Words

Sticks and stones and things.

I'd prefer a beating by them. Because, as it turns out, I'm not like how "they" say. Not on this one.

Words can hurt me. And I'd take a broken bone over a broken spirit any day.

I guess I can't really say that-- I don't have any experience with split limbs. My heart splits, though. Along a fault that sinks deeper each time it's tested by the slightest jilt.

At least broken bones give reason to cry.

A bruised spirit? Well, that's just the stuff of emotional issues. Suck it up.

That's at least what I kept telling myself over and over again as I sobbed as quietly as possible. The car had been a refuge for an hour or so, but I was running gas down to supply heat. Without it, I was cold. Physically, yes. I looked up at the trees, then at the imperfect mortar of the retaining wall in front of me, then back at the pile of laundry still occupying the too-oft unoccupied passenger seats. Everywhere I looked there was something to remind me of just how terrible I am. I know that sounds like an exaggeration. I know it's not healthy or constructive. I know because there is nothing in my life that should make me want or need to hit my steering wheel with that much fervor. But I did. Repeatedly. I was cold.

The warm bath and the deep breaths helped. Maybe I just needed to sleep.

Doesn't it always happen that the one night you just want so badly to fall into a world where these thoughts of "I'm not good enough" "Why am I here" and "Will I ever experience the love and fulfillment that Jesus promises" slip into mute is the same night that, for multiple reasons you just can't do it?

It's no one's fault. The girls outside my door have no idea what I'm thinking, how hopeless that moment seems. It's not their fault that I don't know how to explain these times, or that I feel they wouldn't understand. It isn't the fault of the bustle outside of the window, within my sight and earshot. Not their fault that I want to drown out inadequacy at 9:30 p.m. It might be the fault of the coffee enjoyed in the company of others throughout the day-- but I can hardly begrudge those times. It's not even the cats fault for landing on my face once I finally, finally drift away from a hurt, momentary reality.

Lonely. Surrounded by so many good things, good people. But alone. Feeling like a spoiled brat for thinking the age-old selfish excuse for retreat: no one gets me. Crying for being a spoiled brat. Crying as I tell God I'd do anything to be in a place where I'm crying for something so much bigger, so much more worthy of my emotion than myself or the pitiful problems that torment my heart so. Sobbing because I started off the day with compliments and acclaim for standing up in front of the church and speaking out my convictions. Tears for the stories I encounter within the youth group, for the desperation I feel to help. Sobbing because I ended the day feeling stupid for the same convictions I spoke with confidence on stage. Frustrated because everything in me wanted to just go home and hole up and wait for disappointment to be over. Even more frustrated because I know how unrealistic and unfulfilling that scenario would be. Blowing my nose as quietly as possible as I read the words I wrote to God 4 years ago with the street light that managed to cut through the tiny opening in the blinds. Mourning the progress I've not made and struggling to see the difference God has made. Scared about what's next-- if in my comfort I feel such unease, what will come of harder situations?

Hurting, once more, because I can't be all things to all people and life continues to go on proving that even after I tell myself time and time again that I get it-- that I won't let the fault run deeper the next time reality comes with jolting force over my clearly fragile heart.

The rain fell so appropriately, as if on cue, making my tears feel a little more like they had some sort of place. Grace. Not a theological trapping or impersonal topic of debate. For me. A moment when my thoughts, my feelings don't have to be rational. They can just be. Where honesty can be the best policy because where I'm wrong He won't think less of me or have less of a purpose for having created me. In the desperation, dramatic as it may be, God gives me the time of day (night) that I refuse to offer Him time and time again.

Songs kept coming to mind that I felt compelled to sing in a whisper. Behind stinging eyelids, with bars marked by sniffles I sang. Bring me joy bring me peace bring the chance to be free bring me anything that brings you glory I know there'll be days when this life brings me pain but if that's what it takes to praise you, Jesus bring the rain. All to Jesus I surrender, all to him I freely give, I will ever love and trust him in his presence daily live. This is the air I breathe, this is the air I breathe, your holy presence living in me. This is my daily bread, this is my daily bread, your very word spoken to me, and I am desperate for you and I am lost without you.

Whoever "they" are must know that words hurt. Why else would they have come up with a catchy slogan to try an convince people that they don't?

I let myself feel like the earth is separating from under me and proceed to fill that space with sadness, bitterness, anger, worthlessness, laziness, and inadequacy. There is never enough to fill. As I muster up these feelings from a life that is relatively free of these things any other day, I realize how desperate I'd become to find a negative response, a selfish confidence to fill that gap. My desperation only deepens as I over and over find confirmation that I will never get myself from the imperfection I daily live to the ideal world I believe to be possible.

When I get to that point, the tears stop, the tissue gets lost in the sheets, I can pull my blotchy, sweaty face out from under the pillow. It doesn't rest on me. My means of taking every hurtful feeling and stomping it under my feet, hoping it will create a steady enough foothold upon which to cross back over to fun, fulfillment, and wholeness is lacking and skewed. Even my best intentions, my purest dreams cannot excuse the horrifying lie I buy into as I relentlessly try to use my own brokenness as a stepping stone to the perfection I so ache to be a part of.

I brushed my fingertips over the puddles created by my innocent desire to get away from all of this. I can't, God, I just can't. You want me to be a good friend, a good steward, an effective communicator, a precious influence, a noble thinker, a generous giver. And I just can't. The tears pool.

Can't, can't, can't. Words I pour like mortar into the crevasse between who I am and who I want to be-- the one formed by my own weakness and exposed yet again by my vulnerability.

No, Sadie, you can't.

Words. The ones I hear in the deep solitude of my bed at 1 a.m.

Still there, still awake, still no mute button for the "I'm not good enough" "Why am I here" and "Will I ever experience the love and fulfillment that Jesus promises." Just a choice to make. Listen to His words or mine.

Four hours of throwing my own around like sticks and stones into the deep dark abyss so long formed by the sin that fills my every day just wasn't working. My words to myself were hurting.

His are chosen much more delicately. He doesn't just throw them around carelessly like sticks, hoping one of them might eventually just sound right so I could get to sleep already.

It's important to choose the words I use carefully. I am learning that along the journey. If I'm going to be so affected by them, I have got to use caution in which ones I'm putting out there.

It is also important to choose the words I listen to carefully. I'm going to hear a lot of them, and I have only a limited capacity to control that. Even the words I use with myself will some nights provide turmoil enough to land me in the bed looking out over the threshold of the UMW apartments, watching as the rain spills off of the roof, wondering what on Earth God is doing to bring His kingdom through me. And, for that matter, why on Earth is He even trying? I'll hear those words but I don't have to listen.

When I was six I chose to believe God, that he sent his Son to save me and that Jesus lives to offer me a way to that perfection I so crave and will not find on this Earth. I must also choose to believe that God did that for me not because my weak, vulnerable self is worthy of hearing but because He is worthy to be heard.

⁷ Therefore submit to God. Resist the devil and he will flee from you.⁸ Draw near to God and He will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners; and purify your hearts, you double-minded. ⁹Lament and mourn and weep! Let your laughter be turned to mourning and your joy to gloom. ¹⁰ Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and He will lift you up.

(James 4:7-10)

Sometimes it's just time to cry. Not for believing the selfish, stupid words my mind tends to muster up when I am hurt or upset, but in believing God when He says in His word that I should feel unsatisfied by myself and the people around me-- believe God when He says I might just need to sing songs born of lament, still in praise to Him, as a prelude to the songs of righteousness he wants to place in my heart. Songs of reverence to the one who lifts the girl up, out of the devastating crack in her own heart-- the one she foolishly felt she could step over using words of self-loathing and bitterness.

By morning, I am happy to be acquainted once more with the inadequacy I should be ever mindful of, if only as a reference point for His holiness.

I listen to words regarding the latter, even if they aren't the only ones I hear. They are the only words I can rest assured are not empty. And in a world of emptiness, from the depths of the crevasse along the fault line that life impresses on sensitive hearts, wholeness--holiness-- looks good.

God is good.

⁶ Seek the LORD while he may be found;

call on him while he is near.

⁷ Let the wicked forsake their ways

and the unrighteous their thoughts.

Let them turn to the LORD, and he will have mercy on them,

and to our God, for he will freely pardon.

⁸ “For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways my ways,”

declares the LORD.

⁹ “As the heavens are higher than the earth,

so are my ways higher than your ways

and my thoughts than your thoughts.

¹⁰ As the rain and the snow

come down from heaven,

and do not return to it

without watering the earth

and making it bud and flourish,

so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,

¹¹ so is my word that goes out from my mouth:

It will not return to me empty,

but will accomplish what I desire

and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.

¹² You will go out in joy

and be led forth in peace;

the mountains and hills

will burst into song before you,

and all the trees of the field

will clap their hands.

¹³ Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper,

and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.

This will be for the LORD’s renown,

for an everlasting sign, that will endure forever.”

(Isaiah 55: 6-13)

Life For You

I'm trying to hold the Word of God in higher regard. In principle, I always have. In practice? Well.

Let's just say I could make a little more much of it in my every day.

Proverbs 3.

¹ My son, do not forget my teaching,

but keep my commands in your heart,

² for they will prolong your life many years

and bring you peace and prosperity.

³ Let love and faithfulness never leave you;

bind them around your neck,

write them on the tablet of your heart.

⁴ Then you will win favor and a good name

in the sight of God and man.

⁵ Trust in the LORD with all your heart

and lean not on your own understanding;

⁶ in all your ways submit to him,

and he will make your paths straight.

⁷ Do not be wise in your own eyes;

fear the LORD and shun evil.

⁸ This will bring health to your body

and nourishment to your bones.

⁹ Honor the LORD with your wealth,

with the firstfruits of all your crops;

¹⁰ then your barns will be filled to overflowing,

and your vats will brim over with new wine.

¹¹ My son, do not despise the LORD’s discipline,

and do not resent his rebuke,

¹² because the LORD disciplines those he loves,

as a father the son he delights in.

¹³ Blessed are those who find wisdom,

those who gain understanding,

¹⁴ for she is more profitable than silver

and yields better returns than gold.

¹⁵ She is more precious than rubies;

nothing you desire can compare with her.

¹⁶ Long life is in her right hand;

in her left hand are riches and honor.

¹⁷ Her ways are pleasant ways,

and all her paths are peace.

¹⁸ She is a tree of life to those who take hold of her;

those who hold her fast will be blessed.

¹⁹ By wisdom the LORD laid the earth’s foundations,

by understanding he set the heavens in place;

²⁰ by his knowledge the watery depths were divided,

and the clouds let drop the dew.

²¹ My son, do not let wisdom and understanding out of your sight,

preserve sound judgment and discretion;

²² they will be life for you,

an ornament to grace your neck.

²³ Then you will go on your way in safety,

and your foot will not stumble.

²⁴ When you lie down, you will not be afraid;

when you lie down, your sleep will be sweet.

²⁵ Have no fear of sudden disaster

or of the ruin that overtakes the wicked,

²⁶ for the LORD will be at your side

and will keep your foot from being snared.

²⁷ Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due,

when it is in your power to act.

²⁸ Do not say to your neighbor,

“Come back tomorrow and I’ll give it to you”—

when you already have it with you.

²⁹ Do not plot harm against your neighbor,

who lives trustfully near you.

³⁰ Do not accuse anyone for no reason—

when they have done you no harm.

³¹ Do not envy the violent

or choose any of their ways.

³² For the LORD detests the perverse

but takes the upright into his confidence.

³³ The LORD’s curse is on the house of the wicked,

but he blesses the home of the righteous.

³⁴ He mocks proud mockers

but shows favor to the humble and oppressed.

³⁵ The wise inherit honor,

but fools get only shame.

My Little World

I don't have pictures.

But I can picture it well.

I spent so much time there, I should be able to.

Healer. Idealist.

Naive. Impractical.

Call it what you will and say what you want about it, but -- good or bad, annoying or endearing --there can be little doubt. I was a dreamer.

My backyard.

Almost black separated from my neck by soft, powerful wind. I loved the feeling. I closed my eyes as back and forth I flew-- and I was flying. Closing my eyes, I could be anywhere, and I loved to go there. If I didn't see that I was just a mere 2 feet from the ground, I could be 200 feet above it. There, in the safety of what could be, I dreamt.

Of things like singing Celine's "Because You Loved Me" to my teachers at 5th grade graduation because I appreciated them (I roll my own eyes at that one). Of marrying Brandon the (future) pilot and feeling the same soft, powerful breeze during a jaunt in a Wright Bros. style plane. Of opening an orphanage at my house and pushing other kids on the swing in my backyard that I didn't feel deserving of. I dreamed of the days I would have straight teeth and be really beautiful-- not just the kind my parents assured me I was. I hated thinking of the day my dog, Oreo, wouldn't be around (she was the one who cared to join me in the backyard of my greatest hopes) but I knew she would most likely go before the coveted day that I could be a teacher and a real difference-maker, so I was oddly okay with the thought (people, I was weird).

I played in the shed at the side of the house, where my Dad's sideyard was constantly being renovated, added to or arranged. I stood at the side gate like it was my front door and invited the pretend world in. Of course, I wished to do the same for the real world, too, but the real world was just harder to get a grip on. I couldn't lasso reality to my sideyard for a cup of tea. Real people didn't understand the little world in my head. Pretend people, on the other hand, didn't hesitate to accept the invitation.

I had myself convinced that in my real world, as in my fake world, I would be okay growing up and having only a shed. As long as it could be mine and I could do what I wanted with it, I would do everything I could to make it a home and would share it with others however I wished. Somewhere between the flowerpots and lawn mower was a place for whoever came along. 

I did, of course, grow out of this. I would have to, right? It's unrealistic. Too perfect. Impractical. I learned that people might be looking for their place in life, but that didn't mean they wanted the same things. I learned I didn't have a place for everyone and despite my imagination, I couldn't invite them into my ideal world because, well, it didn't exist.

Just to me.

To most everyone else, it seemed, the kind of love that keeps no record of wrongs, that isn't easily angered, that hopes and trusts and doesn't delight in evil (the kind I was always taught came from God and should be my aim) is mostly just a great idea. They wouldn't expect it of me and I, in turn, shouldn't get too eager to experience it.

Except for that I saw it. In fiction I saw it with the Boxcar Children (this could be where the shed dreams came from), in Father of the Bride and 7th Heaven. And while I knew that was fiction and grew to find it laughable, I had real life examples to compare it to. Surely I wasn't too out of touch with reality when there were historical examples: Harriet Tubman and Annie Armstrong and Dixie Jackson and Lottie Moon and Princess Diana. But then came the awful truth that history isn't always what it seems.

Well, then, I saw it at home. And that wasn't romanticized or fake. I knew because I lived it. My parents consideration of each other and us was real. My daydreams weren't about escaping harsh reality-- they were all about figuring out where to go from a good reality. The sky was my limit-- who would I be? How could my adulthood build on the childhood I loved so much?

The only way for life to get any better was to dream up even more. Realistically, though, I didn't think life could get any better. So I just lived it. I stopped dreaming the childish dreams for more because everywhere I looked, I had what others kept saying they dreamed of.

Other times what other people dreamed of, I didn't want to have-- sex, drugs, alcohol, parents out of their business, big popular parties. The dreams I dreamed made me weird. The life I lived made me weird. So even though my dreams were born of wanting to be better and love deeper, I didn't dare impose them on other people. I would just wait out my days until I got prettier and more effective in making the differences I only secretly dreamed of. The home I dreamed up and the man I loved would come along because why wouldn't they? I had what I needed, everything else would just fall into place. God included.

Then I reached high school and figured that God shouldn't just fall into place in my life. Or, rather, that He wouldn't. Dreaming about Him and what he could do in me was not enough. I had to believe Him to do it, and that was going to require more than just waiting around living the life that simply was.

About one morning a week during senior year, I left for school 30 minutes early. As the sun rose over the hills, I drove down by the river. I sat in the grass or walked the beaten path and literally, out loud, asked God where to go. I just couldn't believe that the dreaming was for naught. And I couldn't believe that my privilege was for me to just live the way I wanted.  In living for myself, I felt selfish for wanting more. But it also felt wrong to not want more.

So I walked and I sat and I cried over the way my life was so good I didn't necessarily have to dream-- I could just coast. But I hated that thought. I hated that my life was good, but not necessarily Godly.

The more I read about God and the things He repeatedly tells his people are possible, the more I felt that my dreams were never simply the frivolous wishes of a naive schoolgirl. Not all of them anyway. So I had to start deciding which ones I would hold onto. The pilot husband could go, I didn't need the Wright Bros. plane and I didn't have to blossom into the most beautiful woman-- or at least how beautiful a pale, freckle-faced, long-nosed girl could become.

The dreams about the love and the people and contentedness? Well, I would rather those be simply dreams. Then I could dismiss them and not bother with the seeing them come to reality. Then I could live and let live and not bother people with my stupor.

But the promises of the Bible-- the community, the redemption, the peace, the challenges that will one day be met with reward-- those aren't dreams. They are real. Sure they upset reality. Sure it bothers people to think of living selflessly and contentedly because it's not how we actually live. But it doesn't make those things impossible.

I'm old enough now to know that though humility and harmony are not impossible, they are unlikely to ever be the order of this reality in which I remain.

I don't have pictures.

But I can picture it.

The world in which my dreams aren't impractical or naive. They aren't unlikely or upsetting. The world where everyone does have a place and people don't keep a list of wrongs and hopes aren't crushed and trust isn't betrayed and love never fails.

It's coming.

For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. (I Corinthians 13:12)

I wrote a draft

In July I got a letter from Zaida's family. They thank me for doing what I can to help their family and tell me that she is as sweet as she looks. And that she likes cucumbers.

One more way we are alike.

I wrote a letter back but never looked up the address and then went to school and then back home and then moved and then went back to school again. And now I'm here.

That is what I've done in the way of loving on that family. I found that letter tonight and shook my head and sat down with a new pen to start over.

I went back to the post I wrote about her in June where I was reminded that this time last year I was desperate to do something. God granted that opportunity in ways I didn't expect and I'm so grateful to him for it.

I sometimes thought it was too much. Too much to think about, too many problems, too much doubt, too many lessons, too much me. Other times I thought it wasn't enough. Not enough change, not enough meaningful work, not enough sacrifice, not enough of me.

I mean, c'mon God, I wanted this.

I wanted a year that looks more like hers and less like mine. (Which, I know, sounds stupid because I really had a good year.)

I don't want to just be the American woman referenced in this post (that I shortened a bit) written by Katie (the mother of 14 in Uganda) in February:

"She was eighteen years old and she had never been in love with anyone she could touch before. I mean, she had been in love with Jesus since she was little, but this was different, touchable love.
In her eyes he was perfect. He loved the Lord, not to mention he was pretty darn cute. He went to church with her and joined her on silly errands and at family dinners. He made her giggle by saying things that only she found funny. He made her heart flutter when he swept that one always-stray piece of hair out of her eyes.

They were the “perfect couple.” They were desperately in love; one lit up as the other entered the room. They could see their beautiful future together. After high school, they would go together to college, get married, work a bit, settle down and have children with his eyes and her big smile. They would grow old together, laughing at secrets and kissing each other goodnight.

And then God asked her to move to Uganda. At first it was just going to be a year. They could do a year. She would come back and they could still go to college together and all their dreams would still come true. When the Lord asked her to adopt her first children, it became a bit more complicated. She rationalized that her youngest was 7, so in 11 years, she could move back home and be with him. But her children kept getting younger and His call kept getting stronger. She would go back in 13 years, in 17 years, in 20 years. Finally she came to terms with the fact that God was just asking her to STAY. And that when He said He wanted ALL of her, He meant all. She would live in Uganda. But she held on to her love because remaining comfortable was so much easier than dealing with the hurt and the emptiness would be.

Her eyes were opened and her life was changed. She couldn’t pretend to be the same person. She couldn’t sit still in his would anymore, it made her head spin and her heart ache. And still she held on because she didn’t love him any less. She knew God could move mountains and she prayed He could change his heart. After all, such a love must have been God orchestrated.
He made her feel beautiful as she walked through life as a single mom covered in dust and spit up. He appreciated her even when everyone else forgot to say thank you. He believed in her when the rest of the world said raising eighty thousand dollars or adopting ten children was silly. Even from the other side of the world, he cheered her on and he picked her up when she just didn’t feel strong enough. His voice on the other end of the phone turned a rough day right around.

They were moving in opposite directions. They both new it, but they both refused to let go.
So she asked God for a very specific sign. For something that she thought very unlikely if not absolutely impossible. And then something devastating happened. God gave her the sign that she asked for. So she kissed him goodbye and drove away and cried so hard that she doubted she would ever breathe again. She tried not to wonder if anyone would ever love her like that again or how she would do this all alone.

And that’s when He reminded her that she wasn’t. That HE would make her feel beautiful as a single mom covered in dust and spit up. That He appreciated her even when everyone else forgot to say thank you. That He believed in her when the rest of the world thought everything she did was crazy. That He would cheer her on and pick her up when she justdidn’t feel strong enough. That His voice whispering in her ear would turn those rough days right around. That He would ALWAYS be faithful. That His love would be unconditional. That He, her ONE TRUE LOVE would never leave or forsake her and would give her heart’s desires. That He would make all things new, ever her shattered heart.

* * *

A few days ago an American woman who had spent about three days of her life in a third world country looked at me and said, “I would SO love to do what you do. I would do it in a heartbeat. Oh, I would take 14 kids in a second!” It is a good thing that I was having a graceful day, because I said, “Aw that’s nice.” But my not so graceful heart was angry. And the not so graceful voice in my head wanted to say to her, “Ok then, do it. I can have you 14 orphaned, abandoned, uncared for children tomorrow. So here is what you have to do: Quit school. Quit your job. Sell your stuff. Disobey and disappoint your parents. Break your little brother’s heart. Lose all but about a handful of friends because the rest of them think you have gone off the deep end. Break up with the love of your life. Move to a country where you know one person and none of the language. And when you are finished, I will be here waiting with your 14 children!” I wanted to ask her what was stopping her, knowing that the answer would be her comfort. I wanted to look at her and tell her that my life was full and joyful and WONDERFUL, but I also wanted to tell her to COUNT THE COST. Because my life IS full and joyful and wonderful, but it is NOT easy. My life is NOT glamorous. I do not expect it to be. I do not think that anything about carrying a cross was easy or glamorous either.

Which brings me to my point. I am not actually that angry about what that woman said, it was just an offhanded comment. But it got me to thinking… How many times to we grieve our sweet Savior’s heart because we refuse to COUNT THE COST? How many times do we choose comfort instead of the cross?
...

I wonder today if I had been one of the people listening to Jesus as He spoke in Luke 9 and 14, if Jesus would have convinced me to follow Him or if I would have walked away. I believe I would have really really wanted to say goodbye to my family. I wonder about “Christians” today. We wear Jesus on our T-shirts, we wear His cross around our neck and a bumper sticker with His name on it on our car. Have we just laid the foundation without being able to build the building? Does Jesus feel like I did when a woman I didn’t know told me she would love to do what I do but I knew that she never would? Do we claim the precious name of Jesus Christ without counting the cost? Without being willing to REALLY give it all? And does Jesus, in His infinite grace, look at us and say, “Aw, that’s nice,” but really with the furry that he flipped over the tables in the temple want to spit our lukewarm selves out of His mouth?

...

I do not claim to have the answers. I do not claim to be doing it right. I do claim to believe that the words of Jesus are absolutely true and apply to me, right now today. I want to give EVERYTHING, no matter the cost. NO MATTER THE COST. Because I believe that nothing is sacrifice in light of eternity with Christ."

----------------------------------------------------------------

So there you have it. No, Katie isn't perfect and no, hers are not the words of God himself. But she is frustrated by some of the things that I really believe frustrate him. I just want my heart to be there, too. I want to not be terrified of the cost. But I look in the eyes of 6 wonderful family members and tremble. Not because they wouldn't be supportive of my decision to go or because they'd be mad. The opposite, really. I tremble because they love me so much they wouldn't call me crazy. They'd encourage me with sweet notes and reassuring calls like they already do.

I cry thinking about it because it really is doable. Because they're the most understanding springboard into the world God could've given me. I cry because I love the roots my parents have provided me so much that I want to selfishly disregard the wings. I want them for myself. I want the Christmases and the birthdays and the moments. I want that for them because they adore me and despite all the reasons they shouldn't, they treasure time with me. I want that for me because when I know of all the ways I'm not, they say I am adorable. As in worth adoring.

People spend their days yearning for the expression of that kind of unconditional love. The kind that differentiates between a persons value and their behavior. The kind of love that corrects an attitude without punishing a personality. The kind of which I feel the very unworthy recipient.

I tremble because I know that the reason I wouldn't want to leave is the very reason I should. Experiencing the safety of the kind of love that leads to laughter and soul-sharing and great amounts of fun and purpose-seeking and conflict resolution is the reason I should risk a little to pass it on. Having so much is the very reason I should give a little in return.

Other people come from different places or, as in the case of my siblings, come from the same background and are called to different things. I don't want that others feel less loved or less worthy because they don't share my conviction-- the truth being that we are all loved far more than any of us are worthy. So that takes care of that.

I just can't deny that I feel simultaneously pushed and pulled to somewhere new.

I know God has a hand in that. And I can honestly say ultimately I want him to have his way in my life. The steps to get there are just a little fuzzy. And I get distracted. And then I find a letter and he says, in a whisper full of all undue grace, "Sadie, you wrote a draft." I can't snap my fingers and be Katie any faster than the rookie on the football team can wriggle his nose and become Brett Favre. (please enjoy that very rare sports reference).

It is the little things, then it's the big things. Sure, my heart longs for the day that I feel I'm making some sort of dent in this world but I won't get there if my heart doesn't love God and the dents he's making here, in me, first.

Over break, with my Penneys gift card in tow, I scoured the store for a good purchase. By scoured I mean followed Mom like a duckling because we stick together for these sorts of things. When she ran off I started quacking like a lost duckling, mostly to mock my own lack of independent shopping skills. When she answered mine and Emily's call we went to check the jewelry sales.

I, being me, went right on over to the sentimental jewelry with the Oprah sayings and gandhi quotes and all. (Does anyone else have such trouble knowing where to put the "h" in his name?!) I really don't love a ring with words and I don't subscribe to Taoism, but one struck a chord with me.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.

I refer often to the 1000 mile distance between here and home. That was one of the best decisions I've made. By far one of the scariest for me and head-scratch-worthy for my parents. Instead they put on their game faces that God granted through his peace. And it has only been by his provision that I've stayed. (It didn't always look good).

Every bit of this phase, this thousand mile journey that I've so loved was at one point a ginormous-looking step.

Sometimes it's hard to know where to start. Which step gets me to the place I want to be? The honest truth is that it's not up to me to know. Right now I just keep hearing Sadie you wrote a draft. I promise it's not just me being hard on myself. And as silly as it may seem, I really feel like the next step is to simply write the letter and send it this time

Meanwhile, I'll let Jesus be the author and perfecter of my faith (Heb. 12:2). I'll let him decide what this year will look like and if it bears any resemblance to Katie's. I just hope that by the end of it my heart resembles hers in the way she resembles him.

"Therefore strengthen the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be dislocated, but rather be healed. Pursue peace with all people, and holiness, without which no one will see the Lord." Hebrews 12:12-14

p.s.-- in writing this I've eaten way more twizzlers (courtesy of the roommates) than my "p90X" workout with Dina this morning made room for. Yes those were air quotation marks denoting sarcasm. Don't ask.

There are Days

Some days I don't want to be a "public intellectual." (That's what I will supposedly be by the end of my Freedom Riders class).

I don't want to spend $300 dollars on books for myself.

I don't want to read about injustice, hurt and pain.

Days I don't even want to read about the solution.

Some days I just want to be a part of it.

I want to be scrubbing mold from bathrooms.

Hugging parentless kids.

Praying through my days per the persistent reminder that ultimately, I have nowhere else to turn.

I am so blessed to be here and it is a privilege I do not resent, getting a college degree in a subject I really like. I do enjoy giving it the "old college try." But who are these teachers kidding? Wisdom and knowledge isn't just in me, waiting to be realized. I don't have answers to even the most worthwhile questions to ask. I don't even like pretending that I do.

There are days it is tiring to talk myself out of the basic premise my teachers put forth. Days when I crave being surrounded by leaders whose faith, not just intellect, I admire.

Many days here seem very far from there.

(the pictures are Brians @ http://www.facebook.com/pages/Brian-K-Gray-Photography/268089692141)

Today.

(this whole thing is pointless until I get to the point) (or: how history majors write)

Today was the first day of the rest of my life.

Katie apologized for not leaving me a note like I did for her approximately 2 years ago. But, then, I didn't roll out of bed long enough to wave she or Claire goodbye from the balcony or at least offer a hearty hug so we'll call it even.

Of note: I don't have class (i.e. responsibilities) until 1 p.m. on m/w/f. So really today was in no way a reflection of what the rest of my life will be like.

My alarm went off at a respectable 9 a.m. I mumbled something about how I was going to get up because if I was going to set an alarm it was inconsiderate to my roommate and really stupid to not make use of it.

Then I proceeded to go back to sleep until she came back sometime around 10:30. At which point I went back to sleep until 11:30.

I am not proud of this.

I had an excellent time pumping myself up for some Human Geography which I showed up for approximately 25 minutes early because I've forgotten how to gauge the commute. The next couple of weeks will be about determining how close I can cut it before I'm late. The couple of weeks after that I'll probably end up late.

I then went to Psych of Personality in a 100 degree heated room with the biggest personality for a teacher I feel I have yet to come across in my college career. Should be fun.

Went to WalMart with Claire where we had a hilarious time picking out a singing card for Katie before picking up an "O" Magazine for kicks and giggles. I bought 80 million cans of soup (or 15) and some collard greens. I only eat those usually once a year (on new years), but every time I remember how much I like them. So I'll at least have them twice this year.

Cutting edge.

Oh! Claire got Jewish communion wine-- mostly because it was blackberry. It tasted like a bunch of melted jolly ranchers that was slightly spiked. There were then a few random episodes of Scrubs whilst I did my best to muster energy for Big D's party tonight and honestly dreaded the wait at Capitol Ale House on the first $1 Burger night of the semester.

Then there was no wait at all and the company was really delightful and we had a rockin' "after party" consisting of Dina, the "desert people," going on about the cold as we bought ice cream and the three of us playing Scattergories for the first time since 1998.

Priceless.

The day gloriously ended with Katie, Claire and I watching youtube videos of George H.W. Bush and Ellen commandeering "O" Magazine.

They've since scurried far away since the longevity of my youtube surfing skills is next to unmatched and they would like some sleep since they did not sleep in until 11:30 like bums me.

In my defense, it was 10:30 central time. I blame jet lag. "".

Anyway, this is what a pointless post reads like.

I say that because I've been told all of my stuff is so heavy these days. I write all of this so I can remember what normal was for me in college. Because I know there will be (and I look forward to) the day that I cannot fathom sleeping 'til 11:30. I also write because I want to look back at these words and feel the conviction.

Where is the point? Why should people care about what I've done with my very average self in the same amount of time everyone else gets to live out the day?

I want to see in my words and in myself that I'm right in thinking "they shouldn't." There is not much in my "normal" day to point to as worthy of emulation. Reading these words and noticing the glaring lackluster-ness pushes me to find something of worth in myself.

The something that is actually the someone I asked in 15 years ago. The someone who tells me I'm worth many, many long waits at Capitol Ale House and so is she. The someone who tells me my days do not have to be so painstakingly normal because I could love others with even a measure of the depth that he loves me. The days don't have to be "normal" because extraordinary things keep happening under my nose. The days shouldn't be assumed to be "normal" because contrary to my earlier assumption, not everyone does get the same amount of time to live out the day.

It may have been the first day of the rest of my life.

But it could have been the last day of my life.

And what would it have pointed to?

A pointless post.

So I am off to meet for a while with God as if the purpose of my life depends on it. As if I actually desire to love him with the fury he loved me with first.

Today. It won't happen again tomorrow.

Wipe the Sleep

Funny the things you can procrastinate even over a break from school.

Good to know the desire to put things off will not end come May. Not so good is that I'm actively choosing, with every word I write on this post, to continue putting off the preliminary proposal I promised Dr. Rigelhaupt before Monday.

It's really not a big deal. Clearly it's not graded and I'll have it come Monday morning. It's the most informal paper ever. The first of many assignments revolving around the 1927 flood of the Mississippi to come. I hereby declare, upon my word of honor, that my posts will not revolve around the same topic. You should just know that if random words like levees, runoffs, and delta pop in here without warning as if I suffer writer's tourettes, that's just the thesis talking. I mean no offense.

It seems to have become the 6th of January with no real warning. If you don't count the poppers and the kazoos and my obnoxious repetition of auld lang syne. (a song that I still don't understand and phrase.org is zero help with. I do appreciate its reference to a Smith favorite-- the "cup of kindness.").

I had entertained the idea of participating in NaBloPoMo-- a post a day for the month of January-- but clearly that got away from me. I blame George W. Bush's Decision Points and the company of Noelle who obliged my wish to visit Barnes and Noble. Also Mom and Dad who gave me the gift card. Tsk.

Katie texted me the other day to express her dismay that graduation was yet four months away. "End college" were her words (she likes to be quoted accurately... I don't know what that is about). It sort of feels like this semester is one big 'o long finals week. It is, after all, the final semester. During finals, for me, there is but one goal: finish the task that is immediately before me. Which is hard because, from my perspective, I know that there is so much more to do than what is directly ahead. Also it's hard to get motivated to do my best on the very next exam because mostly the end is so near I can smell it.

Thus, I get where Katie's coming from. As with exams-- when I can't start studying for France until Spain is out of the way-- it's just impossible to start with summer (more dramatically viewed as the rest of our lives) until this spring is over. Unlike Katie, however, I'm more inclined to take solace in that fact and rest in the false refuge that this spring offers from the (yes I am taking the dramatic route here) rest of my life.

That, friends, is procrastination at its finest (this post is a near second). And it's worse than scholastic procrastination--it's life. The scary part is that if I let procrastination rule my every day in the small stuff (read: school) it's going to start reflecting in my attitude towards the big stuff (read: life) and soon I'll be that person that says "yeah I'll do something, I'll have that relationship with God, I'll be that friend." But, having become a professional procrastinator, I'll put it off. Dangerous part of this scenario: papers have deadlines, tests have dates-- but few people get to know the final hours they have to cram in the volunteering and relationship-building. Probably a good thing, nice going on that one, God, because then people like me would put the real life work off for the final days, weeks, maybe even months (if we felt ourselves really generous). Not only does he probably think* he, being God, deserves more than that but there's almost certainly an aspect of that we should be getting much more out of all of this than either a.) putting off the stuff that matters or b.) anticipating the next phase so ardently that I fool myself into thinking that then and only then can I be of significance.

*I do not mean to suggest a great familiarity with the mind of God, just a very shallow knowledge of what he's expressed himself in his word.

side note: I really love sitting at Chic-fil-A (did you know that Louie Giglio's dad designed the "C" in the logo? Thank you, Em) with this middle-aged couple sharing ice cream. Not with me. Just with each other. I'm only watching. Which now sounds creepy. I just like seeing people on a date, especially those whose relationship has been around the sun a few times.

another side note: have you ever noticed how downright impossible it is to find a good version of "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms"? I have to give it to the producers of True Grit, there seems to be a severe shortage of artists who strike the balance between the appalachian twang and the gospel choir soul, but I refuse to believe that Iris deMent's nails on a chalkboard was the best they could do. I'll forgive them, though, per their great use of Carter Burwell's score, which is based on the hymn.

The not-so-subliminal message of this side note is that you should see True Grit if you have not. (If you have seen the movie, you might have picked up on my purposeful lack of contraction there as a sort of homage to Jeff Bridges). (While I have a track record of choosing who I want to win on the annual Oscar ballot with Jill, as opposed to actually predicting who will win, I believe Jeff has a good chance on both counts this year. Plus, I like a feel-good story and should Jeff win for best leading actor, he'll be the first to win twice consecutively. Oprah will be all over this, I'm sure).

I stayed at Emily's house last night because, as Jilly lovingly pointed out, I am a nomad this Christmas. Also because I love her and she reads things about nasty diseases to me while I share selections of political memoirs and we call this "fun." It's forever.

So I woke up to an empty house because big people have real jobs and they were long gone. So I took the time to thoroughly get ready, complete with plucking and moisturizing. And tunes. After the newest glee soundtrack (courtesy of Noelle and Creepy Chris) ran its course (and I belted my soul out to their version of Celine's "River Deep, Mountain High"), a song came on that I remembered from the freshman days of getting ready for outings/sneaking away with the gang in Ruby/not so diligently studying in a given location. Noelle gave the music to me on their way through to Texas and I'd totally forgotten it. The chorus sums up my approach to this new year we have on our hands:

You gotta get up and get the dirt off your shoulder
Wake up and wipe that sleep from your eye
So you won't waste away your life
Break off from the things that hold you
Grab your stuff and head right through the door
And get ready for so much more

-Jake Smith, "Get Up"

2010 was a lot of things.

It started with Emily taking skating lessons (with a man who may or may not be the infamous Alex's dad)

I loved the job (and taking advantage of the slippery floors for some friendly competition)

We celebrated Sarah's birthday (and last semester with us)

I had more fun in Charlottesville than I could've anticipated

There was the blizzard (and Ashley's unmatched love of snow ;-*)

Had a hilarious bunch of interns

Began to love DC (as in experience it) the way I wanted to all along

Watched another class graduate

Kathlean continued to help with the kiddos

Loved Easter

Became the recipient of the Yates' generous hospitality

I "adopted" Zaida

Went "mudyacking" with Gillian

and learned that she has a legitimate fear of dying of thirst

Roadtripped with Katie

2010 was 30 years for them

Sarah got married

Luke and Steph moved

Sarah was there for that (and then she CAME to Arkansas!)

But seriously, I loved my job.

Got to see a wonder of the world.

and this:

Mom and Co. redid my room as a surprise while I was away

I also returned to such an exciting family reunion of sorts

Noelle came for a vacation

Kidzcamp rocked my socks off

You may have heard of a little thing called Truett

I got to babysit like the good 'ole days ('cept for they were older) (also I sported a good many freckles)

Jackson "took a blow to [his] sensitives"

T came on with it

We had our first (and not last) 931 shindig of senior year

My friends were awesome

I just needed to include this one because I love these girls

Noelle was a bachelorette

then she wasn't.

Bess continued to make delicious baked things. (Dina said "she says she likes to bake her feelings. Which is fine, except for I live with her and I do NOT need to eat her feelings.")

The Smiths came to Washington

Then the other Smiths

Solomon!

Got more interns

Leo turned one.

Freshmans (distinguished from the collective and generic "freshmen") 2011!

Truett went house-hunting with C-Pap and Tutu

I got to travel to Atlanta for school

Mam-ma got to meet her late husband's namesake

We celebrated Christmas right!

Peterso finished!

We said goodbye to 4 Beeson Ct.

Dad changed jobs

Amanda Berry Dumas got married

(yes, that's as in Sarah Berry)

I got to hang with these kids

Celebrated Christmas with these kids

and these.

Dad got a hair dryer for Christmas

(that's a joke)

We moved into our home in Fayetteville

(yes, she knows she wouldn't *actually* be able to help him should he fall. It just helped)

Truett and co. came for that, too-- as a pleasant surprise!

These knuckleheads helped ring in the new year

as did these.

Mom and I helped Dad decorate his office

and did a lot of reading and lounging in our new hearth room. Errrr.

That. As they say. Is that.

It was good. I hope I've convinced you (with a sickening amount of pictures) that out of many things, life was good in 2010. But 2010 was a lot of things. And despite all pictorial evidence to the contrary, it was disturbing. My heart was stirred by many things I've seen and even what I haven't seen. Also what I heard.

What it was stirred to remains to be seen.

What I know is that he who calls me is faithful. I also know that my answer cannot be put off. Not this day, not the next.

This is the year of "to be." Because, as Sarah Holljes reminded me in a conversation last night, one year has the power to transform. Well, God does. The year is just a convenient time frame.

Also because I'm learning the real significance in being who I be-- no one else. Less persuaded by circumstance or affected by opinion. Swayed only by the plumb line that is the voice and word of God. (Consequently, "who I be" is not a hater).

L'annee d'etre. It has a ring.

So does this verse that Mom threw out there as a potential verse of the year for me:

"Let not mercy and truth forsake you;

bind them around your neck,

write them on the tablet of your heart,

and so find favor and high esteem

in the sight of God and man."

-Proverbs 3:3-4

I really couldn't dream better circumstances for myself going into 2011.

But I can sure conjure up a vision of a better heart, a better attitude, a better friend, a better servant, a better steward.

So if circumstances have been a dream, I want you to know that I'm awake. I see better. And I am wiping the sleep from my rested eyes to "grab my stuff, get out the door, and get ready for so much more."

To be.