I was trying to put in my contacts this morning. It is something I’ve done for the better part of year now. It’s no big. Eye open, silicone in, blink twice, good to go.
This morning I began the process as any morning. With my right contact resting on my left pointer finger, I held my eye open while allowing the cool, wet plastic hit my eye. I blinked. And then I screamed. My eye burned! I squinted my eye back open and was struck by the intense pink invading the creamy white of my eye. I blinked my eye a few more times before reconciling myself to the fact the intense pain would not be stopping. I frantically peeled the contact off of my eye.
I held it on my finger in one hand while covering my eye (as if holding it would take away its hurt) and began inspecting this small clear piece. Did I put it in backward? Was there a small rip or tear? Did I manage to put a tiny hole in its delicate surface? I put the contact back into solution and placed some eye drops in my throbbing eye.
As the water pooled under my eyelids, I felt something. Looking into the mirror I gently lifted my lid and then, (somewhat awkwardly), attempted to blink. As a small eye drop laden tear pooled in the corner, I caught the drop on my finer. There a small, thin, brown eyelash stuck contentedly.
“Seriously?” Was that it? I couldn’t believe it. Was that little eyelash stuck behind my contact, causing me so much pain? Questioning, swiftly I retrieved my contact and allowed it easily to cover my eye. Painless. The eyelash had been to blame the whole time.
The eyelash was small, essentially harmless. They fall out all of the time. You blow them off and make a wish. Had I known it was loose, I probably wouldn’t have thought it a very big deal. But sometimes the littlest things make the biggest difference...
When the long promised call never comes and the phone never rings. One forgotten birthday. The sharpest, smallest comment placed in just the right spot at just the wrong time. When life is always too busy and there is never time. When the smirky remark is made when the thought was nobody heard. When attempts are made to wave at the friend who purposefully turns and walks away. All little things which get stuck under a thin surface and get trapped next to the place where it hurts the most. In themselves, practically harmless, yet they mean something so close to the inside.
But the little things go either direction. The good and blessings have just as much power and opportunity to seep under the surface as the bad and ugly. The unsigned note with the encouraging word. The signed card saying “thanks for always being there”. The word heard from the grapevine you were doing a “great job”. The deliberate stop just to say “hi”. The awkward hug at the best of times. The five minute conversation which says “you’re important and you matter to me.” In themselves, practically inconsequential, yet they mean something when allowed so close to the inside.
What are you doing with your little things?
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
I am a Lover
When I came to Spring Arbor as a freshman over three years ago I was awkward. Socially, my skills needed some...refining. I thought maybe I was comfortably a loner...a natural introvert. I thought I was destined to never be in close relationship. I thought I didn’t know how to interact. I thought I didn’t know how to be a friend...let alone make a friend. In the end, I just didn’t know how to love...or, for that matter, be loved.
The process of chipping the icy shell covering my existence was a painful process. I truly did not know how to open myself to other people’s care and, try as I might, I was unsure of how to go about caring.
Slowly but surely, however, my resistance came unglued. I recognized myself and my actions in light of love languages. People saw by investment. I was a doer. I loved by serving. I did things in order to try and prove to you that I cared.
And I, I needed you. I needed your presence. My need was rooted in deep insecurity. No one had really ever come into my life and stayed. If I felt loved, it was the result of someone who was willing to come and spend quality time with me.
But there were a few things I was unresponsive too. Gift giving – I didn’t even know where to start there. And then, well, I was articulate – but unable to share words of affirmation. I didn’t know how to tell you I appreciated you, admired you, wanted you in my life. I didn’t know how to encourage you. I didn’t know how to be encouraged.
And physical touch? You’re kidding, right? No one could touch me. No one was allowed near enough to make it into my personal bubble. I flinched at a pat on the back. Cringed at a hug. Endured touch if given...and never gave. Ever.
So it’s been three years. And I stop to consider how much my heart breaks – because I have found a means within side me which not only cares but feels deeply. My heart breaks, because I love. And I want to love. Some days I wake up and pout at the list of things I “must” accomplish. Because...I would much rather just love on people instead.
I have since stared to think about what it meant for me to love on people. If I wanted to do nothing but love on people for a while...what would it look like? And my response? “EVERYTHING!” Or mostly...
I am stuck on writing these encouragement notes every week... a few standards and then an assortment of others...because I just want people to know they are thought about, appreciated. I want to bring you cupcakes; I want to come up with a way to bring you “snow”; I want to put little gifts on your door for 12 days straight. I will bend over backwards for you on any given day. I will cover for your shift, work on something so you can go to bed (even though it means I won’t get to sleep), make the decorations, try to lighten your load...I still want to serve. I still want quality time...I am going to look for opportunities to be with you...whether it means just “being”, or it means we are doing or giving alongside one another. And, I want to physically show love. I’m not very good at it yet. I don’t think to give the hug first...but I want to. I want to love on you this way.
Perhaps the world, this world, has shown me how to love. It taught by example a loving life where it was possible to serve, to give to, to be with, to affirm, and to touch. I’ve learned to feel loved in all of these ways. I’ve learned to treasure the smallest of notes with the smallest affirmation – reminders I am valued. I’ve learned to feel cared for and not helpless when others do for me. I’ve learned to love it when someone pats my head or touches my shoulder. I’ve learned to feel loved when someone wraps their arms around me and holds on tight.
And I’m coming to find these things I have been taught...are becoming natural as responses. I want to do them. The more I love you (sounds awkward doesn’t it?), the more I grow in relationship with you, the more ways I am going to try to love on you. Sometimes in hopes you will reciprocate and sometimes, some days because I just want to love. I don’t choose one of them because it is my “love language” or even my “primary love language”. Instead I choose all of them because, without endeavoring towards it, I, I am a lover.
The process of chipping the icy shell covering my existence was a painful process. I truly did not know how to open myself to other people’s care and, try as I might, I was unsure of how to go about caring.
Slowly but surely, however, my resistance came unglued. I recognized myself and my actions in light of love languages. People saw by investment. I was a doer. I loved by serving. I did things in order to try and prove to you that I cared.
And I, I needed you. I needed your presence. My need was rooted in deep insecurity. No one had really ever come into my life and stayed. If I felt loved, it was the result of someone who was willing to come and spend quality time with me.
But there were a few things I was unresponsive too. Gift giving – I didn’t even know where to start there. And then, well, I was articulate – but unable to share words of affirmation. I didn’t know how to tell you I appreciated you, admired you, wanted you in my life. I didn’t know how to encourage you. I didn’t know how to be encouraged.
And physical touch? You’re kidding, right? No one could touch me. No one was allowed near enough to make it into my personal bubble. I flinched at a pat on the back. Cringed at a hug. Endured touch if given...and never gave. Ever.
So it’s been three years. And I stop to consider how much my heart breaks – because I have found a means within side me which not only cares but feels deeply. My heart breaks, because I love. And I want to love. Some days I wake up and pout at the list of things I “must” accomplish. Because...I would much rather just love on people instead.
I have since stared to think about what it meant for me to love on people. If I wanted to do nothing but love on people for a while...what would it look like? And my response? “EVERYTHING!” Or mostly...
I am stuck on writing these encouragement notes every week... a few standards and then an assortment of others...because I just want people to know they are thought about, appreciated. I want to bring you cupcakes; I want to come up with a way to bring you “snow”; I want to put little gifts on your door for 12 days straight. I will bend over backwards for you on any given day. I will cover for your shift, work on something so you can go to bed (even though it means I won’t get to sleep), make the decorations, try to lighten your load...I still want to serve. I still want quality time...I am going to look for opportunities to be with you...whether it means just “being”, or it means we are doing or giving alongside one another. And, I want to physically show love. I’m not very good at it yet. I don’t think to give the hug first...but I want to. I want to love on you this way.
Perhaps the world, this world, has shown me how to love. It taught by example a loving life where it was possible to serve, to give to, to be with, to affirm, and to touch. I’ve learned to feel loved in all of these ways. I’ve learned to treasure the smallest of notes with the smallest affirmation – reminders I am valued. I’ve learned to feel cared for and not helpless when others do for me. I’ve learned to love it when someone pats my head or touches my shoulder. I’ve learned to feel loved when someone wraps their arms around me and holds on tight.
And I’m coming to find these things I have been taught...are becoming natural as responses. I want to do them. The more I love you (sounds awkward doesn’t it?), the more I grow in relationship with you, the more ways I am going to try to love on you. Sometimes in hopes you will reciprocate and sometimes, some days because I just want to love. I don’t choose one of them because it is my “love language” or even my “primary love language”. Instead I choose all of them because, without endeavoring towards it, I, I am a lover.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Compassion and Pain Stealing
Today I remembered that compassion means “pain taking”.
Not pain asking.
Not pain borrowing.
Not pain sharing.
Pain taking.
Taking has such a hostile connotation to it. Like you are commandeering something. You take candy. You take a bike. You take a test.
You claim it.
You steal it.
You take what belongs to you and refuse to give it back.
Compassion is not sharing pain. It’s not in itself empathizing, sympathizing, or even listening. It is stepping in a taking claim of someone else’s pain.
Which means you don’t wait. You don’t tell someone to come and find you if they need you. That’s sympathy. Pity even sometimes. You don’t sit to see if you can come to their aid.
You do it.
You send text messages that say “I’m on my way over. Be ready.”
You say “Be honest with me. I WANT to know.”
You hug not because you understand but because she needs to feel understood.
You all not to talk but to listen...
You listen not so you can hear but so he can talk.
You look for an area of need and you step in.
It’s a near hostile take-over. You stake claim on their pain and you make it your own.
True compassion feels like a whirlwind. You don’t know what hit you until suddenly you realize your load is lighter. It leaves you shocked and amazed. Dumbstruck and confused. Baffled at others’ care. Wondering why and how. Questioning if you gave them permission. Realizing they never asked.
But that’s okay.
Because compassion isn’t pain asking.
Or even pain sharing.
It’s pain taking.
Pain stealing.
And nothing means more than someone who has just stuck claim into your
Not pain asking.
Not pain borrowing.
Not pain sharing.
Pain taking.
Taking has such a hostile connotation to it. Like you are commandeering something. You take candy. You take a bike. You take a test.
You claim it.
You steal it.
You take what belongs to you and refuse to give it back.
Compassion is not sharing pain. It’s not in itself empathizing, sympathizing, or even listening. It is stepping in a taking claim of someone else’s pain.
Which means you don’t wait. You don’t tell someone to come and find you if they need you. That’s sympathy. Pity even sometimes. You don’t sit to see if you can come to their aid.
You do it.
You send text messages that say “I’m on my way over. Be ready.”
You say “Be honest with me. I WANT to know.”
You hug not because you understand but because she needs to feel understood.
You all not to talk but to listen...
You listen not so you can hear but so he can talk.
You look for an area of need and you step in.
It’s a near hostile take-over. You stake claim on their pain and you make it your own.
True compassion feels like a whirlwind. You don’t know what hit you until suddenly you realize your load is lighter. It leaves you shocked and amazed. Dumbstruck and confused. Baffled at others’ care. Wondering why and how. Questioning if you gave them permission. Realizing they never asked.
But that’s okay.
Because compassion isn’t pain asking.
Or even pain sharing.
It’s pain taking.
Pain stealing.
And nothing means more than someone who has just stuck claim into your
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Jesus in my Heart
When I was four or five I “formally accepted Jesus into my heart.”
And I SOBBED. Not because it was an emotional, life changing experience. It was traumatizing. And I was confused.
It was the phrasing: “You need to ask Jesus into your heart...”
“What???”
I was a little girl. This I knew. And Jesus was a big guy. As big as the whole sky. This I knew too. Everyone told me Jesus was big. So I had a problem. I just didn’t know how a God that big was going to fit into me, being so small. I pictured the last time I tried to shove my teddy bear in my backpack. I couldn’t handle it. This was probably going to hurt. Maybe my heart would explode!
I got over it.
Eventually.
When I was older, I came to a better understanding of what it meant to have Christ in my life. I offered Him a place with more authenticity and genuineness rooted in faith and knowledge. My relationship was real. We walked hand in hand, partners.
Then, when I was older still, (like now), I went back to my previous model. Because something about it is very real...
...To recognize a God who is very much too big for me. Realizing just how small I am in comparison to Christ. I am too small for Jesus to fit in. He comes in, invades my life, but spills over into every other believer. Hello, the body of Christ! Just maybe if we get enough people too small for Jesus piled up in the same room, willing to just love Him and do what He says, then maybe we’ll have a real picture of what He looks like.
...To be willing to bet that when I “ask Jesus into you heart”, it is probably going to hurt. He is probably going to do some rearranging in there. Life probably isn’t going to look the same. Allegiances are going to have to be different and that is going to cause some pain. It is never fun to fix what’s been broken.
...To allow my heart to explode. Whatever that will mean. Whatever it will include. So be it. And let it be so.
And I SOBBED. Not because it was an emotional, life changing experience. It was traumatizing. And I was confused.
It was the phrasing: “You need to ask Jesus into your heart...”
“What???”
I was a little girl. This I knew. And Jesus was a big guy. As big as the whole sky. This I knew too. Everyone told me Jesus was big. So I had a problem. I just didn’t know how a God that big was going to fit into me, being so small. I pictured the last time I tried to shove my teddy bear in my backpack. I couldn’t handle it. This was probably going to hurt. Maybe my heart would explode!
I got over it.
Eventually.
When I was older, I came to a better understanding of what it meant to have Christ in my life. I offered Him a place with more authenticity and genuineness rooted in faith and knowledge. My relationship was real. We walked hand in hand, partners.
Then, when I was older still, (like now), I went back to my previous model. Because something about it is very real...
...To recognize a God who is very much too big for me. Realizing just how small I am in comparison to Christ. I am too small for Jesus to fit in. He comes in, invades my life, but spills over into every other believer. Hello, the body of Christ! Just maybe if we get enough people too small for Jesus piled up in the same room, willing to just love Him and do what He says, then maybe we’ll have a real picture of what He looks like.
...To be willing to bet that when I “ask Jesus into you heart”, it is probably going to hurt. He is probably going to do some rearranging in there. Life probably isn’t going to look the same. Allegiances are going to have to be different and that is going to cause some pain. It is never fun to fix what’s been broken.
...To allow my heart to explode. Whatever that will mean. Whatever it will include. So be it. And let it be so.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
An exert from my journal...
Today I was reminded that when I most want to dig a hole, bury myself, and hide from the world, sometimes the world comes through. And sometimes God uses people in the most profound ways to remind me He's not really so far away.
As I left my apartment this morning...violently ill, desperately low on sleep, completely behind on all of my assignments, and headed to class, I wasn't sure what kind of mood to be in. I wanted to be depressed but the gentle sprinkle with a gray sky attempting to allow a bold sun through didn't allow me that desperation of such. Reminded of my "glimpse", I looked into the sun and said out loud "I know you're here! You're just really going to have to show up today!"
The day became progressively worse and the guessing game of "how to feel" became a non issue. I became more infuriated with the life I was living...the drastic and intrinsic "unfairness" of everything I go through. All day I wanted to cry...a few times real tears actually slipped. Anyone who knows me knows this is a big deal. I was so ready to cash in my chips, to give up, to quit.
As I sit, typing, exhaustedly ready to go to bed, I can't help think about how nothing has changed about my situation. And yet, I sit somewhat renewed. The intense pain which had me ready to curl and die has subsided since my class prayed over my contorted face - despite my objections - after all researching, convinced I had appendicitis. Time to just decide not to care, to write, to vent, to retract into my intoverted world has helped.
And the mailbox. I never get mail. It is just the way it goes. But I love to send mail. I send out six standard encouragement notes a week and typically send out another four or five to random individuals. I never expect anything in return and my box remains empty. Today I was surprised. I had not one piece of mail but three: each with special significance.
Yesterday, I had an assignment which required me to turn in, essentially, a mission statement. My first draft (which didn't actually change) was folded up in my pocket and fell out. It had my name and class on the top, however, and was found and returned via campus mail. On my worst of days was a list of all the things I wanted my life to stand for.
I was intrigued by the other two: a folded up piece of paper and a pink envelope. I looked at the return address on the envelope...it was a note from the girl who was supposed to be the RA in the building I now serve. She just wanted me to know she was praying for me more than ever (I certainly needed it today!) and that, specifically, she was praying I would be found re-energized, revitalized, refreshed, and refilled - all of the things I so desperately needed today. And included how much she hoped I was finding time for rest, family, friends, and Jesus. Maria's prayers for me were an answer to my prayers and I was touched she had thought of me and felt blessed by her friendship from miles away.
The last piece I treasure most. It was a reply encouragement note from a colleague and new friend. She gets one of my encouragement notes every week and so she sent me one just to let me know she loved me and that I was "amazing". So overwhelmed, stressed, and not feeling well...and already on the brink of tears...I just about lost it in the Kresge Center. Someone whom I genuinely love and hhave intensely appreciated but, really, in terms of things, have only barely begun to know...decided to let me know she's noticed. For reasons I cannot come close to imagining, she's decided me worthy of her admiration and her accolades. Perhaps I treasure this one the most because it says the life I live says something to the rest of the world regardless of the life I feel like I'm living...
I asked God to show up today...without the expectation He would follow through. When I most wanted to dig a hole, bury myself, and hide from the world - he kept filling in my hole. "Hey, Anika, you, yeah. It's like this princess, I'm here. I'm always here. I sustain. Promise. Put down the shovel. Smile - you're worth far more than you know."
As I left my apartment this morning...violently ill, desperately low on sleep, completely behind on all of my assignments, and headed to class, I wasn't sure what kind of mood to be in. I wanted to be depressed but the gentle sprinkle with a gray sky attempting to allow a bold sun through didn't allow me that desperation of such. Reminded of my "glimpse", I looked into the sun and said out loud "I know you're here! You're just really going to have to show up today!"
The day became progressively worse and the guessing game of "how to feel" became a non issue. I became more infuriated with the life I was living...the drastic and intrinsic "unfairness" of everything I go through. All day I wanted to cry...a few times real tears actually slipped. Anyone who knows me knows this is a big deal. I was so ready to cash in my chips, to give up, to quit.
As I sit, typing, exhaustedly ready to go to bed, I can't help think about how nothing has changed about my situation. And yet, I sit somewhat renewed. The intense pain which had me ready to curl and die has subsided since my class prayed over my contorted face - despite my objections - after all researching, convinced I had appendicitis. Time to just decide not to care, to write, to vent, to retract into my intoverted world has helped.
And the mailbox. I never get mail. It is just the way it goes. But I love to send mail. I send out six standard encouragement notes a week and typically send out another four or five to random individuals. I never expect anything in return and my box remains empty. Today I was surprised. I had not one piece of mail but three: each with special significance.
Yesterday, I had an assignment which required me to turn in, essentially, a mission statement. My first draft (which didn't actually change) was folded up in my pocket and fell out. It had my name and class on the top, however, and was found and returned via campus mail. On my worst of days was a list of all the things I wanted my life to stand for.
I was intrigued by the other two: a folded up piece of paper and a pink envelope. I looked at the return address on the envelope...it was a note from the girl who was supposed to be the RA in the building I now serve. She just wanted me to know she was praying for me more than ever (I certainly needed it today!) and that, specifically, she was praying I would be found re-energized, revitalized, refreshed, and refilled - all of the things I so desperately needed today. And included how much she hoped I was finding time for rest, family, friends, and Jesus. Maria's prayers for me were an answer to my prayers and I was touched she had thought of me and felt blessed by her friendship from miles away.
The last piece I treasure most. It was a reply encouragement note from a colleague and new friend. She gets one of my encouragement notes every week and so she sent me one just to let me know she loved me and that I was "amazing". So overwhelmed, stressed, and not feeling well...and already on the brink of tears...I just about lost it in the Kresge Center. Someone whom I genuinely love and hhave intensely appreciated but, really, in terms of things, have only barely begun to know...decided to let me know she's noticed. For reasons I cannot come close to imagining, she's decided me worthy of her admiration and her accolades. Perhaps I treasure this one the most because it says the life I live says something to the rest of the world regardless of the life I feel like I'm living...
I asked God to show up today...without the expectation He would follow through. When I most wanted to dig a hole, bury myself, and hide from the world - he kept filling in my hole. "Hey, Anika, you, yeah. It's like this princess, I'm here. I'm always here. I sustain. Promise. Put down the shovel. Smile - you're worth far more than you know."
Friday, October 9, 2009
Thinking about becoming something different.
Turn me around.
Pick me up.
Undo what I've become.
Bring me back to this place
Of forgiveness and grace.
I need You.
I need Your help...
I can't do this myself.
You're the only one...
Who can undo what I've become...
Pick me up.
Undo what I've become.
Bring me back to this place
Of forgiveness and grace.
I need You.
I need Your help...
I can't do this myself.
You're the only one...
Who can undo what I've become...
Thursday, September 24, 2009
It hurts
I need to cry so badly right now it hurts.
Like physically hurts.
Turns out crying is needed for all around health...not just emotional.
So wishing I could cry...
Like physically hurts.
Turns out crying is needed for all around health...not just emotional.
So wishing I could cry...
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Admittance
A friend told me today that I needed to learn how to be vulnerable. How to honestly open myself up to others' care and concern. How to be willing to admit my deepest hurts.
I'm not there yet. I don't know if I ever will be. It's just not safe. But I am going to try and start. To experiment in vulnerability. I thought my blog would be a coward's out for being willing to open myself up without anyone having to know.
So tonight, in my vulnerability, I admit...
I am desperate for a hug.
Not an "okay, bye!" hug, not a "real quick as I leave" hug, not a weak hug, not a side lean hug.
A real hug.
I need to be hugged.
Furthermore, I need to be held.
I need someone who will take me in tight arms and not let go for...a while.
And possible, just maybe, if I can work myself up to it, cry. Because it is about time I did that one too.
But the only ones I can think to ask for any of that are no where near what I can access. And those I can access I can't ask.
So instead I'll just make an admittance of my longing to be held...
I'm not there yet. I don't know if I ever will be. It's just not safe. But I am going to try and start. To experiment in vulnerability. I thought my blog would be a coward's out for being willing to open myself up without anyone having to know.
So tonight, in my vulnerability, I admit...
I am desperate for a hug.
Not an "okay, bye!" hug, not a "real quick as I leave" hug, not a weak hug, not a side lean hug.
A real hug.
I need to be hugged.
Furthermore, I need to be held.
I need someone who will take me in tight arms and not let go for...a while.
And possible, just maybe, if I can work myself up to it, cry. Because it is about time I did that one too.
But the only ones I can think to ask for any of that are no where near what I can access. And those I can access I can't ask.
So instead I'll just make an admittance of my longing to be held...
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Thinking, thoughts, drastic consequences and impossible implementation...
I was just thinking...
As I often do.
And I had a thought.
A novel thought really.
One of drastic consequence and impossible implementation.
Because, you see, my thought was a proposition. A question. It went something along the lines of:
“What would happen if for a day, just one day, I could record every thought I ever had? What if for one day, 24 hours, every musing, every pondering, every question, every observation, every thought could be recorded? Jot down. Forever marked in such a way as to be revisited?”
What would this look like?
What would this mean?
I began to wonder what such a list of mine would say. As one who is always preoccupied with one deliberation or another, I imagined this would be a fascinating list. I tried to keep track of even just my last five or six thoughts at that point and was relatively amused and intrigued by my findings:
“Wow that water gets hot really fast!”
“Man, I love to floss.”
“I hate switching water. I always breakout! What happened to my clear complexion?”
“Wait! Her name is Alexandra! Ali is short for Alexandra not Allison! I’m such a dipwad! Anika, you suck!”
“Stop looking at yourself in the mirror! You’re going to bed and you aren’t going to get any better. Check again in the morning.”
“If I didn’t feel so sick, I would totally go for a bowl of cheerios right now.”
“Why do I always have to pee 8000 times before I can go to sleep?”
And that was just from the minute or two before. All that plus the ones I could not keep a hold of. Already I had missed some. The impossibility seemed to be the over-arching drum of defeat. There was no way I was going to be able to accomplish such an ambitious plan.
Yet, after contemplating what a task, what a challenge it would be to embark upon such an endeavor, I was quite struck by the ramifications that would result. The conclusions that could be drawn.
What things I would be able to learn about myself if I could detail every thought! How man things are silly? How many of them serious? How many of the thoughts I think make no sense at all? How often am I scared? How often am I worried? What things do I say over and over in my head so that I can get them right when they come to my lips...so I won’t say something wrong? What would I be ashamed of thinking? What would be the re-runs? What actually consumes my time and attention? How does what I say really compare to what I think?
And I was struck, struck by the potentiality that if I could access a list of all of my thoughts from just one day...then perhaps others could access them as well. It drew out a panic I had only briefly encountered for the same reasons.
What would happen if, just for a day, all of my thoughts were on display?
What would I try to retract? To rationalize?
What would I be embarrassed to admit? Would I have to claim the thought that said that boy was cute or that the other was sweet?
What I be in trouble for some of my thoughts? Who would yell at me first for the pile of times I decide I despise myself, hate what I look like, or cringe at how inarticulately I spoke?
Who would ridicule the stories I tell? Who would decide I was okay to be around...having access to the thoughts I never say out loud? And who would reject my friendship for reasons just the same?
And the answers to my questions scared me. Caught me off guard and made me wonder if any of my thoughts would ever be okay.
But I was just thinking...
As I often do.
Because I had a thought.
A novel thought really.
One of drastic consequence and impossible implementation.
As I often do.
And I had a thought.
A novel thought really.
One of drastic consequence and impossible implementation.
Because, you see, my thought was a proposition. A question. It went something along the lines of:
“What would happen if for a day, just one day, I could record every thought I ever had? What if for one day, 24 hours, every musing, every pondering, every question, every observation, every thought could be recorded? Jot down. Forever marked in such a way as to be revisited?”
What would this look like?
What would this mean?
I began to wonder what such a list of mine would say. As one who is always preoccupied with one deliberation or another, I imagined this would be a fascinating list. I tried to keep track of even just my last five or six thoughts at that point and was relatively amused and intrigued by my findings:
“Wow that water gets hot really fast!”
“Man, I love to floss.”
“I hate switching water. I always breakout! What happened to my clear complexion?”
“Wait! Her name is Alexandra! Ali is short for Alexandra not Allison! I’m such a dipwad! Anika, you suck!”
“Stop looking at yourself in the mirror! You’re going to bed and you aren’t going to get any better. Check again in the morning.”
“If I didn’t feel so sick, I would totally go for a bowl of cheerios right now.”
“Why do I always have to pee 8000 times before I can go to sleep?”
And that was just from the minute or two before. All that plus the ones I could not keep a hold of. Already I had missed some. The impossibility seemed to be the over-arching drum of defeat. There was no way I was going to be able to accomplish such an ambitious plan.
Yet, after contemplating what a task, what a challenge it would be to embark upon such an endeavor, I was quite struck by the ramifications that would result. The conclusions that could be drawn.
What things I would be able to learn about myself if I could detail every thought! How man things are silly? How many of them serious? How many of the thoughts I think make no sense at all? How often am I scared? How often am I worried? What things do I say over and over in my head so that I can get them right when they come to my lips...so I won’t say something wrong? What would I be ashamed of thinking? What would be the re-runs? What actually consumes my time and attention? How does what I say really compare to what I think?
And I was struck, struck by the potentiality that if I could access a list of all of my thoughts from just one day...then perhaps others could access them as well. It drew out a panic I had only briefly encountered for the same reasons.
What would happen if, just for a day, all of my thoughts were on display?
What would I try to retract? To rationalize?
What would I be embarrassed to admit? Would I have to claim the thought that said that boy was cute or that the other was sweet?
What I be in trouble for some of my thoughts? Who would yell at me first for the pile of times I decide I despise myself, hate what I look like, or cringe at how inarticulately I spoke?
Who would ridicule the stories I tell? Who would decide I was okay to be around...having access to the thoughts I never say out loud? And who would reject my friendship for reasons just the same?
And the answers to my questions scared me. Caught me off guard and made me wonder if any of my thoughts would ever be okay.
But I was just thinking...
As I often do.
Because I had a thought.
A novel thought really.
One of drastic consequence and impossible implementation.
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Answer Might Be Yes
I always wonder if I’m making a difference. If anything I say or do matters at all. If I leave any sort of lasting impression. If the fact that I was and am and live and breathe and act out of those things has any impact on the world around me.
Some days I try desperately to be that person.
That person...you know the one.
The one who says the right thing at the right time. Who hugs when it’s needed most. Who listens intently. Who doesn’t talk too much. Who doesn’t mess up. Who knows what’s going on. Who acts unconditionally out of love.
That one.
And for all of my trying, which isn’t necessarily bad, I never measure up.
Because it’s not me. Because I try so desperately to match up to a standard I have self-created around what I believe the world has set for me. Because I can never always say the right thing or act in the right way. Because for as much as I try, I so often lack the love needed to sustain.
And yet, often, I’m myself. And I don’t try. I just am.
I do what comes naturally. I say what comes to mind. I listen when I’m interested and some times when I’m not. And, when I long to be held sometimes I reach out and hug someone...because maybe they need to be held as well.
I’m not anything special and I don’t do anything stupendous. And I’m sure my lack of glamour and missing precision leaves me missing the mark on the world I want to impact.
But, sometimes, I’m me.
And, apparently, me makes a difference.
I never thought I would hear the day to have someone I’ve never met say “Oh! You’re Anika! I’ve heard a lot about you. I've been wanting to meet you. 'So and So'...I’m pretty sure she’s your biggest fan.” The person referenced is someone I know and appreciate but barely hold a conversation with once a semester.
I never thought I would have to question a kid who claims things I told him weeks ago get him through life on a daily basis and realize things about himself he never knew true. “I appreciate you so much Anika I really do” he wrote me. And I sat speechless.
Apparently being me has made a difference. For as hard is it is for me to grasp, to take hold of, to claim, I have little “Anika Fan Clubs” started around because somehow, despite myself I’ve make an impact.
This blows my mind.
Baffles me.
Humbles me.
And makes me beg God for the strength and the courage to further match myself up to Him because the world is watching.
I always wonder if I’m making a difference. If anything I say or do matters at all. If I leave any sort of lasting impression. If the fact that I was and am and live and breathe and act out of those things has any impact on the world around me.
The scary part is that the answer might just be “yes”...
Some days I try desperately to be that person.
That person...you know the one.
The one who says the right thing at the right time. Who hugs when it’s needed most. Who listens intently. Who doesn’t talk too much. Who doesn’t mess up. Who knows what’s going on. Who acts unconditionally out of love.
That one.
And for all of my trying, which isn’t necessarily bad, I never measure up.
Because it’s not me. Because I try so desperately to match up to a standard I have self-created around what I believe the world has set for me. Because I can never always say the right thing or act in the right way. Because for as much as I try, I so often lack the love needed to sustain.
And yet, often, I’m myself. And I don’t try. I just am.
I do what comes naturally. I say what comes to mind. I listen when I’m interested and some times when I’m not. And, when I long to be held sometimes I reach out and hug someone...because maybe they need to be held as well.
I’m not anything special and I don’t do anything stupendous. And I’m sure my lack of glamour and missing precision leaves me missing the mark on the world I want to impact.
But, sometimes, I’m me.
And, apparently, me makes a difference.
I never thought I would hear the day to have someone I’ve never met say “Oh! You’re Anika! I’ve heard a lot about you. I've been wanting to meet you. 'So and So'...I’m pretty sure she’s your biggest fan.” The person referenced is someone I know and appreciate but barely hold a conversation with once a semester.
I never thought I would have to question a kid who claims things I told him weeks ago get him through life on a daily basis and realize things about himself he never knew true. “I appreciate you so much Anika I really do” he wrote me. And I sat speechless.
Apparently being me has made a difference. For as hard is it is for me to grasp, to take hold of, to claim, I have little “Anika Fan Clubs” started around because somehow, despite myself I’ve make an impact.
This blows my mind.
Baffles me.
Humbles me.
And makes me beg God for the strength and the courage to further match myself up to Him because the world is watching.
I always wonder if I’m making a difference. If anything I say or do matters at all. If I leave any sort of lasting impression. If the fact that I was and am and live and breathe and act out of those things has any impact on the world around me.
The scary part is that the answer might just be “yes”...
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Anticipating...
Soo...for those of you who actually read my blog and see me/talk to me in real life occasionally...this might confuse you a little, but I'll try to be as legit as possible...
I don't anticipate much.
Anticipating comes with the inclination of desire, longing, looking forward, eager expectation, hope.
I expect things. I wait for things. I have this idea things are going to happen...but then I conquer. I guess at what is to come...get ready for it...and I get through.
But I don't anticipate.
There is no joy in the wait.
So much of life has become a drudgery. A task. An assignment. Even things I thought I liked to do, things I remember giving me a sense of worth or accomplishment, things normal people get excited about. My goal was just to do it and move on.
Every youth group meeting this summer.
Both weeks of summer camp.
Appointments, meetings, designated trips.
Semesters, school years, classes.
Possibilities, potentialities.
I did look forward and enjoy time spent with certain friends and a couple key weddings. But when to the friends I had to bid farewell and the wedding days had come to an end...there was nothing more to look towards.
It occurred to me that I've forgotten how to dream, how to imagine, plan, be ambitious in hope. Dreaming comes with desire and anticipation. And I couldn't muster up what it took to create it. My greatest desire was just to get through the day. And I stopped looking forward to the next day...there was nothing there to look forward to.
Tonight...as I got ready for bed and I looked at my busy schedule for tomorrow, it occurred to me, out of the blue, that tomorrow was a day I wanted to be involved in. I eagerly began to imagine what the day would hold, the people I would meet, get to see, reconnect with. I started to dwell on the projects to get done and where those projects would take me. I felt myself build excitiment over the things I would both learn and experience. And it was the most unfamiliar feeling...to anticipate.
I don't know how long it will last. I don't know how long it will be until I am overcome by the drudgery of the day to day. But my new prayer is that I can go to bed each night with something in the tomorrow to add purpose, meaning, and anticipation to my life...
I don't anticipate much.
Anticipating comes with the inclination of desire, longing, looking forward, eager expectation, hope.
I expect things. I wait for things. I have this idea things are going to happen...but then I conquer. I guess at what is to come...get ready for it...and I get through.
But I don't anticipate.
There is no joy in the wait.
So much of life has become a drudgery. A task. An assignment. Even things I thought I liked to do, things I remember giving me a sense of worth or accomplishment, things normal people get excited about. My goal was just to do it and move on.
Every youth group meeting this summer.
Both weeks of summer camp.
Appointments, meetings, designated trips.
Semesters, school years, classes.
Possibilities, potentialities.
I did look forward and enjoy time spent with certain friends and a couple key weddings. But when to the friends I had to bid farewell and the wedding days had come to an end...there was nothing more to look towards.
It occurred to me that I've forgotten how to dream, how to imagine, plan, be ambitious in hope. Dreaming comes with desire and anticipation. And I couldn't muster up what it took to create it. My greatest desire was just to get through the day. And I stopped looking forward to the next day...there was nothing there to look forward to.
Tonight...as I got ready for bed and I looked at my busy schedule for tomorrow, it occurred to me, out of the blue, that tomorrow was a day I wanted to be involved in. I eagerly began to imagine what the day would hold, the people I would meet, get to see, reconnect with. I started to dwell on the projects to get done and where those projects would take me. I felt myself build excitiment over the things I would both learn and experience. And it was the most unfamiliar feeling...to anticipate.
I don't know how long it will last. I don't know how long it will be until I am overcome by the drudgery of the day to day. But my new prayer is that I can go to bed each night with something in the tomorrow to add purpose, meaning, and anticipation to my life...
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Agape Nika
It feels good...
To be loved.
To feel loved.
To be told you're loved.
To be given the impression you're lovable.
Because, at the end of the day, it makes all of the difference.
And love, true love, always wins.
To be loved.
To feel loved.
To be told you're loved.
To be given the impression you're lovable.
Because, at the end of the day, it makes all of the difference.
And love, true love, always wins.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Power, huh?
Everyone always told me knowledge was power.
But with great power comes great responsibility.
And so now I hold the power and I have to make a decision.
Because I have the power enough to destroy but not the power enough not to be scared.
I know too much.
And not enough.
The uncertainty is tearing me apart.
Knowing means I can do something with the information.
Not knowing means I have to wait for the answer.
Knowledge may be power but waiting is dependency and dependency is lack of power.
So I'm struggling somewhere between the control I have and the control I need.
But with great power comes great responsibility.
And so now I hold the power and I have to make a decision.
Because I have the power enough to destroy but not the power enough not to be scared.
I know too much.
And not enough.
The uncertainty is tearing me apart.
Knowing means I can do something with the information.
Not knowing means I have to wait for the answer.
Knowledge may be power but waiting is dependency and dependency is lack of power.
So I'm struggling somewhere between the control I have and the control I need.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Toothpaste Ponderings
I have a traveling toiletries container that has stayed in varying stages of “packed” all summer. Between weekend “getaways”, road trips, weddings, and camp twice...I feel like I’ve been in some stage of journey consistently for the last 3+ months. Rather than consistently be looking for my travel shampoo, toothbrush, and soap...I’ve just kept everything I didn’t need from the convenience of home in that little zippered pouch.
Including my traveler’s toothpaste.
Those little bottles of toothpaste typically last me about two weeks brushing twice a day. I had gone through a week of camp and three weekends away on the little tube in my possession, but I was about to start a second week of camp. As I pulled out my toothbrush to brush my teeth that first night I cringed. I hadn’t bothered to check for the amount and my supply of toothpaste was unimaginably low. There was no way I was going to make it through the whole week. “Maybe I can just borrow some or maybe I’ll have to go out and buy more...” I sighed to myself. And I continued to squeeze out of my little toothpaste bottle.
I brushed morning and night...each time wringing the tube for all it was worth. I threw away the empty roll this morning after glopping the last little ball of toothpaste onto my brush. Miraculously, mysteriously, and quite unpredictably, the toothpaste lasted me the entire week.
And right now, actually all through the week, I’ve felt just a little bit like that tube of toothpaste. Like I didn’t come in with enough to begin with and it was going to be nothing shy of a miracle if I made it through the whole week. I’m debating now whether or not there had always been the perfect amount inside regardless of what it looked and felt like or whether or not I was forcing product long past the time it had anything to give.
I realize that at the end of the day (or the week) either way God sustained but I’m so incredibly wasted, worn out, used, abused, and thrown away. It is hard to decipher purposeful destruction and whittling away at what I had to give and pushing beyond the capacity of capability. I’ve never finished a camp week feeling so defeated, so alone, and so separated from the God I spent my week claiming to serve. What does this mean in terms of the life I am trying to live?
My favorite song right now is “I Will Life My Eyes” by Bebo Norman. The chorus claims “I will lift my eyes to the maker of the mountains I can’t climb. I will lift my eyes to the calmer of the oceans raging wild. I will lift my eyes to the healer of the hurt I hold inside...I will lift my eyes”. I desperately want to focus on the one who is more powerful than the things I cannot conquer, the things I cannot control, and the things I can neither share or express. But I’m having a hard time lifting my head. And I’m having a harder time believing life won’t always be this way.
Including my traveler’s toothpaste.
Those little bottles of toothpaste typically last me about two weeks brushing twice a day. I had gone through a week of camp and three weekends away on the little tube in my possession, but I was about to start a second week of camp. As I pulled out my toothbrush to brush my teeth that first night I cringed. I hadn’t bothered to check for the amount and my supply of toothpaste was unimaginably low. There was no way I was going to make it through the whole week. “Maybe I can just borrow some or maybe I’ll have to go out and buy more...” I sighed to myself. And I continued to squeeze out of my little toothpaste bottle.
I brushed morning and night...each time wringing the tube for all it was worth. I threw away the empty roll this morning after glopping the last little ball of toothpaste onto my brush. Miraculously, mysteriously, and quite unpredictably, the toothpaste lasted me the entire week.
And right now, actually all through the week, I’ve felt just a little bit like that tube of toothpaste. Like I didn’t come in with enough to begin with and it was going to be nothing shy of a miracle if I made it through the whole week. I’m debating now whether or not there had always been the perfect amount inside regardless of what it looked and felt like or whether or not I was forcing product long past the time it had anything to give.
I realize that at the end of the day (or the week) either way God sustained but I’m so incredibly wasted, worn out, used, abused, and thrown away. It is hard to decipher purposeful destruction and whittling away at what I had to give and pushing beyond the capacity of capability. I’ve never finished a camp week feeling so defeated, so alone, and so separated from the God I spent my week claiming to serve. What does this mean in terms of the life I am trying to live?
My favorite song right now is “I Will Life My Eyes” by Bebo Norman. The chorus claims “I will lift my eyes to the maker of the mountains I can’t climb. I will lift my eyes to the calmer of the oceans raging wild. I will lift my eyes to the healer of the hurt I hold inside...I will lift my eyes”. I desperately want to focus on the one who is more powerful than the things I cannot conquer, the things I cannot control, and the things I can neither share or express. But I’m having a hard time lifting my head. And I’m having a harder time believing life won’t always be this way.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Passions and Hate...
Ever get a song in your head that just won’t quit? I did today. But I don’t have that song in my files. So, I youtubed it. The song is irrelevant, the experience is not.
Somehow a related song brought me through a few loops until I ended up with videos placed in relationship to eating disorders. I clicked and watched in a tranced cringe. Some of them basically said “I’ll gladly have an eating disorder if I can just look like that...” Others said “I still have an eating disorder because I’m still fat...” Still others screamed subtly “Somebody love me, I just want to be beautiful.”
They made me so sick inside I begged to cry. The tears never released (per usual) and the dull nausea I had been experiencing for the last few hours blossomed as my head began to spin. Somewhat ironically, my course of action was to go throw up. It made the spinning in my head stop but not the raw ache gnawing at my heart.
In too many ways those videos hit too close to home. They were too painful. Too real. Too me. I know too much so the authenticity in the pictures, in the words cut too sharply, too deep. A single tear fell to my cheek as my immediate run away from the images in front of my brought me to a facebook flair reading "You're beautiful. I just wanted to remind you of that..." If only I could get others to believe that. If only I could believe it for me...
I’ve been begging for true passions to be revealed...and more than ever this summer I have had a hard time ignoring the fact something in me feels very deeply for my teenage girls. The ones I can claim and the ones I can’t. Body image is such a huge platform of mine. A ridiculous soapbox because of the way I’ve been impacted.
How do I act on this passion? How do I make it make a difference? And what if I can’t? What if I am scared because I know acting on it is going to mean admitting to myself and the world the things about myself I most hate?
Somehow a related song brought me through a few loops until I ended up with videos placed in relationship to eating disorders. I clicked and watched in a tranced cringe. Some of them basically said “I’ll gladly have an eating disorder if I can just look like that...” Others said “I still have an eating disorder because I’m still fat...” Still others screamed subtly “Somebody love me, I just want to be beautiful.”
They made me so sick inside I begged to cry. The tears never released (per usual) and the dull nausea I had been experiencing for the last few hours blossomed as my head began to spin. Somewhat ironically, my course of action was to go throw up. It made the spinning in my head stop but not the raw ache gnawing at my heart.
In too many ways those videos hit too close to home. They were too painful. Too real. Too me. I know too much so the authenticity in the pictures, in the words cut too sharply, too deep. A single tear fell to my cheek as my immediate run away from the images in front of my brought me to a facebook flair reading "You're beautiful. I just wanted to remind you of that..." If only I could get others to believe that. If only I could believe it for me...
I’ve been begging for true passions to be revealed...and more than ever this summer I have had a hard time ignoring the fact something in me feels very deeply for my teenage girls. The ones I can claim and the ones I can’t. Body image is such a huge platform of mine. A ridiculous soapbox because of the way I’ve been impacted.
How do I act on this passion? How do I make it make a difference? And what if I can’t? What if I am scared because I know acting on it is going to mean admitting to myself and the world the things about myself I most hate?
Monday, August 3, 2009
Chicken
I almost blogged tonight.
But I didn't.
I was ready to post when it occurred to me people might actually read this. And if the right people read it at the right time...things could have been misconstrued. Feelings could have been hurt. For as much as I wanted to release my thought into cyber space, I refuse to unintentionally hurt feelings.
And so I find I censor myself. Too many expectations at church. Too many slaps in the face with friends. Too many kids and relatives on facebook. Too many possibilities with my blog.
Some day maybe I won't be afraid of the real me.
But I didn't.
I was ready to post when it occurred to me people might actually read this. And if the right people read it at the right time...things could have been misconstrued. Feelings could have been hurt. For as much as I wanted to release my thought into cyber space, I refuse to unintentionally hurt feelings.
And so I find I censor myself. Too many expectations at church. Too many slaps in the face with friends. Too many kids and relatives on facebook. Too many possibilities with my blog.
Some day maybe I won't be afraid of the real me.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Contact
It’s funny how people are made for connection, for community. How it is built into who we are. Wired into the way we react. A few years ago, I would have argued this as a deaf point, an unnecessary assertion. And now I notice it as the impossible truth.
Truth doesn’t always make things easier. Actually, sometimes it makes it harder. If you admit truth, you have to live by it. And sometimes, sometimes, there is no easy implication. I spend time, too much time, instead trying to convince myself of the opposite, the lie. “I don’t need people. That’s crazy! It’s too hard and too much work anyway. I’ll get used to it! I’ll write more again! I’ll talk to my teddy bears! I’ll become quiet, introspective, good...” Except, always, I fail. It’s hard to accept live a lie when the truth is so much sweeter.
I just spent an hour jumping between three e-mail accounts (kept for different purposes) and my facebook. Desperately looking for an e-mail, a status update, a posted picture...someone to send me a message or write on my wall. Someone to chat with. I was craving contact. Instead, however, I just came up impeccably short. The only contact I made in that hour was the artificial construction of involvement...where I can feel like I play a part in someone else’s life because I can see their facebook page. It was a poor alternative. It left me feeling jealous and empty.
There are friends I haven’t heard from in weeks. I miss them...dearly. But I wonder how many times I have to initiate to be granted a response. I wonder how much I have to reach out before [certain] somebody[s] finally reaches back. The funny thing is, I will probably continue to do so. Not because I’m a glutton for punishment but because I’m fairly certain I was made for connection, for community. It’s built into who I am. Wired into the way I react.
Truth doesn’t always make things easier. Actually, sometimes it makes it harder. If you admit truth, you have to live by it. And sometimes, sometimes, there is no easy implication. I spend time, too much time, instead trying to convince myself of the opposite, the lie. “I don’t need people. That’s crazy! It’s too hard and too much work anyway. I’ll get used to it! I’ll write more again! I’ll talk to my teddy bears! I’ll become quiet, introspective, good...” Except, always, I fail. It’s hard to accept live a lie when the truth is so much sweeter.
I just spent an hour jumping between three e-mail accounts (kept for different purposes) and my facebook. Desperately looking for an e-mail, a status update, a posted picture...someone to send me a message or write on my wall. Someone to chat with. I was craving contact. Instead, however, I just came up impeccably short. The only contact I made in that hour was the artificial construction of involvement...where I can feel like I play a part in someone else’s life because I can see their facebook page. It was a poor alternative. It left me feeling jealous and empty.
There are friends I haven’t heard from in weeks. I miss them...dearly. But I wonder how many times I have to initiate to be granted a response. I wonder how much I have to reach out before [certain] somebody[s] finally reaches back. The funny thing is, I will probably continue to do so. Not because I’m a glutton for punishment but because I’m fairly certain I was made for connection, for community. It’s built into who I am. Wired into the way I react.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
On sharing thoughts and tears...
My blog is little if not public journal space, but because I am fairly convinced no one ever reads it, I’m safe...at least for now. I read an old blog posted by a friend soon after she got an account. She noted the fact she had posted her blog address on facebook...and it was a little intimidating. After all, she had all of these thoughts that could be read...what were the chances anybody would actually read them? I think she debated the introverted extrovert verses the extroverted introvert. Sometimes I feel like that. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just journal the things people would think me peculiar to know or say out loud the things I want shared. In the end maybe I really do want somebody to know things...maybe in the end, the people to share things with just aren’t around or just don’t care. It’s a fault of the system. So in the end, I blog. It seems like a compromise between the two.
But I didn’t actually get on to blog about blogging. I got on to blog about tears. About how much I hate crying. About how desperately I wish I could. Seems silly doesn’t it? Silly that I can’t cry? After all, I’m a girl. Some unspoken, unwritten, all-understood code states clearly as a chick I should be great at tears. And I suck. April, May, June...into July. I’ve gone nearly 3 ½ months. 3 ½ months without tears. That would be awesome if there wasn’t any good reason to cry...but on the contrary, there have been plenty. Part of me is stuck. It’s like emotional constipation. I won’t say I can’t feel anything. I do. In fact, sometimes it hurts terribly, there’s just no release. No balm.
My eyes almost, almost, started tearing today. From exhaustion or stress I’m not really sure. Perhaps the fact that the dry air was making my contacts sticky alone was enough to cause my eyes to water. Actually, it was more likely the latter than not. In some ways I willed them to come. They didn’t. And if they did, I probably would have felt like a dweeb...because crying makes me feel so vulnerable, so helpless, so small. And there is some artificial strength I glean from pretending I have control over whether or not I cry. But in the end, I find the things I try hardest to control, end up controlling me. So here I am gripped between an inability I didn’t dictate and a desire I cannot fulfill.
But I didn’t actually get on to blog about blogging. I got on to blog about tears. About how much I hate crying. About how desperately I wish I could. Seems silly doesn’t it? Silly that I can’t cry? After all, I’m a girl. Some unspoken, unwritten, all-understood code states clearly as a chick I should be great at tears. And I suck. April, May, June...into July. I’ve gone nearly 3 ½ months. 3 ½ months without tears. That would be awesome if there wasn’t any good reason to cry...but on the contrary, there have been plenty. Part of me is stuck. It’s like emotional constipation. I won’t say I can’t feel anything. I do. In fact, sometimes it hurts terribly, there’s just no release. No balm.
My eyes almost, almost, started tearing today. From exhaustion or stress I’m not really sure. Perhaps the fact that the dry air was making my contacts sticky alone was enough to cause my eyes to water. Actually, it was more likely the latter than not. In some ways I willed them to come. They didn’t. And if they did, I probably would have felt like a dweeb...because crying makes me feel so vulnerable, so helpless, so small. And there is some artificial strength I glean from pretending I have control over whether or not I cry. But in the end, I find the things I try hardest to control, end up controlling me. So here I am gripped between an inability I didn’t dictate and a desire I cannot fulfill.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Forgive Me...
Forgive me God,
For missing opportunities out of sheer fear and cowardice
For craving your company...at my convenience
For speaking rich words backed up with empty actions
For always putting the thought of me before the thought of you
For hurting people in exchange for my own image and comfort
For letting my pride get in the way of a servant’s heart
For craving love but not being willing to give it back
For ignoring those who need to be shown your love...because it makes me uncomfortable
For forgetting sacrifice takes humility and courage and not just lip service
For walking by sight and forgetting the faith
For tolerating personal apathy and refusing a life of passion
For allowing my selfishness to dictate our relationship
For seeking the things of your hand before the things of your heart
For redefining discipleship – so my own pathetic attempts will some how measure up
For screaming at your absence without endeavoring towards your presence
For willing your voice but not sticking around for the answer
For missing opportunities out of sheer fear and cowardice
For craving your company...at my convenience
For speaking rich words backed up with empty actions
For always putting the thought of me before the thought of you
For hurting people in exchange for my own image and comfort
For letting my pride get in the way of a servant’s heart
For craving love but not being willing to give it back
For ignoring those who need to be shown your love...because it makes me uncomfortable
For forgetting sacrifice takes humility and courage and not just lip service
For walking by sight and forgetting the faith
For tolerating personal apathy and refusing a life of passion
For allowing my selfishness to dictate our relationship
For seeking the things of your hand before the things of your heart
For redefining discipleship – so my own pathetic attempts will some how measure up
For screaming at your absence without endeavoring towards your presence
For willing your voice but not sticking around for the answer
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Mostly Old Ladies...just for Cindy :)
So, uh, yeah. Haven’t blogged in a while. To all my faithful followers: I’m sorry. But since I’m not sure anyone actually knows my blog exists/actually reads it...I’m not really that apologetic. :) Also, typically I try to write *cough* profound things on my blog. Or thoughts which just don’t quite fit into my journal. Random things. I’m not quite sure where this one fits, but I had to write it. It’s mostly legit :). This, this blog is for you Cindy...
Three old ladies. Three hugs. Three minutes. “Anika!” Hug. Talk. “How are you feeling?” Hug. Talk. “Oh, you look so good!” Hug. Goodbye. Deep breath. Kind of the story of my afternoon. It was my baby sister’s open house but I felt equally mobbed.
It’s a good thing I’ve spent the last couple of years working on coming out of my “Anika has a radial bubble of approximately 4 feet. Enter at your own risk!” lifestyle because my bubble was popped! And, quite frankly, it was not the time or the place to turn around and pop bubble poppers a good one! And, really, who feels good about popping three old ladies good ones? Not me. They’re nice old ladies.
*sigh*
Admittedly, at one point, I was a little irritated. These people I’ve known from every stage of my life and who spotted all of my siblings immediately would come up, smile at me cordially, walk past, hug my mother, look around. Mom would point. I would wave. It became a game. At least for me. I was giving bonus points to people who recognized me without mom’s prodding. After almost three years for some of them, they didn’t have a clue who I was.
But they all wanted to find me.
Not that I didn’t want to see them, but they all had these eyes. No one (or rather not many) actually asked. But they all knew. And their eyes kind of enveloped me as they smiled and sighed; these eyes that claimed I was some sort of miracle. A couple people almost broke into tears. A few I wish just would have asked. I have an actual book of where God took me in the first four months of cancer. I’ve done a lot of growing up and a lot of adjusting since then. I have a lot of answers. Some of them canned. All of them honest. I would have told them and the puppy eyes could have been saved. We talked about Uganda instead – it was an extraordinarily convenient alternative.
Others didn’t need to ask. They didn’t need an answer...they didn’t, in reality, have any questions! They just wanted to hug. God bless them. They would pull me in so tight I would loose my balance, my breath, and once...my gum! As near as I could tell, when all was narrowed down, the fact of the matter is only...
I am loved.
Old ladies. Awkward and plentiful hugs. Smelling like Noxzema. Others wet eyes. Loosing my gum. Suddenly seems like a small pay for all of the prayers, care, love and tears that have gone into what now makes up my current existence. Oh old ladies...
Three old ladies. Three hugs. Three minutes. “Anika!” Hug. Talk. “How are you feeling?” Hug. Talk. “Oh, you look so good!” Hug. Goodbye. Deep breath. Kind of the story of my afternoon. It was my baby sister’s open house but I felt equally mobbed.
It’s a good thing I’ve spent the last couple of years working on coming out of my “Anika has a radial bubble of approximately 4 feet. Enter at your own risk!” lifestyle because my bubble was popped! And, quite frankly, it was not the time or the place to turn around and pop bubble poppers a good one! And, really, who feels good about popping three old ladies good ones? Not me. They’re nice old ladies.
*sigh*
Admittedly, at one point, I was a little irritated. These people I’ve known from every stage of my life and who spotted all of my siblings immediately would come up, smile at me cordially, walk past, hug my mother, look around. Mom would point. I would wave. It became a game. At least for me. I was giving bonus points to people who recognized me without mom’s prodding. After almost three years for some of them, they didn’t have a clue who I was.
But they all wanted to find me.
Not that I didn’t want to see them, but they all had these eyes. No one (or rather not many) actually asked. But they all knew. And their eyes kind of enveloped me as they smiled and sighed; these eyes that claimed I was some sort of miracle. A couple people almost broke into tears. A few I wish just would have asked. I have an actual book of where God took me in the first four months of cancer. I’ve done a lot of growing up and a lot of adjusting since then. I have a lot of answers. Some of them canned. All of them honest. I would have told them and the puppy eyes could have been saved. We talked about Uganda instead – it was an extraordinarily convenient alternative.
Others didn’t need to ask. They didn’t need an answer...they didn’t, in reality, have any questions! They just wanted to hug. God bless them. They would pull me in so tight I would loose my balance, my breath, and once...my gum! As near as I could tell, when all was narrowed down, the fact of the matter is only...
I am loved.
Old ladies. Awkward and plentiful hugs. Smelling like Noxzema. Others wet eyes. Loosing my gum. Suddenly seems like a small pay for all of the prayers, care, love and tears that have gone into what now makes up my current existence. Oh old ladies...
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Problem with Strength...
I’m not a strong as I once was. I am not a sure as I would like to be – as stable as I could be. And I’m trying to decide if this is for the good or for the bad. In some ways it is so important for me to realize just how weak I am. But there is a problem. There is a problem because I used to know I was weak on my own accord but that there was One who I found my strength in. And so I have a problem. A problem because if I’m not as strong as I once was and it is because I’m missing my Strength and not because I have become weak.
Satan doesn’t try and know us down when we’re weak. Although I am currently feeling awfully defeated. But really. Why would he try?? We’re already down! No. Satan knocks us down when we’re strong – to convince us that we are we are weak. To try and prove to us that our stronghold no longer claims the power. To tear us apart when we have everything to give. It is not when we are at our lowest and weakest but when we are strong that we must remember to send Satan to Hell...lest he lead us to believe we are there ourselves.
And so, if I am feeling knocked down, defeated, then perhaps I was once strong. Perhaps once I had something great to give and I had to be stopped before it could be given. I wonder if now that I am weak if I am still capable of giving what is great. Can I ever, again, in the Power of Christ, rise? Am I willing, again, to take claim upon the Strength which can only be made perfect in my weakness?
Satan doesn’t try and know us down when we’re weak. Although I am currently feeling awfully defeated. But really. Why would he try?? We’re already down! No. Satan knocks us down when we’re strong – to convince us that we are we are weak. To try and prove to us that our stronghold no longer claims the power. To tear us apart when we have everything to give. It is not when we are at our lowest and weakest but when we are strong that we must remember to send Satan to Hell...lest he lead us to believe we are there ourselves.
And so, if I am feeling knocked down, defeated, then perhaps I was once strong. Perhaps once I had something great to give and I had to be stopped before it could be given. I wonder if now that I am weak if I am still capable of giving what is great. Can I ever, again, in the Power of Christ, rise? Am I willing, again, to take claim upon the Strength which can only be made perfect in my weakness?
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Dangerous Permission
“God, You can have all of me...do what you will.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve given God those words as both casual, half-meant promises and full-fledged, heartfelt, thought-out prayers. On either accord I always find myself in a place of frustrated anger. Often directed at my Heavenly Father, the one I love, when I feel like such an offering has left me short. Let down when the results don’t match up to the expectations I was supposed to have just given away. I wonder if I, if we, really know what it means to say “I give You it all...”
Do we know what we say when we give God permission to do what he will? When we give God permission to have his way with our lives? Do we realize what kind of surrender that requires? Are we prepared for the cost? We’re not just giving up our right to air, my friends! It’s our family, our friends, our health, our finances. It’s our dreams, our goals, our hopes, our expectations, our ideas. It’s our plans, our schedules, our decisions, our control. It’s everything. And that...that is dangerous permission...
Do we know what we say when we give God permission to do what he will? When we give God permission to have his way with our lives? Do we realize what kind of surrender that requires? Are we prepared for the cost? We’re not just giving up our right to air, my friends! It’s our family, our friends, our health, our finances. It’s our dreams, our goals, our hopes, our expectations, our ideas. It’s our plans, our schedules, our decisions, our control. It’s everything. And that...that is dangerous permission...
Saturday, April 18, 2009
I am the one missing...
I have friends. Friends on campus. Friends that I love. But when I want to spend time with them…very often, I have to make an appointment. So goes life in the world of busy college students. It’s not that they don’t care and that they don’t legitimately desire the friendship as well…they just have insane lives with lots of classes, responsibilities and other friends demanding their time and attention. But, I would love to find them to talk sometimes. I would love to spill my bad day, ask for a hug, share my good news. But, for the most part I no longer try...because when I really need a friend, they just aren’t around. Unless, of course, I had an appointment… So I see her in the hall or pass her on campus and we both bemoan how much we miss the other. At which time we agree it has been too long and we need to plan a time to get together. I’m all about plans. If it’s in the plans, it will for sure be efforted towards taking place. We can make small talk over dinner. Or go for a quick drive. And the time is always well spent. But when the appointment is over I feel like our friendship is on pause. How is it unless I make a date, I always eat alone? How is it I can be the confidant but very rarely the confider? How is it when I really need a friend…I can never find one?
All of which I say not to whine...I truly cherish my friendships and conflicting schedules is really a very small fact of life...but I say it because I wonder if this is how God feels. I wonder if he feels like He’s been shoved into my day planner. Given a moment here or there. I make a date with Him at least once a week! And the appointments are good. Totally worth my time. But it doesn’t beat the “day to day life” friendship. I sometimes wonder if He just wishes that we could hang out. That He could talk to me and I would just listen. He’s always there when I seek him out…how often am I the one missing?
All of which I say not to whine...I truly cherish my friendships and conflicting schedules is really a very small fact of life...but I say it because I wonder if this is how God feels. I wonder if he feels like He’s been shoved into my day planner. Given a moment here or there. I make a date with Him at least once a week! And the appointments are good. Totally worth my time. But it doesn’t beat the “day to day life” friendship. I sometimes wonder if He just wishes that we could hang out. That He could talk to me and I would just listen. He’s always there when I seek him out…how often am I the one missing?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Missed Opportunities
Sometimes I wonder about missed opportunities. And I wonder just how many I’ve missed.
I was driving back to school today and it was a quiet drive. With my traveling companions “Major and Sophie” strapped in the passenger seat next to me, we just drove. I often use my lonely two hour drives as impressive spill sessions. I talk and I pray. I say whatever is on my heart, on my mind. Whatever words I’ve been burning to say have complete safety inside of my little moving box. But today the drive was quiet. I had little to say and despite the profound things that sometimes come from my stuffed bears, their beaded eyes merely stared.
Needless to say, it made me impressively more observant of my surroundings. I noticed the guy in the truck ahead of me wave goodbye as I turned after following him for 20 miles. I noticed the seven dead deer, 4 dead cats, and single dead chicken looking creature. I noticed the tractor plowing his field as the day turned to dusk.
And I noticed the building... “Bruce’s Tack Box”. A little shop stuck on a delta of land between two intersecting roads. As near as anyone could tell, it was a little everything shop and it always intrigued me. For as long as I’ve been driving to Spring Arbor, it has been on my route. I pass it every time I go home and every time I come back...for the last three years. And every time I read the words I vow that some day I’m going to stop and visit. But I never did. I always was eager to get home, had to get back for work, needed to finish homework, and the list went on.
That visit would never come. My intrigue by this little awkwardly-placed country store would never be satisfied. Because today as I drove past I saw a realtor’s “for sale” sign out front and two red “closed” signs in the dirty empty windows. “Bruce’s Tack Box” was just a hollow building. I had missed my chance.
It seems harmless enough. It was just a store; it was just a road; I wouldn’t have bought anything; it probably wasn’t that impressive; it might have been a waste of time. Or it might not have. What about all the other things I keep claiming I’m going to do? How many more excuses will I create before yet another opportunity passes be by? Bruce’s Tack Box probably won’t make a difference in the long run...but how do I not know that the next one will? What opportunities am I being called to notice? And which one’s will I not pay any head until there is a “for sale” sign out front with red “closed” signs in dirty empty windows?
I was driving back to school today and it was a quiet drive. With my traveling companions “Major and Sophie” strapped in the passenger seat next to me, we just drove. I often use my lonely two hour drives as impressive spill sessions. I talk and I pray. I say whatever is on my heart, on my mind. Whatever words I’ve been burning to say have complete safety inside of my little moving box. But today the drive was quiet. I had little to say and despite the profound things that sometimes come from my stuffed bears, their beaded eyes merely stared.
Needless to say, it made me impressively more observant of my surroundings. I noticed the guy in the truck ahead of me wave goodbye as I turned after following him for 20 miles. I noticed the seven dead deer, 4 dead cats, and single dead chicken looking creature. I noticed the tractor plowing his field as the day turned to dusk.
And I noticed the building... “Bruce’s Tack Box”. A little shop stuck on a delta of land between two intersecting roads. As near as anyone could tell, it was a little everything shop and it always intrigued me. For as long as I’ve been driving to Spring Arbor, it has been on my route. I pass it every time I go home and every time I come back...for the last three years. And every time I read the words I vow that some day I’m going to stop and visit. But I never did. I always was eager to get home, had to get back for work, needed to finish homework, and the list went on.
That visit would never come. My intrigue by this little awkwardly-placed country store would never be satisfied. Because today as I drove past I saw a realtor’s “for sale” sign out front and two red “closed” signs in the dirty empty windows. “Bruce’s Tack Box” was just a hollow building. I had missed my chance.
It seems harmless enough. It was just a store; it was just a road; I wouldn’t have bought anything; it probably wasn’t that impressive; it might have been a waste of time. Or it might not have. What about all the other things I keep claiming I’m going to do? How many more excuses will I create before yet another opportunity passes be by? Bruce’s Tack Box probably won’t make a difference in the long run...but how do I not know that the next one will? What opportunities am I being called to notice? And which one’s will I not pay any head until there is a “for sale” sign out front with red “closed” signs in dirty empty windows?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Just Breathe...
Just Breathe
AK April 2009
The clouds roll over another day
And she wonders...
Wonders if it will always be this way.
Straining hard against the rising gusts
Moving forwards takes all her will
All her trust.
Cold hard rain drops hit her cheek,
The chilling blast makes her knees go weak.
Stinging tears held at bay...
And she wonders...
Wonders what it’s like to be “ok”.
She’s the girl with alabaster skin.
And she holds out against the wind.
Looking for the one place she can be free...
Free to just breathe.
Choking out the breath to take in
The loneliness, the sadness, the pressure,
Where to begin?
But as she feels herself begin to cry,
She lifts her head up to the sky.
One small crack of light shines down,
Just maybe...
Maybe she has enough air not to drown...
She’s the girl with alabaster skin.
And she lets the tears fall in the wind.
Wishing for the place she can be free...
Free to just breathe.
And the sun shines down on her face;
And she knows it’s drying her tear-streaked stains.
And the fresh air fills her lungs.
And a small smile says that life’s not done.
And she twirls around in the springtime breeze
And she is able, finally,
To just breathe...
She’s the girl with alabaster skin
And she dances softly in the wind
The only place where she’s completely free...
Free to just breathe...
AK April 2009
The clouds roll over another day
And she wonders...
Wonders if it will always be this way.
Straining hard against the rising gusts
Moving forwards takes all her will
All her trust.
Cold hard rain drops hit her cheek,
The chilling blast makes her knees go weak.
Stinging tears held at bay...
And she wonders...
Wonders what it’s like to be “ok”.
She’s the girl with alabaster skin.
And she holds out against the wind.
Looking for the one place she can be free...
Free to just breathe.
Choking out the breath to take in
The loneliness, the sadness, the pressure,
Where to begin?
But as she feels herself begin to cry,
She lifts her head up to the sky.
One small crack of light shines down,
Just maybe...
Maybe she has enough air not to drown...
She’s the girl with alabaster skin.
And she lets the tears fall in the wind.
Wishing for the place she can be free...
Free to just breathe.
And the sun shines down on her face;
And she knows it’s drying her tear-streaked stains.
And the fresh air fills her lungs.
And a small smile says that life’s not done.
And she twirls around in the springtime breeze
And she is able, finally,
To just breathe...
She’s the girl with alabaster skin
And she dances softly in the wind
The only place where she’s completely free...
Free to just breathe...
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Be Thou My Vision...
“Open the eyes of my heart Lord, open the eyes of my heart...I want to see you.” The lyrics of a contemporary praise song seem basic enough, genuine enough, straightforward enough. I need to see Jesus. Furthermore I need to see Him praised, glorified and claiming the rightful spot in the world and my life. A simple cry, a meaningful plea “Open the eyes of my heart...I want to see you.”
So why is it I feel as if the proverbial eyes of my pleading heart are indeed open...but yet I do not see?
I know what it feels like to have my eyes open...they certainly are. And I know I’ve seen before...blindness seems highly unlikely. Why is it my open eyes are still searching through what seems to be a cloudy mixture of dark fog?
Unless of course something is in front of my eyes...
Unless of course something is getting in the way of clear sight.
My grandmother...a few years before she died...had cataract surgery. A hard coating had developed over her eyes – making her unable to see although her vision had never before been extensively deficient. It was necessary for a skilled eye surgeon to go in with a special precision tool and break these clouded lenses of her eyes. When the cataracts were gone then, finally, my grandma could see like never before.
And here I am wondering if my lack of sight, my inability to exalt the God I love is related to my own heart cataracts. If I’ve let life harden over the eyes which used to so freely seek out my Saviour in everyday life. To see Jesus was breathing...He was in everything. He was everything. And I am desperate for these eyes which are open – with a heart begging to glorify – to see like never before. Father, come and chip away all that keeps me from seeing you.
“Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.
Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.
Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise,
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of heaven, my Treasure Thou art.
High King of heaven, my victory won,
May I reach heaven's joys, O bright heaven's Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.”
So why is it I feel as if the proverbial eyes of my pleading heart are indeed open...but yet I do not see?
I know what it feels like to have my eyes open...they certainly are. And I know I’ve seen before...blindness seems highly unlikely. Why is it my open eyes are still searching through what seems to be a cloudy mixture of dark fog?
Unless of course something is in front of my eyes...
Unless of course something is getting in the way of clear sight.
My grandmother...a few years before she died...had cataract surgery. A hard coating had developed over her eyes – making her unable to see although her vision had never before been extensively deficient. It was necessary for a skilled eye surgeon to go in with a special precision tool and break these clouded lenses of her eyes. When the cataracts were gone then, finally, my grandma could see like never before.
And here I am wondering if my lack of sight, my inability to exalt the God I love is related to my own heart cataracts. If I’ve let life harden over the eyes which used to so freely seek out my Saviour in everyday life. To see Jesus was breathing...He was in everything. He was everything. And I am desperate for these eyes which are open – with a heart begging to glorify – to see like never before. Father, come and chip away all that keeps me from seeing you.
“Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.
Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.
Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise,
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of heaven, my Treasure Thou art.
High King of heaven, my victory won,
May I reach heaven's joys, O bright heaven's Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.”
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Dear Life...
Dear Life,
I don’t really know how to tell this to you...but, well, I’m rather sick of you. I think it might be time if you and I officially called it quits. We’re over. We’re through.
I know this seems a little harsh, but you have to understand...There is just no way I can see this working. No way in which I can ever see you making up for the incredible hurt and anguish you’ve caused me. And there is much. You’re not who you were when we met and quite frankly, you’re not anything you have ever promised to be. I feel like you are a failed attempt at every turn. A series of lies. A general progression of lost hopes and missing expectations. You’ve thrown me every curve ball you could think to pitch and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the ways in which I have been incapable of meeting up to your ridiculous standards. Your cruel tyranny has left me bitter, cynical, and tired.
I know it seems harsh to place so much of the blame on you, but I can’t help but feel that is where it belongs. Time and time again I did my part and tried my best to pull through – to attempt at making things function – and every time you let me down. You proved to me you weren’t capable of being what you could be... I thought so highly of you. You meant so much to me. But at the end of the day, you became nothing more than just one more thing to deal with.
You’ve caused me enough trouble, enough pain. All on top of the fact it seems as if you only continued to tell me, in every way you could think of, that I was never going to be good enough. That somehow if I were ever to make anything out of myself...I was going to have to do it through you. And maybe that’s true, but I just can’t take it anymore. My entire definition was in how you played out. That, in my mind, is backwards. I feel like you ought to be working out of my definition...not the other way around.
The way you have controlled me has completely stolen the joy away from my very existence. And I can’t go on like this anymore. I need to rediscover who I am...and I have to do that without you. Someday, if I ever figure out who that is, maybe I can look you up again. Maybe we can reconsider how you can fit into the picture then. But as it stands now, I just don’t see how it’s going to be a possibility. I don’ know if it will ever work.
I’m sorry. This is not easy. I really do hope there will again be a day where we might be friends. Until then, I am both saddened and desperate to see you go. I only wish I knew how to make you leave... Please award me the thing you’ve never once allowed, the freedom to exist outside of you...if ever indeed there is a way.
Anika
I don’t really know how to tell this to you...but, well, I’m rather sick of you. I think it might be time if you and I officially called it quits. We’re over. We’re through.
I know this seems a little harsh, but you have to understand...There is just no way I can see this working. No way in which I can ever see you making up for the incredible hurt and anguish you’ve caused me. And there is much. You’re not who you were when we met and quite frankly, you’re not anything you have ever promised to be. I feel like you are a failed attempt at every turn. A series of lies. A general progression of lost hopes and missing expectations. You’ve thrown me every curve ball you could think to pitch and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the ways in which I have been incapable of meeting up to your ridiculous standards. Your cruel tyranny has left me bitter, cynical, and tired.
I know it seems harsh to place so much of the blame on you, but I can’t help but feel that is where it belongs. Time and time again I did my part and tried my best to pull through – to attempt at making things function – and every time you let me down. You proved to me you weren’t capable of being what you could be... I thought so highly of you. You meant so much to me. But at the end of the day, you became nothing more than just one more thing to deal with.
You’ve caused me enough trouble, enough pain. All on top of the fact it seems as if you only continued to tell me, in every way you could think of, that I was never going to be good enough. That somehow if I were ever to make anything out of myself...I was going to have to do it through you. And maybe that’s true, but I just can’t take it anymore. My entire definition was in how you played out. That, in my mind, is backwards. I feel like you ought to be working out of my definition...not the other way around.
The way you have controlled me has completely stolen the joy away from my very existence. And I can’t go on like this anymore. I need to rediscover who I am...and I have to do that without you. Someday, if I ever figure out who that is, maybe I can look you up again. Maybe we can reconsider how you can fit into the picture then. But as it stands now, I just don’t see how it’s going to be a possibility. I don’ know if it will ever work.
I’m sorry. This is not easy. I really do hope there will again be a day where we might be friends. Until then, I am both saddened and desperate to see you go. I only wish I knew how to make you leave... Please award me the thing you’ve never once allowed, the freedom to exist outside of you...if ever indeed there is a way.
Anika
Friday, March 20, 2009
Dissapointing
Following last nights deep longings and desires...I made mac and cheese for lunch today. I didn't eat much. It made me sick. And it wasn't really that good.
The fullfillment of my greatest craving wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
The fullfillment of my greatest craving wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Macaroni and Peculiar Cravings
I have this sudden craving for macaroni and cheese. And not just any macaroni (although any will do) but the ones with the awkward shapes. The Kraft blue boxed dinosaur shaped macaroni and cheese.
This a very peculiar craving.
I've been sick all day. (Plus I'm actually currently fasting for a medical test tomorrow). I've wanted little to eat. In fact, what I did eat at dinner came up about 4 hours ago now. Still good. Aside from noticeable...pasta is almost my worst enemy. I've only craved noodles a time or two in the last 9 months and almost every attempt at my former love of the Italian goodness has resulted in a lost cause. Also, milk has not been my best friend. My stomach cramps under it's grips. All aside from the fact it is nearly one o'clock in the morning and now is not the time to eat even if I could!
What a terrible choice!
But if someone were to put a bowl of hot macaroni and cheese in front of me right now, I'd gladly eat it. It sounds so good. So perfect. Like just exactly what I've been wanting. But it's so out of the blue. So random. So arbitrary. Where did it come from? Such a peculiar craving.
It makes me wonder about the other things I crave. The things that just pop out of the sky and land in my lap and won't leave me be until they're satisfied. Tomorrow, if I want, I can make a box of macaroni that I will thoroughly enjoy and surely throw up later. But not all of my cravings are quite so easily addressed. Though most of them seem just as arbitrary and just as peculiar, they also seem so good, so perfect, so fulfilling. Why, like my macaroni and cheese do they also seem so impractical, unobtainable, ridiculous? Why do I want it so bad I can taste it...all the while realizing if it is ever going to be mine to have, now is not the time.
Such very peculiar cravings...
This a very peculiar craving.
I've been sick all day. (Plus I'm actually currently fasting for a medical test tomorrow). I've wanted little to eat. In fact, what I did eat at dinner came up about 4 hours ago now. Still good. Aside from noticeable...pasta is almost my worst enemy. I've only craved noodles a time or two in the last 9 months and almost every attempt at my former love of the Italian goodness has resulted in a lost cause. Also, milk has not been my best friend. My stomach cramps under it's grips. All aside from the fact it is nearly one o'clock in the morning and now is not the time to eat even if I could!
What a terrible choice!
But if someone were to put a bowl of hot macaroni and cheese in front of me right now, I'd gladly eat it. It sounds so good. So perfect. Like just exactly what I've been wanting. But it's so out of the blue. So random. So arbitrary. Where did it come from? Such a peculiar craving.
It makes me wonder about the other things I crave. The things that just pop out of the sky and land in my lap and won't leave me be until they're satisfied. Tomorrow, if I want, I can make a box of macaroni that I will thoroughly enjoy and surely throw up later. But not all of my cravings are quite so easily addressed. Though most of them seem just as arbitrary and just as peculiar, they also seem so good, so perfect, so fulfilling. Why, like my macaroni and cheese do they also seem so impractical, unobtainable, ridiculous? Why do I want it so bad I can taste it...all the while realizing if it is ever going to be mine to have, now is not the time.
Such very peculiar cravings...
Monday, March 16, 2009
Sick of Me...
I’m sick of me.
Undeniably, uncontrollably, incurably sick of me.
I am so caught up in myself – that I no longer recognize it. And when I do it just makes me sick to my stomach. Maybe that’s why the nausea has been so chronic lately. Maybe it’s not delayed digestion. Maybe I’m just full of me.
It’s spring break. I’m having a really hard time with this break. Selfishly bemoaning its pathetic-ness. Riling in the ways the drudgery of obligation seems to be zapping the life out of me instead of restoring the energy I so desperately need. But then, really, that’s just me again...
And it irritates me but it is not the hardest part of break. The hardest part is the inability to reflect on this break with out reflecting also on my last. Spring break a year ago. A year ago when my life was forced to be all about me and so I made it all about Him. Spring break when I spent every free moment on my computer feverishly trying to compile my journals and my notes. My ponderings and my processings...all the places God took me in an insanely short amount of time. “Glimpse” was born out of the intensity to recognize God’s presence. I saw Him in new colors and new hues. He was part of my in and my out. My worship and my reading. My prayers and my breathing. It was Jesus showing up. Never was I more on fire – never was my response more genuine. I eagerly anticipated whatever life would throw at me for the sheer joy of watching for whatever God was going to reveal to me.
What happened? Where has the last 12 months taken me? How have I drifted so far? I went from a faith that was passionate and alive to one that is existent but realistic and cynical. And somewhere I’ve lost the connection. I’ve never tuned out more during a sermon and never can remember ceasing my pathetic attempts at songs of praise out of sheer boredom. I like thinking thoughts about Jesus...but I don’t like spending time with Him. I contemplate Him like an intellectual and have removed the emotion...all the while wishing for it to be the one part that comes through. Begging and pleading to feel something. Anything! I knew there was once a fire but somehow, somewhere, things got cold. And now I’m just numb. If there were a spark...would I notice it at all?
And I get jealous. I get jealous to catch the glimpse of someone whose relationship with Christ looks like something. I have realism and they have what’s real. Blogs where they’ve found Jesus in their day to day living, connected it with a Bible verse...an almost audible spoken word of God, and created another bond between them and their saviour. I can make a devotional. I could sit down and write you something. But I wouldn’t care...not really. I get excited about Jesus, but not with Him. Not like I used to.
It’s not that I don’t pray. I do. With fervor even. If I say I’m praying for you I really am, I really do. It’s not even that I don’t read my Bible. I do that too. Though probably not as often as I should... I don’t doubt God. There is no unbelief seated in His existence or even the relationship He apparently wants to have with me. And I’m not stupid. I know a lot of things. I know the right answers... So all that’s left is apathy. I have effort and knowledge, but I just don’t care. And I know I don’t care. But I want to. I want to care. Yet my attempts to care leave me at stale mate.
Probably because it’s all about me. It’s what I want. What I think I ought to get out of it. It has nothing to do with anything or anyone but me.
I’m sick of me.
Undeniably, uncontrollably, incurably sick of me.
Undeniably, uncontrollably, incurably sick of me.
I am so caught up in myself – that I no longer recognize it. And when I do it just makes me sick to my stomach. Maybe that’s why the nausea has been so chronic lately. Maybe it’s not delayed digestion. Maybe I’m just full of me.
It’s spring break. I’m having a really hard time with this break. Selfishly bemoaning its pathetic-ness. Riling in the ways the drudgery of obligation seems to be zapping the life out of me instead of restoring the energy I so desperately need. But then, really, that’s just me again...
And it irritates me but it is not the hardest part of break. The hardest part is the inability to reflect on this break with out reflecting also on my last. Spring break a year ago. A year ago when my life was forced to be all about me and so I made it all about Him. Spring break when I spent every free moment on my computer feverishly trying to compile my journals and my notes. My ponderings and my processings...all the places God took me in an insanely short amount of time. “Glimpse” was born out of the intensity to recognize God’s presence. I saw Him in new colors and new hues. He was part of my in and my out. My worship and my reading. My prayers and my breathing. It was Jesus showing up. Never was I more on fire – never was my response more genuine. I eagerly anticipated whatever life would throw at me for the sheer joy of watching for whatever God was going to reveal to me.
What happened? Where has the last 12 months taken me? How have I drifted so far? I went from a faith that was passionate and alive to one that is existent but realistic and cynical. And somewhere I’ve lost the connection. I’ve never tuned out more during a sermon and never can remember ceasing my pathetic attempts at songs of praise out of sheer boredom. I like thinking thoughts about Jesus...but I don’t like spending time with Him. I contemplate Him like an intellectual and have removed the emotion...all the while wishing for it to be the one part that comes through. Begging and pleading to feel something. Anything! I knew there was once a fire but somehow, somewhere, things got cold. And now I’m just numb. If there were a spark...would I notice it at all?
And I get jealous. I get jealous to catch the glimpse of someone whose relationship with Christ looks like something. I have realism and they have what’s real. Blogs where they’ve found Jesus in their day to day living, connected it with a Bible verse...an almost audible spoken word of God, and created another bond between them and their saviour. I can make a devotional. I could sit down and write you something. But I wouldn’t care...not really. I get excited about Jesus, but not with Him. Not like I used to.
It’s not that I don’t pray. I do. With fervor even. If I say I’m praying for you I really am, I really do. It’s not even that I don’t read my Bible. I do that too. Though probably not as often as I should... I don’t doubt God. There is no unbelief seated in His existence or even the relationship He apparently wants to have with me. And I’m not stupid. I know a lot of things. I know the right answers... So all that’s left is apathy. I have effort and knowledge, but I just don’t care. And I know I don’t care. But I want to. I want to care. Yet my attempts to care leave me at stale mate.
Probably because it’s all about me. It’s what I want. What I think I ought to get out of it. It has nothing to do with anything or anyone but me.
I’m sick of me.
Undeniably, uncontrollably, incurably sick of me.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Beautiful Disaster
Beautiful Disaster
AK March 2009
A mass of confusion.
Life in utter disarray.
A tragedy of grand design,
Your gifts I’ve tossed away.
No direction, no order.
Only failure of the worst kind.
Falling apart at the seams.
Begging for purpose one last time.
Do you really see beyond my distress?
Do you love me even with my mess?
When you look at me,
How can you not see all that’s wrong?
How do you not just notice
All that doesn’t belong?
I’m not anything close
To what I was created to be...
Where’s the worth
In this calamity?
What’s beyond
My distorted focus?
Do you smile at what you see?
Wonderful chaos.
Brilliant catastrophe.
Do you look upon a storm with the same awe?
The same love?
Is that the same splendor
You’re thinking of?
Do you look at me and see the one you are after?
Your daughter, your princess,
Your beautiful disaster...
AK March 2009
A mass of confusion.
Life in utter disarray.
A tragedy of grand design,
Your gifts I’ve tossed away.
No direction, no order.
Only failure of the worst kind.
Falling apart at the seams.
Begging for purpose one last time.
Do you really see beyond my distress?
Do you love me even with my mess?
When you look at me,
How can you not see all that’s wrong?
How do you not just notice
All that doesn’t belong?
I’m not anything close
To what I was created to be...
Where’s the worth
In this calamity?
What’s beyond
My distorted focus?
Do you smile at what you see?
Wonderful chaos.
Brilliant catastrophe.
Do you look upon a storm with the same awe?
The same love?
Is that the same splendor
You’re thinking of?
Do you look at me and see the one you are after?
Your daughter, your princess,
Your beautiful disaster...
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Maybe tomorrow.
Someday this is all going to make sense.
I have this nagging feeling that today is not the day.
I have this nagging feeling that today is not the day.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Not Quite the End of the World
I'm fairy certain it's time for a move - to the Sahara maybe. Because it seems to me I've been marching in the Amazon. How else could have I gotten into a lifestyle where it seems at every turn something new is raining on my parade? I thought perhaps a move to Sahara would mean I would always have the sun shining down. And then it occurred to me:
Either way, I'm still marching.
It could rain...if I didn't have to march. And the sun could scorch my eyes out if I didn't have to march. And I could freeze to death in the Antartic tundra...if I didn't have to march. But there's the catch. Because life goes on with and without the permission of the storms of life.
It's raining now. Real rain - not just my metaphorical Amazon. For a moment, I considered how much I would love to puddle jump. To rejoice in the rain. And then I remembered my boot...my stupid broken foot. No puddle jumping for me.
It's strange how puddle jumping would have acted my way into a totally new perspective - thought and feeling - on rain.
It's stranger that, try as I might, I having a very hard time thinking myself into a new way of feeling. And it's harder knowing that even though I can smile genuinely at the spring rains - that doesn't change the circumstances of my actions. Why is it hard to make the transaction without the actions? Unless there is another way to rejoice in the rain...
There has to be another way to act. Because regardless of the rain, and regardless of a broken foot, I have no choice but to continue to march. "Life" really can't define me anymore. Life and my constant and stupid rained-out parade is not quite the end of the world.
Either way, I'm still marching.
It could rain...if I didn't have to march. And the sun could scorch my eyes out if I didn't have to march. And I could freeze to death in the Antartic tundra...if I didn't have to march. But there's the catch. Because life goes on with and without the permission of the storms of life.
It's raining now. Real rain - not just my metaphorical Amazon. For a moment, I considered how much I would love to puddle jump. To rejoice in the rain. And then I remembered my boot...my stupid broken foot. No puddle jumping for me.
It's strange how puddle jumping would have acted my way into a totally new perspective - thought and feeling - on rain.
It's stranger that, try as I might, I having a very hard time thinking myself into a new way of feeling. And it's harder knowing that even though I can smile genuinely at the spring rains - that doesn't change the circumstances of my actions. Why is it hard to make the transaction without the actions? Unless there is another way to rejoice in the rain...
There has to be another way to act. Because regardless of the rain, and regardless of a broken foot, I have no choice but to continue to march. "Life" really can't define me anymore. Life and my constant and stupid rained-out parade is not quite the end of the world.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Because Then You Would Know...
There are some things I can’t tell you.
Though it burdens me day and night.
There are pieces of my life
That are more wrong than right.
There are things I can’t tell you,
Under the surface, below.
Things I can’t say to you,
Because then you would know.
If I told you something,
Would it change the way you think about me?
If I shared the “nothing”,
Would you turn your head away?
If I spilled everything,
Everything you never knew about me...
If I gave you my secret life,
Would you leave or would you stay?
If I tell you everything,
Would you use it to go tell on me?
The thing that I say to you
Could you hear it and just let it be?
There are things I would share with you...
They sit under the surface, just below.
But I’m scared of the things I can’t say to you
Because then you would know.
If I told you something,
Would it change the way you think about me?
If I shared the “nothing”,
Would you turn your head away?
If I spilled everything,
Everything you never knew about me...
If I gave you my secret life,
Would you leave or would you stay?
I want to enlighten you.
Lean close and be my confessor.
I’ll give you a piece
You’ll be my admissions’ possessor.
But those things I can’t tell you
The things resting under the surface, below.
Things I want to say to you but can’t.
Because then, then you would know.
Though it burdens me day and night.
There are pieces of my life
That are more wrong than right.
There are things I can’t tell you,
Under the surface, below.
Things I can’t say to you,
Because then you would know.
If I told you something,
Would it change the way you think about me?
If I shared the “nothing”,
Would you turn your head away?
If I spilled everything,
Everything you never knew about me...
If I gave you my secret life,
Would you leave or would you stay?
If I tell you everything,
Would you use it to go tell on me?
The thing that I say to you
Could you hear it and just let it be?
There are things I would share with you...
They sit under the surface, just below.
But I’m scared of the things I can’t say to you
Because then you would know.
If I told you something,
Would it change the way you think about me?
If I shared the “nothing”,
Would you turn your head away?
If I spilled everything,
Everything you never knew about me...
If I gave you my secret life,
Would you leave or would you stay?
I want to enlighten you.
Lean close and be my confessor.
I’ll give you a piece
You’ll be my admissions’ possessor.
But those things I can’t tell you
The things resting under the surface, below.
Things I want to say to you but can’t.
Because then, then you would know.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
I need to stop cutting my own hair...
I cut my own hair today – again. I’ve done it like three or four times now in the last year or so. The previous time...well, it wasn’t exactly a disaster, but it doesn’t get much closer! That was May, and my last haircut. It could have looked a lot worse actually, it was just really short. My hair which was once too short now seemed at an awkward long. I wanted it cut. Trimmed even. Just to look half way decent. And this time I decided I was going to wait and have it done by someone who knew what they were doing. I planned to go somewhere over Christmas break but that didn’t happen. So I was holding out for spring break. What was another three weeks, right?
Apparently forever. As I stared at my hair in the mirror after my shower, I made a face. It was getting gross. It needed to be trimmed – if nothing else. Maybe I could just fix my bangs. Grabbing my scissors, I did. But then they were taken care of and the rest of my hair just...was. I began trimming, cutting, adjusting. Removing an inch or two in length before everything was said and done.
It was alright. I mean, I’m not terrible at “adjusting” my own hair...but I really can only get away with it because my hair is slightly curly...so the choppy edges fade in. I am definitely no beautician – nor would or could I ever make it as one. I looked in the mirror and made a face. “Meh, it could be worse.”
But it could be better.
If I had waited, heck waited long enough to drive somewhere and have my hair done today...it could have been better. But I took matters into my own hands. The result wasn’t terrible. But nor was it fantastic. It could have been worse...much worse. But it could have been better...
So often I take matters into my own hands. I want control and power and handle over what happens and when. Yet so I often I get done – and if I haven’t completely destroyed it – it’s never the best it could be. “Meh, it could be worse.”
But it could have been better.
Tremendous amounts of my life are surrender. Giving up power and control...letting go of my scissors to someone, the One who knows what He’s doing. He wants to do it better. And at the right time. Oh, Anika, someday you will need to learn...
Apparently forever. As I stared at my hair in the mirror after my shower, I made a face. It was getting gross. It needed to be trimmed – if nothing else. Maybe I could just fix my bangs. Grabbing my scissors, I did. But then they were taken care of and the rest of my hair just...was. I began trimming, cutting, adjusting. Removing an inch or two in length before everything was said and done.
It was alright. I mean, I’m not terrible at “adjusting” my own hair...but I really can only get away with it because my hair is slightly curly...so the choppy edges fade in. I am definitely no beautician – nor would or could I ever make it as one. I looked in the mirror and made a face. “Meh, it could be worse.”
But it could be better.
If I had waited, heck waited long enough to drive somewhere and have my hair done today...it could have been better. But I took matters into my own hands. The result wasn’t terrible. But nor was it fantastic. It could have been worse...much worse. But it could have been better...
So often I take matters into my own hands. I want control and power and handle over what happens and when. Yet so I often I get done – and if I haven’t completely destroyed it – it’s never the best it could be. “Meh, it could be worse.”
But it could have been better.
Tremendous amounts of my life are surrender. Giving up power and control...letting go of my scissors to someone, the One who knows what He’s doing. He wants to do it better. And at the right time. Oh, Anika, someday you will need to learn...
Friday, February 20, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Dear Friend...
Dear friend,
I miss you.
It seems like it’s been so long since you’ve allowed me around. I don’t like to show up uninvited, although sometimes I can’t help myself. You don’t send me away, but it’s not like it used to be. The time we spend together is awkward.
What happened?
I feel as if it used to be so natural. It was so expected for me to come around...planned, unplanned, for a good reason or no reason at all. Often I would just show up. You wanted me there as much as I wanted to be there. Right?
What’s wrong?
Are we fighting? Is it something I did? Did I mess something up? I can’t possibly think of what it might be...but it has to be something. I’m willing to take the blame. Say it was my fault. Whatever it takes.
What’s going on?
This isn’t like you... This isn’t like us. We used to have such fun together. It seems like we were laughing all of the time. Although it wasn’t like I was a fair-weather companion; we’ve shared some tears too. I had this way of showing up, even when you weren’t really in the mood. And somehow, I always felt like I helped make things better. We were close, you know?
So now what?
Because I just don’t understand. Everyone I talk to says you miss me. Miss me as much as I miss you. If that’s even possible! So why do I feel so pushed out of your life? Couldn’t we hang out...like old times? Is it really so hard to let me back in the picture? Please, let’s find a way for it to be natural for me to be back...
Unless it’s you?
You seem so sad. The fact I’m missing isn’t the only thing different... Every time I see you there is a hurt and pain in your eyes. It’s not just me is it? There’s something more. There’s something sitting on your heart, something on your mind. I’m right, aren’t I? Oh, please find a way to bring me back, please! I want to be there for you... Won’t you allow me to be? It’s just not the same from here...
I miss you so much. I want nothing more than to do life with you again. Please, let’s spend some time together soon?
Love,
Your Smile.
I miss you.
It seems like it’s been so long since you’ve allowed me around. I don’t like to show up uninvited, although sometimes I can’t help myself. You don’t send me away, but it’s not like it used to be. The time we spend together is awkward.
What happened?
I feel as if it used to be so natural. It was so expected for me to come around...planned, unplanned, for a good reason or no reason at all. Often I would just show up. You wanted me there as much as I wanted to be there. Right?
What’s wrong?
Are we fighting? Is it something I did? Did I mess something up? I can’t possibly think of what it might be...but it has to be something. I’m willing to take the blame. Say it was my fault. Whatever it takes.
What’s going on?
This isn’t like you... This isn’t like us. We used to have such fun together. It seems like we were laughing all of the time. Although it wasn’t like I was a fair-weather companion; we’ve shared some tears too. I had this way of showing up, even when you weren’t really in the mood. And somehow, I always felt like I helped make things better. We were close, you know?
So now what?
Because I just don’t understand. Everyone I talk to says you miss me. Miss me as much as I miss you. If that’s even possible! So why do I feel so pushed out of your life? Couldn’t we hang out...like old times? Is it really so hard to let me back in the picture? Please, let’s find a way for it to be natural for me to be back...
Unless it’s you?
You seem so sad. The fact I’m missing isn’t the only thing different... Every time I see you there is a hurt and pain in your eyes. It’s not just me is it? There’s something more. There’s something sitting on your heart, something on your mind. I’m right, aren’t I? Oh, please find a way to bring me back, please! I want to be there for you... Won’t you allow me to be? It’s just not the same from here...
I miss you so much. I want nothing more than to do life with you again. Please, let’s spend some time together soon?
Love,
Your Smile.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Wrestling?
"And Jacob walked with a limp..." I went back to where Jacob wrestled the night with God. I had been wrestling with God and after some discussion, I decided it was where I needed to explore next. I needed to sort through what Jacob did when he found himself in a place of redefinition...redefinition that was the result of a name change which was the result of time spent fighting God.
I found it interesting that Jacob thought he was fighting man and kept fighting even after he was injured, because he refused to be let out of the wrestling match without a blessing. And I considered the fact that this “man” was the one who seemed to start the wrestling. God started the fight. But Jacob refused to give in. And God later tells him that he “overcame”. Which seems strange considering it was God. You don’t just fight with God and win – not unless the intention all along was for you to come out believing you prevailed. Why did Jacob need to feel like he won? Why did God need a fight to begin with?
Either way, wrestling with God is hard. It took all night. All night they wrestled! But relief came in the morning. Was it so much that Jacob overcame – or than God allowed the wrestling to come to an end? There was no actual triumph, no actual win... And Jacob wouldn’t let go without the blessing. He wouldn’t let go of what he was wrestling with until he could guarantee the good. But before his blessing came a name. The struggle had completely redefined him. And the redefinition WAS the struggle. Israel means "to struggle with God". Which is certainly what the nation has done in its entire existence. Was the name good...or bad?
Regardless, still Jacob was blessed. And he was never the same. His remaining existence was not only defined by the fact he struggled (and his people continued to struggle) with God, he was constantly reminded of the pain the struggle caused. He forever walked with a limp – less than perfect. I wonder if Jacob limped with a smile or a cringe. If he had realized from the beginning he had been wrestling with God – would he have stopped? Did he look back on his wrestling with remorse? Or did knowing the wrestling bring a blessing far beyond his wildest imagination make the wrestling worthwhile?
If I’ve been wrestling with God...at what point are we at? Is morning coming when all will come clear? What should my response be? Do I surrender...or will God bless my perseverance too? I have been looking for redefinition, that much is solid – am I prepared for what it may mean to realize that God has me set aside as an “Israel”? That my redefinition isn’t through the struggle, but IN it? The struggle will define me and I will be blessed...and will bless...because of it? What will be my limp? What will be the reminder of my pain? Of the fight I refused to let go of without a blessing?
I found it interesting that Jacob thought he was fighting man and kept fighting even after he was injured, because he refused to be let out of the wrestling match without a blessing. And I considered the fact that this “man” was the one who seemed to start the wrestling. God started the fight. But Jacob refused to give in. And God later tells him that he “overcame”. Which seems strange considering it was God. You don’t just fight with God and win – not unless the intention all along was for you to come out believing you prevailed. Why did Jacob need to feel like he won? Why did God need a fight to begin with?
Either way, wrestling with God is hard. It took all night. All night they wrestled! But relief came in the morning. Was it so much that Jacob overcame – or than God allowed the wrestling to come to an end? There was no actual triumph, no actual win... And Jacob wouldn’t let go without the blessing. He wouldn’t let go of what he was wrestling with until he could guarantee the good. But before his blessing came a name. The struggle had completely redefined him. And the redefinition WAS the struggle. Israel means "to struggle with God". Which is certainly what the nation has done in its entire existence. Was the name good...or bad?
Regardless, still Jacob was blessed. And he was never the same. His remaining existence was not only defined by the fact he struggled (and his people continued to struggle) with God, he was constantly reminded of the pain the struggle caused. He forever walked with a limp – less than perfect. I wonder if Jacob limped with a smile or a cringe. If he had realized from the beginning he had been wrestling with God – would he have stopped? Did he look back on his wrestling with remorse? Or did knowing the wrestling bring a blessing far beyond his wildest imagination make the wrestling worthwhile?
If I’ve been wrestling with God...at what point are we at? Is morning coming when all will come clear? What should my response be? Do I surrender...or will God bless my perseverance too? I have been looking for redefinition, that much is solid – am I prepared for what it may mean to realize that God has me set aside as an “Israel”? That my redefinition isn’t through the struggle, but IN it? The struggle will define me and I will be blessed...and will bless...because of it? What will be my limp? What will be the reminder of my pain? Of the fight I refused to let go of without a blessing?
Friday, February 6, 2009
No Moves??
There were no moves. It was that simple. I had gone through the deck three or four dozen times at least. Nothing.
I was playing one of those hand-held solitaire games. Perfect for car rides, waiting rooms, and boring lectures. And impossible to beat. At least this one was. It would electronically deal you your cards, you would play your moves, and then the game would steal your cards and hide others in the deck. You would be anticipating your almost-win when all of the sudden you would realize you were down to the last three cards you needed, all of them would be uncovered on base and the deck would only have two left. What happened to the third card?? The one needed to win? We’re talking some seriously shady gaming practices...
But, regardless, I had never encountered anything like this. Not in all of my years as a proficient solitaire player. I had never encountered a game in which there wasn’t one single move. I had a few games that were scrapped early on...and a couple more games where my own bad first move left me with very few others but this, this was new. There was nothing. No cards to be stacked on each other from base. No deck cards to lie down in hopes of further advancement. Absolutely nothing. I shuffled through the deck again and then again and again. I was baffled. Not a single card. I put the game away and went to bed...only to take it out again every night for a week to contemplate the same phenomenon. The same seeming impossibility. I wouldn’t start a new game because I just couldn’t get it.
Finally, however, I was sick of staring at my dud cards. The fact I would turn the game on every night wouldn’t change the fact I could still not move a single card to a single location. And, with some pain, I pushed the “shuffle” button. It was time to deal a new game whether I could handle the trauma of the previous or not. The new cards came up on the screen. Black three on the white four. Ace of Spades into the home space. I went through and played and each move opened a new move and I found myself advancing quickly through the game. The same game which never before allowed me a win and, in fact, just now had left me without a move to claim. I went through the deck cards and uncovered the last of the stacks. One by one I moved them into their respective suits. Jacks...queens...kings...The screen blinked at me as it shouted my victory’s tale “WIN! WIN! WIN!”
My smile of success faded easily into that of perplexing confusion. I had just transitioned seamlessly from a game with no moves to that of an immediate win. On a game in which a successful outcome was one in 152? Yeah. Right.
And yet, I began to think – as I often do – about the parallels it was drawing with my life. How often I become stuck in situations where I am left to believe that I have absolutely no moves left, that there’s nothing I can do. And in fact, sometimes that is exactly the case. Still I stare in awkward disbelief. “How is it I can do nothing? Not one card? I can’t make one attempt?” I spend an ungodly amount of time weighing every option. “There has to be a way...” But, with a cringe of surrender, I eventually come to a place where I cash in my chips. Where I give in and say “I guess we try again...” Sometimes it is a matter of fact; sometimes it is a matter of the very air I believe myself to be breathing. There is something disheartening about realizing your every try was worthless and the next round might provide some moves but is still going to end in the same result. Why bother?
Except I was struck this time. I was left to wonder this time. About my plans. How unusual it was that the exact time I was willing to say “Yup, game, you win! I suck again...and again I can do nothing!” is the exact time I was given victory. A victory I desired, but hadn’t anticipated. A success I worked for continuously, but never earned...had just been given to me. So this time I was struck, by how many victories are waiting past my inability to surrender. How many open games of solitaire do I have in my life? Where I’m staring at the cards and pouring through the deck and recognizing that I’ve been out of points for the last 73 rounds and still I’m going “There has to be a way to win...” There is. But it’s going to take giving up the game you’re playing in favor of trying a new one...
The more time I spend trying to get by in life, the more time I spend realizing that I spend a lot of time wasted. The more I realize that my job wasn’t to get by, my job was to be faithful. And somehow, being faithful is all about surrender. Sometimes life really is about cashing in your chips and saying “Here we go again...To do the best we can with the cards we’ve been dealt...realizing I’m not the one in charge of winning the game.” Perhaps my perspective is a little skewed. Perhaps my theology is a little off base and my philosophy a bit to be desired. Or maybe I’m just getting to a point where I can’t do it all any more. Where to win I must first know what it means to lose and I must first be lost if I ever wish to be found...
I was playing one of those hand-held solitaire games. Perfect for car rides, waiting rooms, and boring lectures. And impossible to beat. At least this one was. It would electronically deal you your cards, you would play your moves, and then the game would steal your cards and hide others in the deck. You would be anticipating your almost-win when all of the sudden you would realize you were down to the last three cards you needed, all of them would be uncovered on base and the deck would only have two left. What happened to the third card?? The one needed to win? We’re talking some seriously shady gaming practices...
But, regardless, I had never encountered anything like this. Not in all of my years as a proficient solitaire player. I had never encountered a game in which there wasn’t one single move. I had a few games that were scrapped early on...and a couple more games where my own bad first move left me with very few others but this, this was new. There was nothing. No cards to be stacked on each other from base. No deck cards to lie down in hopes of further advancement. Absolutely nothing. I shuffled through the deck again and then again and again. I was baffled. Not a single card. I put the game away and went to bed...only to take it out again every night for a week to contemplate the same phenomenon. The same seeming impossibility. I wouldn’t start a new game because I just couldn’t get it.
Finally, however, I was sick of staring at my dud cards. The fact I would turn the game on every night wouldn’t change the fact I could still not move a single card to a single location. And, with some pain, I pushed the “shuffle” button. It was time to deal a new game whether I could handle the trauma of the previous or not. The new cards came up on the screen. Black three on the white four. Ace of Spades into the home space. I went through and played and each move opened a new move and I found myself advancing quickly through the game. The same game which never before allowed me a win and, in fact, just now had left me without a move to claim. I went through the deck cards and uncovered the last of the stacks. One by one I moved them into their respective suits. Jacks...queens...kings...The screen blinked at me as it shouted my victory’s tale “WIN! WIN! WIN!”
My smile of success faded easily into that of perplexing confusion. I had just transitioned seamlessly from a game with no moves to that of an immediate win. On a game in which a successful outcome was one in 152? Yeah. Right.
And yet, I began to think – as I often do – about the parallels it was drawing with my life. How often I become stuck in situations where I am left to believe that I have absolutely no moves left, that there’s nothing I can do. And in fact, sometimes that is exactly the case. Still I stare in awkward disbelief. “How is it I can do nothing? Not one card? I can’t make one attempt?” I spend an ungodly amount of time weighing every option. “There has to be a way...” But, with a cringe of surrender, I eventually come to a place where I cash in my chips. Where I give in and say “I guess we try again...” Sometimes it is a matter of fact; sometimes it is a matter of the very air I believe myself to be breathing. There is something disheartening about realizing your every try was worthless and the next round might provide some moves but is still going to end in the same result. Why bother?
Except I was struck this time. I was left to wonder this time. About my plans. How unusual it was that the exact time I was willing to say “Yup, game, you win! I suck again...and again I can do nothing!” is the exact time I was given victory. A victory I desired, but hadn’t anticipated. A success I worked for continuously, but never earned...had just been given to me. So this time I was struck, by how many victories are waiting past my inability to surrender. How many open games of solitaire do I have in my life? Where I’m staring at the cards and pouring through the deck and recognizing that I’ve been out of points for the last 73 rounds and still I’m going “There has to be a way to win...” There is. But it’s going to take giving up the game you’re playing in favor of trying a new one...
The more time I spend trying to get by in life, the more time I spend realizing that I spend a lot of time wasted. The more I realize that my job wasn’t to get by, my job was to be faithful. And somehow, being faithful is all about surrender. Sometimes life really is about cashing in your chips and saying “Here we go again...To do the best we can with the cards we’ve been dealt...realizing I’m not the one in charge of winning the game.” Perhaps my perspective is a little skewed. Perhaps my theology is a little off base and my philosophy a bit to be desired. Or maybe I’m just getting to a point where I can’t do it all any more. Where to win I must first know what it means to lose and I must first be lost if I ever wish to be found...
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Laughter
It’s funny what you pick up on first. What you notice. What you pay attention to. I’ve decided it is thing we most long for. Any woman who has been trying to have a child will tell you they can hear a baby cry from six aisles away at Wal-Mart; they notice every young mom in the mall; they are that much more appalled by every instance of child abuse and neglect they hear about on the news (“those people don’t even want their babies and I can’t have one!”). I once had such a friend tell me “you would think these children were coming out of the woodwork just to torment that empty place inside of me...” It wasn’t that there were more babies, more toddlers, more moms taking their little ones grocery shopping...there was merely a keener awareness of the thing she lacked, longed for.
I think it shocks us when we first recognize those things we long for. I know it always shoots a hollow pang into my entire being when suddenly my eyes are opened to something I’ve been missing. Tonight it was laughter. As I walked into the dining commons, it was all I could hear, laughter. And it wasn’t just any laughter; it was my “friend’s” laughter. I was pulling out distinct laughs. I saw group of them sitting together...talking and laughing and eating. And I turned my head to see the same thing again and again and again. Sometimes it was a solitary person I recognized with their group. Sometimes it was several together.
And I broke. Part of me wanted nothing more than to sit down and demand they allow me to be part of the joke. Part of me wanted to know what was so funny or to laugh because nothing was. I wanted the care-freeness of being in a group. I wanted to sit down and eat – really eat – and enjoy what I was eating – with a group of people where I didn’t feel like I was invading or eavesdropping in on the conversation. Where I wasn’t pity-invited to join or demanded I not sit alone for the millionth time but instead genuinely allowed to comfortably be part of the laughter.
I want to laugh.
I miss that simple joy.
I want the ability to smile with abandon and allow a deep, real laughter to escape. Not a casual smirk with a throat chuckle, but a full laughter - without wondering what those around me are thinking or if they care.
I want to laugh.
It’s funny what you pick up on first. What you notice. What you pay attention to. I’ve decided it is thing we most long for. Tonight it was laughter.
I think it shocks us when we first recognize those things we long for. I know it always shoots a hollow pang into my entire being when suddenly my eyes are opened to something I’ve been missing. Tonight it was laughter. As I walked into the dining commons, it was all I could hear, laughter. And it wasn’t just any laughter; it was my “friend’s” laughter. I was pulling out distinct laughs. I saw group of them sitting together...talking and laughing and eating. And I turned my head to see the same thing again and again and again. Sometimes it was a solitary person I recognized with their group. Sometimes it was several together.
And I broke. Part of me wanted nothing more than to sit down and demand they allow me to be part of the joke. Part of me wanted to know what was so funny or to laugh because nothing was. I wanted the care-freeness of being in a group. I wanted to sit down and eat – really eat – and enjoy what I was eating – with a group of people where I didn’t feel like I was invading or eavesdropping in on the conversation. Where I wasn’t pity-invited to join or demanded I not sit alone for the millionth time but instead genuinely allowed to comfortably be part of the laughter.
I want to laugh.
I miss that simple joy.
I want the ability to smile with abandon and allow a deep, real laughter to escape. Not a casual smirk with a throat chuckle, but a full laughter - without wondering what those around me are thinking or if they care.
I want to laugh.
It’s funny what you pick up on first. What you notice. What you pay attention to. I’ve decided it is thing we most long for. Tonight it was laughter.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Bruise Show Up Later
The Bruises Show up Later
AK January 2009
The pain shoots deep.
Every nerve throbs.
I say I’m fine,
Get back on my feet.
No one thinks
To question.
No reason to doubt.
The dull ache replaces a pain that is greater.
For now I go on;
The bruises show up later.
Intensity quick,
And then forgotten.
The memory of pain
Disregarded, unwanted.
Yet just when that subtle soreness
Begins to fade.
Just before the flesh
Begins to shade.
Just as you find yourself
Standing straighter...
You’re reminded again;
Because the bruises show up later.
As if one time wasn’t tough.
As if the first blow wasn’t enough.
As if the punch didn’t run so deep.
As if the cause didn’t make me weep.
But the initial mark fades to a fleshy tone...
Not to be seen,
Not to be shown.
Now it hurts again
Though no one can see,
Just below the surface
Are the black and blues of agony.
An occurrence not easily abandoned -
Cannot let go of the creation or the creator.
The sting now burning in memory.
The bruises show up later.
AK January 2009
The pain shoots deep.
Every nerve throbs.
I say I’m fine,
Get back on my feet.
No one thinks
To question.
No reason to doubt.
The dull ache replaces a pain that is greater.
For now I go on;
The bruises show up later.
Intensity quick,
And then forgotten.
The memory of pain
Disregarded, unwanted.
Yet just when that subtle soreness
Begins to fade.
Just before the flesh
Begins to shade.
Just as you find yourself
Standing straighter...
You’re reminded again;
Because the bruises show up later.
As if one time wasn’t tough.
As if the first blow wasn’t enough.
As if the punch didn’t run so deep.
As if the cause didn’t make me weep.
But the initial mark fades to a fleshy tone...
Not to be seen,
Not to be shown.
Now it hurts again
Though no one can see,
Just below the surface
Are the black and blues of agony.
An occurrence not easily abandoned -
Cannot let go of the creation or the creator.
The sting now burning in memory.
The bruises show up later.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Never Nothing
Never Nothing
AK January 2009
You asked me,
I shrugged.
So you walked away.
Somehow, I think you knew
I wasn’t really “okay”.
Couldn’t today pull out my mask.
You might have understood
But it was too much to ask.
So I tried to tell you
That nothing was wrong.
You’d go away
If my tone sounded strong.
But I didn’t want you to leave...
I wanted to spill.
Yet you let me be
When I assured you still.
But it’s never nothing.
Always something.
Don’t let me tell you
Everything’s fine.
I promise you,
Guarantee you,
The answer to “what’s wrong?”
Is never nothing.
It’s always something.
There’s never nothing on my mind.
I don’t think you bought my pathetic attempts
To convince you there was nothing going on,
Going on where my thoughts are kept.
But you gave me the space,
Hugged and turned away.
Figuring I would come to you
If I had something to say.
But my insides were screaming
A second away from a burst
One more push,
One more gentle prod,
And my “nothing”
Would have leaked the words of my hurt.
Because it’s never nothing.
Always something.
Please don’t let me tell you
Everything’s fine.
I promise you,
Guarantee you,
The answer to “what’s wrong?”
Is never nothing.
It’s always something.
There’s never nothing on my mind.
AK January 2009
You asked me,
I shrugged.
So you walked away.
Somehow, I think you knew
I wasn’t really “okay”.
Couldn’t today pull out my mask.
You might have understood
But it was too much to ask.
So I tried to tell you
That nothing was wrong.
You’d go away
If my tone sounded strong.
But I didn’t want you to leave...
I wanted to spill.
Yet you let me be
When I assured you still.
But it’s never nothing.
Always something.
Don’t let me tell you
Everything’s fine.
I promise you,
Guarantee you,
The answer to “what’s wrong?”
Is never nothing.
It’s always something.
There’s never nothing on my mind.
I don’t think you bought my pathetic attempts
To convince you there was nothing going on,
Going on where my thoughts are kept.
But you gave me the space,
Hugged and turned away.
Figuring I would come to you
If I had something to say.
But my insides were screaming
A second away from a burst
One more push,
One more gentle prod,
And my “nothing”
Would have leaked the words of my hurt.
Because it’s never nothing.
Always something.
Please don’t let me tell you
Everything’s fine.
I promise you,
Guarantee you,
The answer to “what’s wrong?”
Is never nothing.
It’s always something.
There’s never nothing on my mind.
Make-Believe
Make-Believe
AK January 2009
Just a game of pretend.
Open up my wooden chest,
Put all my costumes to the test.
I can be whoever I want to be.
Put on a smile;
Make-believe reality.
Some-one, prove to me,
That I’m going to make it.
Some-one, tell me,
It’s all just a big mistake.
Some-one, give me,
A reason to wake up.
Some-one, shake me,
Before I make-believe this whole life away.
Doesn’t matter if you see through my façade.
I am what my outfit says.
For as long as I make-believe
I’ll be the princess in the castle;
I’ll be the elegant lady serving tea.
I’ll force you
To come in and play my game.
So I can see my fantasized world
And you can agree you see the same.
Some-one, prove to me,
That I’m going to make it.
Some-one, tell me,
It’s all just a big mistake.
Some-one, give me,
A reason to wake up.
Some-one, shake me,
Before I make-believe this whole life away.
If I can imagine,
I’ll never have to be me again.
If I can feign passion
Long enough to just get by
If I can pretend
The dedication is real
Then maybe, somebody will think I’m alive.
Some-one, prove to me,
That I’m going to make it.
Some-one, tell me,
It’s all just a big mistake.
Some-one, give me,
A reason to wake up.
Some-one, shake me,
Before I make-believe this whole life away.
AK January 2009
Just a game of pretend.
Open up my wooden chest,
Put all my costumes to the test.
I can be whoever I want to be.
Put on a smile;
Make-believe reality.
Some-one, prove to me,
That I’m going to make it.
Some-one, tell me,
It’s all just a big mistake.
Some-one, give me,
A reason to wake up.
Some-one, shake me,
Before I make-believe this whole life away.
Doesn’t matter if you see through my façade.
I am what my outfit says.
For as long as I make-believe
I’ll be the princess in the castle;
I’ll be the elegant lady serving tea.
I’ll force you
To come in and play my game.
So I can see my fantasized world
And you can agree you see the same.
Some-one, prove to me,
That I’m going to make it.
Some-one, tell me,
It’s all just a big mistake.
Some-one, give me,
A reason to wake up.
Some-one, shake me,
Before I make-believe this whole life away.
If I can imagine,
I’ll never have to be me again.
If I can feign passion
Long enough to just get by
If I can pretend
The dedication is real
Then maybe, somebody will think I’m alive.
Some-one, prove to me,
That I’m going to make it.
Some-one, tell me,
It’s all just a big mistake.
Some-one, give me,
A reason to wake up.
Some-one, shake me,
Before I make-believe this whole life away.
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