I have had a bad day.
I could tell you all the thousands of reasons why today has been less than good, but I'll spare you the ranting and instead tell you what today's bad day has taught me: I'm vulnerable.
You see, everything in my life at the moment leaves me bare and able to be hurt. I work in ministry. I nanny. I'm looking for new roommates and meeting new people at church. All of it leaves me susceptible to scars.
And I hate it. I'd rather run away than fight through it because closing off is easier. But, I'm learning that this is all good.
Snails are able to hide in their shell for weeks. They can seal off the shell so that predators can't get them and they can stay there, safe in their own little world. But when a snail is inside its shell, it will go no where. It will experience nothing. It cannot eat.
Moral of the story: a snail can't stay in its shell all of the time and neither can I.
Ridiculous blog idea of the day: I am outside my shell and I think a snake might be coming, but I know that right now, I need to keep trekking along, slowly, because this is where God has me.
Even more ridiculous blog side note of the day: "snail shells" may become my new fake swear word. Its perfect.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Rain
Its a day for RainyMood.
Actually, you should go there now. While you read this blog. Really. Go.
And while you're at it, open another tab, and go here or even here. But not here, because that just doesn't go with rain.
Why, you ask? Because everything is better with the soft sound of rain behind it and today is a day for rain and smiles and happy sighs.
Just because it is.
So go on, read some other actually meaningful post. But do it to the sound of rain.
Actually, you should go there now. While you read this blog. Really. Go.
And while you're at it, open another tab, and go here or even here. But not here, because that just doesn't go with rain.
Why, you ask? Because everything is better with the soft sound of rain behind it and today is a day for rain and smiles and happy sighs.
Just because it is.
So go on, read some other actually meaningful post. But do it to the sound of rain.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Heart Words
I realized about a year ago that I had a heart word.
A word that pops into my head whenever I am silent.
A word that appears in my prayers more than any other.
It's the word that I scribble on the edges of notebook paper when I've stopped listening in class.
It's the word I ask about, talk about, live by.
I thought my heart word was "Hope" forever. I thought for the rest of my life, I'd be sketching the word "Hope" in a giant, delicate script on chalkboards. I thought I would forever pray that I be given more hope and beg God that I may never lose the hope that I had and always return to him who is my hope.
But it changed.
The last few weeks, I've written fewer capital H's, I've had fewer prayers about my hope. I've had few conservations about what people hope for. Instead, I've been talking about faith.
I drop the word Faith into every conversation. I talk about what it means to wait faithfully on the Lord. I ask God to give me more faith for this moment, for my future, for eternity.
Faith is the only thing I want to talk about.
I doodle around the bulletin at church. I point out to friends that what they really need is more faith and give myself the same recommendation.
Faith is my new heart word.
I don't know the significance of that change. I can't even tell you why a heart word matters. But what I can say is that I'm excited for this new wave of life. For this time when Faith is my priority. I am excited to see my faith grow as I learn to trust God more and let him guide my course knowing that it may not be a smooth trip but it will be the right path. I'm growing up. I'm changing gears. I'm walking in faith.
"Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." Hebrews 11:1
A word that pops into my head whenever I am silent.
A word that appears in my prayers more than any other.
It's the word that I scribble on the edges of notebook paper when I've stopped listening in class.
It's the word I ask about, talk about, live by.
I thought my heart word was "Hope" forever. I thought for the rest of my life, I'd be sketching the word "Hope" in a giant, delicate script on chalkboards. I thought I would forever pray that I be given more hope and beg God that I may never lose the hope that I had and always return to him who is my hope.
But it changed.
The last few weeks, I've written fewer capital H's, I've had fewer prayers about my hope. I've had few conservations about what people hope for. Instead, I've been talking about faith.
I drop the word Faith into every conversation. I talk about what it means to wait faithfully on the Lord. I ask God to give me more faith for this moment, for my future, for eternity.
Faith is the only thing I want to talk about.
I doodle around the bulletin at church. I point out to friends that what they really need is more faith and give myself the same recommendation.
Faith is my new heart word.
I don't know the significance of that change. I can't even tell you why a heart word matters. But what I can say is that I'm excited for this new wave of life. For this time when Faith is my priority. I am excited to see my faith grow as I learn to trust God more and let him guide my course knowing that it may not be a smooth trip but it will be the right path. I'm growing up. I'm changing gears. I'm walking in faith.
"Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." Hebrews 11:1
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Sentimental Thoughts
Living with four other girls kills my productivity.
I'm trying to read a book for Loyola in the morning, when I end up on Fabi's floor talking about God and boys and life and hope.
After work, I come home, intending to take a nap and run into Laura, who I haven't seen for weeks, and chat with her about my kids, cupcakes and St. Louis.
As I walk back to my room to grab my computer to get some graduate research done, I see Sarah reading in her room and plop on the stool near the foot of her bed, inquiring about her day, realizing that I am completely distracting her.
I climb into bed at night, absolutely exhausted, only to see Talia for the first time all day and catch up with her about church and weddings and soccer.
And then have a pillow fight, for no apparent reason, at midnight, making sure to pull Fabi in from the hallway, giggling the whole time, absolutely loving that we are probably too old for pillow fights but that this is a necessary part of being 23.
And I would trade none of it. I keep thinking about how things will change come September, when I move into a smaller place with just one roommate. In some respects, I love it. The kitchen might actually stay clean. I might actually be able to put food in the freezer. When I come home, I may actually be able to rest.
Yet, I'll come home and it will often be quiet. I'll come home and the place will be mine and not ours. There will be no midnight pillow fights. There will be no giddy talks about engagement. No discussion of what comes next, because we'll all be at our next step, separately. Fabi will be moving off the blue line, serving God in marvelous ways, as the Lord has been calling her over the past few months. Talia will be a few blocks away, living life as a wife (and probably having pillow fights without me). Laura will be back in St. Louis, moving into her next stage of life. We're all moving on.
And its hard. I've only lived here for 60 days, and I already feel like its home. I know this is where I am supposed to be, and I know that it has to change. Change is hardest when I know its right because I can't dwell on the way its supposed to be. Right now, I see God in the lives of my roommates. I know that when I ask about their lives, about what's on the horizon, their answers glisten of service to the Lord. I know that as I listen to what's next, my roommates are being pulled farther from me, yet that is exactly where they are supposed to go. I know that my next stage and theirs are beautifully designed, and yet, I want to stay in this post-graduation bliss forever.
So, to my roommates: You have been a hope and an encouragement to me. You have challenged me and grown me. You have shaped who I am and I am immensely grateful for it. I wouldn't trade this summer for any other. Thanks for being Christ to me.
I'll miss you.
Romans 1:8-12
I'm trying to read a book for Loyola in the morning, when I end up on Fabi's floor talking about God and boys and life and hope.
After work, I come home, intending to take a nap and run into Laura, who I haven't seen for weeks, and chat with her about my kids, cupcakes and St. Louis.
As I walk back to my room to grab my computer to get some graduate research done, I see Sarah reading in her room and plop on the stool near the foot of her bed, inquiring about her day, realizing that I am completely distracting her.
I climb into bed at night, absolutely exhausted, only to see Talia for the first time all day and catch up with her about church and weddings and soccer.
And then have a pillow fight, for no apparent reason, at midnight, making sure to pull Fabi in from the hallway, giggling the whole time, absolutely loving that we are probably too old for pillow fights but that this is a necessary part of being 23.
And I would trade none of it. I keep thinking about how things will change come September, when I move into a smaller place with just one roommate. In some respects, I love it. The kitchen might actually stay clean. I might actually be able to put food in the freezer. When I come home, I may actually be able to rest.
Yet, I'll come home and it will often be quiet. I'll come home and the place will be mine and not ours. There will be no midnight pillow fights. There will be no giddy talks about engagement. No discussion of what comes next, because we'll all be at our next step, separately. Fabi will be moving off the blue line, serving God in marvelous ways, as the Lord has been calling her over the past few months. Talia will be a few blocks away, living life as a wife (and probably having pillow fights without me). Laura will be back in St. Louis, moving into her next stage of life. We're all moving on.
And its hard. I've only lived here for 60 days, and I already feel like its home. I know this is where I am supposed to be, and I know that it has to change. Change is hardest when I know its right because I can't dwell on the way its supposed to be. Right now, I see God in the lives of my roommates. I know that when I ask about their lives, about what's on the horizon, their answers glisten of service to the Lord. I know that as I listen to what's next, my roommates are being pulled farther from me, yet that is exactly where they are supposed to go. I know that my next stage and theirs are beautifully designed, and yet, I want to stay in this post-graduation bliss forever.
So, to my roommates: You have been a hope and an encouragement to me. You have challenged me and grown me. You have shaped who I am and I am immensely grateful for it. I wouldn't trade this summer for any other. Thanks for being Christ to me.
I'll miss you.
Romans 1:8-12
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Housesitting
There are rules about house sitting.
You see, house sitting is only half about feeding the fish, petting the cat and locking the doors. The other half is about exploring.
Its the initial walk-through when you arrive, surveying what has been specifically left out for you and finding what's hidden inside. Its about finally walking into that storage closet that you have been curious about the last 6 months with this family. Its about the upper cabinets in the kitchen that you wonder what could possibly be stored there ( only to find animal crackers that put a smile on your face — and like the toddlers you care for —sneaking a few out, making the lion roar and then eating the cookies swiftly).
After climbing into the comfy big bed, talking to the lonely cat along the way, you flip through their TiVo-ed shows and get an idea of who it is you've been working for all these years. You test out each pillow, now realizing why people buy contour and body pillows as you cuddle under their covers.
In the morning, once you hunt down the coffee, feed the pesky cat who woke you up too early, and open the blinds to let light glisten in their oversized windows, you begin the quest for the good books. It starts in the living room — with the books you see each time you read from memory Good Night Moon or Counting Kisses. You start a pile on their coffee table, starting with the childcare book that you think will make you a nanny, and transition into classics you've always wanted to read, poetry books that look captivating and finish with a novel that sounds bizarrely beautiful. You know you'll probably glance at the title pages, read a poem or two, and then hope you remember where you pulled them from, but nonetheless, the hunt is necessary. This is your sanity you're talking about.
These, of course, are the rules of housesitting. You feed the cat, you change the fish's water, you read good books and sip the sangria that the family oddly left for you to finish. You daydream about your own "grown-up" life, complete with nursery rhyme rocking chairs and good books you'll never have time to read. You see, housesitting is all about being some place that is not home and making it feel like home, only to realize that this is not your home, this is not your life, and at the end of the week, you gladly go back to your dingy apartment with your four roommates and ignore your own classics sitting on your bookshelf acquiring dust. You hug your roommates, you leave the mess in the closet hidden away and you thank God that you do not have a cat.
You see, house sitting is only half about feeding the fish, petting the cat and locking the doors. The other half is about exploring.
Its the initial walk-through when you arrive, surveying what has been specifically left out for you and finding what's hidden inside. Its about finally walking into that storage closet that you have been curious about the last 6 months with this family. Its about the upper cabinets in the kitchen that you wonder what could possibly be stored there ( only to find animal crackers that put a smile on your face — and like the toddlers you care for —sneaking a few out, making the lion roar and then eating the cookies swiftly).
After climbing into the comfy big bed, talking to the lonely cat along the way, you flip through their TiVo-ed shows and get an idea of who it is you've been working for all these years. You test out each pillow, now realizing why people buy contour and body pillows as you cuddle under their covers.
In the morning, once you hunt down the coffee, feed the pesky cat who woke you up too early, and open the blinds to let light glisten in their oversized windows, you begin the quest for the good books. It starts in the living room — with the books you see each time you read from memory Good Night Moon or Counting Kisses. You start a pile on their coffee table, starting with the childcare book that you think will make you a nanny, and transition into classics you've always wanted to read, poetry books that look captivating and finish with a novel that sounds bizarrely beautiful. You know you'll probably glance at the title pages, read a poem or two, and then hope you remember where you pulled them from, but nonetheless, the hunt is necessary. This is your sanity you're talking about.
These, of course, are the rules of housesitting. You feed the cat, you change the fish's water, you read good books and sip the sangria that the family oddly left for you to finish. You daydream about your own "grown-up" life, complete with nursery rhyme rocking chairs and good books you'll never have time to read. You see, housesitting is all about being some place that is not home and making it feel like home, only to realize that this is not your home, this is not your life, and at the end of the week, you gladly go back to your dingy apartment with your four roommates and ignore your own classics sitting on your bookshelf acquiring dust. You hug your roommates, you leave the mess in the closet hidden away and you thank God that you do not have a cat.
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