when I was on my own, things that have been on a bit of a hiatus for the time being.  I read more.  I played my guitar more.  I definitely wrote more often.  I was more contemplative.  I was more of that artsy ideal I’ve always fancied.

I also went to the gym more.  It causes me no small amount of grief that 6′5″ not-fat-in-the-first-place Justin lost ten pounds since he’s been here, and I’ve gained ten. 

But as I sit here and think about my life… I may read less, but when I read now, I have someone beside me… someone whose own reading I interrupt at regular intervals to read any particularly brilliant passage that’s resonating with me.  (And he listens).  We’ll go to Barnes & Noble and wander for a while, finally settling down in the cafe for some mochas, quietly reading but enjoying one another’s presence (and always finding some way to be touching).  Or, we go down to the rock-and-oyster-strewn beach by my house, sit down on the worn wooden steps, and read Buechner out loud to each other as the sun sinks out of sight behind the Olympics. 

(Justin read Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies this past week, and our conversation has been peppered with her words and perspectives all week.  She is my favorite author next to Buechner, and to have someone to savor these words with me is heaven).

I finished a book this afternoon, and I felt a real sense of accomplishment at having done so because I haven’t succeeded at getting more than a third of a book read in months, but would I trade all this companionship, this comraderie, for more opportunities to read the last page?  No way.

I played my guitar more, but there was no one there to listen with a huge proud grin on his face.  No one to tell me that I really need to keep chasing that little dream in there.

I wrote more, I was a bit more contemplative, sure.  But what did I write about often?  What was on my mind and heart?  Well, lots of things, actually.  But there were many times I wrote about heartbreak or of feeling lonely, wrote of wanting someone to do life with.  And although there are times I miss this outlet and am looking forward to things settling down at some point so I can type my jumbled thoughts out a little more often, I wouldn’t go back.  Not in a million years.  I kind of like the way I get to share my jumbled thoughts with Justin out loud, face-to-face.  He’s a great sounding board, and always in my corner.  He’s my rock.  Rather than tearing up every now and then on my own or as I’m typing or as I’m laying my head down on my pillow, I bury my tears in a warm chest and strong arms.  I find peace in the knowledge that no matter what — no matter how weak or frustrated or tired I feel — someone in this world is for me.  Grace abounds.

Yeah, yeah, I was ten pounds skinnier before.  But I have someone now who — literally — tells me everyday that I am beautiful, that I am treasured, that I am being pursued, that I am loved.  And that he doesn’t care if I’m ten pounds different because he didn’t notice anyway. 

You know, I almost believe him.  (And I am glad I bought my wedding dress a little big). 

In three weeks I’ll be saying goodbye to the Little Blue House and to this 500 square feet of the world I called mine for a while.  Mine is, degree by degree, from the DVD collection to the laundry piles to the grocery trips, becoming ours.  Soon.  There’ll be this truly interesting few months of my crashing at my folks’ place to save cash.  There’ll be a far more interesting period of about two weeks following the honeymoon where we’ll be crashing in the room next to Grandma.  (Oh dear God).  And then… finally… Justin and I will be settling into our home.  Settling into our new life.  Our grand adventure.

I won’t be looking back. 

to be known

Hello there.  It’s been a while.  It’s good to be back.

Writer’s block is just a symptom of feeling like you have nothing to say, combined with the rather weird idea that you SHOULD feel the need to say something.

Why?  If you have something to say, then say it.  If not, enjoy the silence while it lasts.  The noise will return soon enough.  In the meantime, you’re better off going out into the big, wide world, having some adventures and refilling your well…

–Hugh McLeod, www.gapingvoid.com

Truth be told, I had been fighting those feelings for a while.  Feeling like I don’t really have much to say, feeling like I should have something to say.  It’s a weird tension.  I enjoyed the time away from my keyboard.  I spent it where I needed to — sharing words and thoughts with one person rather than a group, building something deep and strong.  It was time spent well.  Justin and I are less than two weeks from sharing the same side of the state, and I am counting down the days. 

I have finally reached the point again where I must write.  Feels good.

We’ll see if folks start popping back around from time to time…

*****

If you’re me, the thing you want the most is the very thing you fear the most.

I want to be known.  I do.  There is something amazing about knowing that, in all the wide world, there are a precious few who know you and understand you.  They get it.  It’s freeing. 

I want to be known.  But it sure is scary once someone gets beyond the pleasant parts to the messy, more shaky, more hidden (and for good reason) parts. 

During the many hours spent wandering in words — some face to face, many more with a phone clamped to my ear (much to Verizon Wireless’ delight and extreme profit this month, the bastards) — I found the friend and love I’ve wanted all my life.  Our hearts thrill to the same things that are beautiful in this life — but we are different enough to keep things interesting.  After all this time, I have found my match.  Me.  Of all people. 

There is no way to do this justice.  How could I have possibly known that love would find me this year?  I am loved so well.  I didn’t even know exactly what I needed, but here he is.  Funny bordering on extremely goofy.  An honest pilgrim, seeking authentic faith.  A lover of words and lyrics and music and film.  Master of the deadpan, off-beat joke.  Writer of love-letters.  Composer of poems.  Patient.  Generous.  Steadfast.  Loyal.  Passionate. 

And for some crazy reason, he chooses me.  This works out extremely well for me, but there are times I don’t understand it.

He was here a week ago, and began to see some of the crazy that is me.  We doubled over in laughter when I clumsily dropped a tub of sour cream from the refrigerator case at Albertsons and it exploded.  He very gently reminded me at the gas pump that putting my debit card in the back pocket of my jeans could cause me problems finding it later.  He helped me search for my keys about ten different times over the course of the weekend.  He came out of my bathroom, chuckling at the fact that I don’t put the cap back on the toothpaste.  Sunday night, he gladly helped me search my car for my glasses and drove back down to Red Robin with me to check the lost & found and see if I’d left them there at dinner.

Sense a pattern?

(After a headache-filled week, I finally found the glasses.  Checking with Red Robin that all-important third time worked out all right for me).

Those are the kinds of messiness that cause me some embarrassment, but are still placed gently in the “cute” category, at least for now.  There are other kinds of messiness that, no matter where they’re placed, are so hard for me to let another person see.  Especially in the everyday, ever-growing intimacy that is ours.  I am messy.  I am human.  I don’t like either.

There are days and sometimes weeks on end that I get so twisted up into knots over the craziness that is cubicle land, I am a teary disaster.  It’s easy for life’s out-of-whack moments to really throw me off for far longer than they should.  When this happens, I like to stick my head in the sand and not move for a while.  (This rarely helps matters).  When relationships get bumpy, I am drained of all energy until I can find resolution and peace.  Sometimes I’m the reason the war drags on. When it comes to supporting others, I am far more likely to offer words than an ear.  I easily forget that sometimes it’s not a feisty defender that’s needed, just a soft shoulder. 

Some days I can’t talk myself out of my own causeless melancholy.

There is something beautiful about a person promising to be there in good moments and bad, but there is also something truly terrifying in knowing that another person bears witness to your life.  They see it all.   

Days like today, I find myself once again face-to-face with some of my haunting demons, some of my bloodied brick walls.  Love is at my door and I find myself wishing I could get myself a little more together first, like someone with a cluttered house and unexpected guests, or a woman whose date arrived before she has her face on.  I’m so sorry… Just let me put that away.  Um… Just let me finish getting myself together.  Just ten more minutes, okay?   I wish I could present a better me sometimes.

But — life does not wait for you to have it together, and neither does love.  Love walks right on in the door and helps you clean up your junk.  It grabs you and kisses you hard, make-up or no.  It says, “I know you feel messy.  I know you’re scared.  Buddy — I’m in.  For the good and the bad.”

I really hope that as time goes on, I grow.  Not only in the areas of my life that are still messy, but in knowing that some parts of me will always be less than what I want them to be.  In the meantime, I am learning to be braver.  I am learning to let love in and to lean when I need to.  Learning to let myself be loved just as much for what I am not (or not yet) as for what I am.

I am learning to be known.  It is humbling and it is shaky, but it is so, so right. 

It is grace. 

No Perfect People Allowed, Part 45: God’s Fairness

God the Artist amazes me.  It rained and showered and blustered at intervals today (which I am getting a little sick of, truth be told), but all day long as we looked out our windows, we just saw rainbow after rainbow after rainbow.  We might get snow by week’s end (sigh), but there’s a brave, tiny daffodil that just bloomed two mornings ago in my flowerbed, whispering a tiny reminder that spring can’t be far off.  I’m glad.

***

Okay, back into what will probably be the last little discussion on this book that is rocking my brain.  Again, if you have any interest in helping people bridge the gap from the culture we live in to finding faith in Christ, I can’t recommend it enough.  You guys know my story well enough to know that I’ve fought cynicism where the church is concerned, but I am finding hope and encouragement within these pages — like there might just be a home for outsiders, a place where people can show up as-is and be embraced, just as Jesus would embrace them.

As I mentioned before, the mother-load question that people in our generation often ask of us is this: “How can you say Jesus is the only way to God?” which has a question buried just below its surface: “How can it be fair that Jesus is the only way?”  To ignore the question-beneath-the-question and simply enter into a debate with a person is risky at best, foolhardy at worst.  You might win the argument, but come off so arrogant that you lose the person (A cocky, know-it-all Christian?  Say it ain’t so).

This question of what-happens-to-those-who-have-never-heard-of-Christ is one that I was never comfortable with, try as I might to come to terms with what I’d been taught.  It was so black and white — you’ve either said the sinner’s prayer or you haven’t, you’re either saved or you’re not saved when you get into that car accident on your way home from church. 

Now, please hear me, I’m not saying that there are no absolutes.  (I can hear people wondering if I’ve gone on some relativistic rampage).  I’ve just been challenged in recent weeks to believe that God and God alone determines those absolutes, and that maybe Christian tradition hasn’t had it right all along after all, when we look at the Bible.

The measure that I was always taught for a person’s faith was whether or not they had said the sinner’s prayer and asked Jesus into their heart.  No prayer, no digs.

Here are some of the points from John Burke’s sermon on God’s fairness… I feel stupid for not considering these thoughts earlier, but here’s to new perspective.  To be truthful, I’m still processing, still wrapping my head around what this is saying.  I’m not going to present it as gospel itself.  But I do know that it’s challenging me to take another look at the Christian tradition I grew up with.  Some of the ideas that were presented as hard-and-fast Biblical truth — ideas that I never questioned except quietly in the back of my mind — well, they aren’t holding up.

Ultimately, we don’t know exactly how God will judge others.  We don’t know their hearts.  But there are certain things we know and don’t know from Scripture, according to Burke.

1.  Scripture claims that God is the God of all people, and that all people know about God simply through nature.  We also know when we’re screwing it up — our consciences tell us.  So no one has an excuse for outright ignoring or rejecting God.  God looks at the heart, not religion, of every person.  (2 Chronicles 16:9; Romans 1:16-2:16).

2.  There will be people in heaven made right with God, who never heard the name of Jesus.  (Why did this thought never cross my mind?  All the heroes of the faith who preceded Christ… are they S.O.L.?)  Abraham, Noah, Rahab the prostitute, were all made right with God by faith, which Jesus acknowledged (Hebrews 11 & Romans 4:16-17, John 8:56). If Jesus is the only way, then God took the faith they placed in the knowledge revealed to them (recognizing their need for God’s forgiveness and leadership), and God looked ahead to Jesus’ death on the cross on their behalf, applying Jesus’ sacrifice to them.  (Again, it’s not such a leap for me to believe that God can apply Jesus’ sacrifice 2,000 years ago to my life.  Can he not apply it to others as well?)  Scripture tells us that people from every tribe, tongue and ethnic group will be in heaven — not because they lived a good life or were sincere, but only because of God’s gift of forgiveness and relationship made possible through Christ — accessed by faith.  Burke says, “So I do not know exactly how God deals with those who have never heard of Jesus but are humbly seeking God, but I’m confident that everyone has an opportunity to choose life with God (Genesis 12:1-3, John 1:7-12, Acts 14:16-17, 17:30-31).”

3.  God cannot be unfair.  God looks at the heart and will not unfairly judge a person because of lack of knowledge or cultural or religious conditioning.  God will not send anyone to hell for these things — it would have to be because they truly did not want God’s leadership in their life.  God will let them have their way in this case.  Really, we shouldn’t worry about God’s fairness, since we can’t accurately judge the heart of another, or play judge of the fairness of God.  Jesus continually talked about how surprised people will be when all is said and done (Matthew 7:21-23)… we should take that into account.  It may be that grace is much bigger than we’ve sometimes allowed ourselves to believe.   

4.  Finally, God wants people to find confidence assurance that they are right with him, so he sent Christ.  As John wrote in Scripture, “I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may know that you have eternal life (1 John 5:13).”  God wants everyone to know with confidence that they can approach him without fear of condemnation because of what he’s done through Christ.  Scripture is clear — that Jesus is the only provision God has made to justly forgive us for doing our will rather than his — so if God sees the heart of a person who never heard of Jesus but is seeking to be forgiven and made right with God by faith, and God somehow does for her what he did for Abraham — it is only through what Jesus did on the cross.

He closes with this thought: “Finally, the important question for you and me is not, ‘What about other religions?’ or ‘How will God judge those who have never heard?’  We really don’t know.  But I promise this, he cares more about them than you do.  Christ gave his life for them; I doubt any of us care for those people that much, so rest assured that God will be more than fair if he didn’t spare his own Son for their sake.  The better question is ‘What will I do with the claims of Jesus now that I’ve heard?’ “

This is why we share our stories of finding grace… this is why we point people to Christ.  In Christ we have confident assurance that we are right with God.  Jesus did what we all demanded, that God show himself to us… and he revealed himself as God of the humble, broken, dependent soul.  The more we speak with authority on what we do know — what God has done in our broken lives — and admit our limitedness and God’s sovereignty on the things we don’t — who exactly is right with God and who isn’t — the more we remove barriers to people finding that same grace and truth in their own lives. 

I’m learning to be perfectly okay admitting to someone that there are things that I don’t know.  I know enough about God — through Scripture and through what he’s done in my own life — to trust him with the rest of it.  I’m sure he’s got it under control, and I’m at peace with that.  I’d like to be a person who helps other people be at peace with it, too.

My job is done here.  Wrestle a little.  And shoot me a line with your thoughts if you’re so inclined.

Blessings, S.