This Year....

This year…..

Exactly one year ago today this blog was started. I didn't want to start it on New Year’s because so many people resolve to blog and start them on the first. Yeah, I’m still a little weird or cool like that depending on how you think of it. 

This year was….

Amazing…

Hard…

New…

Rough…

Good.

This year was full of….

Papers, disappearing and reappearing appetites, broken pencils and a few other things, 100% and 110%, magnolias and bay leaves, pink erasers, purple, Mia, Ms. Prezzie, eye protocols,“It’s hyphenated,” that versatile paisley shirt, wind, 109 degrees, sno-cones, sparklers, sparkling tears and dew drops and dog noses, “ruining holidays,” weddings, wondering, Philly, New Jersey, caps and gowns and gold tassels, pointing at my family and especially my teacher mom in the stands and mouthing thank you, running after that elusive thing called a living, a different kind of Oct. 31, decisions, different directions, calling back, “I’m going to dance [one last time] for all that we've been through,” goodbyes, “I always survive,” numbness, even a thorough Brit on rare occasion has to admit “sometimes the French do do things better than the English,” dancing, well wishes and holiday spirit, “Enough...”

Exponential growth…

Tears…. and the inability to cry…

Smiles and grins and giggles

If I had to pick one word to describe this year, it would be transitions. Last year with two years of school done and 9 months to go, the newest thing was the different types of paper and learning the different professors... well there were other things too but compared to this year it was pretty steady. This year was different. Everything was new. Transitions are hard. They don’t always feel so great while going through them. However, they are necessary and oftentimes eventually, somewhere down the long winding road, you can look back and say you’re better off because of them.

This year was good. But not in the fuzzy, mushy, easy sort of way. Nothing was easy. Nothing. But nothing was so hard I didn't survive thanks to my Leader Whose grace is sufficient for me. It was the very hardness and roughness and toughness that perhaps was the best part of this year. Because everything worth really having is worth working for. The negative made the positive shine brighter. The failure made the victory be not taken for granted. Few people get the chance to go to hell and then soar to heaven all in one year. But I was blessed to. No, I never thought I’d use that word together with that metaphor. But in the moments when the light slipped through the cracks I could see it was blessed. Now that it’s done and over I know for sure. It was blessed. Very blessed.

Welcome New Year. Bring it on because come what may I know I’m held in the palm of the Great I AM, the King of the universe. Am I ready? No, but I have a year’s more experiences and faith to go on. And most of all because of the Man sitting in heaven.

Transitions. Hard. Blessed. Enough. It was a good year.

Welcome Next One. 

Voting Day: A slice of life

In writing terms a slice of life is when you take an incident, a day, or a thread in someone's life and focus on it. Think a huge photo with a ton of people and then focusing in on the eyes of one person - freezing it on what that one person is seeing for that one moment.

~                                     ~                                   ~                                      ~                                 ~

Our community is in a way the best of both worlds - the country environment and the city atmosphere.

Tuesday was voting day.

The polls are generally always busy around here. Maybe that's a sign pointing to what good citizens we are. The environment is hushed as we unanimously follow the "no talking politics" rule. Unconsciously, we probably take it a bit father than necessary. Even with full polls the atmosphere is usually strangely quiet for the number of people.  Despite the hushed atmosphere, people are very friendly. Complete strangers smile at each other. It's almost a peaceful feel, like the calm before a hurricane.

We walked in and were immediately greeted warmly.  We knew almost everyone there and almost everyone knew us. After we finished voting we walked out of the booths and talked.

But I don't mean talking like in black and white pictures of people in dirty overalls chewing on grass stems and talking about cows. Not that that can't be picturesque and beautiful in its own way. It just that isn't our atmosphere.

Every year without fail the same people run the polls. They are retired teachers and supervisors and social workers. They have masters degrees. They know most voters by name and welcome everyone with a cheery smile.

We're professionals, middle class, run of the mill people. Engineers, teachers, nurses. Modern haircuts, slacks, and sweaters. But somehow in the modern world of chaos and each man-for-himself we've held on to being human in a good sense. We remember more than just names. We remember your dog's name too.

So first we walk in and are greeted by Ms. N. and Mrs. A. Mrs. A. rises even. She wonders if I remember her. I swallow memories. Of course I do. She was Aunt Pat's best friend. Aunt Pat died when I was eight. I really want to hug Mrs. Anne... but in the moment I stupidly wonder if she feels the same way about me. She too hesitates and then wordlessly asks. So we hug and I squeeze my eyes shut and half think, half feel memories of Aunt Pat.

I can just hear some friends of mine laughing at the situation I've just recounted. "How complicated can you make something that simple?" But let me explain. It all happened in less than 5 seconds. It was all so subtle most people wouldn't have noticed. But it epitomizes true beautiful Southern culture. It thinks about the other person rather than one's self. It considers an other's feelings rather than one's own. While Hollywood may romanticize "Southern Belle culture," the real deal lies not so much in hoop skirts and glamor but in quiet everyday thoughtfulness.

We move on to our vicinity table. A lady checks our IDs with the names typed in a three ring binder, then spells them out to another woman who writes them by hand. This proves to be an efficient system and has eradicated voter fraud at the polls (not that I ever heard of it happening before here anyway).

We bump into the couple that lives down the street and say a brief hello, promising to visit each other soon. I reach to hug the lady.

While I'm in the booth I hear someone say, "hello Leslie." Then I hear another voice that sounds like grandma - well the special type of adopted grandmas, in this case she adopted us (for which I'll be forever grateful). Sure enough it's Grandma Z and Grandpa Z. We swap a couple hugs. Meanwhile we converse with another neighbor. She really deserves her own slice of life story. Recently she lost her mother. Right before her death the mother told her to get a dog like she always wanted. So, our neighbor rescued a dog named Maggie and brought her home. Like our little dog when we first got her she's skinny with big, probing brown eyes.

Side note: By the time I get out of the booth everyone knows I'm headed for Dallas and starts asking me about it. It was sweet how everyone cared about me. Also, made me smile at how fast news travels just like in the movies. Only this is good news. Bad news travels too but in the circles like the one I'm describing, it's kept to corner conversations for the most part.

While we talk I see an older couple leaning on each other stop to read a sign directly outside the door. Without their knowing, a towering giant wearing a black vest with a Harvey-Davidson t-shirt underneath and heavy boots comes up behind them. A "biker dude" - not being prejudiced here; that's the term they call themselves around here ;) - in every sense of the word. He was twisting a hat in his hands, though due to his contortions of it I don't know what kind it was. He stood with bent head politely waiting. Mrs. A. noticed within a few minutes and lets him in. Perhaps he was the closest thing to the expected stereotype strangers think inhabit my small town world. But he wasn't the stereotype exactly. He was polite and courteous. It was obvious he was a worker. He added to the kaleidoscope of backgrounds, political views, clothes and mannerisms that make home, well home.

After getting our update on the dog Maggie, we wave goodbye one last time to Mrs. A. and hug Grandma one more time. Grandpa Z's in a hurry but he stops long enough to help an older lady out of her vehicle so she too can cast her vote.

Before we left we heard someone else say the live on our same street. She ends up being parked next to us so we introduce ourselves.

Once we climb into the car, Mom recounts her conversation with Mrs. A. Apparently she still remembers me and really cares because there's that connection with Aunt Pat. I guess we're in the same place. We both care but haven't figured out how to communicate or keep up with each other.

I swallow. Then almost whisper, "I miss her."

"Miss who?"

I rub the edges of my phone. "Aunt Pat. I miss her."

I haven't said that before. I remember her. It was only my second loss. I was young. Sometimes I get angry and saddened because I can't remember as much as I want to. I can talk about other losses. But she is so much harder for some reason. I'm surprised by how much emotion it takes just to say those simple words ten years or more later. But it's also good to say them somehow.

Mom has Mrs. Anne's phone number. I'll see her at run-offs. This time I'll make a point to talk to her longer.

I have a "hang-up"

It's a good thing not all people are psychologists or we'd all have about 500 untreatable diseases. I've heard "diagnoses" for a million pyschological ailments and hang-ups, some downright hilarious and others downright terrifying. But the most ununderstandable part to me, is why we find ailments and limitations so downright hilarious.

Or do we?

I've dealt with a lot of health issues. For the most part, people have been really supportive. Definitely been blessed. I mean sure sometimes all the "unnecessary" bags get a scornful look, but generally if you just carry them all for yourself and keep up with the group and shove them under your own seat everything's fine.

It's the obvious stuff people love to pick on.

Like speech impediments.
Like the shape of Down syndromers faces.
Like being crippled.
Like shortness.
Like being Mexican.
Like having blonde hair.
Like stereotyping.

(wow! I don't think I want to use the word "like" again for the next month at least!)

By this point maybe you are politely rolling your eyes because it seems I've once again gone off on an unrelated tangent. What does diagnoses and making fun of stutters have to do with each other? Actually they go together perfectly. See, among other eventful happenings this summer I was diagnosed with a serious hang-up. A hang-up about none other than my hair color.

(For those of you who know me only online.... it's blonde. Or blond. But I prefer blonde. Kinda like "Anne with an 'e'." We might be "kindred" readers if you get that.)

Yeah, a blonde hang-up.

Why? Because while I try to laugh along over blonde jokes, after an hour's worth of only blonde jokes I get bored. And I may have even been known to suggest other genres after awhile. And even more embarrassingly I may have even pointed out I was one so could we please change the subject.... and after they degrade from the first five fairly funny (try saying that fast) to the next really awful 50.... I may have mentioned it again more vehemently.

Yeah, obviously I have the biggest hang-up in history. *sarcasm alert  - but you've probably picked up on that by now*

Most jokes like that are harmless. But we all know when we're being picked on and when it's just a general conversation topic. After one scathing session I remember mentioning it privately to a trusted friend. "They probably didn't notice your hair color," was their excuse.

Yeah, they probably didn't just like people don't notice speech impediments or height or wheel chairs. All you have to do is keep your eyes open. But why would anyone bother to do that?

Once upon a time in a hypothetical situation, there was a plane full of red headed, brownheaded and blackheaded people. But there was only one blonde. The pilot was an idiot so he took the wrong route and by the time he realized it he was running low on fuel. REALLY low. (No, this isn't in the original joke, but it always bothered me despite hearing it 500 times why there was no explanation for the following incidents.) He explained the situation to the passengers over intercom and explained they would need to lighten the load in order to try to use less fuel. First the baggage went. Then the seats. Then the bottom of the plane. (Maybe the pilot wasn't so much of an idiot as a diabolical menace.) But still it was too heavy. "Someone must jump and lighten the load," announced the pilot. The blonde spoke up."I'm the only blonde on here so I'll go." Immediately all the redheads and brownheads and blackheads clapped. *guffaws inserted here* Of course the blonde still died because the pilot managed to get lost again and flew over an active volcano- end of joke

It wasn't funny was it? Even minus the last line of really bad humor that wasn't humorous. Why? Because the stereotype makes it funny.

Embarrassingly enough in the past I've been known to make a little stink about blonde jokes and generally hated them. That was wrong. It's not turning the other cheek. Or side of the head in this case. But now I don't do that. Just get really quiet and try to feel invisible because it's better than feeling picked on. I laugh along if it's funny. Don't if it's not. Just like any other joke. We should be able to make fun of ourselves and see the humor in life, right?

But I've decided some jokes aren't worth laughing at. Like mentally handicapped or racial jokes. They're hurtful even if they're hilarious.

"Now wait a minute, Mia. Wait a cotton pickin'," you're saying. It's just a harmless joke. If we left stereotypes in jokes and our minds only maybe it'd be ok. Not ideal but ok. But do we? The stereotypes we perpetrate in "harmless" fun often carry over to real life interactions. Our subconscious brains don't always shut on and shut off ideas. And yes, maybe some stereotypes are a little true. But not everyone with a stutter is stupid and not every blonde is big chested with no brains.

That's why I have a "blonde hang-up." Sometimes when I'm bubbly it's equated to becauase "she's blonde and blondes are overly excitable." Sometimes when I do something stupid, but no more stupid than others, it's a "blonde" moment. I get told not to "play into the stereotype," etc.

Thanks to having God always standing beside me, I view myself as confident and capable in Him. I'm incredibly grateful for the brain God gave me and for the grace He supplied to obtain a college degree before 20. So maybe I don't have a blonde hang-up.

Maybe I have a hang-up about carelessness.
Or maybe about thoughtlessness.
Or maybe prejudice.
Or selfishness - the heart of all negative issues.

To all of you....

There's a quiet group of people I'd like to shout out to. People that are a group not because they consciously band together but because what they do is the same wherever and however they happen to do it.

They work alone many times hidden away in cobwebbed corners taking care of what remains after the filth of the world takes its toll.

Their living is a form of ministry although they'll never admit it or probably even know it until they get their reward in another world.

The ones that work for nothing and rarely if ever get the proper thanks they deserve....

But they don't care because it's not about getting anything back.

It's about service and care and giving and loving like there's no tomorrow.

It's about sacrifice. Sacrificed sleep and emotions and energy and money and their own pleasure.

You know who I'm talking about....

The silent encouragers.

Encouragers isn't even a word in the dictionary. But we all know who they are even though we never think about them unless we need them.

The people that pick up our pieces.
The people that listen to our midnight rants and pour the balm on our broken hearts.
The person that smiles at you and makes that moment a little better.
The mom that gives you that one sentence that gets you back up on your horse and going.
The little sibling that says "you're the best" when we know we're not.
The dad that says he'll finance yet another wild venture because he believes in you.
And then the whole family and church family prays our head stays together while we go off and do it.
The friend that we always end up dumping on.
The other friend that tells us the "hard" truth because they love us and all they get is an angry outburst for their trouble.
The person that takes the slack when we "need" someone to yell at...

If you've ever stayed up til 2 or 4am.... If you've ever not known what to do, but you did something anyway because you couldn't leave a horrible situation without at least trying.... If you've ever swallowed your feelings to comfort someone else.... If you've ever sacrificed a grade because study wasn't as important as a person....If you've ever done the hard thing because it was the right  thing.... If you've ever held on to a sobbing idiot and felt even more idiotic because you couldn't think of any way to fix it... If you've ever not walked away when that seemed to be the only option.... If you've ever walked away because someone depended on you too much and you loved them too much to let them... If you've ever given advice or withheld it for the same reason...

This post is for you. To say thanks for the tears, the frustration, the times you couldn't think of anything to say but you dug around until you found an old cliche that fit better than all the fancy language in the world could have.

I know you beat yourself up. I know you look back and think of a million things you think you should have done or said or looked for or seen coming or been prepared for. A thousand pieces of advice you wish you'd given or not given. A hundred nights when you wished you'd actually been a bit more prepared instead of not even knowing where the tissue box or the Bible was. Or maybe you just wish you weren't there at all. And then feel guilty for thinking such a thing. Hey, listen. It's ok. I'm so glad you aren't like so many that advert their eyes from the grime. I'm so grateful that you roll up your sleeves when you see a problem. I'm so glad your pants have holes in them from kneeling.  I'm so glad you were there. Even if it wasn't for me. I'm glad you were there for whoever it was you were there for. And chances are just being there and doing something was the right thing.

So thank you. Whether you ever get told this or not the world wouldn't be the same way without you.

A Death in the Family

This morning started with a message from 5:23am. It said something to the effect of, "Something really bad happened. Call me before you check social media." Panic.There was only one thing that that could be about... only one main mutual friend... "Dear God, no. NO! I just talked to them yesterday. I just heard that gentle voice come over the phone reassuring me it would be ok."  Now I couldn't even remember what it was that was bothering me the day before. Just the voice murmuring soft reassurances they'd murmured a thousand times before.

Look at the clock. 3 minutes. Of borrowed time.

No time to call. Just enough time before I had to go to check social media. Brace yourself for the inevitable.  But how can you brace yourself for what you don't even know?

It didn't hit home at first. The message was vague. It sounded like everyone was alive. But there was nothing vague about the second one.

I was right. I wish I had been wrong.  There was a death. Three to be exact. Just not the one I was expecting.  A CollegePlus family in Arkansas suffered tremendously by the tornado. Their home was demolished, killing 3 members of their family - Dad and two daughters.

and then.... it hit home

In the picture was Whitney. Whitney who joined CP about the same time I did, the girl I'd chatted with many times in those early days on chat. The one that took the same somewhat obscure class I had and given me tips on the test. The fellow "brilliant blondie" who wanted to be a writer like me. And there was the profile pic with her hugging her dad. It was the same exact pose of me and my dad on my birthday... The final straw? The sister spelled her name the same way my sister does - with a k.

And as Whitney reminded us to hug our daddys, the blow hit home.... Life is short and fleeting. There isn't time for angry words or selfish pining. There isn't room for anything but living. God apparently got the message when I kept humming "Hello Lord." Over the weekend the same message again and again. But today it really came home. Rebekah Tittle's last Skype message was in answer to "Are you there?" to which she replied "I am." Within 2-3 hours her sister was posting that she was dead.

Tears brim in my eyes as I watch the CP community be ripped apart and come back together. CPers have always called themselves a family. This isn't our first death... but it's the first for our generation. Following on the heels of a very happy engagement, it's not easy But once again we come together - stronger, more courageous, more mature than we were before. I encourage us all to do something now. If you can, give. Several CPers are discussing going to help. For more details on this, feel free to contact me and I can put you in touch with the people heading this up.

Lastly, I issue a challenge to us all: Every time you see a post, an "in memory," or a prayer request, stop right there and then and send up a prayer. With the way social media is flooded right now, if each of us did this than it would be more prayers than we could count.

A Day of Life

Note: Started this post on Sunday but just now got around to posting it. Hence, the references to today as in today being Sunday.

Today was a day of life.

It started with my eyelids popping open remembering, "It's Easter Sunday. That means it's Megan's birthday." It seemed fitting that a birthday,  day of growth, should fall on this Sunday of all Sundays. A Sunday of renewal and promises and hope.

The Sunday when you finally get to wear new shoes. Sandals to be exact. White sandals to be really exact. Despite the tremendous heat of  Louisiana weather, as little girls we were never allowed to wear light shoes til Easter.  So you shove your feet into fairly new braided sandals even though for this one day it's turned somewhat cold this morning. However, after being tortured with being stuffed in Converse tennis shoes all winter long you kinda don't care about the cold.

You go to meeting and sing all the beloved old hymns. "Up form the grave" reminds you of your great grandma. The day wouldn't be complete without lesson number I-lost-count-a-long-time-ago of "Life. v. Tradition." If I had to sum up one thing God's been consistingently driving home to me this year it would be that shoved into the wackyiest moments in the seemingly most crazy moments. It's not always about what has always been, or what we always thought would be. It's about Him and so although sometimes His ways are extremely different than the ones we expect they are still truly the right ones. He also supplies so much grace... so much grace.

As though to support the lesson, the whole natural world was bedecked in LIFE. The skies were cloudless and blue. So blue. I've met way more peole with brown eyes than blue (they aren't common in the family).  But for their smaller number, the ratio of truly dear people with blue eyes is fairly high. Abandoning the usual "gussy" clothes you don a shirt that only half goes with the brown capris and your blue pair of Converses are returned to. But life doesn't always have perfectly matched colors. Just like it isn't black and white or even gray, black and white. The sky reminds you of all the dear ones with blue eyes. Especially when they light up. You remember when you've made them light up with a smile, a joke, or a compliment. The trees, like girls at a party, are each trying to be a different shade. It almost seems as you walk under the oak trees that nature is trying to express tit's Maker just for you. Purple irises. Yellow irises. White and purple irises. And in the tangled mix are bright coral roses named America.

This is life.

But every lesson need its opposite to drive it home as much as it needs its's positeve. You visit a hospital today. Dressed from church. It's time to have the experience as well as training. God has a way of making sure you get a fair share of both. You walk in. Past roses and into classical music. They seem like shams. You see other people too, some very friendly. You're all dressed "to the nines". But there's none of the usual chatter and giggling that attends girls in pretty dresses. You pass a bed in the hall with a muted pink blanket. It holds a strange fascination even though half of you wants to pull away and stop the memories. The strange mesmerization wins though.

You remember the hall. It's white. It stinks with that chemical cleaner smell as though to camouflage something else, as though the smell associated in your mind so vividly with fear could eliminate the smell of death you're so scared of. In the doorway behind you they're discussing another test result. There are lots of people pointing at a picture. Your mother's listening She's a nurse you know. You're scared of being trampled. There aren't many things you aren't scared of in this plae. People keep seeming to rush by. There comes a lot of commotion. You shrink against the wall. A bed appears. Way off the ground. And a little lady in a gown that flops around her emaciated form is in it. Her skin is yellow brown and her white hair hangs in wisps. She's about to make a lasting impression but neither of you know that then. Your eyes are wide with terror. And then she smiles. A little, thin smile as though it takes all her energy to be strong for you. As though somehow while she's being wheeled to what you instinctively feel is her open grave, she's trying to give you something

Your mom comes out and you point to the disappearing bed. You tell her she smiled at you. You ask if she's going to die, then burst into tears. You don't want her to die. You don't want to die. You want to go home. Your mother smoothes your hair and assures you in that sweet, motherly voice. 

That smile will never leave you.  You decide that if you ever get a chance you want to smile like that. To make someone's life better. A little less scary.

You pull yourself away from the memories. You visit and hug and think about the miraculous fact that the person you went to visit is actually still alive.  You pass that bed again on your way out and shiver, wishing with all your heart that you never have lay in one. But if you do, you want to smile too. You want to add to the life in this world.

Somehow that bed seems lower to the ground now.

Don’t tell me I’m “SAD,” because I’m not

{Warning: the following may contain uses of the author’s favorite writing “mistake.” Namely, she will use the word “you” a lot. It’s used in the third person form. Not a direct address. In other words, don’t sue me. :P (She also uses a lot of parentheses.)}


“It is joy unspeakable and full of glory… and the half has never yet been told!” – anonymous hymn

I've been studying. Dangerous I know. :P And I've been wondering…


When did Valentine’s Day become SAD day?

Just look at it. It screams “DEPRESSION” complete with neon stop lights. It screams a lot more too, but more on that later. When I was a kid, a dear older relative made pretty cards out of doilies with me and some of my friends got candy – one girl even got roses from her daddy. None of us ever felt incomplete or unhappy.  But now we've gotten mature and we declared it a sad day. Unless of course you have somebody to hang on that gives you chocolate. (Is it just me or is certain red-dyed candy that’s fashionable around this time so fake looking it’s disgusting? Yes, that’s a run-on. I forewarned you I’d been studying. :P)

I know, I know. You’re wondering if I know what SAD stands for. Yes, I do. Single AWARENESS day. That’s the real reason it bothers me actually. It’s like if you’re single  then you must make everyone aware of it, because you’re so sad. Why else would the acronym spell that word instead of something else? That's the part that gets me when people ask me what Valentine’s Day holds for me. Here’s a typical conversation to illustrate my point.

Anonymous: “So, I’m going out with {insert their special person’s name}. We’re going to do ___, ____, and ___. I’m going to give them ____.”

Now what I’d like is if we could just keep talking about the fun and all the little particulars. Unfortunately it always takes this turn:

Anonymous: “So what are you going to do?”

Me: “Well…. (pause because you know exactly what’ll happen after you answer) got a big test coming up and some tight deadlines. That’ll be my day. Maybe spend some time with family in the evening. The Olympics are on you know and we enjoy watching them together.”

Anon.: “Aw… {insert overly dramatic look of pity}… another SAD (pronounced SsaaaAaaaaaddD) day for you. Well, don’t worry. You’ll have somebody someday.”

They’re probably right. But in the meantime I have no intention of moping and flaunting my “SAD” status all over everything.

(We won’t even cover the scenario where the convo degenerates to this: “Maybe if you wore a shorter skirt or tried ___ flirty technique. Or tell you what? Why don’t I find you a date?”)

I’ll be honest. I like flowers. February is a dull, dreary, rainy month. Some excitement would brighten it. But, to continue the flower analogy, I don’t find my identity in the fact that I have or don’t have flowers arriving at my door. Nor will I ever find any joy in bickering over whose bouquet’s bigger. Nor being disappointed when so and so’s is bigger… Yes, when people do that it gets on my nerves like few other things… but I’m totally digressing. Not that I never promised not to, but that’s a different story *ahem* diversion in this case. :P

Bottom line: a FB status of “relationship” or “single” is not the basis of my identity or joy. Christ is.

So before the next person jumps to the conclusion that February 14th is going to be a “sad/SAD” day for me, I wish they’d stop and think about how great my life is. Not because it’s flawless, or stressless, or whatever.  But because I have a great Lord who is the foundation and cornerstone of my identity and joy.  Christ is the immeasurable, unconquerable joy. It doesn’t matter if we’re unhappy or struggling. One thing will always give us joy and that is very simply – God. No, I’m not preaching at anyone but me. I’m preaching to the girl that clutched her throat in agony and yelled at Him to stop the pain. I’m lecturing at the girl who’s crumbled when someone she trusted stabbed her in the back. I’m screaming at the kid who cried like the world had stopped turning last year when someone dear to her died. Because even in those moments if I could just find the strength to start praising Him, I could be joyful. Was I happy? No. I was hurting obviously. But there was an “unspeakable joy.”

The same goes for identity. There are things that I relate to that make me, me. There’s stuff you relate to that makes you, you. GPA, acting skills, sports ability, friends, whatever. But sometimes those things crumble. Sometimes, we’re stripped of it and left a broken heap in the mud. But the core of God’s children’s identity can’t be taken away because it’s simply Him. Do not we pray to become less so that He can become more?

So… I have 10x better things to do than sit and mourn my FB status. I’ve got the joy that made Paul and Silas sing in chains. I’m identified with the King no matter how much dirt I’m crawling in. And so do you. :D

And now excuse me. I have some Romantic era poetry to cram into my head (yes, even the school system is rigged :P), a student body initiative to plan, and a friend I want to ask how her Valentine gift we were brainstorming earlier is going.

Happy Birthday!!!!

“I picked up a pen and started saying just what I’d say to you if we were face to face….these are the words I would say”  -  Sidewalk Prophets “The Words I would Say”

Daddy,

I know, I know, grown up girls don’t always say daddy. It’s what I’ve called you since I could talk so I don’t see any reason to stop now. You seem to like it ok… and besides, when did I ever promise to be grown up? :P You’ll get a card when you come home today. But here’s the message that wouldn’t fit in it. Besides, I want the whole world to know how awesome you are.

-  Thank you for being there, Daddy.  You know how whenever we travel you just let me ramble about everything and nothing up in the front seat with you? Well… that really means a lot. How you take it I don’t know. I tell you about everything from school to music to guys to what annoys me on social media.  Yes, people, he lets this go on for 6 hours straight sometimes. Nobody listens to me for 6 hour straight. :P He even invited me on another trip this spring. And if I have to stay up from here ‘til then finishing up this class, I want to go with you!

- Daddy, thank you for never half doing things. Whenever you’re going to do something, you’re going to do it, and do it right. Whenever one of us kids is interested in something you and mom always try to find the best teacher, the best supplies, the best whatever it is.

- Thank you, Dad and Mom, for sharing the truth with us but never throwing us out there to get beat up by it. Remember all the Nonwestern lit stuff you read for me? It made the nasty material so much easier to handle/come to grips with by having you to discuss things with. Your notes and comments were invaluable for that class.

- Thanks for being interested in so many aspects of life. You’ve exposed Rebekah and me to so many things, from cowboys to symphonies. I feel sorry for the girls whose dads  don’t walk them over “the land” or give them a chance to drag a couple little trees to brush piles (btw we should do that again sometime) or make a dozen wheel barrow trips. I feel sorry for the girls who never held a snake, albeit for only 2 split seconds. ;) I feel sorry for the girls who never are taught the rules of football. Thanks for never making your girly girl be a tomboy – but instead just letting me experience it all.

- Thank you for watching all those girly movies. (Yes, folks does he get a medal or what?)

- Thank you for driving half way around the world every summer for Truth School and CP ambassadorships. And for all the other trips we don’t talk about much - all the medical ones that cost way more than I ever want to know. For all the money, time, energy, and prayer you dump into your girls.

- Thank you for saying way back in October and repeating as necessary the following: My life if my life. That you want me free to choose. Free from the burden of pleasing everyone.And most of all... that you and mom will be pleased with me no matter what. Really for true - to quote a family saying.  

They say we have bunches in common. And they’re right. Same eyes, same actions when stressed, same GPA, similar way of processing certain bits of information, both student body presidents, etc, etc. and did I say etc.?  We joke about it… but I just want you to know here and now I think you’re a swell person to be like.

I love you, Daddy! So glad I'm your daughter. Happy Birthday! 

Vulnerability and other things we don’t like talking about

“Never gonna change my mind – the famous last lines of a fool” – “Hello, Hello”

“Long live all the walls we crashed through” – “Long Live”

So it’s late and a final paper just got submitted for better or worse. I’m tired. I’m tired of chit chat. And I’m tired of scientific research that’s supposed to be so important but which is so superficial in a way. In other words, it’s that hour where I want to talk about something meaningful on some deep level. No. Not a theology debate. Not some deep wisdom. Not high psychology. That’s stuff people enjoy talking about and get degrees in. I’m talking about the stuff that none of us like to talk about, but that reverberates a chord in each of us.

Like vulnerability.

Like don’t stab me because it kinda hurts.

(Like it took me a week to get up enough nerve to post this maybe….)

But I want to talk about it anyway. Because it’s a topic that keeps coming up. Like in this anonymous quote: “Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it's not because they enjoy solitude. It's because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.”

Facing it brings up memories  of thank you notes on crumpled paper in a coat pocket, soft eyes that all the hardness in the world couldn’t cover, late night conversations with people I may never meet in this world…..

Vulnerability.

The sound always makes me think of “vultures” – and that’s one use of the word – being overly sensitive or culpable enabling injuries to happen. It’s a truthful definition. But it’s rather flat like a very boring sitcom character.

Once upon a long time ago I was musing to one of my friends. Ok, really I was complaining…  I was asking why we had to be vulnerable when it had the potential to hurt so badly. Oh mind you I wasn’t being “vulnerable.” I wasn't letting them know what I was complaining about exactly. I wasn’t going to let them stab me. Oh no. I had thought I’d managed to build concrete walls securely around my sensitive heart (most hearts are sensitive on some level despite the layers of supposedly bullet proof vests they wear). I was quite determined “nobody was gonna hurt me no more.” Oh yeah… that’s what I was complaining about. :P I was angry with myself because someone was managing to pull back those layers of bullet proof vest. Insert wise friend into the situation. What they said was basically this: “you don’t have to let things in. But if you don't allow yourself to be open despite the bad, you’ll never receive any good either. So have your castle with its nice stone walls. But it’ll be a pretty lonely castle.”

They had a point. A terribly biting point, no?

--------

I had lost.

I’d failed.

I didn't have whatever it was it took.

It was as simple as that.

As most of you know when I want something I get completely “gung ho” about it, give every ounce of energy that I’ve got, and proceed to get extremely excited about it.  So yeah… defeat is not given easily. It’s like a losing battle but the loser’s determined to try every last ditch attempt no matter how hair brained before handing over their sword.

I wiped my nose. I had a paper due. Someone probably needed me. I should really go check and see if they did. I just didn’t want to. Forced myself to type, forced myself to edit, forced myself to get back into the groove of prayer group.

But my mom could read the stiff shoulders, slightly red eyes, and mechanical “goodnight.” She asked if I was ok, said I would be, and hugged me tight. And then she said a few simple lines that revolutionized my thought process. “You might not have/be ______. Maybe God’s purpose is that you simply spend some time with your sister or keep someone from suicide.”

I smiled lopsidedly and refuted having such an ability. Just because I’m willing to stay awake and talk to people if they need it or offer my bony shoulder for the crying public’s need doesn't mean I’ll ever save a life. I'm not superwoman at all. I'm just Mia. I fail daily. Scratch that. Multiple times a day. I don't even know the public so I can't even really be available for them... But I had to grin thinking about the ability to enhance a few lives for even a few moments. That’s something most of us long to do. Look at how many organizations are started to help people. It seems every celebrity has their own foundation. But we don't have to be somebody to impact others.You know what? We all have the ability to do it! 

But without being willing to be open ourselves, without being willing to share glimpses from our own life… Seriously, who goes around talking to brick walls? People don’t pay therapy money to go talk to gray stone walls with algae growing on them. We have to be open.

“Looking for that...rainbow on the horizon, I couldn’t see it until I let go. Gave into love and watched all the bitterness burn…And I’m out on the edge of forever. Ready to run. I’m keeping my feet on the ground, my arms open wide, my face to the [Son]” - “The Time of My Life” – David Cook)

I’m not purporting cavorting foolishly with fire. I’m not suggesting holding onto a match as it burns down the stick. No. Not at all. But you know what I mean.

I’m saying go out there and stop labeling people. Look past the goofiness of the class clown. Look past the humungous ego of mrthinkshessomething. Look past Madame Introvert’s nametag. Go. Now. And look for crying out loud. And give. Be open to waving at the stranger on the street. (I’ll be honest that’s one of the hardest things for me to do. It just feels so awkward and which moment do you smile and which do you look away and which do you not disturb them and which do you make their day???????) Stop worrying about how hurt and beat up we’re going to be, tear off those infamous labels society puts on people like they do apples, and be guardedly vulnerable.

People say I’m easy to read. To one extent I am. But there are some things even the people that love me most don’t know. There’s other experiences I’ve shared with certain people during specific times when I felt it was time. Things my close friends don’t know. And now those people are gone. Do I regret it? No. It was the right time and the right place. They were encouraged. I was encouraged. It fulfilled its mission. So that’s what I mean by guardedly vulnerable.  

Give and ask for no return. Don’t give because we want someone to give back. Don’t listen because you want someone to listen back. They won’t.  You will be pleasantly surprised when someone gives back. You will be thrilled when someone asks you questions. But regardless of whether you’re the giver or the receiver you will be blessed.

I don’t want to be a rocket scientist. I won’t ever be an Olympic sprinter. I probably won’t invent life-saving mechanisms or start amazing global ministries. But that’s ok. I want to be there and pray for the ones that do accomplish those things as they accomplish them. Wipe their eyes when they fail. Hold them tight. Or hold the screws instead while they use the screwdriver. Listen to the brainstorming, and re-brainstorming, and back to the drawing board discussions. I want to be vulnerable enough that I let you into my life, approachable enough that you let me into yours. Will I hurt you? Probably. I’m fallibly human. Will you hurt me? Maybe. But it’ll be worth it.

Note: It's late. I don't usually post things late. It's a tough subject. I had intended to post something lighter before I went and tackled a tough subject. It's not intended to start a debate. Instead, it's just the rambles of a tired mind with something on it. In other words, don't be offended or proceed to put it up to courtroom inspection. Take it simply as it was intended.... a tired girl that considered posting it a million times and eventually decided to share her heart - in other words the title fits perfectly. ;)