Love Being Loved

So my two year blogiversary came and went. No hats. No streamers. But chances are I probably had Starbucks that day. I unconsciously celebrated.

I love being loved. Not because I think I am some great source of entertainment, grace, beauty, and genius. But because I think everyone else is way cooler than I am and I want to have swag too.

Last night at small group we talked about Philippians 3. Paul lists his credentials of why he should be loved and respected by everyone, and proceeds to say that to him it's loss. Not loss as in he doesn't care, but damaged goods. Any respect and love he were to garner from people because of his accomplishments, birth rights, and academia were warped, and likewise of no value to him. Paul understood at the core of him that the Gospel was the value in him.

And then there's me. The one who loves being loved. Not that that is inherently a bad thing. But to operate on the joy I gain from that is wrong. Because I love being loved, I have a hard time letting go of relationships. Since I was young, my mom has always used the analogy of a butterfly with me. If you were to hold out your hand and a butterfly landed there, you would admire it. But to try to close your hand to keep the butterfly would kill it. She always referenced it within the confines of people being the butterfly. But it has come back in my mind lately as everything being the butterfly. To find joy in things is not the issue, the detriment comes in operating off of that joy as being sustenance. The Gospel causes me always to live with an open hand. Except with the Gospel. I get to clutch that tightly, because Jesus is sustenance. He is that which I function off of and mercy and grace are my banner.

At Redeemer yesterday, Kevin Cawley spoke of how it is worthless for us to expect the Gospel to be of value to other people if it is not first the most valuable to us. So I go back to square one. What am I feeding off of? Compliments and beauty or the Gospel? Because I find joy in compliments and beauty, but neither of those things are hefty enough for me to be established on. To put my hope in that is to be annihilated.

I'm asking to be more open handed with things, to allow them to come and go as they please and be honest when I begin to tighten my grasp. I want so badly to experience the fullness of freedom that comes when the Gospel is all I have. It allows me to love beauty, food without them warping me and becoming the compass, and it invites people to experience freedom with me to come and go as they please in my life, because as much as I love being loved, it isn't my anchor.

A Post about Pain

Do y'all ever have those seasons in life where you are SO efficient? Working out, eating right, reading rather than watching gobs of TV.....blogging regularly. Well if you've ever had those seasons....you know they always come to a subtle stop...and then you are suddenly missing the balance, but at a loss of how to return to it.

Fall is tip-toeing in. I hear its whispers in the chilly breezes and bask in its familiarity. I love fall. I love that it is such a stark change from summer. It causes me to wriggle and adjust a little, notice changes, wonder a little.

It has been a rough few weeks. Well, truly months and years, but these last several weeks were just the icing. A 3 inch long abnormality on my dad's colon wretched a heap of fear so tight in my gut and sucked all of the surety I felt in routines. We are not quite beyond the horizon of those two lovely words, "not cancerous," but we are close and I am feeling quite humbled.

That little gremlin of fear on my shoulders made me ask, "what do I do when pain is real and moves in next door?" Where does the gospel fit into long term painful things? When a moment of peace matters, but is just a band-aid. And I'm not quite sure how to answer all of those questions. They kind of came to an abrupt stop when release from the fear came and things started looking up. But while they were halted for a bit, I want to return there, maybe on a not-so-personal level, but to come back to the neighborhood. Where does the ever so present reality of pain fit into some broad resolve of hope that comes with the Gospel.

And I guess that only in my life is it a broad resolve. Only in my life is hope a few and far between need. I can escape the necessity for it most of the time because of comfort. But the past few months I haven't been able to. In a long season of watching my family go through hard things and being able to do nothing more than to rest in hope that this is the most beneficial thing for them. I've learned how small a part my actions play and how necessary my love and belief for my family has had to be. And I'm sorely imperfect at it. Fumbling and tripping over my selfishness and anger towards watching people I love tire out and give everything, but wanting so badly to think rightly of it all.

Sitting here though, with a 10,000 foot view of things, I see that although this season is an anvil on my family, the breaking of our backs being necessary. When it comes to approaching hurt, I dismiss almost immediately the people who chock up hurt to "growth". That seems so medial to me, so small and absent of depth. Especially the long-term stuff. How does one think that weeks and months of hurting can be summarized as purposeful by one word? Because honestly, I don't care if I grow from hurt. I care that I have something to anchor me. Some hope. The purpose of this has something so much heavier and more important than me attached to it.

While I have been thinking of this in terms of my thoughts, my reactions, my feelings, I just have landed on the conclusion that the temporary-ness of this matters. But it is just that, temporary. I reserve the right to feel as deeply and harshly as I do about it, but to come by it honestly. To acknowledge the incompleteness of this. The injustice. The hurt. But only through the lens of my Father being the complete end.

As I'm piecing this out I find myself back to the knowledge of Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts that "all things are grace because all things can transfigure". I need to be reminded that however real and present, pain is transformable. Deeply and metamorphlsically transformable. I learned this week that how a caterpillar turns into a butterfly by not only cocooning itself, but in that cocoon the caterpillar-self actually breaks down completely and creates the butterfly-self through the complete rebuilding of its enzymes and cells. The chiseling down of my self-righteous perspective that I don't deserve pain, and the rebuilding to a new perspective that allows room to see things outside of myself. To trust more beyond my circumstances to Father who knows my best good, and the weight of what true goodness is.

May I never forget the fullness of my Father, the tangibility of His hope, and the reality that all things are able to transfigure. Because that is my anchor. Whenever I do get the 10,000 foot view of things, I see it. I see that I am the one who is skewed in their thinking and that the Father's purposes are always the same. I just pray I can see it better on the day-to-day level. That it doesn't take 2 months between my sitting and thinking this through to get back to that reality.

WSCHT

So I've decided to give y'all a little house tour. Except I don't live in a "house" per se. It's more like a converted work shop. So it's a work-shop-converted-house-tour or a WSCHT. Rolls off the tongue.

Note: I did not clean my house for you. I consider us close enough to not have to do this. It was clean two days ago, that's good enough for me.

Naming houses is a "thing" down here, unfortunately, ours has yet to get to be named. Some of my friends houses have been named the Eagles Nest. The Hot House, etc. But no one is back yet, so our house is just the shop-house-thing until further notice. Mmmkay? I'm glad we had this talk. 

First off, let me introduce you to my roommate. We're weird together. It works. 

This is our little home. I long for the days when the grass won't crunch and scream as I walk through my yard. Please make sure and see that we have a porch. I love porches. That is all. 

Speak of the devil....here's a picture of the porch with my little red chairs from Tarjay. When it's not hot as hell outside, this is my nest.

When it is hot as hell outside....this is my other nest. It's boring. I'm working on it. Art. Fun comforter. Pillows. Nix the Mcdonalds cup. I know, I know, you're thinking, "why would you get rid of such a stately piece of art?" I'm sorry. I just am not savvy enough to make it work.

This is the room where our eating occurs. And living. And eating. It's so big and open and wide. Like a fat italian momma. 

This is where more eating occurs. See how I didn't clean for you? I'm hoping that that massive wall with the dinky TV on it will one day be a massive gallery wall. And that there won't be a teeny TV stand there forevs. And I'm about to burn slipcover the couches in the next few weeks. #plaidmakesmethrowupinmymouth

*Sigh* maybe one day it will be pretty in there. Bonus: we have a cute pouf and the curtains aren't too bad. Baby steps. 

If you close one eye and squint with the other while turning around 5 times fast you don't notice that there is miscellaneous cups/grocery bags/unfinished projects strewn about the table. And that there is only one chair. That random kinda-gallery wall is going to just be a little eccentric wall of things we make/love. 

There will also be more chairs. Next week. They are being covered/reupholstered. I'm just the worst at finishing projects. Forgive me for I have sinned. 

And this is, ya know, the view from the other side. I'm thinking a hip-height book shelf by the door as a drop spot with a chalkboard above. And as much as I love grandma rockers--we're going to paint and recover this one with something really graphic and cool.

That's basically it. There's a lot of stuff I wanna do to make it more home-like. But it's got good bones. We want everyone to come over, so if you see me, say "I'm coming over" and I'll say, "what's the password" and you'll say, "you said I could", and I'll say, "alright". And then you'll come over. 

So to end the WSCHT, I'm leaving you with our source of glee the other day at lunch. 

Mali (the puppy below) shares popsicles with the roommate (I say ewheckno). After she gets a good lick, her tongue goes numb and it would just kinda stick out of her mouth. And we would laugh and mock and slap our knees, minus the slapping our knee part, we're 21 not 65. 

I really wish you could've been there. 

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I realized the other day that I have had this blog for two years. It began as a place for me to lay out thoughts I was having, it still is one. But at the same time, I've been thinking about what I will look back on and see from my blog in 5 years. And although I have loved this blog for being a place for me to ponder and sit and record my seasons, it is but one facet of myself. I want to remember my LIFE at this point, not just my perceptions and musings.

I'm sure y'all have discovered Instagram. Me and Instagram are bosom buddies. Besties. BFF's. Bros. My little day-to-day tidbits go there. All in their "rise" filter (what can I say, I love me some faded prettyness). 

See? Pretty.

I love blogging for the sheer fact that it is the epitome of "to each their own". They have different schemes, themes, purposes, genres, some are meant to write professionally, others are for those with family far away. They are hilarious, bitter, honest, fake, mom's, singles, children, creeps. 

i love mexican hat men cutouts.

And as I think about how I want mine to reflect me, I want it to be a fuller perspective. I want people to see that I drink a lot of coffee, I craft and read, I am learning (read: failing) how to sew, I live in a tiny shop/apartment with my roommate and a puppy, I love Kansas City, and I am young and have a lot to learn in EVERYTHING. 

Coffee = Boyfriend

you should love KC too. 

So all that to say, bear with me as things grow a little wider. I write for me. I document for me. But this is also a way to invite people into my life and it's only fair that I be a little more....normal. Or not normal. Because I'm a fool. 

I don't want this to sound as if I have been fake, in fact it's the opposite, I have worked to be very honest here. I just want to be more open with the other stuff. The day-to-day, Instagram-worthy moments that stitch together my little life. 

And besides....blogs are ALWAYS more interesting with pictures. 

Beware of Walrus

Hmm...almost a month since the last time I wrote....I'm that good.

So within this hiatus, I have moved, been back and forth from home a bunch, gone to the lake, learned a lot (or a little) of astronomy, and just been kinda going.

I don't really say that to give you guys an anesthetizingly boring run-down of my life, but these things (minus astronomy, nothing good comes from astronomy) have been the catalyzing factors of my thoughts lately. I've been thinking about friendships, more like any and all relationships I have with people. All this reached a pinnacle when I read the "Reflection" section of my worship guide this past Sunday and was bleary-eyed. My main man Lewis punches my lights out again and pinpoints my questions/thoughts/musings into one little excerpt.

The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbors' glory should be laid on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud wll be broken. It is a serious thing...to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations--these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit--immortal horrors or everlasting splendors....Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your sense.

 C.S. Lewis The Weight of Glory

And what does that mean?? I have heard the end of that before, that we are not just mortal, but souls walking around, and should treat each other with the dignity as such. But to think that "all day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations," has been the side consuming me lately. With which part of myself do I do relationships? Where is my place in them? What do I get to say, or not say? 

I have spent a while now feeling sorry for myself for not feeling known by people. And while that aspect is still true in so many ways, it has left me far too jaded on the flip side. What does it look like to live relationships in light of the Gospel? In light of remembering my own redemption and beginning with acknowledging from where I've come. In light of knowing that of all sinners I am the worst of these. I think that's what Lewis meant when he says that only humility can carry the weight of my own neighbor's glory. My roommate's glory. My co-workers glory. That person I can't stand's glory. The random person who sits by me on Sunday's glory.

The overwhelming sense that we are not ordinary and should not be treated as such has been sitting heavily on my shoulders lately. Begging the question in the car on roommate date, at coffee with a dear friend as she talks about struggling at work, on Sunday when I'm sitting alone in a place I so badly want to be involved. It's like a walrus has clambered into my closet and the tail is whipping the hangers, the tusks are impaling the walls, clothes are scattered by fins, nothing is unscathed in its wake.

So I will allow this walrus to rampage, because I think it's good for me.

Daisies

G.K. Chesterton said:

Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. 

Alexa showed me that this weekend. She has a knack for finding beautiful words and sharing them with me. She altruistically let me tag along with her to the lake this weekend. We sun screened up, laid out, and learned new slang (FMF for those wondering, Fat Man Friendly, HA!). Lex talked of a good friend of hers who has shown her what it means to be fully present. To allow the fullness of situations to seep in and to just be there.  

But this is far from YOLO. This is far from cliches found on Pinterest about moments being rain or whatnot. I have noticed lately that I am hardly ever satisfied in a moment. There is always something better, stronger, deeper that could be taking place. I don't see this trait as inherently bad, although nor is it inherently good. 

I've written much about the concept of numbering grace and paying tribute to the Lord by just paying attention. I guess this is a caveat into that in a way. Not only is my paying attention causing me to pay homage to the Lord, but it causes me to bask. To soak in monotony and be satisfied. For I have sinned and grown old. I have grown agitated, discontent, and senile. I can be just like the old man from Up. Jaded by life and unable to let each moment not be tainted by the sour ones in the past. 

But what of those moments? The sour ones happened and they have shaped me. But does that give me the right to create expectations for the future? The daisies get crushed, picked, torn up, and sucked dry of their nectar, yet the Creator never stops making them or loving the beauty of them. Regardless of the result of what happens with the prior ones He continues moving forward and finding complete joy in them. So we mourn for the sour, but we must always remember to ask to see the best good. 

Maybe monotonous moments are the ones where I get to see Him. Maybe that's where the mercy seeps in. "The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness" Lamentations 3:22-23. Mercy is where I gain my vitality. It is where my "spirit fierce and free" comes from. The ability to ask to do it again because I keep seeing His goodness. I keep finding new places to look and graces to number, and when I don't, He shifts me back. He draws me back in because He wants me to be young too. 

And by asking Him to just keep doing His thing again and again leaves me just there. Like the days when my Daddy would swing with me on the front porch and I would ask him to tell me the three bears again, or asking Momma to sing Feed the Birds one more time. Sitting contentedly in those moments knowing that all I could do was ask for the one who could do it the "right" way to do it again. I can't tell myself the story with the deep Papa Bear voice, and I don't have my mother's smooth voice to sing myself Feed the Birds, those are things best left to them. So I ask for it again because it's all I can do. 

In a season such as this where there have not been very big high's or exceptional lows, I am offered the ability to see the sameness differently. Rather than traipsing through the field, I want to be a lowly admirer and memorize each and every one, because it was created for enjoyment and I was created to enjoy. 

Flying Purple People Eater

I have to confess something. I have this alter ego....she comes out about twice a year right around finals time. She's not a friend either, she's a monster rampaging and ravaging all contentedness in lieu of satiating a hunger to complain.

Let's just say, she's baaaaaaaack. I try so hard to fight this, but after 3 years in college, I've just come to find out that this is a big ole' ugly part of me. A part I'm trying to actively repent of. And this is the horrible other side of it, I am the queen of the self-imposed guilt trip. Regardless of whether others are burdened by my selfishness, I recognize it, I know it's there, I berate myself for it, and the flying purple people eater grows.

I guess I'm still riding the learning curve when it comes to knowing myself. I know and I see this cycle, but seeing doesn't change me. These are the seasons when I am so grateful to sit back and rest in the fact that despite my selfish, conceited heart that would doesn't want to fight through the next three weeks, God doesn't leave me here to stew in my guilt.

Years ago I remember lying in my mother's bed with her stroking my hair, softly telling me to repeat after her:

For I am convinced, that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation can separate us from the love of Jesus Christ our Lord. (Rmns 8:38-39)

And she brings it back up years later, telling me to lean into it. Reminding me that I'm not yet convinced of it. That I still allow myself to think I've screwed up so badly that I'm pushed a little farther out from Love, and worst of all, that I can separate myself from the Christ. So I repeat it to myself. And I start over, allowing myself to remember that I get to reap the benefit of new mercy. 

But it is so effing hard. I just can't say that eloquently. But hardness doesn't give me the right or permission to stop trying, to stop remembering, and to stop resting. Remembering is what brings me back, it's what sustains. Remembering coddles me here again to see with clear eyes that these are the moments when Brooke Fraser rings loudly in my head singing "as I wait for You maybe I'm made more faithful." 

I may be ugly to people, but I'm asking to be conscientious enough to change. I may be guilt-ridden, but I am becoming more convinced. 

Three weeks. I can make it. I will make it.