Today I was on the phone with a friend talking about my decision to finish school in three years rather than doing the "normal" thing and sticking around campus for the full four. Not only did I avoid the entire idea of regretting this decision throughout the conversation, but I wouldn't even entertain the idea that I the thought of, "I wonder what my life would look like had I done things differently" had even crossed my mind.
Why did I react this way?
Perhaps it's because I don't want my husband to think I regret marrying him, since that whole idea is completely false, even though marriage was a huge reason I wanted out of school early. Perhaps it's because I want everyone to think a certain way about me - like I'm mature and classy for making such an adult move at such a young age. Perhaps I want people to think everything I said last year about wanting out of school so bad ended up working out perfectly for me.
Or perhaps I have fallen victim to the "live life with no regrets" mentality.
I'm not sure why my generations hates the word "regret" more than any other word. Other than the fact that Katy Perry sings about it and Nike probably endorses it, this "live life with no regrets" motto isn't even logical.
Whether you're the creepy Jesus kid at school or work or not, you don't have to look far to see that things aren't as they should be. Parents get divorced, children die from not having meds we could buy at Sheetz for $1, the grocery store won't take your coupons even though they're not expired, Brusster's runs out of 'Graham Central Station' ice cream...you get what I'm saying. Things are screwed up. The messes we see in this world are merely symptoms of a bigger disease - tangible evidence that the human heart is selfish, plagued, and doubting.
We're broken, guys. I am broken. And you are, too.
And surely, if this is true, then we will do things that we wish we wouldn't have done. We'll miss out on studying abroad because we were scared of leaving home. We'll verbally drag a person's character through the mud because we're insecure about ourselves. We'll date a guy we knew from the start was no good for us because we were lonely. We know better, and yet we do it anyway.
This is why I think the fact that God loves you is the hardest Sunday School lesson to teach. It cannot be taught. It must be experienced.
And when it is experienced, perhaps we'll learn that in a broken world, regret is normal.
Now, Am I suggesting that we dwell on things of the past until it paralyzes our future?
Of course not.
What I am suggesting, is that we confess our pride. I'm suggesting we mourn and joy over decisions we have made and decisions we have influenced. I'm suggesting we eat some Ben and Jerry's and cry a little bit. And I'm suggesting that in doing this, we'll proclaim the Truth that God loves us despite us.
What I'm suggesting is that we regret - we regret in the security that it is not about what we've done or what we do, but who He is and what He has done.
God is bigger than whatever mess we've made, but when we refuse to admit that we are the one who has made the mess, we begin pointing fingers at whoever else is to blame. And eventually, instead of pointing to God with our lives, we begin pointing at Him.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Silence
Silence has never been a reality in my life. I'm pretty sure I come from the loudest family on the face of the planet. Recently in an internship interview, I was asked what role I fall into in a group setting and my immediate thought was,
"The volume, of course! Ha!"
When you come from the sassy Italian family I come from, you can't survive in silence. If you don't speak up, your input doesn't matter, because nobody heard you. And I'm not ragging on my family. I wouldn't survive without them...and their voice boxes. When people meet my family, they realize why I am the way that I am. I think that's important for everyone to realize - just how much your previous experiences and environment inform who you are and why you believe what you believe.
Let me tell you a story.
My mom has always been the "cool mom". I always wanted her to chaperone field trips in elementary school - and she even chaperoned my senior prom. We are the Rory and Lorilei of the real world. Well you see, when my mom and I speak to each other, we have a tendency to get really loud. There are countless times when we are trying to get the other person not to listen, but really HEAR what we're saying, and I have to say, "Mom, stop yelling at me!!" to which she replies... "I'M NOT YELLING AT YOU! I'M TALKING TO YOU!"
You get my point.
I've developed an appreication for silence lately. Not out of rebellion of my family or because I'm going through some suffer-in-silence phase. I'm just learning the value silence holds. Actually, I don't even really believe that silence is what we think it is. I don't believe silence is the absence of noise. Sometimes, silence is louder than my mom.
Remember when you broke curfew or snuck out and your parents didn't even yell at you? They were just SO disappointed that they said nothing and the silence killed you?
That's not what I'm talking about.
The silence I'm talking about keeps company with stillness. It is not idleness. It is intentional. It forces you to listen. Even feel.
Today I sat on the floor in my dorm room where my roommates and I have had countless conversations about social justice, nutrition labels, and job interviews and I played my guitar next to the open window. The glare of the sun reflected off the air conditioner and onto my acoustic guitar as I played Bethony Dillon songs. The breeze crept in and I breathed deeply and tasted the air. I felt alive.
And even though I was stills strumming and humming melodies, I knew this was true silence.
"The volume, of course! Ha!"
When you come from the sassy Italian family I come from, you can't survive in silence. If you don't speak up, your input doesn't matter, because nobody heard you. And I'm not ragging on my family. I wouldn't survive without them...and their voice boxes. When people meet my family, they realize why I am the way that I am. I think that's important for everyone to realize - just how much your previous experiences and environment inform who you are and why you believe what you believe.
Let me tell you a story.
My mom has always been the "cool mom". I always wanted her to chaperone field trips in elementary school - and she even chaperoned my senior prom. We are the Rory and Lorilei of the real world. Well you see, when my mom and I speak to each other, we have a tendency to get really loud. There are countless times when we are trying to get the other person not to listen, but really HEAR what we're saying, and I have to say, "Mom, stop yelling at me!!" to which she replies... "I'M NOT YELLING AT YOU! I'M TALKING TO YOU!"
You get my point.
I've developed an appreication for silence lately. Not out of rebellion of my family or because I'm going through some suffer-in-silence phase. I'm just learning the value silence holds. Actually, I don't even really believe that silence is what we think it is. I don't believe silence is the absence of noise. Sometimes, silence is louder than my mom.
Remember when you broke curfew or snuck out and your parents didn't even yell at you? They were just SO disappointed that they said nothing and the silence killed you?
That's not what I'm talking about.
The silence I'm talking about keeps company with stillness. It is not idleness. It is intentional. It forces you to listen. Even feel.
Today I sat on the floor in my dorm room where my roommates and I have had countless conversations about social justice, nutrition labels, and job interviews and I played my guitar next to the open window. The glare of the sun reflected off the air conditioner and onto my acoustic guitar as I played Bethony Dillon songs. The breeze crept in and I breathed deeply and tasted the air. I felt alive.
And even though I was stills strumming and humming melodies, I knew this was true silence.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
care enough to care
I'm constantly told I have to stop taking work home with me. My job as a youth leader is very emotional. And if you've ever met me, you know how emotional I can be. Sometimes I feel like I carry the weight of these kids around with me. The abuse in their homes, their doubts, their insecurities. I take it all home. I feel like I've borrowed Santa's sack to drag around sorrow behind me everywhere I go. I feel the weight of them with every step.
The natural disasters recently haven't helped with this at all. I donated money to Haiti relief and then added them to my Santa sack. I know empathy is a good thing, but there has to be a boundary, right? So I began trying the new concept of "care, but don't care TOO much". I began breathing a little easier and walking seemed a little less like trudging.
And then Chile happened.
And Pittsburgh. And Belize. And seeing homeless folks in this blizzarding weather. And orphans everywhere. And people without clean water for heavens sake!
Suffering, injustice. This is nothing new. But that doesn't mean we stop caring. That does not mean we stop responding.
I think there is a medium between the Santa sack and not caring TOO much. There has to be. I think it's decently healthy to take the weight of the world home with you. It keeps things in perspective. Like right now, I'm waiting tables at a restaurant to save money for when I get married in 3 months. When I remember the bigger picture, I don't worry as much about where I'm going to live or where Caleb and I will end up, because when it comes down to it, even below the poverty line in the United States, we are still in the richest 5% of people in the world. And it's not about being rich, anyhow. The reality is that Caleb and I will be just fine in our minimum wage jobs. When I don't care TOO much, I get frustrated when I watch shows like the OC and the Hills that my life will never be as luxurious or as comfortable as theirs. Who hasn't felt that way?
But I don't want to live comfortably. I think if you're comfortable, you're probably not responding. There is a whole world out there crying for people who can do something to stand. Move. Go. Do.
So we will. Minimum wage paycheck and all. Because people were made for people. We need each other. You were made a white American and they were made Haitians and Mexicans and Belizians on purpose. With purpose. For purpose.
For each other.
The natural disasters recently haven't helped with this at all. I donated money to Haiti relief and then added them to my Santa sack. I know empathy is a good thing, but there has to be a boundary, right? So I began trying the new concept of "care, but don't care TOO much". I began breathing a little easier and walking seemed a little less like trudging.
And then Chile happened.
And Pittsburgh. And Belize. And seeing homeless folks in this blizzarding weather. And orphans everywhere. And people without clean water for heavens sake!
Suffering, injustice. This is nothing new. But that doesn't mean we stop caring. That does not mean we stop responding.
I think there is a medium between the Santa sack and not caring TOO much. There has to be. I think it's decently healthy to take the weight of the world home with you. It keeps things in perspective. Like right now, I'm waiting tables at a restaurant to save money for when I get married in 3 months. When I remember the bigger picture, I don't worry as much about where I'm going to live or where Caleb and I will end up, because when it comes down to it, even below the poverty line in the United States, we are still in the richest 5% of people in the world. And it's not about being rich, anyhow. The reality is that Caleb and I will be just fine in our minimum wage jobs. When I don't care TOO much, I get frustrated when I watch shows like the OC and the Hills that my life will never be as luxurious or as comfortable as theirs. Who hasn't felt that way?
But I don't want to live comfortably. I think if you're comfortable, you're probably not responding. There is a whole world out there crying for people who can do something to stand. Move. Go. Do.
So we will. Minimum wage paycheck and all. Because people were made for people. We need each other. You were made a white American and they were made Haitians and Mexicans and Belizians on purpose. With purpose. For purpose.
For each other.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
life perspective.
What do we say in the face of such specific tragedy? There are no words. What could we possibly say to ease a pain so severe that it makes one go numb?
"Rest in peace"...but what does that even mean? Are rest and peace not interdependent?
"She's with God now"...what difference does it make where she is if she's not here? We want her to be here.
"I'm sorry"...surely we're all sorry. But sorry is meaningless in tragedy complete and outside of our control. It offers nothing if it is only a word and not accompanied by action.
To imagine what her life would have been like, what causality could result in such heavy hopelessness, and what possibly could have prevented it is far too much to imagine and carry. Yet one can't help to stop at the intersection of "why?" and "what if?" So how do we respond?
Perhaps the question isn't 'what do we say?' but rather, 'how do we listen' and as a result, 'how do we respond'?
We pray. Hard.
We mourn over this visible fracture in the universe.
We mourn over their unimaginable grief.
We make ourselves intentionally available.
And we are reminded why we do what we do.
Surely, we cannot fix or ease anything. We can offer no solution to grief. That is not the intention. This should not be our response. A loss as this is much too personal and heavy for us to offer anything acceptable other than ourselves.
I have no ounce of doubt that her salvation was broken; it wasn't. For you cannot sin your way out of God's love. His sacrifice already paid for this. Surely, Jesus Himself wept over this, for she was and still is His beloved. In the midst of this tragedy, there is hope, though understandably difficult to see through the fog of grief. It's okay to see no redemption in this right now. But assuredly, it is there.
Hope remains. Healing is real.
We cannot expect any certain behavior or belief from the family. But what we can expect, and I do expect, is a response from the body of Christ. We mourn together. When one part of the body hurts, we are all affected. When one part mourns, we mourn with it. Yet somehow, we rejoice. We rejoice that now the tears she cries are only from blissful and uncontainable joy.
I bet she's dancing.
"Rest in peace"...but what does that even mean? Are rest and peace not interdependent?
"She's with God now"...what difference does it make where she is if she's not here? We want her to be here.
"I'm sorry"...surely we're all sorry. But sorry is meaningless in tragedy complete and outside of our control. It offers nothing if it is only a word and not accompanied by action.
To imagine what her life would have been like, what causality could result in such heavy hopelessness, and what possibly could have prevented it is far too much to imagine and carry. Yet one can't help to stop at the intersection of "why?" and "what if?" So how do we respond?
Perhaps the question isn't 'what do we say?' but rather, 'how do we listen' and as a result, 'how do we respond'?
We pray. Hard.
We mourn over this visible fracture in the universe.
We mourn over their unimaginable grief.
We make ourselves intentionally available.
And we are reminded why we do what we do.
Surely, we cannot fix or ease anything. We can offer no solution to grief. That is not the intention. This should not be our response. A loss as this is much too personal and heavy for us to offer anything acceptable other than ourselves.
I have no ounce of doubt that her salvation was broken; it wasn't. For you cannot sin your way out of God's love. His sacrifice already paid for this. Surely, Jesus Himself wept over this, for she was and still is His beloved. In the midst of this tragedy, there is hope, though understandably difficult to see through the fog of grief. It's okay to see no redemption in this right now. But assuredly, it is there.
Hope remains. Healing is real.
We cannot expect any certain behavior or belief from the family. But what we can expect, and I do expect, is a response from the body of Christ. We mourn together. When one part of the body hurts, we are all affected. When one part mourns, we mourn with it. Yet somehow, we rejoice. We rejoice that now the tears she cries are only from blissful and uncontainable joy.
I bet she's dancing.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
chasing the wind
I am beginning to believe Solomon in Ecclesiastes when he cried, "Meaningless! Meaningless! All is meaningless!" [read in context of the whole book]
When I first started studying the Wisdom Literature a year and a half ago in college, I didn't understand it. (Ha, still don't.) I couldn't even comprehend what the word "wisdom" meant. I read the Scriptures discussing 'lady wisdom' and the like, but that didn't help me at all.
What if I look around the world and think no one is wise? Everything looks pretty messed up to me. Now where do I find wisdom?
There is a confusion that must be addressed. There is a difference between wisdom and good advice. Wisdom is constant while good advice is subjective. Good advice is dependent on the situation. Wisdom is not.
There really is nothing new under the sun. We're never satisfied. Nothing will ever be enough. We chase the wind in circles thinking it will lead us to castles in the sky when really we only might end up finding castles in the sand. And we're not even back where we started. We're somewhere further with tear-stained cheeks, scraped knees, and dirty hands.
But I don't always think it's bad to get dirty. You have to get messy or you'll never learn. By no means am I condoning recklessness, but sometimes you have to chase the wind.
Sometimes, it takes chasing the wind to realize that all the while, He was chasing after you.
When I first started studying the Wisdom Literature a year and a half ago in college, I didn't understand it. (Ha, still don't.) I couldn't even comprehend what the word "wisdom" meant. I read the Scriptures discussing 'lady wisdom' and the like, but that didn't help me at all.
What if I look around the world and think no one is wise? Everything looks pretty messed up to me. Now where do I find wisdom?
There is a confusion that must be addressed. There is a difference between wisdom and good advice. Wisdom is constant while good advice is subjective. Good advice is dependent on the situation. Wisdom is not.
There really is nothing new under the sun. We're never satisfied. Nothing will ever be enough. We chase the wind in circles thinking it will lead us to castles in the sky when really we only might end up finding castles in the sand. And we're not even back where we started. We're somewhere further with tear-stained cheeks, scraped knees, and dirty hands.
But I don't always think it's bad to get dirty. You have to get messy or you'll never learn. By no means am I condoning recklessness, but sometimes you have to chase the wind.
Sometimes, it takes chasing the wind to realize that all the while, He was chasing after you.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
coffee and cosmos
I am beginning to enjoy library coffee.
If you don't go to Waynesburg, then you don't understand why this is revolutionary. The coffee in the library, while it's free, is disgusting. It's always old from sitting on the warmer all day and has a burnt aftertaste.
A burnt whole-time-your-drinking-taste really.
But there's something about a certain familiarity when you've been gone from a place for so long that sparks appreciation. And then goodness. And then longing.
When I was in Australia, I wanted library coffee. With one powdered creamer and one sweet-n-low in a white styrofoam cup that I'd complain were killing the environment. I don't even like sweet-n-low. And now as I sit here and drink it, I yearn to wander the streets of Petersham until I find my way to the city. An excuse to mindlessly listen to 40 minutes of my ipod on the Inner West Line train until I get to downtown Sydney. Now, I walk on High Street in Waynesburg and long to see the Harbour Bridge in full view as I get off the train at Circular Quay and make my way through the crowd. I always take the stairs on the left. Once my transit pass clears at the turnabout, I turn right.
There, I find coffee. Familiarity, once again. Deep breath. A home in exile for which I sing my hallelujahs when it's existence is revealed. I sit and read C.S. Lewis and drink skinny caps for 3.50AUD a piece. Consistency. Finally. Everything is peaceful. While the chaos within me rang loud like a bell on a steeple, I sipped slowly, ignoring the time. Disorder somehow fit into order. Like human structure was woven this way so we could survive. Like someone knew.
Cosmos.
Coffee.
But what is it that I truly long for? God would be too easy of an answer.
If you don't go to Waynesburg, then you don't understand why this is revolutionary. The coffee in the library, while it's free, is disgusting. It's always old from sitting on the warmer all day and has a burnt aftertaste.
A burnt whole-time-your-drinking-taste really.
But there's something about a certain familiarity when you've been gone from a place for so long that sparks appreciation. And then goodness. And then longing.
When I was in Australia, I wanted library coffee. With one powdered creamer and one sweet-n-low in a white styrofoam cup that I'd complain were killing the environment. I don't even like sweet-n-low. And now as I sit here and drink it, I yearn to wander the streets of Petersham until I find my way to the city. An excuse to mindlessly listen to 40 minutes of my ipod on the Inner West Line train until I get to downtown Sydney. Now, I walk on High Street in Waynesburg and long to see the Harbour Bridge in full view as I get off the train at Circular Quay and make my way through the crowd. I always take the stairs on the left. Once my transit pass clears at the turnabout, I turn right.
There, I find coffee. Familiarity, once again. Deep breath. A home in exile for which I sing my hallelujahs when it's existence is revealed. I sit and read C.S. Lewis and drink skinny caps for 3.50AUD a piece. Consistency. Finally. Everything is peaceful. While the chaos within me rang loud like a bell on a steeple, I sipped slowly, ignoring the time. Disorder somehow fit into order. Like human structure was woven this way so we could survive. Like someone knew.
Cosmos.
Coffee.
But what is it that I truly long for? God would be too easy of an answer.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
when it snows
A blizzard hit today. And not in my spiritual life.
I've never seen this much snow before. Apparently, Western PA hasn't seen snow like this since the blizzard of 1993, which I vaguely remember. I was living in West Virginia at the time and I stayed in my pajamas all day. Mom said we couldn't leave the house.
I just finished digging out my car with literally feet of snow on top of and around it with my fiance and roommates. Work feels like play in the snow - especially with people you love. I have to be at work tomorrow at 8am, which means I'll probably need to leave here around 7am to ensure I'm not late. My mornings seem to get earlier and earlier the older I get. And I'm okay with it. But I'll blog about my recognition and accepting of adulthood later.
I always think of God when it snows (you knew this was coming). But not in a cheesy way. I never think of God's presence in a visible or really tangible way. I always think of it as some sparkly feeling you get behind your collar bone.
And then it snows.
And I'm surrounded by thousands upon thousands of crystallized molecules; each hand-crafted by the Maker of the universe. It falls gently around me, and I don't fear. I can't hear it, except when I listen really, really carefully. And even then, it identifies no distinct sound. Just a hum. Or a murmur. Or just a sound I hear from faith that the pieces plummeting from miles high will eventually land. And when it does it joins the rest in a sparkling uniform of glory. Like the sky in the Outback.
I always think it's going to be dark outside when it snows. But it never is. It's always bright. And calm. Serene. And I wonder why I didn't venture outside earlier.
And while it has the potential to become like it is today and was in 1993,
I'm at peace.
I've never seen this much snow before. Apparently, Western PA hasn't seen snow like this since the blizzard of 1993, which I vaguely remember. I was living in West Virginia at the time and I stayed in my pajamas all day. Mom said we couldn't leave the house.
I just finished digging out my car with literally feet of snow on top of and around it with my fiance and roommates. Work feels like play in the snow - especially with people you love. I have to be at work tomorrow at 8am, which means I'll probably need to leave here around 7am to ensure I'm not late. My mornings seem to get earlier and earlier the older I get. And I'm okay with it. But I'll blog about my recognition and accepting of adulthood later.
I always think of God when it snows (you knew this was coming). But not in a cheesy way. I never think of God's presence in a visible or really tangible way. I always think of it as some sparkly feeling you get behind your collar bone.
And then it snows.
And I'm surrounded by thousands upon thousands of crystallized molecules; each hand-crafted by the Maker of the universe. It falls gently around me, and I don't fear. I can't hear it, except when I listen really, really carefully. And even then, it identifies no distinct sound. Just a hum. Or a murmur. Or just a sound I hear from faith that the pieces plummeting from miles high will eventually land. And when it does it joins the rest in a sparkling uniform of glory. Like the sky in the Outback.
I always think it's going to be dark outside when it snows. But it never is. It's always bright. And calm. Serene. And I wonder why I didn't venture outside earlier.
And while it has the potential to become like it is today and was in 1993,
I'm at peace.
Friday, January 22, 2010
be still
Psalm 131
My heart is not proud, O LORD,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
But I have stilled and quieted my soul;
like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
O Israel, put your hope in the LORD
both now and forevermore.
--
I have recently discovered that there is a large possibility that I could be at risk of being a complete control freak.
I like to tell myself that I'm not. I'm constantly reminding myself of His provision. His faithfulness. His love. La. La. La. A bunch of stuff surely I find hope in, but I don't really believe all the time.
There is so much that could happen in the upcoming months. My senior audit still isn't finished, so I don't know if I'm graduating in May or in December. I was notified today that I got an interview at Princeton Theological Seminary, which was some of the best news. At the same time, I don't know if I can take it because I don't know when I'm graduating. I also have a few internship opportunities for this summer.
Oh, and I'm getting married. No big.
Lots of decisions to make. Big, adult, life decisions. Part of me is almost indifferent to whatever happens. I'm just excited to have a zest for life again. (Falling in love with God all over again like it's the first time, but that's another blog.)
Many things leading up to this moment have taught me that wherever I am, it needs to be somewhere that I have to trust God. Because if I don't have to trust Him, 9x out of 10, I won't. So maybe this is a good place to be. Intentionally trusting God.
Sometimes, you just have to let God god.
My heart is not proud, O LORD,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
But I have stilled and quieted my soul;
like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
O Israel, put your hope in the LORD
both now and forevermore.
--
I have recently discovered that there is a large possibility that I could be at risk of being a complete control freak.
I like to tell myself that I'm not. I'm constantly reminding myself of His provision. His faithfulness. His love. La. La. La. A bunch of stuff surely I find hope in, but I don't really believe all the time.
There is so much that could happen in the upcoming months. My senior audit still isn't finished, so I don't know if I'm graduating in May or in December. I was notified today that I got an interview at Princeton Theological Seminary, which was some of the best news. At the same time, I don't know if I can take it because I don't know when I'm graduating. I also have a few internship opportunities for this summer.
Oh, and I'm getting married. No big.
Lots of decisions to make. Big, adult, life decisions. Part of me is almost indifferent to whatever happens. I'm just excited to have a zest for life again. (Falling in love with God all over again like it's the first time, but that's another blog.)
Many things leading up to this moment have taught me that wherever I am, it needs to be somewhere that I have to trust God. Because if I don't have to trust Him, 9x out of 10, I won't. So maybe this is a good place to be. Intentionally trusting God.
Sometimes, you just have to let God god.
Monday, January 4, 2010
transition
I didn't make a New Year's resolution. I always break them by January 2nd. I decided not to set myself up this time.
As the New Year has rolled itself in, it's gotten me thinking about beginnings, endings, resolutions, revolutions, and the unknown. I have so much coming up in the next couple months that is still so unknown. While I know that I'm getting married, I have no clue what a real marriage will be like. The plan is that we're moving to South Carolina so Caleb can continue in the band Eleventyseven. This means I am uprooting and moving 10 hours away from home, and I'm only 21. This isn't a sob story; no sympathy needed. Just another transition. I only returned from Australia a few short months ago, and already I face the reality of going back to school in exactly one week. Australia almost feels like a dream, but no longer a nightmare. We're making progress.
I'm not the best with transition. I've was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder when I was in 3rd grade, and transition has always been a trigger. I have seen evidence of God in His work within my disorder. I went from a girl who couldn't sleep over at friend's houses as a child to a girl who spent 5 months halfway across the world. I never thought it would happen. I still get anxious and even have medication, but God has done things I never could have done alone.
All the transitioning that has happened in the last few months going to and returning from Australia, going back to school, getting married, moving, graduating early...there is so much unknown in the future. Caleb and I still don't even know where we're going to live. It's a neat thing, trusting God.
It's one thing to trust God with your future. It's another to trust Him with the present, too.
So I'm taking it day by day. Not coasting on the spirit of adrenaline, but rather active in prayer, and asking that He'd prepare a place for us, and not just on this earth. I'm finding myself "growing up", but not being sure when it happened. Surely hindsight is 20/20, but I feel like the fog of my foresight is lifting just a little. I'm learning to not only recognize, but mourn and joy over the different seasons of life. Some seasons that find others I pray never find me. But I'm learning to live right now, instead of live for whatever my next destination is. I used to have a habit of always wanting the next stage of my life and simply existing through until I got there. I'm learning to love to live in each day.
I suppose there really is a simpler beauty hidden in life. It's called living.
As the New Year has rolled itself in, it's gotten me thinking about beginnings, endings, resolutions, revolutions, and the unknown. I have so much coming up in the next couple months that is still so unknown. While I know that I'm getting married, I have no clue what a real marriage will be like. The plan is that we're moving to South Carolina so Caleb can continue in the band Eleventyseven. This means I am uprooting and moving 10 hours away from home, and I'm only 21. This isn't a sob story; no sympathy needed. Just another transition. I only returned from Australia a few short months ago, and already I face the reality of going back to school in exactly one week. Australia almost feels like a dream, but no longer a nightmare. We're making progress.
I'm not the best with transition. I've was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder when I was in 3rd grade, and transition has always been a trigger. I have seen evidence of God in His work within my disorder. I went from a girl who couldn't sleep over at friend's houses as a child to a girl who spent 5 months halfway across the world. I never thought it would happen. I still get anxious and even have medication, but God has done things I never could have done alone.
All the transitioning that has happened in the last few months going to and returning from Australia, going back to school, getting married, moving, graduating early...there is so much unknown in the future. Caleb and I still don't even know where we're going to live. It's a neat thing, trusting God.
It's one thing to trust God with your future. It's another to trust Him with the present, too.
So I'm taking it day by day. Not coasting on the spirit of adrenaline, but rather active in prayer, and asking that He'd prepare a place for us, and not just on this earth. I'm finding myself "growing up", but not being sure when it happened. Surely hindsight is 20/20, but I feel like the fog of my foresight is lifting just a little. I'm learning to not only recognize, but mourn and joy over the different seasons of life. Some seasons that find others I pray never find me. But I'm learning to live right now, instead of live for whatever my next destination is. I used to have a habit of always wanting the next stage of my life and simply existing through until I got there. I'm learning to love to live in each day.
I suppose there really is a simpler beauty hidden in life. It's called living.
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