I'm going to share them with you now in the form of a list.
1. I will never not cry when I get in a car accident.
2. ... or when there are needles involved.
3. I will never not appreciate a good doo wop chorus.
4. I will never get tired of reading Dr. Seuss out loud.
5. I will never feel settled when a relationship is not.
6. I will never not love making small talk with three-year-olds.
7. I will never think that the Bachelor/ette is stupid or smutty enough to make me actually stop watching it.
8. I will never not feel really pleased with myself when I successfully learn all the words to a song.
9. I will never see things clearly.
10. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly of all, I will definitely never think it's a good life choice to call in to Delilah's radio show at 11:00 at night to sing "a few lines of the song I want to hear." I don't care how good she says I am or how many times she calls me sweetie.
July 27, 2011
July 20, 2011
I'm an easy read
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I wear my heart on my face.
I don't really mind this about me because it's kind of nice. I don't feel like there's any point in faking it because 9 times out of 10 when I lie I get this response: "you're not a very good liar, are you?" There is a known-ness to it that I like. I am thankful that this readableness is woven into my genetic makeup because were it not there naturally, I might spend a greater amount of my life in hiding than I do. And that, we've established, isn't great.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, at work, I was feeling especially harried. I swear about half my caseload was in crisis and I didn't know where to begin to get everyone situated by the time the clock hit five. I walked into my office and started to vent to my office mates in a frantic manner. One of said officemates, God bless her, stopped me. "Sorry," she said, "I just want to say that I could already tell you were having a bad day. I think I can usually tell what kind of day you're having by the way your hair looks." Mind you, in this moment, my hair was curly [i.e. lion-like] and haphazardly thrown into a sort of side clump of hair by a clip so tiny that it couldn't hold all my hair in if it tried.
Now not only am I wearing my heart on my face, I am wearing it in my hair as well.
I know this is a silly thing, but in that moment, I felt a little bit naked. I felt exposed. This girl has known me for what, 5 weeks at this point? And she can already tell just by looking at me what mood I'm in? This does not bode well for me in the hide-the-crazy department, let's just put it that way.
And then I turned on my tiny red ipod, and Katie Herzig sang these words to me:
freedom is: a naked heart
And I thought, ok. Fine.
I don't really mind this about me because it's kind of nice. I don't feel like there's any point in faking it because 9 times out of 10 when I lie I get this response: "you're not a very good liar, are you?" There is a known-ness to it that I like. I am thankful that this readableness is woven into my genetic makeup because were it not there naturally, I might spend a greater amount of my life in hiding than I do. And that, we've established, isn't great.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, at work, I was feeling especially harried. I swear about half my caseload was in crisis and I didn't know where to begin to get everyone situated by the time the clock hit five. I walked into my office and started to vent to my office mates in a frantic manner. One of said officemates, God bless her, stopped me. "Sorry," she said, "I just want to say that I could already tell you were having a bad day. I think I can usually tell what kind of day you're having by the way your hair looks." Mind you, in this moment, my hair was curly [i.e. lion-like] and haphazardly thrown into a sort of side clump of hair by a clip so tiny that it couldn't hold all my hair in if it tried.
Now not only am I wearing my heart on my face, I am wearing it in my hair as well.
I know this is a silly thing, but in that moment, I felt a little bit naked. I felt exposed. This girl has known me for what, 5 weeks at this point? And she can already tell just by looking at me what mood I'm in? This does not bode well for me in the hide-the-crazy department, let's just put it that way.
And then I turned on my tiny red ipod, and Katie Herzig sang these words to me:
freedom is: a naked heart
And I thought, ok. Fine.
July 15, 2011
oh me of little faith
When I was fifteen years old, something very special happened to me. It was Christmas morning, and after we opened our presents I was feeling a bit disappointed because one little thing wasn't included in the loot. But then my parents directed me and the boys to the basement, where we were greeted with a foosball table - which I'll be honest, was a pretty major letdown for me. Until the foosball table rang. Following the sound of that blissfully tinny little ringer, I pulled from said foosball table, in all it's glory, a sparkly blue Nokia cell phone. My very own little dream come true.
Last week, eleven years later, something very awful happened to me. I had to change my phone number.
This might not sound like much to you, fine, but to me it was sort of earthshattering because ever since I pulled that sparkly blue Nokia from the foosball table so many years ago, I have had the same phone number. It was my number, and now someone else is going to have it, and this devastates me. One of my oldest friends, when I texted him my new number, told me that he would now have to save my number to his phone for the first time ever. It is the end of an era. There's a lot attached to those 10 digits and on a Friday morning in July I gave all that away for some Colorado number that means nothing to me.
As I approached the AT&T store that Friday morning, having done all my research and thusly prepared to rip off the band-aid of abandoning the 316 and adopting a 303, I started to panic. I thought, what if my future husband tries to call me and can't get me because of my new number? What if someone else super important wants to reach me but can't? WHAT WILL HAPPEN?! I legitimately almost didn't go in the door. It was at this moment I realized that I have some pretty significant trust issues.
This might sound like a stretch, but the thing is, it's a symptom of a bigger issue. It's a microcosm of how I approach everything else in my life. In a matter of seconds I had become convinced that big, important, worthwhile things wouldn't come to be in my life... because I changed my phone number. If the italics didn't tip you off, I'll just spell it out for you: that's completely insane. I worked myself up into believing - on some level - that God is not bigger than my telephone number. Oh me of little faith.
I spend a lot of energy worrying about a lot of stuff. I worry about saying the wrong things, about figuring out what I should do to get the outcomes I want from a given situation. I worry about messing up the plan with my silliness. I worry about missing out on important things and people and never even knowing it. I worry every time I have to make a choice that I will make the wrong one and thus alter the course of history and my life as I know it. I worry about controlling for every possible outcome, and when things go awry I can think of 29 things I should've done to prevent it.
Do I really believe that by changing my cell phone number [or any other host of things I could do under the reign of my little tiny power] I can actually alter the outcome of the life that is ahead of me? Sometimes I live like I do.
But you know what?
Phone numbers may come and go. I will say yes and say no a million times. I will say a lot of dumb things and make some really bad choices. On days when those things feel catastrophic, and those days will come, I will take a deep breath and trust that God is faithful. Even when I'm not.
please forgive me for time that I've wasted;
I'm a doubting Thomas
I'll take your promise
though I know nothing's safe
July 4, 2011
[fireworks] keep falling on my head
I love fireworks. The fourth of July is far from my favorite holiday, but I think a good fireworks show is easily one of my favorite things. I don't honestly have an explanation for why I love them so much, or why there is so much memory attached to these particular crackles of colored light, but I see them and my heart fills and it's one of those things that - explanation or not - just is.
I am something of a fireworks snob, though, as I grew up watching fireworks the only way I think fireworks should be watched ever - in the middle of a lake. While I can appreciate a good fireworks show on dry land, it's nothing compared to the boat rocking gently back and forth, water lapping against the sides, all quiet aside from the booms and cracks, the Apollo 13 soundtrack playing on the stereo, and the occasional [obnoxious yet somehow endearing] cheers of lake people. It was so good it felt like a secret, like something not everyone could possibly know about or there would be WAY more people out on that lake with us. I watched fireworks the other night from an amazing rooftop patio with a perfect view. I was enjoying people I love, enjoying knowing and being known, and as good as it was, I kept thinking to myself that when fireworks are done right, you should have debris intermittently hitting you in the face as you lie there in the stillness and the dark. That's how you can tell you're close enough; when fireworks keep falling on your head.
I have dear memories of sitting with my little nieces and nephews in my lap as they marveled at the "firecracks." Each time, I've found myself wiping tears from my eyes as their wonder explodes from their little mouths; because I can remember just as vividly watching the fireworks when I was that little, my mouth gaping in equal parts excitement and terror, mesmerized by the colors taking shape above me. Something about fireworks, to this day, makes me feel dreamy. I remember thinking about what my life might be like, someday. I remember being adolescent and thinking about the romance that was sure to come, of the hands I would someday hold under that same red-white-and-blue sky. I remember distinctly feeling great and inexplicable peace as I watched the firecracks, surrounded comfortably by my people, imagining how I would bring my someday people there, someday - how I would let them in on the secret, and take them to the place where the fireworks fall on your face if you're doing it right.
I feel unbelievably humbled that this is the life I have known, that these are my memories. And that someday is here and that there is more someday ahead. Fireworks create, for me, a [very] rare space in which I can love and live my present and feel hope and excitement for my someday all at once. Even still, after years and years of hearing the same noises and watching the same finales, I watch [my mouth gaping] in equal parts wonder at the loveliness of my today and dreamy dreams of romance & somedays to come.
I am something of a fireworks snob, though, as I grew up watching fireworks the only way I think fireworks should be watched ever - in the middle of a lake. While I can appreciate a good fireworks show on dry land, it's nothing compared to the boat rocking gently back and forth, water lapping against the sides, all quiet aside from the booms and cracks, the Apollo 13 soundtrack playing on the stereo, and the occasional [obnoxious yet somehow endearing] cheers of lake people. It was so good it felt like a secret, like something not everyone could possibly know about or there would be WAY more people out on that lake with us. I watched fireworks the other night from an amazing rooftop patio with a perfect view. I was enjoying people I love, enjoying knowing and being known, and as good as it was, I kept thinking to myself that when fireworks are done right, you should have debris intermittently hitting you in the face as you lie there in the stillness and the dark. That's how you can tell you're close enough; when fireworks keep falling on your head.
I have dear memories of sitting with my little nieces and nephews in my lap as they marveled at the "firecracks." Each time, I've found myself wiping tears from my eyes as their wonder explodes from their little mouths; because I can remember just as vividly watching the fireworks when I was that little, my mouth gaping in equal parts excitement and terror, mesmerized by the colors taking shape above me. Something about fireworks, to this day, makes me feel dreamy. I remember thinking about what my life might be like, someday. I remember being adolescent and thinking about the romance that was sure to come, of the hands I would someday hold under that same red-white-and-blue sky. I remember distinctly feeling great and inexplicable peace as I watched the firecracks, surrounded comfortably by my people, imagining how I would bring my someday people there, someday - how I would let them in on the secret, and take them to the place where the fireworks fall on your face if you're doing it right.
I feel unbelievably humbled that this is the life I have known, that these are my memories. And that someday is here and that there is more someday ahead. Fireworks create, for me, a [very] rare space in which I can love and live my present and feel hope and excitement for my someday all at once. Even still, after years and years of hearing the same noises and watching the same finales, I watch [my mouth gaping] in equal parts wonder at the loveliness of my today and dreamy dreams of romance & somedays to come.
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