church, part two

So, I've been back to Grace Midtown the past two Sundays. A friend/co-worker has gone with me each of the past two weeks, and we were talking this past Sunday about Grace and what makes it so appealing. The church is small, and their agenda is quite obvious: love God and love other people. Imagine that, huh?

There's something about being at Grace that is unnerving, though. Maybe it's the authenticity of the people there, or maybe it's the simplicity with which they approach the whole idea of church. I don't know, to be quite honest. But at the same time, there is something so comforting about being there. Uncomfortably appealing, those were the words I used on Sunday to describe it.

Maybe it's unnerving because I've never had a "church" experience like that before. Maybe it's unnerving or a little bit uncomfortable because it's a big step outside of the box given the churches I was "raised in."

But at the same time, I think that's what makes it so appealing.

love that will not let me go

oh joy that seekest me through pain,

I cannot close my heart to thee;

I trace the rainbow through the rain,

and know the promise is not vain;

that morn shall tearless be.

quote

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket--safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is hell.

C.S. Lewis, "The Four Loves"

church

Last Sunday, I went to a small church in Midtown--Grace Midtown Church, a plant of a church out in Snellville. I had heard some good things about the church, so made a spur of the moment decision to go when I woke up last Sunday. I'm so glad I went--it was by far the most refreshing "church" experience I've had in a long time.

The service started with a few songs, followed by some announcements. The announcements had very little to do with marketing Grace Midtown, but rather they were primarily about what the church was doing in the community. One announcement was about a group of people going to Piedmont Park to hand out bottled water and love on the people walking in the Atlanta Pride Parade, and another announcement was about a weekly outreach to adolescent girls at-risk for being trafficked into prostitution. When was the last time you heard those announcements from the "pulpit?"

The sermon was on 1 Corinthians 13, the "love passage." Here's a summary: Jesus is the ultimate model of love, in the way he went about his ministry as well as the ultimate display in the cross. Our aim, as followers of Jesus, should be love. The world, your city, your school, your co-workers, will know who you are and what you are about based on the love that you show for others. (Reminds me of the documentary "Lord, Save Us From Your Followers" that I saw recently...but that's for another post.)

After the sermon, the table was set for communion. What followed was time reserved for worship, prayer, and communion. You were welcome at the table as you felt led; there was no "peer pressure" to take communion as I often feel when I'm at other churches. At the end of this time, a guy just walked up on stage and started praying for Grace Midtown and everyone who was in the building that morning. I've never heard a white person in America pray as fervently and as earnestly as that guy did.

It was simple, yet so beautiful. So refreshing to be in a place where the agenda is twofold: love God and love other people. That's it. I'm actually a bit eager to go back.

Dear Bebe

Dear Bebe,

It's been a year since Mom called me to tell me about your visit to the doctor. It's been a year since you were diagnosed with cancer. It's been a year since you went to Piedmont. A whole year. So much has changed, so much you've missed.

Lee graduated from Riverwood, and now he's a freshman at UGA. He pledged Sigma Chi--a frat boy just like Dad and Steve! Emily graduated from Samford, and she has a job at Mt. Paran Christian School up in Kennesaw as an athletic trainer. Will is a senior. He's got colleges after him for baseball, and he's still dating the same girl. Ruthie started school at Georgia State this fall, and she's working her tail off! You would be so proud of your grandchildren, Bebe!

I wanted to call you last week to tell you a funny story about one of my patients. I wanted to call you the week before that to tell you about my new apartment. I wanted to call you a few months ago and tell you all about my new job, my trip to Seattle, the apartment search. Your number is still in my phone, I hope that's okay. I've wanted to talk to you so much recently. I still can hear the sound of your voice and the warmth of your laughter. I hope those memories never fade from my mind.

We miss you like crazy, Bebe. It's been a year, but yet the grief remains. It's been a year, but we're all still learning to walk with a limp. Thanksgiving will be hard, but not hopeless. Keep saving our seats, Bebe.

Love,

your Anna

quotables

My job involves working directly with people. People, no matter what the age, are always interesting. I've only been at my job for 3 weeks now, but I've already been told some pretty funny things. I thought I'd record some of them here to give myself a way to "keep track" of them...

1. First day seeing patients, the first patient I go see: We're working on swallowing therapy, and this particular patient requires thickened liquids. He hasn't said much of anything for the whole session, but as I'm about to leave he pipes up: "Next time, bring thickened beer." Me: "Sir, I'd love to, but I think you'll have to talk to your doctor about that." Patient: "I bet doctor come drink beer with me." Whatever you say, sir...

2. 6 year-old boy, in the middle of speech evaluation: "I was gonna tell you somefing but I not supposed to...but I gonna anyways." (I'm expecting some major secret his mom or dad have asked him to keep.) "I have six Stah Wahs moobies." :)

3. 8 year-old girl, when asked what kind of music she likes: "Well, there's this one song that's kind of in the middle." Me: "What song?" Girl: "Baby Got Back. That and Bad to the Bone." Seriously?

4. 3 year-old in the waiting room: Picks up the phone in front of the secretary's desk and says "Hello Batman!" He then said it was for me and handed me the phone to take a message.

This is only 3 weeks in, I'm sure there will be many more quotables to come!

powerful flick

I just finished watching "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas." I can't remember the last time I was so riveted by a movie. Wow. Powerful, to say the least.

Set in World War II, the main character is an 8 year-old boy whose father is a high-ranking Nazi official. The family is uprooted within 10 minutes of the opening credits--they must leave Berlin and move into a house in the country. Unbeknownst to the mother, the new home is near a concentration camp. The main character, Bruno, is an adventurous kid. He eventually makes his way over to the camp, and forms a forbidden friendship with another 8 year-old, a Jewish boy named Shmuel. I won't go into details as to how the relationship or the rest of the plot plays out; you've just got to see the movie.

I've never been so impacted by the power of relationship. How is it that an 8 year-old, a child, a second or third grader, learned more about authenticity and the value of a person through one situation than I think I have in years? Maybe we adult-folk are jaded by life's experiences. We've listened with a careful ear to the pundits, to those who deem it in their authority to tell us just what another person is worth. Instead of forming our own opinions or discovering for ourselves the true worth of friendship, we let everyone else fill our heads. They're _____, so of course they'd do something like that, you hear your neighbor say as you recount a recent headline or observed event.

Somehow, a person has become the sum of his or her labels, a mixture of skin color, socioeconomic status, and/or religious background, with a demeaning stereotype that ties it all together in a neat little package. While still living in Berlin, Bruno is portrayed as exactly what he is: a boy. He plays with his friends, running through the streets pretending to be an airplane. He isn't yet jaded; he hasn't yet listened to those pundits I've listened to for far too long. When he is finally confronted with the propaganda of that era, he bucks the system. There are a few scenes where it's obvious he's wrestling with it all, but Bruno ultimately chooses to see his friend as a person and not a stereotype.

Powerful movie. Check it out if you have the chance.

unsettled

what is it about quiet, about being still, about writing, that is so terrifying?

wrestling

Just picked up the book "Same Kind of Different as Me" by Ron Hall and Denver Moore. My supervisor at Northside this summer told me it was one of the best books she had ever read, so I figured it was worth a read. I found the following passage absolutely hilarious, and thought some of my friends out there might enjoy it as well :)

As newlyweds, Deborah and I were just your basic Sunday-go-to-meeting Methodists. We parked ourselves in the pews most Sundays, and definitely every Easter and Christmas, since in those days it was still the widely held opinion that only hell-bound heathens--and possibly lawyers--skipped church on Easter and Christmas. We kept up that pattern until 1973 when some friends from a Bible church invited us to their home for a six-week "discussion group" about life.

As it turned out, we had actually been labeled "lost," "nonbelieving," and "unsaved," possibly because we had no fish stickers on our cars. (Which reminds me of one friend who, though newly "born again," retained the bad habit of flipping off other drivers while barreling down the road in her Suburban. Even with her newfound religion, she couldn't control her middle finger, but according to her husband, the Holy Ghost prompted her to scrape the fish off her bumper until her finger got saved.)

I laughed out loud when I read that. The chapter goes on to talk about when the author and his wife first became believers. He describes the "six-week discussion group" and how he felt almost pressured to "pray the prayer" before the group ended. "After five weeks," he writes, " I had it figured out: If you hadn't accepted Jesus by the sixth Sunday, you were probably going to hell on Monday. So, on the last night after we went home, I told Deborah I was going to pray that sinner's prayer Kirby had told us about."

What an interesting perception. Sadly, I think it still rings true today. Hall goes on to say that his wife refused to fall into that line of thinking, that since her dad had paved the Methodist church parking lot in her hometown, she was sure to be "saved." Before the end of the chapter, Hall goes on to mention that his wife "cross-examined the gospel like a prosecutor on a federal case" before she became a believer as well.

I was brought up in a church that leaned more towards the performance and praying the "sinner's prayer" that Hall described. While I call myself a believer (even though I buck at using terms that can be used as labels), I hope that at 25 I am learning to approach Jesus and the gospel more like Hall's wife, where I am cross-examining and wrestling with truth instead of blindly and passively accepting it, just because someone who is older or "wiser" than me told me to.

change is gonna come

Change. I do not like it. We are not friends.

So much change in such a short period of time.

Graduate school is done. One of my closest friends moved across the country with her husband to start a new chapter of life in Seattle. Another friend is moving back to Charleston, another to Austin, Texas (from NYC) to take a dream job. My lease runs out in 63 days--I have to tell them by Saturday that I won't be renewing. I currently have a master's degree but no job. One offer rejected, another one basically handed to me on a silver platter just this afternoon.

Bebe isn't here to talk to about any of this.

Change, so much damn change.

I'll be honest, I've lost touch with God in the midst of it all. There's so much mess that's been brought to the surface but never dealt with. There are big decisions to be made. There's starting over to be done, with a new group of people, a new place to live, new job, new...everything, it seems. What do I tell him? What do I ask for? I don't even know where to begin...

I just finished reading Rob Bell's "Velvet Elvis." Great book, really makes you think about some things. Chapter 4 was by far my favorite--I read it three times before I moved on to finish the rest of the book. In this chapter, Bell gives a summary of a portion of his story. One part in particular has stuck with me--Bell is describing his time spent in a counselor's office, and he says the following:

And then he said, in what has become a pivotal moment in my journey, "Your job is the relentless pursuit of who God has made you to be. Anything else you do is sin and you need to repent of it."

Pursuing who God has made me to be? Relentlessly?! Intimidating, to say the least. My newly relocated friend Sarah told me about a book she's heard about (or read?) that talks about the importance of dealing with your childhood and family mess. The thrust of the book argues that you can't move forward spiritually until you have dealt with your crap.

I can't tell you how many times my family mess has been brought to the surface in my life.

Currently, I feel like I'm slamming my head against a brick wall with God.

I'm wondering if it's time to take a step closer to the mess, maybe let some of that shit hit the fan instead of hoarding it all to myself. (That's a disgusting image, isn't it?)

I'm wondering if the relentless pursuit of God and who he made me to be involves sitting down with a counselor. I'm almost certain it involves staying in Atlanta, at least for now. For me, moving is definitely a form of running from my mess.

And for me, being willing to sit down with a counselor is just one more item of change I can add to my list.

good read

I finished A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis earlier today. Great book, wow. I picked it up a few weeks ago, and it's been so good for my heart. It's an honest account of Lewis' grief in the wake of his wife's death. While there were some sections I couldn't identify with because my loss was not of the spouse variety, on the whole the book gave a voice to much of the hurt I've felt recently. I thought I would share a passage I particularly enjoyed.

The more we believe that God hurts only to heal, the less we can believe that there is any use in begging for tenderness. A cruel man might be bribed--might grow tired of his vile sport--might have a temporary fit of mercy, as alcoholics have fits of sobriety. But suppose that what you are up against is a surgeon whose intentions are wholly good. The kinder and more conscientious he is, the more inexorably he will go on cutting. If he yielded to your entreaties, if he stopped before the operation was complete, all the pain up to that point would have been useless. But is it credible that such extremities of torture should be necessary for us? Well, take your choice. The tortures occur. If they are unnecessary, then there is no God or a bad one. If there is a good God, then these tortures are necessary. For no moderately good Being could possibly inflict or permit them if they weren't. Either way, we're for it.

I'm learning that this is not a "test of my faith," nor is it an exercise in detachment where I just ascribe everything to the "sovereignty of God" and keep going about my day. This is a part of my story, like it or not. This hurt, this sorrow, is a process, is a journey. Slowly, I'm moving through it. Timidly, I'm opening my heart to be healed. For some reason, in the midst of all my bitching, all my screaming, all my anger and frustration, God hasn't gone anywhere. Why he sticks around for someone like me, I don't know that my finite mind will ever comprehend.

Dear Bebe

Dear Bebe,

It's a big month for our family, and we're all acutely aware that a key player in all the celebration is missing. Oh Bebe, you are dearly missed. My heart breaks just thinking about how much we all miss you. You would be so proud of your family, though. I can imagine what it would be like to talk to you on the phone, I can hear your voice in my ear. Since I can't call you, I'll write you. 

Emmie graduates from Samford in 9 days. You were always so proud of how hard she worked in college. You told me all the time how you thought she really blossomed in Birmingham. She graduates with a degree in Athletic Training. She doesn't have a job yet, but I know that's okay with you. She'll figure it out, and we all know she's gonna be great at what she does. Oh but Bebe, you would be so proud of her. Ruthie will be wearing your green hat that morning, so in your own way, you will be there. 

Lee graduates from high school on Memorial Day weekend. "The boys" always held a special place in your heart; you talked about them all the time. He hasn't decided where to go to school next year, but he has some options. I don't know this for sure, but I would imagine that he's graduating somewhere near the top of his class. You should have seen the prom pictures--he's so handsome, Bebe. You already knew that, though; you told me all the time how handsome you thought both of the boys were. He's going to college in the fall, and you would be so excited for him. I'll be wearing your green hat that afternoon when he graduates, so in your own way, you'll be a part of the celebration.

Will still has a year left in high school. He has a cute girlfriend--I know you would talk about this incessantly :) Like Lee, he was so handsome at the prom. You would have loved to see his bright, wide smile in the pictures. He's doing well in baseball, and he's hit his share of home runs this year (including a grand slam!). You would be so proud of him, Bebe.

Ruthie is doing well with her classes at GPC. Last fall, she made dean's list! I can hear it now, you sucking in your breath the way you did when you were really proud or excited about something. You would have shouted this from the rooftop! She's doing well back home in Atlanta, and she's really thinking about her future. You would be beaming with pride over her, I just know it.

Oh Bebe, everyone in the family misses you so much. The next month will be pretty hard for all of us; I desperately wish you were here. Mother's Day is Sunday, our first one without you. I went to Target with Sarah to buy cards for Mom and Nanny a few days ago. I read all the funny ones, looking for one that would fit you. I bought two cards for Mom instead.

I miss you so much, Bebe. As I write them, I feel like those words barely scratch the surface of what I'm really feeling. I treasure the conversations we had, the pieces of advice you gave me, the funny stories you liked to tell. You were so much more than a grandmother to me. I wish I had told you that.

You would be so proud of your precious family, Bebe. We all miss you so much, and can't wait to see you again one day. Find Shep and save us all some seats.

Love,

your Anna

remembering

I remember the moment in a small sitting room at the Atlanta Hospice Center. I remember it with intricate detail; it is a moment I hope I never forget. I don't know that I've told many people this story. It was only a few days ago that I wrote it myself.

I had just gotten off the phone with a dear friend I have known for almost 20 years. My family knew Bebe's time was coming soon, so I was calling Ashley to tell her that. I needed a quiet place to talk to her, so I wandered the halls until I came to what was the chapel area. Chairs were lined up in rows, begging for some sort of service to commence, inviting one to hope. The room was bright--sunlight flooded the room through the double French doors at the back of the room. The stark white walls were contrasted by the rich mahogany pews that lined them. A chaplain came in, I assume because she heard the tremor in my voice as I relayed the latest update to Ashley, 1,000 miles away. She saw I was on the phone; she smiled and left. I hung up with Ashley a few minutes later, both of us in tears, with promises to talk again within the hour. I looked around the room. Open and bright, the room was created to lift spirits and instill some sort of hope. All I could feel was a deep darkness, a death in my heart almost. I had to get out of there, so I walked across the hall to a much smaller sitting room. A short, overstuffed couch sat diagonal from an armchair, and a small wooden table held a lamp in the corner. "Perfect," I thought. "I'll sit here and let my heart crumble just a bit more." I sat on the couch and let loose; the tears flowed as if they had been dammed up for years. My head in my hands, I thought I might drown in the flood. I couldn't find the words to name the depths of the pain. "Don't take her, please don't take her," was all I could muster. I begged with God, pleaded with him to intervene. "Don't take her," I cried over and over again. After what seemed like an eternity, all I heard was "I have to."

Bebe's story came to an end two days before Thanksgiving. What kind of end, though? Her physical death was one end, but I would argue that the ending of Bebe's story was much more beautiful than that. Dan Allender writes in "To Be Told:"

An ending can be either good or bad. There are excellent novels that held my attention and moved me for hundreds of pages, only to end in a way that made me regret reading the story. Sadly, the same can be said of many "good" lives. It is not enough to live well and serve humanity, care for your family, and lead an honest life. A good ending involves much more than making a moral point or teaching a lesson. And a good ending is more than the resolution of the tragedy and tension of an exciting plot. A good ending doesn't have to be safe or nice. It only has to bring the story to fullness.

For months, a part of me has been so angry at God for saying what he said to me. He could have stopped it, he could have healed her on the spot. But now, four months later, I can see that Bebe's story had come to a fullness of ending. I'd argue that the weekend of her 80th birthday celebration was the culmination of that. Yes, Bebe died a physical death her on earth, and the quickness of her physical decline has left most of our family reeling in confusion and sorrow. However, God is using her death to bring about hope, redemption, and beauty in my story in a way that might not have happened if she was still here with us. I'm wondering if he's doing the same with others in my family as well as her closest friends.

I still miss Bebe. I miss her every day. But somehow, I'm not so angry anymore.

hope and fear

I just finished reading the book "Beautiful Boy" by David Sheff. I read in a a few days; I literally hated putting the book down. The book is a father's account of his son's addiction to a multiplicity of drugs, in particular methamphetamine. The story is dark, painful at times, but ultimately redemptive. As the book is coming to a close, the father is reflecting on his own addiction to the constant worry and anxiety surrounding his son's well-being. Sheff reflects on why he chose to write about his story, his son's story, his family's story. Writing, he concludes, is his way of engaging with the reality of what has happened. Writing helps him work through his own addiction as well as his son's. He writes to bring clarity to their story; he recognizes that dealing with the past is the only way to move forward with hope. Although not a believer, Sheff writes about hope in the face of great fear with insightful poignance:

"Now, the children are asleep. Karen and I are in bed reading, and Brutus is running in his sleep. I put down my book and lie here, trying to comprehend exactly what it is that I'm feeling. Parents of addicts learn to temper our hope even as we never completely lose hope. However, we are terrified of optimism, fearful that it will be punished. It is safer to shut down. But I am open again, and as a consequence I feel the pain and joy of the past and worry about and hope for the future. I know what it is I feel. Everything."

There is something beautiful and redemptive about this story. While drugs and alcohol play almost no role in my life, the devastating loss of close relationships, through life circumstances or physical death, has played a major role in my story over the past year. Hope, at times, has been a nasty four-letter word. Why should I hope--what has it done for me lately? On the other hand, is there any other answer to all my mess than to hope? 

I resound with the ambivalence between hope for and fear of the future that Sheff expresses. Hope invites you into your story, it begs you to engage. Hope opens you up to experience pain and sorrow with optimism, yet going down those dark roads can be a bit overwhelming. 

Ultimately, hope, with the gamut of emotions it carries, brings redemption into our stories.

quote

To be a person is to have a story to tell.

-Isak Dinesen

suffocation...

...is the best word I can think of to describe what life here in the suburbs of Atlanta feels like. Everything here is too comfortable, too static for my taste. I need change, I need it desperately.

I think this feeling of suffocation has fueled a lot of my frustration and anger recently. I just want to get out, but I don't see that happening anytime soon. A few months ago, I wanted out because I wanted to run away from everything here. Now, I just want change. I want new scenery, new coffee shops, new sights, new restaurants...anything different from here.

The spring weather does help, though. I love the beautiful weather we're starting to get!

her morning elegance by oren lavie

Props to Brian Duffy for telling me about this song. I'm a big fan.

world's best actress

ambivalence (n.): uncertainty or fluctuation; having positive and negative feelings towards a person, action, or object that simultaneously draws one in opposite directions

complacency (n.): a feeling of quiet pleasure or security, often while unaware of a potential danger, defect, or the like

Either one of these words could describe life right now. On the surface, you might think that everything is alright. I can put on quite a show, and you will never know the difference. After twenty-four years of putting up a facade, I've become quite the professional. Ask me how I'm doing, I'll tell you I'm doing okay. I won't tell you I'm fine or even great, because I know that's a stretch. But if you watch me in day-to-day life, it looks like everything really is okay. What you don't know is that my heart is simmering with a deep ache, a pain I can't describe most days. Where the pain comes from, I can't really explain. It's a combination of a lot of different things: Graduation. The job search...in this economy. Church, God, faith. My story. Harboring bitterness versus extending forgiveness to a person in my past. Loneliness.

Bebe.

Bebe.

Bebe.

There is just so much, and it's all swirling below the surface. Somehow, I find the facade much more comforting. I am the world's best actress, even though I will never star in a TV show or movie. You will never hear my name mentioned in the Academy Awards, nor will I ever win a Golden Globe. But I am an actress, you just haven't realized it yet.

moving forward

[and for the million hours that we were,

well I'll smile and remember it all,

then I'll turn and go;

our story's completed,

but mine is a long way from done.]

everyone's life is a story

I have a small group of 6 eighth-grade girls that I "lead." I use the term "lead" very loosely, as I think I've learned more about myself because I spend time with them rather than them actually learning from me. To kick off the lovely year of 2009, the junior high staff at church has asked us to talk about sexuality in order to coincide with the series they are doing on Sunday mornings. Now, here's a question...does anyone out there really have the desire to talk to middle schoolers about sexuality? There certainly are people out there that do, I'm sure--and if you had asked me if I was one of them a month ago, I would have said no.

A few weeks ago, my girls wanted to have a sleepover one night on a long weekend. I thought it would be fun, so we scheduled it for Sunday night. We started the night with our first group discussion about sexuality. Not 15 minutes into our chat, one of my girls looked me straight in the face and asked me a point-blank question about my story that left me no wiggle room. I chose to be honest with them, and I told the girls a small part of my story that I don't really like talking about, a part that I feel marks me and disgraces me. As I sat there telling them about what happened and what God's done with my heart in the aftermath of it all, I knew there was a reason I had this group. I didn't know it at the time I was telling them my story, but I can say this now: For the first time in my life, I actually believe that my story could be used for good. Now, is it still hard? Do I still believe lies about myself because of what happened? The answer to both questions is yes. But, in the midst of all that, I think I'm beginning to see what redemption might look like for my story.

A year ago, I did this "reflection exercise" at the start of 2008. Part of the exercise involved spending time writing about the events of the past year and then asking God to show you a theme for the upcoming year. In my journal, I wrote that 2008 would be a year for healing. At the time, I thought healing would mean peace, calm, and relaxation. I couldn't have been more wrong about that. Now, I can see that healing for me required walking through some deep, dark valleys, valleys that I'm still trying to navigate through. Just a few weeks ago, before my girls asked me about my story, I did a similar exercise. I journaled about the past year so I could make sure I got all the events and emotions on paper. I wrote about healing, and how I saw that theme woven through the past year. As I started to think about this coming year, one word kept coming to mind: redemption. Just a week after I put that word on paper, my girls asked me about my story. Kind of mind-blowing, in my opinion.

[You are a story. You are not merely the possessor and teller of a number of stories; you are a will-written, intentional story that is authored by the greatest Writer of all time.]

overwhelmed

If you could see my room right now, only one word would come to mind. Disaster. Utter disaster. I told a friend just yesterday that the physical state of my room is exactly what life feels like right now. A complete disaster, with my shit spewed all over the place. There's so much on my plate right now, I feel like I'm trying to eat a 10 course meal and I've only got 30 minutes to get it all down my throat. Where do I even start?

Lately, I've found myself going from laughter to frustration to anger to tears in a matter of an hour. What's going on down there, what message is my heart desperately trying to get through to my deaf ears?

So many questions, there don't seem to be many answers. How do I grieve Bebe? If I grieve well, will I forget her? If I don't grieve at all, will I still forget her? Why can't I fix my daddy and make it better for him?

Where am I going to live come June 1st when my lease runs out?

Am I going to get a job when I graduate in July? Where will it be? Who am I going to work for? Where will I live between June 1st and the start of a new job, if that job isn't in Atlanta?

What is "church," and how does it intersect with relationship? Is it possible to have "church," or community as I'd like to call it, in the absence of "religion?" If so, what does it look like?

When is "he" going to show up? In the meantime, can I just maybe go on one date? :)

Why don't I feel like myself? Why does it feel like my emotions are spiraling out of control, and every time I try to "control" them the violent mood swings just seem to get worse?

Why are anger and avoidance such comforting coping mechanisms?

Questions. Questions. More questions. At some point, there have to be answers.

[let me know, heart,

are you still beating?]

quote

The world breaks everyone,

and afterward many will be strong in the broken places.

-Ernest Hemingway

Interesting quote that has stimulated some thought recently. Thought I'd share.

psalm 13

how long, oh Lord, will you forget me?

how long, oh Lord, will you hide,

hide your face from me?

how long must I wrestle with me,

and everyday have sorrow in my heart?

look on me, Lord, and answer me

give my eyes light, or I will sleep in death.

my enemies say "I will overcome her,"

and my foes rejoice even when I fall;

I don't want to fall.

but I trust in your unfailing love;

my heart rejoices in your salvation.

I will sing to the Lord,

for he has been good to me.

[i will wait on you]

midnight kisses and new beginnings

What is it about New Year's that gets everyone so excited? Why the need to celebrate so much? to be honest, I don't think I ever understood why people made such a big deal about it. What's the point in getting wasted, kissing someone at midnight while you toot your little horn, and then partying hard for the first few hours of the new year? I never understood it. Doesn't the clock strike midnight every 24 hours? What's the big deal with that one night that marks the end of December and the beginning of January? I never understood it until this year. 

Everyone is looking for a new beginning. Everyone wants that clean slate, that chance to start over and "do things right" this time around. Whether you're looking for a new "you," and new "Mr. (or Mrs.) Right," or a new outlook on life, there's something about a new calendar year that carries that hope. Last night, as I sat around a table with one of my dearest friends, I couldn't help but give a sigh of relief as the clock hit midnight. Finally, 2008 was over. I, too, am ready for a new year. I'm ready for a clean slate, in more ways than just a white calendar page. Last year kicked my ass all over the place, particularly the last 3 months, and I was more than ready for it to be over. 

I have to admit, though, that I was a bit disappointed this morning when I woke up and still felt that gnawing pain in the pit of my stomach. You know, that deep ache you feel when you're just plain worn out on life. You're sick of dealing with shit, and tired of feeling like the pile of baggage you carry around with you is more than an 18-wheeler could carry. There was something about midnight last night that made me hope for just a split-second that the end of 2008 meant the end of all the pain. I honestly hoped it meant that I could sleep easy because the burden of the past year had been lifted simply with the turning of a calendar page. 

This morning, I woke up, and was rather disappointed to find none of that was true. I wonder how many other people felt the same way.