Every day I go swimming
Pools of salt water that start a deep jade
You point out the flecks of brown and blue
Then the pools shimmer, spill over
Into translucent drops
Picking up smeared colors
As they drain.
Yet like the bottomless pit
The pools never stop refilling
For each day we dive in again
And watch ourselves drown
"It wasn't like this before"
You say.
"I don't understand why."
I say.
"It'll get better in time."
We say.
But it hasn't yet.
There are many reasons why the pools can't
Just stay intact, whole, sparked instead of soaked
We can come up with so many
Like life in general;
Like pressures of techtonic plates
Shifting us into new worlds, new lives,
Letting the magma beneath rumble to the surface;
Like something mysteriously gender-specific;
Like the weather.
The one credit of nearly drowning every day
Is that you appreciate what moments of life surround death;
You holding my hand
You trying to absorb the pain
You daring to change my direction
You encouraging, reassuring, giving me courage to fight
You attempting, daily, to save me.
You never running away to save yourself.
The English language needs a stronger sentiment than
"Thank you."
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Monday, March 7, 2011
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Check Your Tongue with Your Teeth
As a younger sister, I learned early how to share (and demand my part). For most of my friends, I don't mind sharing things that truly bother some people. If someone's really thirsty, I'll unscrew the top of my water bottle and let them drink. If they're hungry, I'll cut my lunch in half and offer it. In the case of my boyfriend, since we kiss each other, I figure it's perfectly acceptable to drink after each other and, in certain cases, eat off the other person's plate (this way I get the momentary bliss of a crispy french fry before I return to my responsible order of string beans and broccoli).
My pastor is another case, however. In the middle of a sermon, a gnat flew right into his mouth. He grimaced and asked for some water--fast. Since I was sandwiched between several people in the pew, I couldn't get up to get him water, so I offered him my half-full bottle. He turned it down. I wasn't offended, but did lightly tease him about "beggars can't be choosers." He didn't want to share some things with me. It's understandable--because there are some things I don't want to share with him.
Last night at church, it was announced (since the pastor and his wife are driving me) that I am about to get my wisdom teeth pulled on Friday. People prayed, which was comforting, and I'm a lot less nervous about this procedure than before. After the service, the pastor came to sit next to me and proceeded to tell me about his ordeal with getting his wisdom teeth pulled. The story started out on a high note--he woke up feeling just fine, very little pain. Then it took a very dark turn. He developed "dry sockets", which sounds innocuous if you're referencing lighting fixtures but is apparently Dante's eighth circle.
The story stretched on, including phrases such as "worst pain of my entire life," "filling holes," and "excruciating torture." I'm sure my eyes had to be reflecting my growing horror and unease. I'm a very imaginative person, and my pastor knows this. He paused in a Sunday School lesson regarding cannibalism to warn me as I was munching on my breakfast (a new habit as I can't eat before singing practice lest I lose my voice). He knows I'm a writer, which only furthers the need to watch what is said around me (although I find it funny when he rants about Christian romance novels...and that's what I write). I've admitted to both him and his wife that I'm nervous about the surgery and the recovery. And yet he's sharing his wisdom with me.
I don't mind listening to other people's stories--in fact, I love it. I get to learn about the person and possibly glean some ideas to twist into my next novel.
Still, I'm uneasy about the future, and getting yet another worst-case scenario in my head to add to all my other fears and doubts that had me sobbing into my boyfriend's chest for an hour Tuesday night wasn't exactly a great idea. I think a female friend noted my look of increasing dread, and so decided to step in. Just as my pastor is getting to the high point of his agonizing memories, she comments, "I had mine out when I was around your age, and I hardly had any problems. A little pain and bleeding, but it healed quickly without any drama."
Bless you, friend.
I understand the need to share horrifying stories, but I liken this to telling excruciating tales of how things went terribly wrong during the birth of a child to a woman in her third trimester (especially if it is her first child). We're already freaking out in vague terms and ideas--we don't need new specifics to color our fears in full Technicolor brilliance. I know it's a way of bonding, even a way we try to prepare others so they can avoid the mistakes we made. Sometimes, though, the trips through memory lane need to be scheduled for more opportune times...like a few months later when we can all look back on it and laugh (or wince).
My pastor is another case, however. In the middle of a sermon, a gnat flew right into his mouth. He grimaced and asked for some water--fast. Since I was sandwiched between several people in the pew, I couldn't get up to get him water, so I offered him my half-full bottle. He turned it down. I wasn't offended, but did lightly tease him about "beggars can't be choosers." He didn't want to share some things with me. It's understandable--because there are some things I don't want to share with him.
Last night at church, it was announced (since the pastor and his wife are driving me) that I am about to get my wisdom teeth pulled on Friday. People prayed, which was comforting, and I'm a lot less nervous about this procedure than before. After the service, the pastor came to sit next to me and proceeded to tell me about his ordeal with getting his wisdom teeth pulled. The story started out on a high note--he woke up feeling just fine, very little pain. Then it took a very dark turn. He developed "dry sockets", which sounds innocuous if you're referencing lighting fixtures but is apparently Dante's eighth circle.
Not to be confused with Dante's fifth circle, which is apparently an extreme form of unending constipation. Yeah, that'll ruin eternity for you.
The story stretched on, including phrases such as "worst pain of my entire life," "filling holes," and "excruciating torture." I'm sure my eyes had to be reflecting my growing horror and unease. I'm a very imaginative person, and my pastor knows this. He paused in a Sunday School lesson regarding cannibalism to warn me as I was munching on my breakfast (a new habit as I can't eat before singing practice lest I lose my voice). He knows I'm a writer, which only furthers the need to watch what is said around me (although I find it funny when he rants about Christian romance novels...and that's what I write). I've admitted to both him and his wife that I'm nervous about the surgery and the recovery. And yet he's sharing his wisdom with me.
I don't mind listening to other people's stories--in fact, I love it. I get to learn about the person and possibly glean some ideas to twist into my next novel.
I *so* want this shirt...because it is *so* true. Bwahahahaha!
Still, I'm uneasy about the future, and getting yet another worst-case scenario in my head to add to all my other fears and doubts that had me sobbing into my boyfriend's chest for an hour Tuesday night wasn't exactly a great idea. I think a female friend noted my look of increasing dread, and so decided to step in. Just as my pastor is getting to the high point of his agonizing memories, she comments, "I had mine out when I was around your age, and I hardly had any problems. A little pain and bleeding, but it healed quickly without any drama."
Bless you, friend.
I understand the need to share horrifying stories, but I liken this to telling excruciating tales of how things went terribly wrong during the birth of a child to a woman in her third trimester (especially if it is her first child). We're already freaking out in vague terms and ideas--we don't need new specifics to color our fears in full Technicolor brilliance. I know it's a way of bonding, even a way we try to prepare others so they can avoid the mistakes we made. Sometimes, though, the trips through memory lane need to be scheduled for more opportune times...like a few months later when we can all look back on it and laugh (or wince).
It's my new motto: A wise tongue is valued, but wise teeth are highly overrated.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
This Chocolate Bar is not a Lifesaving Device
My security has been threatened recently from many fronts. My job situation in the spring is up in the air with no safety nets surviving the storm of economics and my insane schedule. My health has thrown me a few curve balls that I'm somewhat managing. "Bob" is probably getting annoyed with my emotional swings, although he's being quite the trooper about it. I was shown some very powerful examples of how I may not be the personality type I thought I was--which may not mean anything to most people, but when it places me in a category that I don't find flattering in people, it was rather shattering. Add in the usual stress of two jobs, big projects lying uncompleted, and a cat who apparently feels a little abandoned himself, and I'm reeling.
Losing my good grip on my identity was probably the hardest blow. It's helping to illuminate some issues I've been having with adjusting to being with Bob, so that does have a solid benefit. My independent and co-dependent issues have been clashing hard. I work very well on my own--the flexibility of having little "overhead direction" allows my creative side the room it needs to roam about and still get things done, even if they are done differently than other people would do them. Being part of a couple, adjusting to nearly constant compromise, collaboration, and teamwork, has been very challenging. I love having someone to share things with, who can and will help, but it's hard dealing with not having as much "creative license" as I'm used to. It's hard to figure out when I need to push for more equality and when I need to just pick up the slack (because it's usually me who perceives there is slack, anyway, whether there is or not). It goes back to the issue of before--having needs and wants, not sharing them, and then getting upset/angry/worried/scared when they're not met.
When I'm feeling insecure, though, what do I do? Lately, eat chocolate, cry on people, and contemplate ways I can escape from everything and be safe (albeit alone and lonely). After a little while, I get distracted, the feelings fade, and I'm back to pushing through the week, encounter high stress...and then the cycle starts all over again.
What I'm doing is literally insane. I'm doing the same thing, treading water, and expecting it to eventually solve the problem (considering the currents I'm caught in, that's not going to happen). I'm subjecting the people around me to torrents of emotion that probably make less sense than a week of severe PMS (and no, I'm not hormonal that I know of). This is not a recipe for anything more than mere survival and testing the perseverence of the people around me.
My big problem is that I am avoiding the giant lifesaver in front of me, one I've known about this whole time, that has been willing and able to carry me through the seas and onto dry land again. Why I've avoided it, I'm not exactly sure. Maybe because it's not as tangible as the sea I know so well. Maybe because I'm stubbornly believing I can get through this through dry humor and patience; I don't want to admit I need more help after everything I've already taken. Maybe because I'm afraid of what it'll cost to take the way out. I may be forced to change, to give up some things I want so badly to stay in my life.
Could I still make it through the next two months without the lifesaver? It's possible, but given where I'm at, I'm not sure I can last that long. I'm almost positive my friends and family won't last that long. It's time for me to swallow my pride (that I can survive anything), take a chance on the safest bet around, and let God save me again. He made me. He gets it. He doesn't mind my insanity. He'll listen and give me peace again.
So, okay, God. Stick on the water wings. I'll wear them with pride. My Daddy bought them for me. :)
Losing my good grip on my identity was probably the hardest blow. It's helping to illuminate some issues I've been having with adjusting to being with Bob, so that does have a solid benefit. My independent and co-dependent issues have been clashing hard. I work very well on my own--the flexibility of having little "overhead direction" allows my creative side the room it needs to roam about and still get things done, even if they are done differently than other people would do them. Being part of a couple, adjusting to nearly constant compromise, collaboration, and teamwork, has been very challenging. I love having someone to share things with, who can and will help, but it's hard dealing with not having as much "creative license" as I'm used to. It's hard to figure out when I need to push for more equality and when I need to just pick up the slack (because it's usually me who perceives there is slack, anyway, whether there is or not). It goes back to the issue of before--having needs and wants, not sharing them, and then getting upset/angry/worried/scared when they're not met.
When I'm feeling insecure, though, what do I do? Lately, eat chocolate, cry on people, and contemplate ways I can escape from everything and be safe (albeit alone and lonely). After a little while, I get distracted, the feelings fade, and I'm back to pushing through the week, encounter high stress...and then the cycle starts all over again.
What I'm doing is literally insane. I'm doing the same thing, treading water, and expecting it to eventually solve the problem (considering the currents I'm caught in, that's not going to happen). I'm subjecting the people around me to torrents of emotion that probably make less sense than a week of severe PMS (and no, I'm not hormonal that I know of). This is not a recipe for anything more than mere survival and testing the perseverence of the people around me.
My big problem is that I am avoiding the giant lifesaver in front of me, one I've known about this whole time, that has been willing and able to carry me through the seas and onto dry land again. Why I've avoided it, I'm not exactly sure. Maybe because it's not as tangible as the sea I know so well. Maybe because I'm stubbornly believing I can get through this through dry humor and patience; I don't want to admit I need more help after everything I've already taken. Maybe because I'm afraid of what it'll cost to take the way out. I may be forced to change, to give up some things I want so badly to stay in my life.
Could I still make it through the next two months without the lifesaver? It's possible, but given where I'm at, I'm not sure I can last that long. I'm almost positive my friends and family won't last that long. It's time for me to swallow my pride (that I can survive anything), take a chance on the safest bet around, and let God save me again. He made me. He gets it. He doesn't mind my insanity. He'll listen and give me peace again.
So, okay, God. Stick on the water wings. I'll wear them with pride. My Daddy bought them for me. :)
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Honesty Part II: Masking the Appearance of Trouble
While in worship at the ACFW conference, I heard slight whispers in the crowd.
"Look at her--she's really into it!"
"I think she's one of those pentacostals or something."
"The song must really be speaking to her."
I know these ladies never meant for me to hear them. After all, by all appearances, I was completely wrapped up in the moments of worship. My hands were raised, albeit only at the elbow--I usually extend them higher during powerful songs, my face was uplifted, my body swayed side-to-side and trembled slightly, and tears rolled down my cheeks before splashing onto my blouse. As a singer on my Baptist church's worship team, I do often do all of the above (tears are pretty unusual, though) when the moment is strong and I'm enveloped in the world of praising and praying to my God. I stop caring that my Pentacostal roots are showing and that I'm probably moving too much for the comfort of my congregation. I just do as I'm led to do.
My appearance of being lost in a moment with God during the conference wasn't reflecting the truth. I wasn't that into the song--it was one that, while it was nice, wasn't truly affecting me. One hand braced around my middle, the other raised from the elbow, I was beseeching God for something other than worship. I was desperately seeking help. I was in serious, extreme pain.
Living with fibromyalgia is a challenge beyond any other--random flares of pain, some of them intense enough to make me stop breathing or double over into a ball, happen without warning. I already knew my disease was going to be an issue due to the long hours in a car to travel to Indianapolis, sleeping in a new bed, not getting much sleep due to activities, and a lot of sitting throughout the day. The intense flare in the middle of worship, however, caught me off-guard. It was the strongest one I had had in over a year. The tears and shaking proved it.
Since it's incurable, I've accepted my fibromyalgia as my thorn in my side (a la apostle Paul). Since preventative medications don't work on my system, and I avoid pills as much as possible due to the risks of addiction and damaging internal organs, I'm left with pushing through the pain with the determination of a soon-to-be mother. It also means that I try to mask my pain as much as possible. There's not much anyone can do besides maybe put pressure on a trigger point or massage a cramped muscle into submission. There are very few people I know who would be willing to do this even if I had the gall to ask--and there are very few public situations where this wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Letting others know when I'm hurting gives me a label of "weak" or "delicate"...not the labels I want if I want to be able to serve in the ways I was made to do. No one asks a weak woman to babysit their children. No one asks a fragile person to cook a three-course Mexican dinner for a Bible study. No one allows her to play softball or help move furniture or carry in instruments or renovate a nursery. I can do these things, even if occasionally I pay for it with a flare or two. My life is a chance game, but I refuse to play it safe and let my malfunctioning nervous system win. So I hide the truth from even the people I love and who love me.
This is where the bigger problem comes in. While flares rarely reach a 13-14 on the 10-point scale (ACFW conference was a 14), I do have 9s or 10s occasionally. I had one during a church service while sitting next to my boyfriend. I hid it for the ten minutes it lasted, gritting my teeth, regulating my breathing, clenching my fists, and praying hard. After the service, my boyfriend mentioned that he was really touched by how emotionally moved I was during the prayer--he had felt me shaking. Exhausted, I told him nonchalantly what really happened. The next day, he called to say that I am to notify him in some way any time I have a flare around him--using code words, whispering in his ear, something. The request confused me. "Most of the time there's nothing you can do, and knowing I'm in pain will only hurt you as well, so why do you want to know?" His answer came with a strong "duh" tone. "Uh, so I can be concerned?"
Knowing someone you love is hurting and being powerless to do anything about it is one of the most hopeless and devastating situations to be in, at least in my opinion. Being honest about how my body's torturing me makes me less of a friend/partner and more of a burden. If there is something he can do, I can understand telling him, but all the time? Does he even understand how often I go through these flares and pains? Isn't it enough that my fibromyalgia makes my life difficult--does it have to affect him and other people as well? I'm not opposed to letting people know I have the disease necessarily, but exposing the realities as they occur...that's terrifying.
I'm still struggling with my strong sense of independence on this one. I really don't know if I'll be able to go through with whispering his selected code word into his ear the next time my back spasms. I really don't know if I'll be able to reveal to others when I'm not shaking due to the movements of God or low blood sugar (a nice excuse, really, because you usually get chocolate out of the deal) but rather due to muscles tightening past normal limits. I really don't know if I'll be able to show the fear and anxiety in my eyes instead of closing them when I realize I'm not able to breathe for a few seconds. The answer to where boundary lines belong with this disease is out there, somewhere. I hope I find it soon. Before the next flare around my boyfriend, anyway.
"Look at her--she's really into it!"
"I think she's one of those pentacostals or something."
"The song must really be speaking to her."
I know these ladies never meant for me to hear them. After all, by all appearances, I was completely wrapped up in the moments of worship. My hands were raised, albeit only at the elbow--I usually extend them higher during powerful songs, my face was uplifted, my body swayed side-to-side and trembled slightly, and tears rolled down my cheeks before splashing onto my blouse. As a singer on my Baptist church's worship team, I do often do all of the above (tears are pretty unusual, though) when the moment is strong and I'm enveloped in the world of praising and praying to my God. I stop caring that my Pentacostal roots are showing and that I'm probably moving too much for the comfort of my congregation. I just do as I'm led to do.
My appearance of being lost in a moment with God during the conference wasn't reflecting the truth. I wasn't that into the song--it was one that, while it was nice, wasn't truly affecting me. One hand braced around my middle, the other raised from the elbow, I was beseeching God for something other than worship. I was desperately seeking help. I was in serious, extreme pain.
Is she praying...or struggling with a migraine? How can you tell?
Living with fibromyalgia is a challenge beyond any other--random flares of pain, some of them intense enough to make me stop breathing or double over into a ball, happen without warning. I already knew my disease was going to be an issue due to the long hours in a car to travel to Indianapolis, sleeping in a new bed, not getting much sleep due to activities, and a lot of sitting throughout the day. The intense flare in the middle of worship, however, caught me off-guard. It was the strongest one I had had in over a year. The tears and shaking proved it.
Since it's incurable, I've accepted my fibromyalgia as my thorn in my side (a la apostle Paul). Since preventative medications don't work on my system, and I avoid pills as much as possible due to the risks of addiction and damaging internal organs, I'm left with pushing through the pain with the determination of a soon-to-be mother. It also means that I try to mask my pain as much as possible. There's not much anyone can do besides maybe put pressure on a trigger point or massage a cramped muscle into submission. There are very few people I know who would be willing to do this even if I had the gall to ask--and there are very few public situations where this wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Letting others know when I'm hurting gives me a label of "weak" or "delicate"...not the labels I want if I want to be able to serve in the ways I was made to do. No one asks a weak woman to babysit their children. No one asks a fragile person to cook a three-course Mexican dinner for a Bible study. No one allows her to play softball or help move furniture or carry in instruments or renovate a nursery. I can do these things, even if occasionally I pay for it with a flare or two. My life is a chance game, but I refuse to play it safe and let my malfunctioning nervous system win. So I hide the truth from even the people I love and who love me.
This is where the bigger problem comes in. While flares rarely reach a 13-14 on the 10-point scale (ACFW conference was a 14), I do have 9s or 10s occasionally. I had one during a church service while sitting next to my boyfriend. I hid it for the ten minutes it lasted, gritting my teeth, regulating my breathing, clenching my fists, and praying hard. After the service, my boyfriend mentioned that he was really touched by how emotionally moved I was during the prayer--he had felt me shaking. Exhausted, I told him nonchalantly what really happened. The next day, he called to say that I am to notify him in some way any time I have a flare around him--using code words, whispering in his ear, something. The request confused me. "Most of the time there's nothing you can do, and knowing I'm in pain will only hurt you as well, so why do you want to know?" His answer came with a strong "duh" tone. "Uh, so I can be concerned?"
Knowing someone you love is hurting and being powerless to do anything about it is one of the most hopeless and devastating situations to be in, at least in my opinion. Being honest about how my body's torturing me makes me less of a friend/partner and more of a burden. If there is something he can do, I can understand telling him, but all the time? Does he even understand how often I go through these flares and pains? Isn't it enough that my fibromyalgia makes my life difficult--does it have to affect him and other people as well? I'm not opposed to letting people know I have the disease necessarily, but exposing the realities as they occur...that's terrifying.
I'm still struggling with my strong sense of independence on this one. I really don't know if I'll be able to go through with whispering his selected code word into his ear the next time my back spasms. I really don't know if I'll be able to reveal to others when I'm not shaking due to the movements of God or low blood sugar (a nice excuse, really, because you usually get chocolate out of the deal) but rather due to muscles tightening past normal limits. I really don't know if I'll be able to show the fear and anxiety in my eyes instead of closing them when I realize I'm not able to breathe for a few seconds. The answer to where boundary lines belong with this disease is out there, somewhere. I hope I find it soon. Before the next flare around my boyfriend, anyway.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Honesty 101
As someone who works at a highly-regarded university in the Midwest in the Communications department, you would think that I'm a fairly good communicator. Like I teach my students when we cover the communication cycle, there is always interference (otherwise known as "noise") that makes messages garbled, misunderstood, or just plain nonsensical. One form of interference that I have to deal with daily is my poor hearing. I often rhyme out words I hear and it's especially difficult for me to hear well in crowded/noisy rooms. Not being able to understand others, especially when the people around me seem to be doing just fine, annoys me to no end--and I get discouraged, uncomfortable, and tend to withdraw from the group. My problem-solving skills tend to focus on what I can change about myself to work with others, not have others shift to work around me. After all, we're supposed to love our brothers (and sisters) more than ourselves...so wouldn't that mean just dealing with the problems and only focusing on them?
Not exactly. By not communicating my needs, especially ones that aren't that big of an issue (for the most part, no one would begrudge me asking for us to move to a quieter spot. After all, if I can better listen to them, then I can minister to them more--it becomes a win-win situation for all.), I'm only hurting myself and my friends/family. Ignoring my needs and emotions will only poison my time with these wonderful people and make me less of a good support for them. I have to be brave enough to ask for help and prayer with my own issues...and be honest about what's really going on.
The big issue? Fear. I'm afraid I'll lose my friends, my family, because I'm too needy or demanding or something like that. After all, it's happened before. By not being honest, though, I'm not encouraging a real relationship with these people--just empty or superficial shells of friendship and fellowship where I can't trust the person (and maybe the God within) with my vulnerabilities. A recent two-day talk with a very close friend about some serious miscommunications really drove this point home. I was so afraid of hurting her (because I knew how sensitive she was) so I didn't confront her appropriately with the results of some of her actions. Instead, I hid the pain and the discomfort, pretending to be my usual bubbly self. When I got to the point where I couldn't hide anymore, I nearly washed my hands of the relationship and ran away. Part of it was because I couldn't bear to witness the effects of my words on her. Part of it was because I didn't know how to tell her that I was angry and felt like I couldn't trust her sometimes. She meant (and still does mean) so much to me that I didn't want to risk losing her, but as I've learned recently, it's not a bad thing to be angry. Anger is a positive emotion--it's what you do with it (kill, vandalize, hide in the corner) that makes it a negative thing. After all, even the only perfect man who ever lived got angry (John 2:13-22). We did talk things out, and while I never expressed my feelings of betrayal, I think she got the point. If she didn't...I'll soon know.
Jesus commanded us to love one another (John 13:34). Part of love is being honest (1 Cor. 13:6). We can't hide behind fear and think our silence and crossed fingers will make everything better eventually. We have to be brave.
Not exactly. By not communicating my needs, especially ones that aren't that big of an issue (for the most part, no one would begrudge me asking for us to move to a quieter spot. After all, if I can better listen to them, then I can minister to them more--it becomes a win-win situation for all.), I'm only hurting myself and my friends/family. Ignoring my needs and emotions will only poison my time with these wonderful people and make me less of a good support for them. I have to be brave enough to ask for help and prayer with my own issues...and be honest about what's really going on.
The big issue? Fear. I'm afraid I'll lose my friends, my family, because I'm too needy or demanding or something like that. After all, it's happened before. By not being honest, though, I'm not encouraging a real relationship with these people--just empty or superficial shells of friendship and fellowship where I can't trust the person (and maybe the God within) with my vulnerabilities. A recent two-day talk with a very close friend about some serious miscommunications really drove this point home. I was so afraid of hurting her (because I knew how sensitive she was) so I didn't confront her appropriately with the results of some of her actions. Instead, I hid the pain and the discomfort, pretending to be my usual bubbly self. When I got to the point where I couldn't hide anymore, I nearly washed my hands of the relationship and ran away. Part of it was because I couldn't bear to witness the effects of my words on her. Part of it was because I didn't know how to tell her that I was angry and felt like I couldn't trust her sometimes. She meant (and still does mean) so much to me that I didn't want to risk losing her, but as I've learned recently, it's not a bad thing to be angry. Anger is a positive emotion--it's what you do with it (kill, vandalize, hide in the corner) that makes it a negative thing. After all, even the only perfect man who ever lived got angry (John 2:13-22). We did talk things out, and while I never expressed my feelings of betrayal, I think she got the point. If she didn't...I'll soon know.
Jesus commanded us to love one another (John 13:34). Part of love is being honest (1 Cor. 13:6). We can't hide behind fear and think our silence and crossed fingers will make everything better eventually. We have to be brave.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Distractions...
Just as prevalent as air molecules, just as dangerous as a drunk driver going 80 on a gravel road, just as persistent as a two-year-old fixated on a Dora doll...
Distractions. They're everywhere. It can be something we see, feel, smell, or think about. An odd sound, an old memory, a tickle at the nape of our neck. Some of it is due to our survival instincts, our need to be aware of our surroundings to be protected against danger (which is why I scream bloody murder when I finally feel the light tapping of spider legs against my leg--a deaf spider can't bite you because he's too busy howling in pain over his burst eardrums). Some of it is just environmental or the curse of a racing mind (my thoughts could beat Usain Bolt--love that last name--in a foot race any day). Some of it, though, is purposeful.
"I need a distraction." I've said this many times lately, a remark reflecting on my extremely busy and hectic life. I've spent hours chasing after distractions, letting my to-do list ferment in my purse as I instead watch a cute kid's movie, hang out with friends and family, and let this deliciously handsome man intent on courting me have the pleasure of my company for several hours. The people around me ask if I'm busy, and of course I am. I have lots of lesson plans to make and keep up with. I have a website that is a full month behind schedule for release. I have a novel to do a few last-minute touch-ups on. I have gradebooks to set up, attendance records to update, and mounds of paperwork to complete, file, and organize. What I need is to sit my butt down and get to work. What I want is to go dancing with my sweetheart, bake cookies until 2am, watch some TV (because I hardly ever get to during the school year), and snuggle with my cat. And sleep. Miss that terribly.
Someone fairly wise for his very young age told me once that I do way too much and need to take more time out each day for "fun" things--activities to rejuvenate my spirit and brighten my mood. Otherwise I'd end up bitter. Not good. The hazard is to create a good balance--I need to get my tasks done, but also live joyfully each day. I need to focus...instead of surfing about on Facebook for a few hours. I need to just get through that to-do list...instead of playing Freecell for thirty minutes while listening to an audiobook. I need to be grading...instead of watching YouTube videos (or uploading my own).
This week, my challenge is to make that to-do list and get through the whole thing by Friday so I can enjoy my last weekend before the conference. Praying for strength and concentration...now.
Distractions. They're everywhere. It can be something we see, feel, smell, or think about. An odd sound, an old memory, a tickle at the nape of our neck. Some of it is due to our survival instincts, our need to be aware of our surroundings to be protected against danger (which is why I scream bloody murder when I finally feel the light tapping of spider legs against my leg--a deaf spider can't bite you because he's too busy howling in pain over his burst eardrums). Some of it is just environmental or the curse of a racing mind (my thoughts could beat Usain Bolt--love that last name--in a foot race any day). Some of it, though, is purposeful.
"I need a distraction." I've said this many times lately, a remark reflecting on my extremely busy and hectic life. I've spent hours chasing after distractions, letting my to-do list ferment in my purse as I instead watch a cute kid's movie, hang out with friends and family, and let this deliciously handsome man intent on courting me have the pleasure of my company for several hours. The people around me ask if I'm busy, and of course I am. I have lots of lesson plans to make and keep up with. I have a website that is a full month behind schedule for release. I have a novel to do a few last-minute touch-ups on. I have gradebooks to set up, attendance records to update, and mounds of paperwork to complete, file, and organize. What I need is to sit my butt down and get to work. What I want is to go dancing with my sweetheart, bake cookies until 2am, watch some TV (because I hardly ever get to during the school year), and snuggle with my cat. And sleep. Miss that terribly.
Someone fairly wise for his very young age told me once that I do way too much and need to take more time out each day for "fun" things--activities to rejuvenate my spirit and brighten my mood. Otherwise I'd end up bitter. Not good. The hazard is to create a good balance--I need to get my tasks done, but also live joyfully each day. I need to focus...instead of surfing about on Facebook for a few hours. I need to just get through that to-do list...instead of playing Freecell for thirty minutes while listening to an audiobook. I need to be grading...instead of watching YouTube videos (or uploading my own).
This week, my challenge is to make that to-do list and get through the whole thing by Friday so I can enjoy my last weekend before the conference. Praying for strength and concentration...now.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Do Not Cross This Line
Any relationship has boundaries. There are a list of things you can and cannot do and say. For one of my clients to hug me would cross a boundary of professionalism, but not so with one of the little tykes I watch in the nursery at church. I know better than to go on and on about my thoughts on faith with one of my friends who is an athiest, but I can remark on the Bible as much as I like with my best friends. I can talk about sex and romance with my friends but not with my parents (ew!). Boundaries establish comfort zones, protect us from harm, and allow us to get along.
When boundaries are crossed, even inadvertently, big problems can result. I set up boundaries with a new friend of mine and he crossed the line. He didn't mean anything malicious by it at all--just a simple lapse in judgment. To be fair, I wasn't guarding the boundaries as well as I should have. Still, when that line was crossed, the reaction was strong. Fear, pain, anger, and sadness roiled inside me. I ended up crying and even briefly snapping at my friend before controlling my temper and trying to talk out the situation. When I realized how hurt he was, I felt guilty for my responses and buried the emotions, distracting myself and him.
Problem was, I didn't deal with the issues of a boundary being crossed--I just repressed it. It took a while the next day, with a good Christian female friend, to talk out the problem, see where I overreacted, understand how I was projecting past experiences onto this one (thus not seeing things reasonably or logically), and get my bearings back. I had to forgive my friend for doing what he did, especially since he apologized. I had to forgive myself for not guarding my boundaries. I had to remember that God forgave me, too. Knowing that things would still be ok, even better than ok, once I dealt with the emotions helped so much. Still, picking up the pieces is hard.
There's a phrase I hear every now and then: I forgive but I never forget. It often struck me as a contradiction, but there is a seed of truth in there. We do need to forgive, but we also can't forget the lesson learned. When that boundary was crossed, it hurt. Therefore, instead of putting ourselves in situations where those lines could be crossed again, we need to protect ourselves--not because we don't trust the other person(s), but because it's the best thing for everyone involved.
When boundaries are crossed, even inadvertently, big problems can result. I set up boundaries with a new friend of mine and he crossed the line. He didn't mean anything malicious by it at all--just a simple lapse in judgment. To be fair, I wasn't guarding the boundaries as well as I should have. Still, when that line was crossed, the reaction was strong. Fear, pain, anger, and sadness roiled inside me. I ended up crying and even briefly snapping at my friend before controlling my temper and trying to talk out the situation. When I realized how hurt he was, I felt guilty for my responses and buried the emotions, distracting myself and him.
Problem was, I didn't deal with the issues of a boundary being crossed--I just repressed it. It took a while the next day, with a good Christian female friend, to talk out the problem, see where I overreacted, understand how I was projecting past experiences onto this one (thus not seeing things reasonably or logically), and get my bearings back. I had to forgive my friend for doing what he did, especially since he apologized. I had to forgive myself for not guarding my boundaries. I had to remember that God forgave me, too. Knowing that things would still be ok, even better than ok, once I dealt with the emotions helped so much. Still, picking up the pieces is hard.
There's a phrase I hear every now and then: I forgive but I never forget. It often struck me as a contradiction, but there is a seed of truth in there. We do need to forgive, but we also can't forget the lesson learned. When that boundary was crossed, it hurt. Therefore, instead of putting ourselves in situations where those lines could be crossed again, we need to protect ourselves--not because we don't trust the other person(s), but because it's the best thing for everyone involved.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Humble
Last Friday, I closed the Word document on my laptop and sighed. The bittersweet moment had come. I was done with the revisions to my novel. All 266 double-spaced pages of it. It was time to party and move on to my next project, but part of me was so sad to leave my work behind, to stamp it as "complete" and not work on it anymore. Then again, this baby was five months in the making (not including the two months it "sat" before I began revising). I am a good writer and editor and had taken that book apart and put it back together multiple times. It was in perfect, tip-top condition.
Then a close friend of mine, also a writer, sent me a message on Facebook. She notified me that she had started reading my book and in the first chapter she had noticed some POV problems. She sounded very apologetic about it, knowing how hard I had worked on the book and unsure of my reaction. The first thing in my mind? I wasn't happy.
My frustration was not at my friend--on the contrary, I love her even more for mentioning something. I was mad at myself. Granted, I haven't written extensively in fiction and POV isn't so much of an issue in creative non-fiction (my specialty), so it made sense that I would still have problems in this area. I still wanted to have the book perfect and ready for publishing.
What I learned is a lesson I teach over and over in my classes...and so I'm living "physician, heal thyself." When we write something, we know what it's supposed to say, the images that are being described, the attitudes and motivations of the characters. Translating that knowledge into written words so someone not in our heads (and how grateful we can be for that!) can be tricky. I tell my students all the time to have someone read their work for them and comment on the issues that the author can't or won't see by him/herself. Instead of progressing to "the next level" of revising, peer editing, I had bypassed it because, after all, I'm an English professor. Surely I wouldn't make such elementary mistakes.
I'm a fallible human--and writing teaches me that fact every day. As much as I'd like to think I could be the next Dee Henderson, I know that without good editors in my life, I'm never going to be as great as I could be. I need to be humble, admit I need help, and accept it graciously.
To be truthful, after my initial irritation with myself faded at my friend's letter, I was relieved. I instantly saw the errors and was so happy my friend had caught them. I love getting her input--and that outside perspective.
And fixing these errors gives me an excuse to hold on to my precious manuscript just a wee bit longer before I'm an empty nester looking to either have another baby novel or deal with the fact that I'm alone for the time being.
Then a close friend of mine, also a writer, sent me a message on Facebook. She notified me that she had started reading my book and in the first chapter she had noticed some POV problems. She sounded very apologetic about it, knowing how hard I had worked on the book and unsure of my reaction. The first thing in my mind? I wasn't happy.
My frustration was not at my friend--on the contrary, I love her even more for mentioning something. I was mad at myself. Granted, I haven't written extensively in fiction and POV isn't so much of an issue in creative non-fiction (my specialty), so it made sense that I would still have problems in this area. I still wanted to have the book perfect and ready for publishing.
What I learned is a lesson I teach over and over in my classes...and so I'm living "physician, heal thyself." When we write something, we know what it's supposed to say, the images that are being described, the attitudes and motivations of the characters. Translating that knowledge into written words so someone not in our heads (and how grateful we can be for that!) can be tricky. I tell my students all the time to have someone read their work for them and comment on the issues that the author can't or won't see by him/herself. Instead of progressing to "the next level" of revising, peer editing, I had bypassed it because, after all, I'm an English professor. Surely I wouldn't make such elementary mistakes.
I'm a fallible human--and writing teaches me that fact every day. As much as I'd like to think I could be the next Dee Henderson, I know that without good editors in my life, I'm never going to be as great as I could be. I need to be humble, admit I need help, and accept it graciously.
To be truthful, after my initial irritation with myself faded at my friend's letter, I was relieved. I instantly saw the errors and was so happy my friend had caught them. I love getting her input--and that outside perspective.
And fixing these errors gives me an excuse to hold on to my precious manuscript just a wee bit longer before I'm an empty nester looking to either have another baby novel or deal with the fact that I'm alone for the time being.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
To be or not to be with you...
During Sunday's service, my pastor described a situation he was counseling a teenager through. This boy had some friends who weren't Christians, but he wanted to be a witness to them, hang out with them, and be there for them. Instead of being this great light for Christ, he was making some poor decisions to fit in with these friends. Our pastor's advice? Don't hang out with them anymore--block them from your phone if you have to and stop going to their house.
While I understood the logic behind the advice, a part of me didn't agree. We as Christians are commanded to witness to others, to share our faith, to show God's love. If the only people we associate with are Christians, then evangelizing becomes rather hard to do (to the point you may be literally preaching to the choir). After all, Jesus hung out with prostitutes and fishermen and (gasp!) the Roman IRS. We shouldn't cloister ourselves off unless the situation is truly dangerous, right?
What I've realized since is that while I should continue to befriend nonbelievers and include them in my life, they can't be my core circle of friends. I look back at some of the lowest and darkest points in my life, other times when I found myself really struggling with sin, and in every instance I see myself spending a lot of time with nonbelievers who encourage me (or participate) in that bad behavior. Like my pastor's wife says, it's like crabs in a bucket. When one tries to climb out, the others will actually pull him/her back down. It's very dangerous for a Christian--not only can we lose our ministry, but we can damage our relationship with God. I don't think that a fun evening with "the boys" is worth that.
So my final opinion? Caution and moderation, combined with strong, healthy relationships with believers to keep us accountable and uplifted. I know, it's the same opinion I have with sugar. Let's pray that I do better with my friendships than I do with my chocolate consumption.
While I understood the logic behind the advice, a part of me didn't agree. We as Christians are commanded to witness to others, to share our faith, to show God's love. If the only people we associate with are Christians, then evangelizing becomes rather hard to do (to the point you may be literally preaching to the choir). After all, Jesus hung out with prostitutes and fishermen and (gasp!) the Roman IRS. We shouldn't cloister ourselves off unless the situation is truly dangerous, right?
What I've realized since is that while I should continue to befriend nonbelievers and include them in my life, they can't be my core circle of friends. I look back at some of the lowest and darkest points in my life, other times when I found myself really struggling with sin, and in every instance I see myself spending a lot of time with nonbelievers who encourage me (or participate) in that bad behavior. Like my pastor's wife says, it's like crabs in a bucket. When one tries to climb out, the others will actually pull him/her back down. It's very dangerous for a Christian--not only can we lose our ministry, but we can damage our relationship with God. I don't think that a fun evening with "the boys" is worth that.
So my final opinion? Caution and moderation, combined with strong, healthy relationships with believers to keep us accountable and uplifted. I know, it's the same opinion I have with sugar. Let's pray that I do better with my friendships than I do with my chocolate consumption.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Awkward Steps...
I'm going to date myself with this post. Prepare yourself.
Remember that Sesame Street game, the one with the cool song, "One of these things is not like the others...one of these things is just not the same..."? The object was for children to notice patterns, develop cognitive skills. Since they personify practically everything from shoes to goldfish to cupcakes, I wonder if the writers for this show ever thought about what it's like to be that one out-of-place item.
It's a feeling I think everyone experiences from time to time, but one that I struggle with a lot. Satan knows it's an easy button to push for me. When I feel awkward or uncomfortable, my extroverted personality does a 180 and I either try to fade into the background (hard to do when you are over six feet tall) or withdraw, even to the point of leaving/running away.
Knowing that I "don't belong" is just one tiny step away from rejection, or so Satan tells me. That these are lies doesn't always sink in...and my pattern of behavior holds.
Just yesterday I "escaped" from the church I've been attending since January. I've talked about this issue of feeling as though at any moment some preschooler will walk up to me and point, "That's the one who doesn't belong!" (Ok, maybe not anything quite that dramatic, but the point's valid.) I looked around the sanctuary of visiting people and couldn't think of a thing to say to anyone or any way to join in on a conversation. I felt lost and craved the safety of being alone, in my car, listening to an audiobook or thinking through the scenes I wanted to write for my new novel. In my fantasy worlds, I control things. I'm never awkward. I never say the wrong thing--or if I do, I can rewind and try again with no penalties. There's no one to accidentally offend, no one who can really hurt me, no one to give me a pity smile as they try to understand what on earth I'm talking about. In a way, I'm God. It's a powerful place...and ultimately a lonely and empty one.
My fantasies are good in that they become Christ-driven stories for me to write, but escaping into them too much just takes me away from the blessings I could be receiving from the people I love. It'll take time for me to completely trust my new church family, but so far, they've accepted me. I've found ways to help them...and the rewards for getting involved and taking risks have been incredible. Why did I do the Magic Schoolbus thing and "take chances, make mistakes, get messy!" with such fallible people? At those times, I was trusting God to love, protect, and guide me. Ouch. Guess what I wasn't doing last night. Ouch again.
It's amazing that, with such an awesome, powerful, sovereign God, I have such problems letting Him take over all the time. It's not like I ever do a better job than He does. I suppose letting go, even to Someone you trust and love, is not a one-time decision but a daily--or even hourly--decision.
So...here goes trying for a stronger faith first in my God, one step at a time. God, guide me, and help me remember just how much I trust You.
Remember that Sesame Street game, the one with the cool song, "One of these things is not like the others...one of these things is just not the same..."? The object was for children to notice patterns, develop cognitive skills. Since they personify practically everything from shoes to goldfish to cupcakes, I wonder if the writers for this show ever thought about what it's like to be that one out-of-place item.
It's a feeling I think everyone experiences from time to time, but one that I struggle with a lot. Satan knows it's an easy button to push for me. When I feel awkward or uncomfortable, my extroverted personality does a 180 and I either try to fade into the background (hard to do when you are over six feet tall) or withdraw, even to the point of leaving/running away.
Hey, it's not easy blending in with spiral-print purple vinyl!
Knowing that I "don't belong" is just one tiny step away from rejection, or so Satan tells me. That these are lies doesn't always sink in...and my pattern of behavior holds.
Just yesterday I "escaped" from the church I've been attending since January. I've talked about this issue of feeling as though at any moment some preschooler will walk up to me and point, "That's the one who doesn't belong!" (Ok, maybe not anything quite that dramatic, but the point's valid.) I looked around the sanctuary of visiting people and couldn't think of a thing to say to anyone or any way to join in on a conversation. I felt lost and craved the safety of being alone, in my car, listening to an audiobook or thinking through the scenes I wanted to write for my new novel. In my fantasy worlds, I control things. I'm never awkward. I never say the wrong thing--or if I do, I can rewind and try again with no penalties. There's no one to accidentally offend, no one who can really hurt me, no one to give me a pity smile as they try to understand what on earth I'm talking about. In a way, I'm God. It's a powerful place...and ultimately a lonely and empty one.
Apparently this girl is not only lonely, but also double-jointed (or about to realize her back HURTS).
My fantasies are good in that they become Christ-driven stories for me to write, but escaping into them too much just takes me away from the blessings I could be receiving from the people I love. It'll take time for me to completely trust my new church family, but so far, they've accepted me. I've found ways to help them...and the rewards for getting involved and taking risks have been incredible. Why did I do the Magic Schoolbus thing and "take chances, make mistakes, get messy!" with such fallible people? At those times, I was trusting God to love, protect, and guide me. Ouch. Guess what I wasn't doing last night. Ouch again.
Hey, Bob? We're going to need the industrial-sized version for this boo-boo.
It's amazing that, with such an awesome, powerful, sovereign God, I have such problems letting Him take over all the time. It's not like I ever do a better job than He does. I suppose letting go, even to Someone you trust and love, is not a one-time decision but a daily--or even hourly--decision.
So...here goes trying for a stronger faith first in my God, one step at a time. God, guide me, and help me remember just how much I trust You.
Although I may not have scored high on the trust meter with God, I just earned massive cool points by posting a pic of Indiana Jones on my blog. Go me.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Held in Heaven
If you asked me if there was one thing I could change about how my relationship with God works, most days I'd probably say that I'd like to have regular, face-to-face conversations with Him where I could ask questions and get (hopefully) straight answers. That this sort of reduces the need for faith...well, that's an unfortunate side effect. Lately, though, my heart has been changing my usual answer to that "genie wish" question. I want some cuddle time with Jesus.
We as human beings need to touch and be touched (although how much and to what degree varies widely). Babies can die if they aren't loved on enough. I'm a very touchy-feely person and adore hugs. I get a few each Sunday during our church's meet and greet...but there are times I need more than just that. I need a cuddle. When I was dating a guy, I practically glued myself to him on the few times I was able to see him because I was so desperate for that kind of safety, love, and security that comes with cuddling and hugging, holding and being held. Now that I'm single again, it's hard to find someone willing and able to be a cuddle buddy. I do have a teddy bear I still sleep with every night partially for this reason (and it keeps me from flipping over and squishing my cat at 3am).
Still...cuddling with an inanimate object just isn't fulfilling enough. Sure, Beary Michael is a great listener and hasn't complained once, but he also gets thrown to the floor and ends up burning his fur on the heat registers (ever see a white bear with brown stripes?). He fits perfectly within my arms, but I can't remotely fit in his. I need something, someone, alive. My cat might work, but he's not remotely a lap cat (more like a proximity cat...he'll sleep with me occasionally and usually is in the same room, but rarely ever on my lap). So...my options are pretty much limited to humans now (especially as I'm no Brittney Spears and DO NOT find a python's squeeze remotely comforting).
Hugging humans is great...except for finding good situations for doing so. Most of my good friends who would qualify for cuddle buddies are extremely busy women...like me. :) I feel guilty talking to them on the phone for half an hour when I'm upset. Asking for even a five or ten-minute cuddle session seems absolutely ridiculous. Besides, finding opportunities or appropriate places for such sessions is even harder sometimes than finding someone to do it with.
One solution to my need for this kind of affection has been gifted to me in the form of children. I babysit for a couple of girls (9 and 11) while their mother is overseas. I've known the family for years, and am close to the girls anyway, but over the past month of babysitting after a three-year hiatus, I find myself becoming extremely affectionate towards the girls. I tussle their hair, tickle ribs, give hugs, and kiss their foreheads goodnight as I put them to bed. When we sack out to watch a movie, they usually curl up on the couch with me, letting me stroke their hair or trail my fingers up and down their arms like my mother used to do to me when I was sick as a child. They miss that female touch...and I'm more than willing to share in such moments. I want to be in their shoes, but can't. I can, however, live vicariously through them.
Still, when their mother comes back next week, when school starts, when they are finally old enough not to really need a babysitter (which will happen all too soon), I'll be left without my two adorable cuddle buddies. God, in His infinite wisdom, put me in a church that already has a good smattering of babies and several more on the way. Babies. The perfect solution for a woman who needs physical attention. They need to be held and they hold onto you. They adore and love you (as long as they don't realize that they want their real mothers more at the moment) without judging...and think rocking to sleep is one of the best things in the world. What a coincidence--so do I.
Still, I can't always grab my pastor's daughter from his wife's arms and carry her off for cuddle'n'fun time whenever I'm needing it. She's growing up...and her mother rather likes having her daughter around her (go figure). Even if God blesses me with a husband and a family of my own someday--which He may not, and for reasons I know are for the best for me and my ministry to others--I still won't have unlimited access to the kind of peace, comfort, love, and tranquility that comes from sweet hugs and being held/holding others. The world doesn't revolve around my desires (although if it did...wow. Talk about a huge blessing and a huge mess all in one :) ). That's why my deepest genie wish is for cuddle time with God. Omnipresent partners who are infinitely kind, loving, forgiving, giving, patient...it's the perfect situation. God can soothe my soul in the relationship we have now, and does on a daily basis. Many days, though...I want to be held by my Creator, have Him stroke my hair, and just love me in one of the most powerful ways I know. I think I'll spend at least half of my eternity in Heaven in that position. :)
Until I get to those bejeweled gates, though, I'm still looking for those cuddle partners, people made in the image of the One I love more than anyone else who can minister to me until I see Him face-to-face. Any takers, apply immediately.
Squeeze as tight as you like.
We as human beings need to touch and be touched (although how much and to what degree varies widely). Babies can die if they aren't loved on enough. I'm a very touchy-feely person and adore hugs. I get a few each Sunday during our church's meet and greet...but there are times I need more than just that. I need a cuddle. When I was dating a guy, I practically glued myself to him on the few times I was able to see him because I was so desperate for that kind of safety, love, and security that comes with cuddling and hugging, holding and being held. Now that I'm single again, it's hard to find someone willing and able to be a cuddle buddy. I do have a teddy bear I still sleep with every night partially for this reason (and it keeps me from flipping over and squishing my cat at 3am).
This photo should be just as endearing and cute if she was in her thirties.
Still...cuddling with an inanimate object just isn't fulfilling enough. Sure, Beary Michael is a great listener and hasn't complained once, but he also gets thrown to the floor and ends up burning his fur on the heat registers (ever see a white bear with brown stripes?). He fits perfectly within my arms, but I can't remotely fit in his. I need something, someone, alive. My cat might work, but he's not remotely a lap cat (more like a proximity cat...he'll sleep with me occasionally and usually is in the same room, but rarely ever on my lap). So...my options are pretty much limited to humans now (especially as I'm no Brittney Spears and DO NOT find a python's squeeze remotely comforting).
Hugging humans is great...except for finding good situations for doing so. Most of my good friends who would qualify for cuddle buddies are extremely busy women...like me. :) I feel guilty talking to them on the phone for half an hour when I'm upset. Asking for even a five or ten-minute cuddle session seems absolutely ridiculous. Besides, finding opportunities or appropriate places for such sessions is even harder sometimes than finding someone to do it with.
Two is company...and this is just *WRONG*. If you have to put on nametags before cuddling, it's not a good cuddle. It's creepy (especially if you noticed some of those hands are on butts). Not cool.
One solution to my need for this kind of affection has been gifted to me in the form of children. I babysit for a couple of girls (9 and 11) while their mother is overseas. I've known the family for years, and am close to the girls anyway, but over the past month of babysitting after a three-year hiatus, I find myself becoming extremely affectionate towards the girls. I tussle their hair, tickle ribs, give hugs, and kiss their foreheads goodnight as I put them to bed. When we sack out to watch a movie, they usually curl up on the couch with me, letting me stroke their hair or trail my fingers up and down their arms like my mother used to do to me when I was sick as a child. They miss that female touch...and I'm more than willing to share in such moments. I want to be in their shoes, but can't. I can, however, live vicariously through them.
Someday...this will be me with my own daughter instead of a borrowed one.
Still, when their mother comes back next week, when school starts, when they are finally old enough not to really need a babysitter (which will happen all too soon), I'll be left without my two adorable cuddle buddies. God, in His infinite wisdom, put me in a church that already has a good smattering of babies and several more on the way. Babies. The perfect solution for a woman who needs physical attention. They need to be held and they hold onto you. They adore and love you (as long as they don't realize that they want their real mothers more at the moment) without judging...and think rocking to sleep is one of the best things in the world. What a coincidence--so do I.
Go on, baby. Make my day.
Still, I can't always grab my pastor's daughter from his wife's arms and carry her off for cuddle'n'fun time whenever I'm needing it. She's growing up...and her mother rather likes having her daughter around her (go figure). Even if God blesses me with a husband and a family of my own someday--which He may not, and for reasons I know are for the best for me and my ministry to others--I still won't have unlimited access to the kind of peace, comfort, love, and tranquility that comes from sweet hugs and being held/holding others. The world doesn't revolve around my desires (although if it did...wow. Talk about a huge blessing and a huge mess all in one :) ). That's why my deepest genie wish is for cuddle time with God. Omnipresent partners who are infinitely kind, loving, forgiving, giving, patient...it's the perfect situation. God can soothe my soul in the relationship we have now, and does on a daily basis. Many days, though...I want to be held by my Creator, have Him stroke my hair, and just love me in one of the most powerful ways I know. I think I'll spend at least half of my eternity in Heaven in that position. :)
Until I get to those bejeweled gates, though, I'm still looking for those cuddle partners, people made in the image of the One I love more than anyone else who can minister to me until I see Him face-to-face. Any takers, apply immediately.
Soon, God...soon.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Getting Uncomfortable
A friend of mine changed her status on Facebook to "If we want to grow, we are always out of our comfort zones." I've heard this sentiment before, usually with the imagery of stagnant ponds that, while they are useful, aren't the beautiful bodies of water that can really make a difference (tell that to the family of tree frogs who thoroughly enjoy the unchanging pond off my backyard, but....point made). This one brings to mind a tender green shoot of a plant, having to push through first earth, then air that is often unforgiving and rarely protecting. Honestly, that plant was safer under a layer of black dirt, even with the beetles scurrying around down there.
I made a choice a few weeks ago to put myself in a new and rather uncomfortable situation: I joined my church's recreational softball league. To put this in context for you, I am very unathletic. I'm tall, overweight, not very coordinated in a gross-motor way, my hand-eye coordination works excellent with embroidery needles but not so much with large balls that could potentially concuss my skull, and I have a multitude of physical problems that make sports difficult (no cartilidge in my knees and fibromyalgia, mainly). I don't even necessarily like sports. I am easily the worst player on the team and not just because I don't even understand all the basic rules of baseball (let alone slow-pitch softball).
The thing is, our city's recreational league rules demand that there be at least four girls playing on each team at all times. The pitcher and catcher must be of opposite genders. At least two girls must be on the infield besides the pitcher/catcher. Batters must be lined up in alternating gender order. If there aren't enough girls on the team, the team forfeits...and loses a costly deposit. Needless to say, our church was having issues getting enough girls. The first few times the pastor asked the congregation for volunteers and a few friends invited me, I shrugged them off. I'm not an athlete. I'll be gone several weekends visiting my boyfriend. It wouldn't work. I'm not comfortable playing sports--and I don't like doing things, especially publically, if I don't think I'll be very good at them.
God had other ideas. Within a week, I had been dumped by my boyfriend and had two ladies practically push me into going to a practice for the team just so I wouldn't be stuck moping around the house, trying to kill off old feelings and deal with being a single woman again. "A little exercise will help distract you, and besides, you need to be around Christian friends right now." I was needed and apparently wanted despite having nothing substantial to offer the team besides my gender. I showed up.
Through a couple practices and a tragic double-header game, I decimated any high hopes of being an asset to the team. I can throw shorter distances ok, but catching is not my strong suit and batting...I'd have better luck if the ball was five feet in diameter. It took me a game and a half to realize, as catcher, that I was supposed to try to catch the foul balls. I kept, to my dismay, squealing and jumping out of the way of close pitches as I batted, terrified of getting hit (not that it kept me from some painful impact bruises). A few bad catches, the ball hitting my left forearm twice with considerable force, ended up jamming the nerve in my arm and I lost the use of my hand for nearly an hour. I tried cracking jokes all the time to relieve the tension I felt, the feelings of being a failure, and basically to keep myself from crying in pain and anger. Not everyone got them...and few of them were laughed at. Apparently my discomfort wasn't so hidden after all.
The logic that a very unathletic girl in athletics probably wouldn't be successful was something to fight against. I was a very intelligent, stubborn, persistent, and often patient person. God wouldn't have pushed me into this activity to make a fool out of me...would he?
Besides a nice dose of humility, something even Paul said was needed for Christians, I believe that God wanted me to stretch myself. I'll never be scouted by a professional team and may never actually hit a ball and get on base in my lifetime (although getting "walked" to first is such a wonderful blessing). I do need to try new things, keeping my focus on being out there, in this crazy uncomfortable world, so I can shine with God's love and be a witness for Him. I can't show my faith if I'm sequestered in my house or only venturing out to do things I know I'm good at (although, if I am willing to remember, I wasn't always good at those things, either).
Surprise of all surprises, I rather like softball. I'm watching baseball games on TV and picking up some ideas. I'm getting excited about games and want to do what I can, as much as I can, to support my church in this ministry. I never would have done this if I hadn't been in so much emotional turmoil over the dissolution of my long-distance romance. Already there is a silver lining, a purpose to losing a guy I thought I could marry someday. Now I'm looking forward to finding a new guy who is even better for me...and who knows. Maybe he'll like softball, too.
I made a choice a few weeks ago to put myself in a new and rather uncomfortable situation: I joined my church's recreational softball league. To put this in context for you, I am very unathletic. I'm tall, overweight, not very coordinated in a gross-motor way, my hand-eye coordination works excellent with embroidery needles but not so much with large balls that could potentially concuss my skull, and I have a multitude of physical problems that make sports difficult (no cartilidge in my knees and fibromyalgia, mainly). I don't even necessarily like sports. I am easily the worst player on the team and not just because I don't even understand all the basic rules of baseball (let alone slow-pitch softball).
The thing is, our city's recreational league rules demand that there be at least four girls playing on each team at all times. The pitcher and catcher must be of opposite genders. At least two girls must be on the infield besides the pitcher/catcher. Batters must be lined up in alternating gender order. If there aren't enough girls on the team, the team forfeits...and loses a costly deposit. Needless to say, our church was having issues getting enough girls. The first few times the pastor asked the congregation for volunteers and a few friends invited me, I shrugged them off. I'm not an athlete. I'll be gone several weekends visiting my boyfriend. It wouldn't work. I'm not comfortable playing sports--and I don't like doing things, especially publically, if I don't think I'll be very good at them.
God had other ideas. Within a week, I had been dumped by my boyfriend and had two ladies practically push me into going to a practice for the team just so I wouldn't be stuck moping around the house, trying to kill off old feelings and deal with being a single woman again. "A little exercise will help distract you, and besides, you need to be around Christian friends right now." I was needed and apparently wanted despite having nothing substantial to offer the team besides my gender. I showed up.
Through a couple practices and a tragic double-header game, I decimated any high hopes of being an asset to the team. I can throw shorter distances ok, but catching is not my strong suit and batting...I'd have better luck if the ball was five feet in diameter. It took me a game and a half to realize, as catcher, that I was supposed to try to catch the foul balls. I kept, to my dismay, squealing and jumping out of the way of close pitches as I batted, terrified of getting hit (not that it kept me from some painful impact bruises). A few bad catches, the ball hitting my left forearm twice with considerable force, ended up jamming the nerve in my arm and I lost the use of my hand for nearly an hour. I tried cracking jokes all the time to relieve the tension I felt, the feelings of being a failure, and basically to keep myself from crying in pain and anger. Not everyone got them...and few of them were laughed at. Apparently my discomfort wasn't so hidden after all.
The logic that a very unathletic girl in athletics probably wouldn't be successful was something to fight against. I was a very intelligent, stubborn, persistent, and often patient person. God wouldn't have pushed me into this activity to make a fool out of me...would he?
Besides a nice dose of humility, something even Paul said was needed for Christians, I believe that God wanted me to stretch myself. I'll never be scouted by a professional team and may never actually hit a ball and get on base in my lifetime (although getting "walked" to first is such a wonderful blessing). I do need to try new things, keeping my focus on being out there, in this crazy uncomfortable world, so I can shine with God's love and be a witness for Him. I can't show my faith if I'm sequestered in my house or only venturing out to do things I know I'm good at (although, if I am willing to remember, I wasn't always good at those things, either).
Surprise of all surprises, I rather like softball. I'm watching baseball games on TV and picking up some ideas. I'm getting excited about games and want to do what I can, as much as I can, to support my church in this ministry. I never would have done this if I hadn't been in so much emotional turmoil over the dissolution of my long-distance romance. Already there is a silver lining, a purpose to losing a guy I thought I could marry someday. Now I'm looking forward to finding a new guy who is even better for me...and who knows. Maybe he'll like softball, too.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
An Awkward First...
Tonight I went to my first birthday party. Granted...there might have been party or two in my very young past, but I don't really remember much about them and so I don't really count them. I've been invited to a handful...but I don't usually go. Tonight I expected to spend about an hour singing a very familiar song, watching people eat cake, and then go home to talk to my boyfriend (long-distance relationship) and do some grading. Instead, I got schooled on birthday fun.
I must say that my favorite parts of the evening weren't the quick chats with new and good friends, or even learning a new card game with my pastor and several other women. It was playing with the babies. I adore children...and hanging out with the pastor's kids really reminded me of just how much I miss being with them on a regular basis. Kids just fill this hole in my heart. Maybe it's knowing I'm very much needed, desired, appreciated. Little ones are good at showing that. :)
I did have a good time. I did feel rather awkward at times. While I had my excuses--ranging from a very long day at work, being around a lot of people (I get overwhelmed in crowds), dealing with fibromyalgia symptoms, and feeling rather exhausted--most of it was due to me not really knowing how to deal with these people. They were all from the church, so I was watching what I said and did (some jokes fell flat quickly, and then I just didn't know what to say). I felt intimidated by the overexuberant personality of my pastor, something that usually makes me smile but tonight made me feel like I wanted to withdraw. Then again, I have been going through a self-isolation phase, where I desire to be alone or just with a small group of a select few.
I was so worried about doing or saying the wrong thing, figuring out how to interact with people, and trying to hide my social anxieties that I forgot the most important part of fellowship: relaxing and trusting the people around me. They weren't going to judge me because I got frustrated learning a new game or if I hadn't gotten up in time to avoid breaking a chair (talk about uber embarrassing). Instead of taking a deep breath, being myself, and laughing and having a good time, I put on a mask and dropped details to get across that I wasn't quite myself and shouldn't be pushed into things. It worked, for the most part, if by working it meant that I felt awkward and was grateful for an excuse (grading) to eventually leave.
I was honest, but not in the right way or for the right reasons. I could argue very well that my behavior was understandable....but understandable doesn't equate being right. Let's face it, folks--I'm human and I screwed up again. :)
If there's another party that I happen to get invited to, I'll have to be brave. I'll have to stop hiding behind my tiredness, my fears, my anxieties and just let myself shine, both the good and the bad. If I'm truly to bond with these members of the church, if I'm seriously thinking about taking a step towards membership myself for the first time, then I need to be trusting in God. He'll make sure that while I may not be the life of the party (who can outshine Pastor John...really?), I can be a well-burning candle among the festive midst.
I must say that my favorite parts of the evening weren't the quick chats with new and good friends, or even learning a new card game with my pastor and several other women. It was playing with the babies. I adore children...and hanging out with the pastor's kids really reminded me of just how much I miss being with them on a regular basis. Kids just fill this hole in my heart. Maybe it's knowing I'm very much needed, desired, appreciated. Little ones are good at showing that. :)
I did have a good time. I did feel rather awkward at times. While I had my excuses--ranging from a very long day at work, being around a lot of people (I get overwhelmed in crowds), dealing with fibromyalgia symptoms, and feeling rather exhausted--most of it was due to me not really knowing how to deal with these people. They were all from the church, so I was watching what I said and did (some jokes fell flat quickly, and then I just didn't know what to say). I felt intimidated by the overexuberant personality of my pastor, something that usually makes me smile but tonight made me feel like I wanted to withdraw. Then again, I have been going through a self-isolation phase, where I desire to be alone or just with a small group of a select few.
I was so worried about doing or saying the wrong thing, figuring out how to interact with people, and trying to hide my social anxieties that I forgot the most important part of fellowship: relaxing and trusting the people around me. They weren't going to judge me because I got frustrated learning a new game or if I hadn't gotten up in time to avoid breaking a chair (talk about uber embarrassing). Instead of taking a deep breath, being myself, and laughing and having a good time, I put on a mask and dropped details to get across that I wasn't quite myself and shouldn't be pushed into things. It worked, for the most part, if by working it meant that I felt awkward and was grateful for an excuse (grading) to eventually leave.
I was honest, but not in the right way or for the right reasons. I could argue very well that my behavior was understandable....but understandable doesn't equate being right. Let's face it, folks--I'm human and I screwed up again. :)
If there's another party that I happen to get invited to, I'll have to be brave. I'll have to stop hiding behind my tiredness, my fears, my anxieties and just let myself shine, both the good and the bad. If I'm truly to bond with these members of the church, if I'm seriously thinking about taking a step towards membership myself for the first time, then I need to be trusting in God. He'll make sure that while I may not be the life of the party (who can outshine Pastor John...really?), I can be a well-burning candle among the festive midst.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
A Wake-Up Call....without the hotel bill.
It's been nearly a year. Wow. Talk about not following through. :) It'd be ridiculous for me to try to post an entire year's worth of news, musings, and revelations. That's something I can use to fill in future days when I feel I have nothing/little to say (and those who live around me...know that is never really true).
How do I restart a part of my life so obviously abandoned? With the truth.
I was recently prompted (read: coerced) into going to the doctor. I had ignored a persistent fever and a myraid of other symptoms for two weeks...and some of the people I love were worried, especially my boyfriend. Wait--scratch that. He was not worried. He was concerned. Learned that distinction.
The sinus infection was a new deal, but not wholly unexpected. The other news...dropped me like a wobbly water balloon down five stories onto the college freshman-littered sidewalk below. My blood pressure was sky-high. Granted, I had excuses. I've been sick for two weeks. I had only two hours of sleep the night previous. It's the most stressful time of the year for me--approaching finals. Didn't matter to the doctor. He gave me an ultimatum: start taking care of myself and get on a medication for the problem, or end up having a heart attack/stroke at the ripe old age of 25. I got the prescription filled within the hour.
God (and many other people--maybe He was speaking through them, maybe it was just that obvious) has been trying to get through my stubborn, willful, self-sacrificing head for a long time that I am doing way too much. I'll argue the point until...well...I have a heart attack. I've always worked multiple jobs, sometimes two or three while going to school full-time. I'm used to having lots of committments, using the stress to get me through the long hours of the day. I thrive on being needed, being wanted--and what better way to constantly feel needed/wanted than to put your hand in as many projects as possible? This, however, is not God's plan. At least, it's not for me. Facing the very real prospect of an impending premature death rather emphasizes this.
I've been worried about losing half of my teaching contract this fall, not finding a full-time with benefits job teaching at a college, trying to deal with the insecurities of a long-distance relationship. What God has been waiting, much more patiently than I ever could, for is for me to stop and really sit and listen to him. Instead of burning my candle at both ends and six different places along the middle, He wants me to be a steady, strong light to others. He has given me gifts for teaching, writing, ministering, creating, loving. I can't use any of these to the best of my abilities if I don't follow His plan for them.
So here's a step in the right direction. I'm going to keep up with my blog, using this platform to minister to others who are involved in academia, are writers, both, or neither. I'm going to stop fussing internally about money and trust that God will provide (and that I really don't need to overspend like I tend to do). I'm going to enact more self-discipline to make myself more dependent on God and independent of the world. It's going to be a long road, but I'm anxious to start walking.
Well, maybe not at 12:30am. Perhaps I should start another positive habit, getting enough sleep each night, and discuss some the particulars...later. :)
Take care, all, and welcome to a new chapter.
How do I restart a part of my life so obviously abandoned? With the truth.
I was recently prompted (read: coerced) into going to the doctor. I had ignored a persistent fever and a myraid of other symptoms for two weeks...and some of the people I love were worried, especially my boyfriend. Wait--scratch that. He was not worried. He was concerned. Learned that distinction.
The sinus infection was a new deal, but not wholly unexpected. The other news...dropped me like a wobbly water balloon down five stories onto the college freshman-littered sidewalk below. My blood pressure was sky-high. Granted, I had excuses. I've been sick for two weeks. I had only two hours of sleep the night previous. It's the most stressful time of the year for me--approaching finals. Didn't matter to the doctor. He gave me an ultimatum: start taking care of myself and get on a medication for the problem, or end up having a heart attack/stroke at the ripe old age of 25. I got the prescription filled within the hour.
God (and many other people--maybe He was speaking through them, maybe it was just that obvious) has been trying to get through my stubborn, willful, self-sacrificing head for a long time that I am doing way too much. I'll argue the point until...well...I have a heart attack. I've always worked multiple jobs, sometimes two or three while going to school full-time. I'm used to having lots of committments, using the stress to get me through the long hours of the day. I thrive on being needed, being wanted--and what better way to constantly feel needed/wanted than to put your hand in as many projects as possible? This, however, is not God's plan. At least, it's not for me. Facing the very real prospect of an impending premature death rather emphasizes this.
I've been worried about losing half of my teaching contract this fall, not finding a full-time with benefits job teaching at a college, trying to deal with the insecurities of a long-distance relationship. What God has been waiting, much more patiently than I ever could, for is for me to stop and really sit and listen to him. Instead of burning my candle at both ends and six different places along the middle, He wants me to be a steady, strong light to others. He has given me gifts for teaching, writing, ministering, creating, loving. I can't use any of these to the best of my abilities if I don't follow His plan for them.
So here's a step in the right direction. I'm going to keep up with my blog, using this platform to minister to others who are involved in academia, are writers, both, or neither. I'm going to stop fussing internally about money and trust that God will provide (and that I really don't need to overspend like I tend to do). I'm going to enact more self-discipline to make myself more dependent on God and independent of the world. It's going to be a long road, but I'm anxious to start walking.
Well, maybe not at 12:30am. Perhaps I should start another positive habit, getting enough sleep each night, and discuss some the particulars...later. :)
Take care, all, and welcome to a new chapter.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
490 and counting...
We all know this woman. The one who keeps us up at night. The one who keeps us ripping out our hair in frustration (and Rogaine ain't cheap, babe). The one who makes, quite honestly, the dumbest mistakes and can't seem to see the obvious warning signs ahead of her that this is NOT A GOOD IDEA. She's the one who even drags us into her problems without our knowledge until one day the phone rings... She's a good friend, or at least used to be.
She was my best friend.
I don't quite understand what happened to this girl I knew. She was my rock when I hit sub-bottom in life. She listened and cared and prayed and got me back on track. Once I was healthy, I noticed her sliding and desperately tried to pull her up. I bailed her out. I kept her secrets. I gave her gentle scoldings while still nodding, yeah, I know. I watched as she completely blew up her life, time and time again, for no real reason while denying that she was ever in trouble. At that point, all I could do was watch. She wouldn't let me guide her and I can't save her, just like she couldn't save me. She had to make that decision to save herself.
Time went on, she moved out of town to just over an hour away, and it seemed that after a few rocky starts that things were finally on the rise for her. Yeah, it wasn't her ideal picture of the world, but she was making progress (at least as much as she would admit to on the phone). She made new friends, got involved with a community, and left me behind. In a way, I understood. Long-distance relationships were never my strong point, either. We still chatted occasionally on the phone and kept in touch via Facebook (thank you to that mysterious college student creator--you have no idea what you have done for my social life). I kept up with her as best I could, which isn't easy when I'm working two jobs and returning phone calls was never her strong suit (especially with creditors bugging her for money--but that's a story for another day).
My current struggle with her is one that I'm not sue how to negotiate. The short version goes like this: one of my favorite living authors was visiting her town for a special speaking engagement, the kind of thing that happens once in a blue moon. She promised to get us tickets as part of her "repay me" fund. It would be a bonding event for the both of us, the first time we would have spent significant time together in person in months. It meant the world to me--what could be greater than a public reading and my best friend?
I knew money was an issue so I offered to buy the tickets. No, it's my treat for you, she said. You can pay me back--I just want to make sure we get them before they sell out. Nope, I got it under control. Four months before the reading, it seemed that way--and before I knew it she told me she bought two tickets, balcony seating. Wahoo!
I found out a few weeks ago that the reading was sold-out, and upon touching base with my friend she seemed confused. Apparently she had lied (deliberately or not, I'm not entirely sure) and hadn't bought the tickets. No worries, though--she'd take care of everything.
You know where this is going, right? I spent the night of the reading alone, at home, grading papers while many of my other friends and classmates got to hear my favorite author in person. Everyone was chattering excitedly about it today, thanking me for bringing the event to their attention. I felt betrayed.
If my friend had just been honest, or responsible, I would have had a great time with her last night. She knew what going to that reading meant to me. It wasn't so much missing the event that bugged me. It was that she hadn't taken the time to make room for me in her life. If it was money, she could have asked and I would have had absolutely no qualms or judgments about paying. Instead, I have no clue what she did that night, but I know it wasn't with me. I wasn't important enough for her to take the time or energy to spend less than two minutes on a website and buy tickets. Our friendship wasn't worth the $70 I would have happily spent on seats. Our years of supporting each other as best we could added up to no communication and half-truths. In the end, all I get is a confused reply to my text this morning, wondering how I didn't know that we weren't going.
Making friends, especially close Christian female friends, in this world is pretty tough. We should hold on to the ones we have, forgiving 70 x 7 as Jesus said (although the implication was more unconditional than numerical). Forgiveness means working past the hurt feelings. Forgiveness means being honest that there were hurt feelings. Forgiveness means challenging yourself and the friend to work on the hiccups in the road.
I have a German-Austrian heritage and temper, which means we have a long fuse, blow hard, but blow over quickly. Within a day or two I'll have calmed down and forgiven her. What won't happen overnight is trust. Her behavior as of last year had decimated a lot of the trust between us, and this latest issue crushed most of the remaining bits. I keep asking myself why this happened, what went wrong, what I should have done, just how far I feel like I can trust her now--and I'm telling you that it's not very far. I wanted to believe in her again. I wanted to use this great event to springboard reclaiming lost ground between us. I feel as though I got her answer--silence, and then the usual plea for infinite forgiveness. And she wonders why I don't trust her. Sometimes "sorry" just isn't enough.
Trust is vital to healthy relationships. We trust God to care for us, and therfore don't worry as much (theoretically). We need to trust each other, and care well for that trust, in order to thrive as sisters-in-Christ. After forgiveness comes prayer again--this time to build up trust and start over...seventy times seven. This week, let's pray for the wisdom to rebuild broken walls and set solid foundations. In an increasingly secular world, can we really afford to lose much more ground?
She was my best friend.
I don't quite understand what happened to this girl I knew. She was my rock when I hit sub-bottom in life. She listened and cared and prayed and got me back on track. Once I was healthy, I noticed her sliding and desperately tried to pull her up. I bailed her out. I kept her secrets. I gave her gentle scoldings while still nodding, yeah, I know. I watched as she completely blew up her life, time and time again, for no real reason while denying that she was ever in trouble. At that point, all I could do was watch. She wouldn't let me guide her and I can't save her, just like she couldn't save me. She had to make that decision to save herself.
Time went on, she moved out of town to just over an hour away, and it seemed that after a few rocky starts that things were finally on the rise for her. Yeah, it wasn't her ideal picture of the world, but she was making progress (at least as much as she would admit to on the phone). She made new friends, got involved with a community, and left me behind. In a way, I understood. Long-distance relationships were never my strong point, either. We still chatted occasionally on the phone and kept in touch via Facebook (thank you to that mysterious college student creator--you have no idea what you have done for my social life). I kept up with her as best I could, which isn't easy when I'm working two jobs and returning phone calls was never her strong suit (especially with creditors bugging her for money--but that's a story for another day).
My current struggle with her is one that I'm not sue how to negotiate. The short version goes like this: one of my favorite living authors was visiting her town for a special speaking engagement, the kind of thing that happens once in a blue moon. She promised to get us tickets as part of her "repay me" fund. It would be a bonding event for the both of us, the first time we would have spent significant time together in person in months. It meant the world to me--what could be greater than a public reading and my best friend?
I knew money was an issue so I offered to buy the tickets. No, it's my treat for you, she said. You can pay me back--I just want to make sure we get them before they sell out. Nope, I got it under control. Four months before the reading, it seemed that way--and before I knew it she told me she bought two tickets, balcony seating. Wahoo!
I found out a few weeks ago that the reading was sold-out, and upon touching base with my friend she seemed confused. Apparently she had lied (deliberately or not, I'm not entirely sure) and hadn't bought the tickets. No worries, though--she'd take care of everything.
You know where this is going, right? I spent the night of the reading alone, at home, grading papers while many of my other friends and classmates got to hear my favorite author in person. Everyone was chattering excitedly about it today, thanking me for bringing the event to their attention. I felt betrayed.
If my friend had just been honest, or responsible, I would have had a great time with her last night. She knew what going to that reading meant to me. It wasn't so much missing the event that bugged me. It was that she hadn't taken the time to make room for me in her life. If it was money, she could have asked and I would have had absolutely no qualms or judgments about paying. Instead, I have no clue what she did that night, but I know it wasn't with me. I wasn't important enough for her to take the time or energy to spend less than two minutes on a website and buy tickets. Our friendship wasn't worth the $70 I would have happily spent on seats. Our years of supporting each other as best we could added up to no communication and half-truths. In the end, all I get is a confused reply to my text this morning, wondering how I didn't know that we weren't going.
Making friends, especially close Christian female friends, in this world is pretty tough. We should hold on to the ones we have, forgiving 70 x 7 as Jesus said (although the implication was more unconditional than numerical). Forgiveness means working past the hurt feelings. Forgiveness means being honest that there were hurt feelings. Forgiveness means challenging yourself and the friend to work on the hiccups in the road.
I have a German-Austrian heritage and temper, which means we have a long fuse, blow hard, but blow over quickly. Within a day or two I'll have calmed down and forgiven her. What won't happen overnight is trust. Her behavior as of last year had decimated a lot of the trust between us, and this latest issue crushed most of the remaining bits. I keep asking myself why this happened, what went wrong, what I should have done, just how far I feel like I can trust her now--and I'm telling you that it's not very far. I wanted to believe in her again. I wanted to use this great event to springboard reclaiming lost ground between us. I feel as though I got her answer--silence, and then the usual plea for infinite forgiveness. And she wonders why I don't trust her. Sometimes "sorry" just isn't enough.
Trust is vital to healthy relationships. We trust God to care for us, and therfore don't worry as much (theoretically). We need to trust each other, and care well for that trust, in order to thrive as sisters-in-Christ. After forgiveness comes prayer again--this time to build up trust and start over...seventy times seven. This week, let's pray for the wisdom to rebuild broken walls and set solid foundations. In an increasingly secular world, can we really afford to lose much more ground?
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