This perfect girl is gone, too.

I'm not sure I can say how much I love the song "Let It Go" and its scene from the movie Frozen. If you haven't watched the movie yet, I highly recommend it, and also, this post will have spoilers. Don't worry, we can squeal over it together after you've seen it. I'll be here.


Now then, you've seen it?

Isn't it awesome?!

Here, let's see it again:

::happy sigh::

So, Elsa and this song touched me as powerfully as the end of Tangled did, but for a different reason. With Eugene's act, I saw Jesus reflected. With Elsa's freedom, I feel her realization, joy, and transformation of acceptance.

I'm struggling for the words, but the depth of my groans just don't translate well in the blogosphere. Auuggh! Okay, I had to. I just can't get enough of this song! (Seriously, I've been watching it two or three dozen times while writing this post.)

I ached with Elsa as a child, fearing something was wrong with her, that she could only hurt others, growing up hiding from everyone and everything. It wasn't the right choice, and we know when we're watching that it's not the right choice, yet it's exactly the sort of thing that we do in our own lives every day.

Everyone completely missed that her power can be beautiful.

And when she let's it go...it's stunning. The snow, the ice, the things she can do with them, and the freedom smile that makes her glow.

Yet there's also the hint that Elsa could become dangerous, just like everyone feared. She could become a villain at this point. She fully embraces who she is, and it's distinctly different than what she was told she had to be all her life. Seeing that change is a bit scary to me, to know how starkly different the two are. To know that very contrast is also possible in me. Her transformation is so complete that we know she might go too far if someone pushes her now. This is who she is, and she is powerful and passionate, embracing all of who she is including the raging storm within her.

She is both majestic and dangerous. And really, when we embrace the truth of our own selves, aren't we as well?

The Tipping Point

It's been a long time coming, and once that tipping point arrives, there is no slowing down the follow through. It will come and it will be swift.

I'd been thinking about it for months, did I want to, did I have what it took, could I choose almost blindly, praying for faith at the same time that I exercised it?

The tipping point came when the theoretical turned tangible.


"Norman took the job in Charleston."

I blinked. It was only yesterday that there had been the faintest other possibility, not one that would be great. This, however, was exactly what we'd all been waiting for. Whether or not it was the where we'd been waiting for, well that would remain to be seen.

"He...he got the job?"

Mama nodded. "He just called."

This called for celebration! Finally, a solid tenure track position. They wouldn't have to be moving every year, my brother was getting the beginning of his dream, and more and more I'm hearing how lovely a place South Carolina is.

At the same time that I wanted to jump for joy, my world took a strange nose dive. The kind that a fighter plane takes and builds up speed. It can either swing up out of it with more momentum than ever, or it can stall out, continue to fall, and crash.

The theoretical had just become tangible.

I talked with Mama for a few more minutes about it, plying for answers, though nobody had any real details yet, just the big idea that my brother and his family once again had a new destination for the upcoming school year. Then, bubbling with excitement at all the possibilities, I climbed the stairs and faithfully logged on to Facebook. I sent one private message to two recipients. One word. "YAAAYYYY!"

Then I stepped away, though not far, and wondered how everyone's lives were about to topsy around.

A chime.

I looked. I had a new message.

From my sister-in-law.

"Did you want to come with us?"

I could feel it then, the tipping point, the door of no return, waited in front of me. My plane started diving. I was running out of time to decide.

But I had already decided a few months ago. I just had to work through my process and accept that I wouldn't know all the answers and that it would be okay anyway.

I got my final council from my closest advisor, tearfully admitted that it was what I wanted and it was even hard to say so, and finally accepted.

And then there was no stopping me.

 

Spring is Alive

Spring is my favorite season. It is renewal, fresh air, excited hope, open possibilities. It's alive.

It's also usually my most restless season. After my first big fight with allergies for the year, usually involving a day or two down and a week regaining my normal strength and breath (and getting rid of that nagging cough!), I feel better than ever and I'm ready to take flight. I suppose I want to make up for lost time. It doesn't matter if I have a direction or not--the one I'm traveling at any given moment will do--I just want to go. To drive. To travel. To see or try something new. To move.

Spring is energy. The grass regains its color. Fresh flowers and leaves spring up everywhere, an embrace to the change of weather. Even the sky and clouds take on a new, fresher color and vibrancy. Then the storms come. Energy colliding in a wild dance with thousands of partners in the air. Bolts of energy create the light show; thunder provides the beat. Rain quenches the thirsty performers, and sometimes hail decorates the ground like confetti.

With so much energy, so much newness, it seeps into my skin and fills me up until I can't hold still. I have to move. I have to go somewhere. I have to join the dance and freshness and do something new. I long to bloom and grow like the trees and flowers surrounding me. I ache to whip by like the fluffy clumps of cotton in the sky. I'm ready to sing like the birds and make something beautiful that was not there before as the flora do.

And yet, I'm only beginning to learn, only just guessing at how to do this. I'm ready to go in every direction, without focus. Which means I usually don't go in any direction; I just explode wherever I stand, only to build up again the next day or the next week and repeat the cycle...until suddenly spring is over and I've yet again missed the opportunity I feel every year to join the world and bloom, grow, and stretch out.

I'm afraid. Afraid of making mistakes mostly, but also afraid of accomplishing or discovering grand things. If I find out I can, I may never stop. And what then? I won't want to go back to the wading pool I'm familiar with, even if it's safer, if I discover the ocean.

This year, I hope, will not be the exact same futile cycle. This spring, I hope I'm more willing to take chances, to see that the day is full and long and waiting, and to try. This time, even if I don't know all the steps, I'm going to join the dance.

I'm alive.

One of Many

I look forward to discovering the rest.

I grew up dreaming of how I would some day set up my own house, dreaming of qualities I wanted in my family, things I wanted us to do together, how our evenings might look. I dreamed of music in the home. I dreamed that we would have a piano, that my husband would play an instrument, that hopefully our children would enjoy music so that they also played instruments of their choice. I wanted variety. I hoped for family gatherings of singing, playing music, and warm drinks.

For so long I have put my thoughts toward what my someday could be and what I wanted it to be that I missed something.

Sunday night, I realized I have what I've dreamed for, longed for, hoped for.

Sunday night's sunset was gorgeous. As I drove to my good friends' house, looking at that sunset, I felt the love of God. And it brought tears to my eyes. I hope I feel like that every time I contemplate how deep and strong and powerful His love is.

When I arrived at the house, I partook of a light meal and much joy with dear friends. I went caroling with dear friends, old friends refound, new friends. Once we arrived back at the house to warm up with some cider and more songs around a piano, I finally realized...this is the home I've been longing for. It's one part anyway.

Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more. Just like in the song. It's been another year since the last caroling party, and it took me until last night to realize that what I've been longing for isn't, for now at least, to be found in my own little property with four walls and a roof. I'm not a homeowner; I'm not married; I don't have kids. But these aren't reasons for me to not have this home and family that I've yearned for. I have it now.

Sunday night, I realized yet one more way in which God has given me a wonderful gift. I had thought I would have to wait for an unknown, painfully long time before I could have the house filled with loved ones and song that I've dreamed of. But God's gift is that I don't have to wait. I simply have to see what He has put before me.

photo used with permission

And my heart has found a home.

One of many.

I look forward to discovering the rest.

 

Thanksgiving Tightrope Walk

I walk a tightrope between perfect performance pressure and lackadaisical who cares it's no big deal.

When doing something expected by others, it takes almost no pressure for me to freak out and think I'm the wrong person for the job, I can't do it well enough, and everyone is going to be disappointed in me. If I have something for myself, it's not too terribly hard to think eh, whatever, it'll get done when it does. And of course there's the bleed-over mixing depending on each individual situation and my assumed expectations of others' expectations.

It's enough to make one's head whirl like a carousel.

This Thanksgiving week as I face off with food preparations (and the hardest part is done, but now I stress out because that makes a whole lot of sense. not.) I need to remember perspective. Sometimes it's a relief to remember that I am to the universe what an ant is to me. Small, insignificant, and not likely to screw up the world if people happen to not favor my dishes in two days. And likewise, it's a relief to know that I am loved on a grand scale no matter what. Funny how both are true at exactly the same time.

I am very very small, and God is very, VERY big.

I have tons of things to be thankful for, not least of which is that I get to eat at all. So what if it's not amazing? And bonus if it is.

I recently had tea with some very dear friends and periodically we said things that we were thankful for. The things that came to my mind were many. Here are a few. I was recently given opportunities to

    1) Travel, specifically by flying in 3 airplanes. Something I've wanted to do for years I got to do three times in just over a week, twice in one day (takeoff and landing are awesome).

    2) Be empowered to know that I can handle wood-cutting power tools (Rosie the Riveter I'm not...but I could be!), adjust to another family's culture and the local climate (well, kinda with the climate. with more time, I could), venture out on my own in unfamiliar territory and have a great time, and even make new friends (the secret is opening a conversation with "What's your favorite Disney movie?" --Now I know!) .

    3) Gain employment in a dream job, surrounded by wonderful people and books galore!

    4) Be responsible for two sweet, little dogs for one glorious and short week, cuddling, playing, treating, and getting licked--oh it was a piece of heaven.

And through these and other changes in my life and in the lives of those I love, I have enjoyed the return of hope and eager anticipation within the realms of this life. I know I no longer have to feel stuck and trapped, and for this I'm deeply grateful. I'm more ready than ever to make and seek out dreams, knowing some may happen and some won't, but I intend to live boldly (well, it's a goal anyway) and love the life I have been given, through the easier times and the harder times. (I'm not naive enough to think there will never be hard times again, but I know they don't have to destroy me or my dreams for an even better life.) I will fail all the time (hello, Thanksgiving prep emotional turmoil :P ), but I know I'll get righted again; all I need is a little perspective reminder.

I wish I was unflappable like Phil Coulson when I go through the soul stretcher, but since I'm not, I get to practice remembering the perspective of grace that I have been given, resuming my balance on that funny tightrope.

Feel free to say hi and let me know if you relate and how you handle it. Maybe we can encourage each other.

And with that, have a lovely Thanksgiving Day and rest of the week (and month; I may not be back before then [but I'll still see your comments]. NaNo!).
 
 

Delight of Now

My jaw would drop if I wasn't resting my face on my hand.

I just met someone, well we didn't meet exactly, but we talked briefly on the phone. And then I learned something about her.

She's a year younger than me and just had a baby? I think. I feel cheated. But as soon as the thought forms I remember, oh yeah, that's...that's about normal.

Remember, I have called you to something else.

Yeah. I remember. I'm not cheated. And she's not better than me, either. Nor am I better than her. I'm just on a different kind of path. I don't know where it will take me, but I know I have a leader who has already set the path and decided it's good. That should be enough.

And it is. Actually the last couple of months have been better than I could have expected and exactly the sort of thing I hope for my life. When one exciting thing calmed down and the event passed, days seemed normal. Time traveled slowly...and in the proper order. That's okay. Good, actually. And then another exciting event came, and went. And days passed one at a time. No specific exciting event on any given day.

Except every day is rather exciting. Each day is new, and I have renewed hope for future days...without spoiling the delight of now.

Now I get to wake up every morning, see the growth of my little jar of Forget-Me-Nots, relax or start early, form a semblance of a dinner plan, head off to one of my dream jobs where I work with great people and will always be surrounded by inspiration as long as I don't close my eyes to it (the feeling is a bit like every time I would get to walk to my beautiful Gaylord, home of the best possible major for me, great teachers, and friendly classmates), read, dream, write, and store up...something. I'm not sure what, nor for what, but I'm glad to drink in where I am now, knowing where I've come from.

No, I'm not married, and no, I don't have a newborn. But I do have a lot. Her adorable baby isn't mine, but this,
::deep breath:: 
this is mine.

I Still Have One Sign, Part 2

The conclusion from Tuesday's Part 1 post...


It's easy to give up. To one who can always reason that there is still hope, despite emotions that cry otherwise, it's frighteningly easy.

Each time I ripped down one of my notepaper signs, "Don't be afraid to dream," "There is still hope," "For this room," I was disgusted, torn to the core, and saw no way for my circumstances and problems to be overcome or turned into good things.

I still knew the promise that all things in this life actually work for the good of those who love God (Romans 8:38), and I still knew that nothing is outside of His allowance. And, how many times have I called him the Perfect Author, one who thankfully does not need a second draft to the story He writes and has written?

But it still hurt. And knowing that this hurt was part of God's plan actually made me mad. It's what contributed to feeling that I was betrayed by Him. I knew I hadn't been, but I couldn't wrap my mind around it, and my heart was so wounded that I was afraid to trust Him with it.

The memory of being there still brings tears to my eyes.

I had no idea how this would work for anybody's good. And, actually harder to deal with, I had no idea how I was supposed to dream big again. With such a resounding "No" to my hopes, and in a season of events that were fairly close together, how could I expect a "Yes" someday down the road for another dream?

What happens when the hero throws out his memento of love and hope? Usually something outside of him has to happen or arrive, or he'll just walk away and give up on his goal. What's the point in going after it when it's lost and destroyed? Someone else has to ignite what's left of the fire of hope in his heart or he will smolder as embers for the rest of his life.

For us that other, the something or someone outside, can come in many shapes, sizes, sounds, you name it, but ultimately they're all guided by the Maker of Life. I don't know what the process looks like; I'm not even sure what it's been for me, though I know it isn't quite over. But life is filled with little joys, little bits of restoration, and blessings still in every step. I know God is still in control, no one usurped His authority even for a second, and I know He is faithful and still good. And I know I don't deserve His tender love, but He offers it every day, even when I say "I'm mad at you."

I don't know why my dreams couldn't happen, but I do know we were still able to make part of the original trip, and it was very much needed and a blessing. And I know that my brother, sister-in-law, and niece are back now, and I'm glad to have them. I don't know why there are budget constraints that won't allow for transforming my room into a much needed sanctuary, but I do know that my room won't always be like this and I can still make positive changes now. I don't know why my faith and trust needed to be tested, but I do know that I will continue to trust God even when I'm hurt.

And I do know that blessings rain down. Some look smaller than others, but all are gifts. Right now I'm in the midst of so many possible blessing opportunities that I don't know what to do with myself to navigate from one to the next. As of the moment of writing this post, there are so many that I may even need to pick and choose between them (and maybe, just maybe, I can have them all). Back when I was so hurt that I tore down those hopeful papers, I had no conceivable idea that anything like this would happen to me ever, and certainly not just a few months later.

I haven't replaced the old notes on the walls, but I still have one left, and I think it's going to stay.

"Make it what you dream."

 

I Still Have One Sign, Part 1

I'm guessing I'm not the only one who puts inspirational signs, posters, decor, whatnot up in their homes. Mine just happen to be quick marker notes written sideways on lined notebook paper and taped to the walls. Classy.

But I tore them down.

I am a person who loves life and has big dreams and hopes, but I'm easily discouraged. So, my head knowing better than my heart sometimes does, I put up four signs on said notebook paper. Three cascaded to form one long message: There is still hope, For this room, Make it what you dream. And one I put on the opposite wall: Don't be afraid to dream.

I'm not sure of the order of things anymore, but I know that I ripped down the "Don't be afraid to dream" sign after I found out we weren't going to make it to Arcata to visit my brother, sister-in-law, and niece while they were living there. I felt betrayed by God and couldn't hold on to a reason to maintain big dreams. This would be when I wrote the post on mourning.

I think "For this room" came down after I hit a figurative wall regarding the state of my literal wall. Budget just wouldn't allow for some of the high hopes I'd built in my mind. Cleaning out, finishing an old project, painting the entirety of the walls, added trim, finishing the door. That might be when "There is still hope" came down, too, but I don't remember. Seems like it stayed up a little longer, but I don't remember then what would have wounded my heart enough to crumple it up, angry tears clinging to my face, and toss it.

You know those moments in movies when the hero is so disgusted or discouraged that he throws out some sweet memento of his family, or the gift from his love? Up until now I'd always had the reason in my mind to think the hero would regret that decision, how could he do that, doesn't he know he'll want it back when things get better?

Now, I understand. We truly don't always hope that things will get better. We might believe that life will continue, but that doesn't mean we think it'll ever get better. And so the memento, the encouraging word, the piece of hope represented in an object finds a direct one-way ticket to the dumpster. It's worse than the Monopoly card "Go Directly to Jail."

It's a horrible place to be. And it's very real.

Can you relate?


My thoughts will continue in a couple days...

 

There Are Times

There are times

when the phone rings late

and I hear the tears

before I know anything else

When all I know is a friend’s hurt

and with her I ache

a chance lost

a hope drowned

a truth buried

With her I cry

wishing somehow

to take the weight away

to stem the bleeding

to apply the balm

But my temper flares

when I hear how she was hurt

and I’m ready for war

like a mother bear

God help me

I need to remember

You are in control

You offer grace

to those who don’t deserve it

including me

And I look back at my friend

my sister for years

covered with fresh and dried tears

and inside I break

and with her I weep

The night drags dark

but together we somehow know

we somehow still hope

the night will end

a new dawn will shine

and we count the hours

until then.

Public Domain Image

 

Mr. Rogers Was My Neighbor

Growing up, I always liked this show. The world of Make-Believe was my favorite, but I got to where I could appreciate the other parts just about as much.

Now, it's all rolled up into this...awesomeness. New theme song for writing and life!

What I Do is This

Someone explain to me how one person saying I'm courageous + painting a room for an old friend + non-fluffy conversation with that old friend + Inheritance by Christopher Paolini + a hot shower can = knowing what I do (and therefore, in part, who I am).

Seriously. Can you explain that?


Maybe I can try. I'm going to start with courage.

I recently asked my friends, via Facebook, what do they think when they think of me? I got a little variety in the responses. But one in particular, the one that began with "full of courage" (and a few other things) took me by surprise. I thought to myself, What is she talking about? She doesn't know me very well, and she thinks I'm courageous?

It was a pretty insightful response for someone whom I hardly ever see and talk to, so I had to take it seriously. Maybe she knows me better than I think she does. Maybe she's right that I am courageous.

Now, the easy answer is a brush-off (whether sincere or false modesty--one of the things my friend and I talked about while painting). And another easy answer is to say, "But of course." I don't wish to go for the easy this time. Most of the time I do not think I'm courageous at all; I'm pretty chicken...and selfish. But there are a few times where I can recognize that I have been in a situation that took courage and I was able to exercise that courage. But mostly? As a defining characteristic?

I wish I was courageous.

How much bravery does it take to be in my shoes, really? To stay with my parents, fully supported by them, and mix life with writing, chores, doctors, prescription runs, barely keeping up with the dishes (sometimes), dreaming of making my room into a little haven, seeing friends, church, various outings (sometimes brief, sometimes long, sometimes alone, sometimes with Mom)...


I wish I could tell you I was brave enough to write this out. But everything in me is saying not to. It's not a "don't post this" it's a "don't write this." Why? Because I don't want you to know all these details. I don't want to admit my shortcomings. Honestly, I don't want to admit that I live with Mommy and Daddy. And I neither want to project false modesty nor smugness.

::deep breath:: Time to plow through.


I will admit I hate introducing "what I do" when I meet someone new. I let my best friend tell whomever when I can because she can put it in a way that it honestly sounds good. But I think it honestly sounds...well, small, childish perhaps, weak even. What I do is simply this: I write, and I fail at writing; I live with my parents and help my family and particularly my mom at home, and I fail at that too; I spend time with friends and try to grow relationships, and I fail at that as well. I follow Christ, and I fail at that. Everything I do I manage to both do well and to fail at doing well. Positive or negative spinning, either way, this is simply what I do.

When I do try to explain it to people, or mention that I'm not seeking a 9-5 job in order to continue doing what I do, I feel like the uttermost loser in the room. I can't explain it in a way that makes sense to others, I can't even understand why I think my choice is a wise one half the time.

And yet, there I am, painting the wall with a dear old friend and talking about life and anything that comes up, including somehow my writing and lack of income and trying to manage things...and follow my dream, really.

Do I want to support myself and live on my own? Of course I do. But I'm taking a year (1 month down, yikes) to work on my writing. Near the end of the year I will reassess again.


What of Inheritance? Well, in the story, the characters all have a true name, and I was recently reading the part where Eragon tries to and does learn his own. The true name is spoken in the ancient language which has magical properties, and no one can lie when using that tongue. The true name reveals the deepest, most real core being of a character, and with that name one can have complete power and control over the one named.

The true name is not biased. It covers both the good points and the bad. Achievements and shortcomings alike. Personal history, knowledge, and attitude. Anything and everything about a person. It is the fullest answer to the question, "Who am I?"


So, thinking over all these things--courage, painting, the serious conversations, and true names--in the relaxing shower, I realized, what I do is a part of who I am. It's not biased; it just is. I have good qualities and bad. I lack courage (to strike out on my own), and I have courage (to stay where things are not my own, and to imagine that my dream can happen). I am a grown adult, and I live with my parents. I do things, and I fail at them. I keep trying, and I postpone.

It's not exactly pretty. And it's not exactly ugly either. It simply is. It is what I do, a part of who I am. At this point, it's a very large part of who I am.

And, realizing that, I think I can step closer to accepting that. Someday I may even be able to do what I do to it's full advantage.

It's probably not what you do, and it's not who you are. I can be very similar to you, but I will never be you. And you won't ever be me. We simply are who we are. And this is who I am and what I do.


My best friend read this post (trying to help me determine whether or not to post it) and mentioned this verse. I think it fits pretty well.

Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.  -- Philippians 3:12-14

I don't choose my purpose. I'm given freedom.

Yesterday I held a newborn baby. A tiny person. She is beautiful and precious. Impossibly real. A new heart not yet ready to explore far, but filled with so much potential already that it makes one want to sing. I didn't see her for long, and I held her for less than that (she was hungry, after all, and I haven't got food in me). I'm terribly excited for her and her parents, and I have confidence that they will be just fine. I left as unobtrusively as I could manage to let this beautiful, little, and growing family have peace and time. And on the way home, I cried.

You see, despite my fears of babies (mostly because they're so small, I'm not and tend toward clumsiness, and I don't want to break them or hurt them in any way), there are times I desperately want a child (or more than one) of my own.

I want a small, young, new person to hold and comfort, cuddle and feed, encourage and teach. Someone to whom, down the road, I can say, "Sure, try that slightly dangerous or new and uncertain thing. It'll probably turn out all right." Someone who I can try to help have more courage than I do. And a whole long list of reasons and things I look forward to, should they be granted to me.

And preceding that, I would love to be married. Seriously. There's another list longer than my arm of things I want and hope for wrapped in that.

And these are good things to want, certainly. I'm not likely to stop any second. But I'm also not likely to get married "any day now". And because of that (and a thousand other things, including I've never been career-oriented) I've been down in my heart about my usefulness and my purpose. If I want to raise a person, how is fiction going to help? If I want to marry and partner myself with a man, what use is the obscurity of holing up and pouring my energy into false realms into which no one can truly travel? And if marriage and children are not for me, what is the point of wanting them so deeply? And what is the benefit of my desired and chosen profession anyway?

Those questions are hard to write now, because, for the moment, it's so easy to see how silly they are. But for a couple or so weeks I wrestled with the challenges they brought to mind. The "glut" of fiction and stories haunted me. The longing to do something great and to be a crucial piece in a grand plan that worked for the good of thousands of people made my heart despair that "I could never".

Because, after all, what can one lonely little writer do? Certainly nothing on such a grand and important scale.

But even as I doubted, I knew my doubts were...well, not exactly wrong, but ill-founded. I know that God can do nationally, even globally-scaled works through small people. So, of course my writing could turn out to be something desperately needed. It could turn out that way and I'd never know, or it could turn out that way and I'd be giving my autograph until I wished I'd never become a writer for different reasons.

But that's not even the heart issue. I know God can do huge things with one person if He chooses. I also know He can do "small" yet still highly important things with one person. The fact is, there's not a single person on this earth who doesn't have and fulfill a purpose.

I was struggling with wanting to choose my own purpose, when in reality, it's not my choice. I can choose the purpose of the fictional people I create, but I cannot choose my own. It's not my right. I didn't design myself, nor the people I'm around, nor the world I interact within. No, none of it. Everything I do in a fiction story I did none of for my own life.

It's not mine to question. Oh, sure, I can ask as long as I ask respectfully (how odd would it be if one of my characters were to demand of me that I change him from being a tailor to a taxi driver?), but once asked it's not mine to demand an answer. It is mine to simply accept that God is working and using me in His story as He sees fit. I don't have to know how all the intricacies work. Sure I'd like to. But I'm not my own author. Whoops. I merely play my part, which has importance though I may never know exactly what. I should stay open to the possibility of changes--or growth--of my role at the moment. But that doesn't make who I am, what I love, and what I do now flabbergastingly useless.

I didn't create it, but I have purpose, and really, I can't escape fulfilling a purpose. For God's glory and the good of those who love Him. Which, to put a finger on it, is what I really want.

That doesn't mean I can't choose to do other things, but I'm still unique me no matter what I do and will remain designed for what this unique me is needed. God gave me not only a love of others' stories but also of creating and sharing my own, and though I may sometimes try, I can't run from that. It will always be a part of me. I can grow as a person (please, no taller), expand my skills and knowledge, meet new people, try new things, and generally live life. Actually, I hope to do this. And that will only work to further my God-given purpose. Whether He chooses to reveal it to me at the time, later, or not at all is His call. But I can trust Him to use me for grand things.

It's a mystery. And yet it makes sense.

For now, I think I'll keep writing in re-remembered freedom.

Teamwork

This couple. And this song. Because they're a team.

I want something like this. Though I realize how I come to it would probably be different, much different: I haven't done any solo gallivanting across the country lately, so far as I know Excalibur isn't missing (leastways, it doesn't have to be returned to Arthur any time soon), and one could hope that I won't be at odds with my future spouse the moment we meet (nor him trying to get rid of me).

But some things might be the same: I can prattle on a bit, he might be blind, and we might sing together. One can never tell ahead of time for sure.


If you're single or dating, what characteristic do you want most in your potential marriage relationship? If you are married, what characteristic of you and your spouse together do you enjoy most?

Further Evidence that I Am an Introvert...and Loved

Gather 'round. While the thoughts are fresh in my mind, I will stay up late to tell you a story...


I go to a community group. It's a Bible study group with a strong focus on 1) God's Word and 2) being a tight-knit community of brothers and sisters in Christ. I love this group. We were going to get together on the evening of my birthday, and the lady of the leading couple sends me an email that I see in the morning. She wants to make me a cake, and would chocolate be okay? Of course I tell her chocolate would be fabulous and thank you kindly. Such a sweet gesture.

Then, the same lovely lady, a woman I graduated with and admire, sends a notice to the whole group, some twenty people, that it's my birthday and there will be cake.

Now I start to panic. I'm already feeling the spotlight. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a little limelight like anyone else, but I'm fine with it staying at little (and there are some situations [dance circle] in which I'd rather have none). So my little "don't look at me" mind starts to worry that, well, everyone will be looking at me.

And yet, at the same time, I know this is a heartfelt gesture of love toward me. So it's not all bad.

The day proceeds with a couple errands and life is fine. The only pressure I feel is getting everything done and making sure dinner is ready before I have to leave. Nothing abnormal there. There's meat in the fridge, I fix some instant mashed potatoes, eat a little, and head out the door.

I'm hoping for simple and not a lot of attention on me. There will be cake--awesome--for everyone, and I'll get to see these dear people, and we'll hang out and have a good, normal time.

I'd left the house a little later than I'd wanted, so I'm the last to arrive. I open the door, and one of my friends jokingly yells (but not really) "Surprise!" I laugh, wishing my mouth would function so I could say his name in greeting, but no words come out. (Yeah.) I am welcomed and well wished, and find my seat on the comfy couch next to another dear heart and able to see each person I have come to love and am learning to love better. Life is beautiful.

After we read through the book of Hebrews out loud (yes, the entire book--it was great) out comes the cake. I think someone mentions singing the birthday song, and I start my silent, head-shaking protest. You know, the one you mean, but don't, but really do? Well, Jaimie asks me if I really don't want everyone to sing the song, and I pivot my hand like a see-saw. I don't want to offend, and I know as a birthday well-wisher how fun it is to sing to the birthday guy or gal, but could it just not be about me? Or could I go into another room? Or better yet, let's not and say we did.

Well, as things are wont to do, delays happen. I think I've escaped and before the cake is cut I get a chance to get up from the couch and make sure I see it. Chocolate cake, a solid white icing background, and green-blue lettering of "Happy Birthday Dotty". (Did anyone get a picture? Jaimie, it was beautiful.)

Here, my memory fades. I don't remember why I didn't sit right back down. I don't think the cake was cut right then, either. I think there was still delay, then the song is brought up again. Now that I'm standing and it seems that all eyes are looking in the cake's and my direction, I would like to just hide for a minute. Yes, for some reason standing is worse. I'm too tall for all eyes on me when I'm standing.

Someone starts the song. At the time I could have pointed out the guilty party. Now I'm not sure who it was. Then the little living room rings with happy voices singing happy birthday to me.

My first reaction? I turn around and almost head into the bathroom to hide. I stop and turn back around because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I step toward the couch thinking that if I sit down at least that will be better. But I can't get there easily, and to get there anyway would make further scene, and I would likely trip and fall...obviously not preferred. So I stand, and try to look around the room (I think) at the smiling faces of friends who love me. I don't know how it's possible to stand six feet tall and will oneself to shrink without moving, but I did it. I'm grinning, and I mean it, but I'm also embarrassed a little. In the middle of the song, one friend sings, sings that my face is turning red. I can believe it.

But I guess that's par for the course. The song over, my seat reclaimed, the cake cut and shared (yummy), life is back to normal in my beautiful little community.

There truly are worse things than being surrounded by delight and love expressed. And I'm glad I don't have to hide from these things. I'm glad that these friends see me, know me, love me, and, yes, tease me. They've seen me weep; they've seen joy bubble out of me. They've seen the average days, too. They're there. And I really couldn't ask for more.

A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.
-John 13:34-35

 I see this in our group, and I'm grateful for it. Thank you, all, for how you love me.

The Hunger Games

www.checkthefilm.com

 May The Odds...

The Hunger Games. A popular book, trilogy, and now movie. I have a lot of thoughts on the books, and I'm still somewhat processing the movie. It's a big story. And it's also not. What makes it great? What makes it not? And what do we do with that?

I have no idea what to tell you to do with the books, movie, or overall story. I don't know what to do with it myself. All I can do is share some of my mixed thoughts.

For starters, it's brilliant. No, really. The books, in first-person point of view, show us an intimate, in-depth look at a world that feels like the Great Depression + nuclear war aftereffects + ruling politics gone terribly, terribly wrong. And since it's in first person, we get just about every single thought and feeling that Katniss experiences. (I even used it in a paper I recently re-found as a useful book for examining the reality of facing one's own death.) And the use of present tense amplifies the immediacy and intensity of every. single. thing.

And the movie is a pretty great adaption of the story from the print media to audio/visual media. The actors portrayed their characters spot on. The additional points of view of the gamemakers, President Snow, and Rue's district fleshes out the world with things that wouldn't have translated from the book otherwise. The core conflict of the games is lived out. The subtext conflict of fighting corruption is shown a little more than in the book.

Some things in the movie were a little weird, like the crossover of worlds when Katniss has delusions from the Tracker Jacker venom. And, honestly I was really looking forward to the visual portrayal of Katniss' costumes, Cinna's masterpieces...and was disappointed. They were nice, but for me a little of a let down. And we didn't get to see Haymitch's character arc as clearly, even though we saw him working behind the scenes (a nice touch). But all in all, those things 1) aren't enough to detract from the movie as a whole and 2) are a part of the media.

It's Good, Or Is It?

It's a compelling story. Katniss obviously has a lot of determination and bravery. Peeta carries his compassion with him into the arena. Rue and Prim motivate Katniss to action. Haymitch...well, Haymitch is one of my favorite characters, sweetheart. He actually has a defined arc of character growth. The worlds are clearly distinct, and the complications are simple enough to follow while still making things interesting and hard for the characters. So what's the problem? What bothers me about the book and movie?

1.       As much as the characters distaste the concept of the Hunger Games to begin with, they follow through with it, not even really trying to stem the symptoms, much less trying to stop the problem.
2.       It's a rather draining read or viewing experience.
3.       Katniss' defiance is mostly accidental.
4.       And there is a distinct lack of hope. Throughout. Even the happy ending (in the book) has immediate hopelessness and loss to it. (The movie's happy ending felt like, "Yes, we 'won.' But it wasn't enough.")

And that last one, even more than the others individually, gives me pause. Put these all together, and by the end of the story, whether book or movie, I feel hollow, even dirty. I feel like I have been torn down just about as much as Katniss has been. But it's not because I've literally gone through everything she has, and it's not because I relate with her 100%. I like her okay, and I understand a degree of where she's coming from, her motivations, and her actions. But I'm very different from her and get frustrated along the way.

What Kind of Message?

It's not a happy book. Not every book has to be happy; I get that. But the "no hope" laced throughout and coloring the ending is, I think, damaging to people. People need hope. It's damaging to me. I need hope in order to get up in the morning. This work of fiction tends to sap it from me, translating into real life where I interact with real people, oozing a loss and hopelessness through my actions by taking root in my thoughts and feelings.

What is the message of The Hunger Games? What do you take away from it? Can you see how things could be better (and if you can, why couldn't/didn't the author?)? Is it a warning story? Watch out, or this will happen to our world (it is, after all, futuristic United States of America). Is that Suzanne Collins' goal? Is that enough?

Now we have to ask what we do with the story. It does get us to think, I'll give it that. Where do our thoughts take us?

And Happy Hunger Games

There are many more things I could say about The Hunger Games. Things I like, and things that concern me. And I could continue on into Catching Fire and Mockingjay. But for now, I think this is plenty.

Do you have a reply for my concerns? What are your thoughts on The Hunger Games, both book and movie?

Speak Up

I've had something on and off my mind for a while, and it's recently come up again. I've thought about blogging about it for months, but never got up the nerve to talk about it. My thoughts had been fairly organized, but now it's been a while so I have to do some re-thinking. But it's time. I may not be liked for my stance, I may get zero feedback, but it's important enough that it's time I step forward and say my peace.

I'll be back as soon as I can get my thoughts organized enough to share.

Lament

Some mourning takes place in public. Some mourning takes place in private. Some mourning takes place in silence.

Mourning won't last long if the thing wasn't that important. It won't take long if the loss wasn't that great.

I wanted breakfast at the Braums. I got there fifteen minutes too late. I was looking at the breakfast menu, trying to pick an option, and the lady at the register told me they weren't serving breakfast anymore. But I didn't want lunch. It was too early, and I wanted eggs. That was emotionally disappointing, and I passed on all food, just getting coffee.

I was also some sleep deprived and stressed, which made it harder to process the "loss" of what I had hoped for. But, really, it was what my granny used to call an "oh well." It was small potatoes. It wasn't long lasting. It was just eggs, and I'd already eaten some cereal at home. I'd just wanted more to eat. Oh well.

But when the loss is a dream, a deep desire, a long nurtured wish, losing it, or (in some ways worse) giving it up, the pain runs deeper. Owl City says dreams don't turn to dust, but I've known more dreams crumble to powder than I care to count. Often, I no longer want to make or hold onto dreams, because I figure they'll just be heartrending losses down the road.

I used to be such a happy person. My reason then for not dreaming big was that I simply didn't know what to aim for. Now, I fear cynicism taking over. I fight it, but I know it's creeping up on me a little more with each disappearing desperate dream. (Sometimes I catch myself pondering if Christians should even have dreams and big aspirations...but that is another layered can of worms for another day and perhaps place. Let's have coffee sometime.)

When a dream is lost, I'm left empty. I wonder where the pieces are and how do I pick them up. Someday I'll figure out what to do with them if I can ever gather them all without dropping them through my fingers.

I mourn quietly. I brush it off around others. It's not worth your time. I'll process through. But sometimes a quiet whisper of, "I've been there, and I know this hurts," would soothe my soul.

Sometimes it's okay to hurt. Pain and loss isn't fun by any means, but it is something we face, and it shouldn't be shunted to the side.

But in the meantime, I'll stay quiet. It's safer to hurt without salt near the cuts. It's safer to wipe my own tears than risk scratchy fingers or long nails on my face. It's safer to bleed internally.

Sometimes mourning takes place in silence.

~~~

How do you mourn a dream? What do you do to pick up the pieces and make another one?

 

"You don't know anything."

Have you ever been told that, because of your field of study, you don't know anything? Or maybe you don't have a specific area of expertise so people think you know nothing. The line may have been delivered nonchalantly, or the speaker may have seemed intent to knock you down a notch. Either way, the message was delivered.

I've been told that, too. I usually think about disagreeing but decide to go along with the speaker in order to avoid an argument. Love conflict in fiction; hate it in real life.

But the statement remains inaccurate.

Using my own field of study, English and writing, I can tell you what I do know and how much is open to me to learn about.

As a writer, I have to know how to use the language I write in. I use knowledge about English grammar and punctuation (and slang, phrasing, word choices, et cetera) to construct my sentences when I'm writing. Often when I'm editing, that knowledge helps me see problems and areas of confusion and choose how to correct the issue. I have to know when and how to end a sentence and paragraph and how to begin new ones...and how to string them together (something I sometimes have fun ignoring on my blog). I need to know the rules of English in order to avoid confusion and communicate clearly, either by following the rules or by bending them.

Now, fiction writing. Not a very useful field, right? I don't know a thing about science or economics or architecture or bowling alleys or underwater basket weaving. Right? And I certainly, stuck in my fictitious realms, don't know anything regarding how the real world works. Not a single thing. Right? Of course right.

Um.. No, that is inaccurate.

As a world creator, I have to know at least a little bit about a lot of real things. Including science, economics, architecture, and possibly even bowling alleys and underwater basket weaving. Also, how people relate, different personalities, skills and trades, weapons and fighting, religion, politics, terrain, travel, music, culture, and more. Essentially, the world is my field of study.

One of the reasons why I love being a fiction writer is because I get to know about tons of things without focusing too much or too long on one thing. Call it A.D.D., call it the inability to settle down, call it geekiness, call it being a homeschooler (not the same thing as a geek), call it curiosity, call it a lack of depth. Whatever you want to call it, I love it. I don't need to be a scientist or an architect or a professional kegler or a scuba weaver.

Other people can be those things. That's fine. I say more power to them. It's just not for me. That doesn't mean that I know nothing, and that's not to say they only know about their specialty to the exclusion of the rest of the world.

"You don't know anything" is a sadly arrogant statement. It shrinks God's vast creation and diminishes the one spoken to simply because the speaker focuses on a different area of expertise.

We Love Authors, Do We Not?

Ever been discouraged? Ever think "This is it. This is all there is for me. My life might as well be near its end."?

Me too.

Recently I was talking to my students about the two doors of story (for more on the two doors, read James Scott Bell's Plot and Structure). The first door is The Change that thrusts the character into the story. It's where the story actually begins. Before The Change we simply have introduction...of the main character, of important side characters or villains or love interests—whoever is logically located and important that early in the story, of the setting or world, of the rules of magic or law or ordinariness, and things along those lines. Sometimes the introduction is so brief it is practically a part of The Change. Sometimes there is a lot of setup before The Change.

Sometimes we see the story goal before The Change. But it's often more clearly expressed after The Change. That's when we really understand what the protagonist is trying to achieve or gain. That when the story embarks. It gets underway. It leaves the nest to build its own home. Gandalf marks the door and dwarves show up with a thievery plan. The Ring can no longer stay in the Shire. Bruce Wayne returns to become a symbol for Gotham. Dom Cobb takes one last job so he can return to his children. Echo Sackett arrives in town to collect her inheritance.

That when things get interesting. And complicated.

I was thinking about this, The Change, the first door. And I was thinking about my life. If my life were a story, how far into the tale of events would it be? The end? The introduction? The huge plummet before the resolution? Somewhere else entirely?

If I were writing a character based on myself—an early twenty-someone, aspiring but distracted writer, trying to help take care of her family though she is neither a wife nor mother, waiting for something to turn for the better but unsure if it will because many of her dreams have been crushed or forgotten, who is so confused as to where she is in life that she doesn't know how to navigate anymore—where would I put her in the story?

Actually, I would place her right before The Change, right before the first door where the story starts hopping along. Things would be building and falling into place, and I would set up a large story that she has no idea is about to happen. A grand, life-long adventure that would sweep her off her feet, build her up, break her heart, bring healing and unprecedented joy. She would take some steps that set her in the right direction, and the choices of others would send her on her way.

And I believe that I am a part of a story. A big story. Bigger than I'll ever author. It may not be exactly like I would plan it, but that's okay. That just means it'll be better. And it's far from over.

Did you know that Jesus is described as an author? I've recently been encouraged by Hebrews 6:9-12, 10:35-39, and 11:35-12:2.

Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

Hebrews 12:1-2. (NKJ)

If we enjoy a story and think it's worthwhile, we like the author. Or, even if we don't like the author, we at least recognize that we like what they created.

God is The Author, and real life is His story. If I would care enough about a fictional person to give her something good and use her to tell a compelling story, how much more will my Father orchestrate my life to be and to receive blessings that point back to how good of an author He is?

Thanks to my friend, Rachel, at Savvy Sheep, I decided to try my hand at a (short) list of things I'm thankful for this year.

Savvy Sheep: Six Things I'm Thankful For

These are just some of the specific things I'm thankful for.

Potatoes. Yes, that's right. I'm thankful for roots out of the ground. I'm thankful for how filling the food is, especially in the shifting fall and chilly winter weather. I'm grateful that potatoes can be prepared in a wide variety of manners and dishes. Potato soup is probably my favorite cold weather dish. Rib-stickin' good.

Owl City songs. In brief: they are encouraging and uplifting, even when there's a hint of sadness. They're honest. In not so brief: Dear Adam Young...Thanks

My jobs. I have about five jobs and will add a new one next semester. That's what you have when you go freelance. I appreciate the income, of course, but more than that, I love teaching and passing on what I know about writing to the next generation. (...That is almost weird to write.) I also love writing, which has yet to bring in money, but it's a passion nonetheless.

The couch. No kidding, this couch has been a constant companion this year. And many a needed nap and I have met here on this piece of furniture that's long enough for my six foot frame.

My rocking chair. Who woulda thunk I would eventually have a rocking chair in my room? Granted, it spends much of it's time as a shelf for things that need put away, but when I get it set up the way I want, I will have my very own, comfy reading and writing rocker. And this particular chair fits me well making it nice an' comfy on my back.

My "write your own story" coffee mug. A gift from a friend. I like mugs because they hold coffee and hot tea (tasty and soothing!), and I like this mug because it matches one my friend has and it inspires me to take action for the things I want (one of those things being writing).


What about you? What are you thankful for this year? Comment here or write your own blog and link back. I look forward to what you think of.