Combat Mode

I have been surrounded by emotion, but emotion is fleeting and confusing. So I am combatting it with truths.

“The great thing to remember is that though our feelings come and go God’s love for us does not.” - C.S Lewis

My name is Priscilla Gray. 

I live in a beautiful area.

I was born into a family that already had four children and was made larger 2 1/2 years later with the birth of my little sister.

I am an aunt to the adorable, Callie (as of 6:43AM[MT] this morning).

I can’t help but care about people.

I don’t handle emotion well.

People bring a lot of emotion. 

I care about them. 

I don’t handle emotion well. 

God’s grace is sufficient for me. His power is made perfect in weakness. (2 Cor 12)

When I feel overrun by emotion, my first response has been to bury it under any noise I can find. 

”Crying is all right in its own way while it lasts. 

But you have to stop sooner or later, 

and then you still have to decide what to do.”  - C.S Lewis

Even when it is hard, I have made my choice to live within 

God’s plan. Every other option is terrifying and distasteful.

“Shall we indeed accept the good from God

 and not accept the adversity?” -Job 2:10

When it feels like there is a storm inside of me that tearing my heart into a million pieces, simultaneously suffocating me and drowning me, crushing the very center of my soul I know that God sees and cares. 

“But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, He who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; when you walk though the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” -Isaiah 43:1-3a

When I feel utterly alone and unknown even to myself. 

God knows me. 

He made me. 

He put me here. 

There is a purpose to this pain. 

“Pain insists upon being attended to. 

God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, 

but shouts in our pains. It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

 -C.S Lewis

When all else fails, breathe in and out, feel your heart beat, 

and give thanks for the most basic life functions. 

People and all the emotions they cause have no mandatory power over me.

 All the power they have is given to them, by me, by choice. 

“...you whom I took from the ends of the earth, 

and called from its farthest corners, 

saying to you, 

“You are my servant, I have chosen you 

and not cast you off”; 

fear not, for I am with you; 

be not dismayed, for I am your God; 

I will strengthen you, 

I will help you, 

I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

-Isaiah 41:9-10

When life is swirling tornado of love, faith, pain, joy, confusion, loneliness, seeking, losing, ice, warmth, tears, laughter, annoyance, hope, and instability, I have stability. My life is built on a Rock. When the silence around me is screaming, it should only drive me to find the quiet of my Foundation.

“I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. 

You are yourself the answer. 

Before your face questions die away. 

What other answer would suffice?” - C.S Lewis

“Have you not know? Have you not heard?

The Lord is the everlasting God,

the Creator of the ends of the earth.

He does not faint or grow weary;

his understanding is unsearchable.

He gives power to the faint,

and to him who has no might,

He increases strength.

Even youths grow tired and weary,

and young men shall fall exhausted;

but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength;

they shall mount up with wings like eagles;

they shall run and not be weary;

they shall walk and not faint.”

-Isaiah 40: 28-31 

In the end, this will pass. Everything will pass away. 

And there will be nothing left but God, unhindered. 

I, in this moment, am fighting to abide in that truth. 

"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. ¹⁷ For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. ¹⁸ So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." - 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

The Anticipation of a Coming Generation

Yesterday was my sister-in-law's due date.

This means at any moment my brother will become a father. 

I am having some trouble wrapping my head around this. 

My brother, with the green eyes, the bald head and the fluctuating facial hair. 

My brother, who would steal my favorite teddy bear, run to the bathroom and hide it under the sink, but flush the toilet and tell me that the bear was floating down with the discarded toilet paper. 

My brother, who would randomly break into song, or even rarer,
into dance, in the kitchen as we fixed lunch.

My brother, who used to pick on my sister Charissa for not being a Yankee (born in IL himself) and will now make his jaw-shifting, eyes-slightly-narrowed, eyebrow-raised, dissatisfied "humph", face if you mention he was ever happy living anywhere above the Mason Dixon line.

My brother, who has been making eggs or oatmeal
 every morning for breakfast for years. 

My brother, whose car turnover rate was so extreme that in the first eight or so years of driving, he had eight or so cars. Not because he wrecked any, he normally improved them, he just got tired of them I suppose.

My brother, who has mastered the art of contented, contemplative
silence and one-word responses.

My brother, is so ferociously protective of his family that he gave each of his single sisters some form of mace/knife etc before we moved away from him, threatened my now brother-in-law with shooting him if he was not 'good to my sister',  and is  concerned that  the hospital his baby will be born in does not have metal detectors on the doors.

My brother, who signed up to coach wrestling at our high school,
with no real experience in the sport. 

My brother, who has grown from a college student, content with spending spare time driving trucks through mud and rocks, and buying new packs of socks rather than doing laundry, into a man who fights for every above average grade, on top of work and growing family concern.

My brother, who has the most ridiculous and understated sense of humor,
that you really have to know him to see. 

My brother, who used to practice "screaming" for the 'heavy metal' moments of the songs that his high school band would play (Kyris - maybe you'd heard of them).

My brother, who introduced to me the music of Brad Paisley
alongside the concept of having pride in where you live and where you are from
(excepting those two years up north).

My brother, who waited and prayed and fought for his wife, the amazing Pam, who so seamlessly fits into our family and with Andrew himself, that it couldn't be anything but God's plan.

My brother, with whom I can recall every serious conversation I've had.
And his calm, thoughtful expression and who's advice still echoes in situations I face today.

My brother, who, good decision or questionable one, has never once lost my respect or pride because he has always made it clear, that good or bad, his life and purpose comes back to a pursuit of God and at the end of the day that is what is important.

My brother, who within a matter of the days will become the one responsible for teaching
how to grow,
how to keep teasing friendly,
how to be confident enough to dance through the kitchen,
how to be strong enough to protect your family,
how to be weak enough to learn,
how to make eggs,
how to take pride in where you are from,
how to pursue what you love,
how buy a car,
how to listen and not overreact,
how to give anything your all,
and most importantly, how to pray and submit your life to God.

In the course of one conversation I had with my brother as I shared some of the struggles I had been facing at camp that summer he shared with me 2 Corinthians 12, a group of verses that had made a huge difference in his life.

"But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." - 2 Corinthians 12: 9-10

When I see my brother now I am exceedingly proud of him. I have sat behind him (I am seven years younger) and watched him grow and face life. I know there is plenty that I missed, plenty good and bad that I have not seen, but there is plenty that I have. And the most prevalent of that is my big, imposing, strong, protective brother's ability to be weak and to let Christ work though that weakness. In that conversation in a canoe on my, 18th birthday, he was weak enough to be even slightly transparent with his little sister (who he had not spent significant amounts of time with since I was about 11) see that he struggled and at the time, see that he submitted that to God.

I am human enough to know that my brother, no matter how awesome I think he is, is not perfect and I do not expect him to be, but I have seen, and continue to see, him step back and fight to submit his worry, his anger, his irritation, his heart, his relationships, and his self, to God. 

That is what makes me so proud of him. That is what makes me respect him so much. That is what makes me so excited for him to be a father.

My sister in law's due date was yesterday.

This means that at any moment my brother will become a father.

That child is freaking blessed. 

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The Release of Pent-up Air From Your Lungs

Today I was looking through my old files on my computer and was pleasantly surprised by a completed work (I have a bad habit). It makes me feel sentimental about school, or my current lack thereof.

I sigh.

The blinking cursor mocks me as it sits marking the beginning of what is supposed to be a short story. 

First person. 3-10 pages. Double spaced. Times New Roman. 12 point font. 

The specifics are rolling over and over in my head. My index finger taps lightly up and down on the “j” key. My eyes drift towards my hands, willing them to start thinking for my brain and type their own story. 

Hmmm. 

There is a faded scribbling of a pen on the back of my left hand reminding me to buy stamps, read the Aristotle essay, email my professor, call my sister, and write a story. I scratch the back of my head then my forehead, then my leg. The wall next to me is white, with an odd brown stain that was there when we moved in. I never thought to wonder where it came from. Maybe I could write about that. 

My fingers start moving along the white keys. 

“Harold and I didn’t notice the stain when we first moved in. I wish we had. It would have been nice to have known the story so we could have been better prepared.” 

2 years of writers
block- abridged.

I stop and hit my head lightly on the keyboard a couple times. A random collection of letters and symbols appear after the final period. I delete them and then the rest of the writing. Better prepared for what? Something gory? Something sad? Something hilarious? How melodramatic was that opening? And why in the world was Harold the first name I picked? The cursor starts to mock me again. 

My stomach grumbles. 

Food will help. 

I get up and walk to the kitchen. I open the fridge and stare into it blankly for nearly three minutes before letting out a frustrated sigh and closing the door. I go to the cupboard and grab a bowl and some cereal. I go to get the milk out of the fridge. We're out. Of course. I grab a pen off the counter and add “buy milk” to the back of my hand. I think about pouring orange juice on the cereal, but then think better of it. I dump the corn flakes back in their box and grab a bag of chips and the carton of juice and head back to the computer. I finish the bag and wipe my hands on my sweatpants. 

I glance at the clock. 7:83 PM. 

We need a new clock. 

I pick up my cell phone. 7:43PM. 

I start biting the inside of my lip. 

I move the mouse to the bottom of the screen and open the internet. It takes twelve minutes to answer my emails and facebook post. I watch a video Elijah posted about a father telling his son that monsters are real and that he and mommy had a deal with the monster that if he goes to sleep and doesn’t make a peep the monster won’t get him. I laugh out loud, even though it was not that funny.  Maybe I could write a children’s story. 

“There once was a magical unicorn named Matilda. She had and evil uncle Bruce who was a bear. A black bear. Fact: Bears eat Beets. Bears. Beets. Battlestar Galactica.” 

I laugh again to myself, but figure the joke will be lost on most kids, which is a real shame. Besides, Bruce and Matilda? I am really off my game. Maybe I could write a story about people with out names. I could call them “Thing 1” and “Thing 2” and “Thing 3” and so forth. But no, darn Dr. Seuss went and monopolized that market. 

My head stats hurting so I get up to get some water. As I sit down I stare at the cup. Water makes me think of the ocean, which makes me think of Shia Le Beouf, because once we watched his TV show while we were at the beach. I begin to wonder if his new movie is out. I pull the internet back up and search for it. 

I watch the trailer and three subsequent suggested trailers. I figure while I am online, I’ll check facebook again. Nothing new, but I look through my old teacher’s photo album from her family vacation. I feel slightly like a stalker, but it's entertaining. 

Now it is eleven minutes past nine. My eyes are starting to droop and I do not have one word down. 

I blow my cheeks full of air so they expanded like a blow fish, then let them out like I got punched in the face. 

I realize how ridiculous I must look, and tell myself this, out loud. Then I began to wonder so I pull up the web camera on my computer and take a picture of my bored, brainless self. The shutter clicks and the picture adds itself to the saved shots from last week's eight-page research paper and February's Beowulf debacle.

My mom used to tell me that movement helped you think. I crack my knuckles. 

I doesn’t work. 

I stretch my legs out.

Nothing.

I stand up.

Nada. 

I do a handstand against the wall. The blood rushes to my head. I flip back down. 

My brain is blank. 

I throw a few punches at the air. I draw a flower on my wrist with a sharpie. I eat some cheese. I dance to an annoying song. I buy the annoying song on iTunes. I try to come up with a good name. Irene. Phillip. Gladys. Cherry. Frank. 

I try a yoga pose. I try Aristotle. I try just sitting. I eat some chocolate. I close my eyes

It hits me.

I walk back to the computer still forming the idea in my head. I lick the chocolate off my thumb and stretch all ten fingers before gently placing them on their proper keys. I feel my mouth curve into a smile as my fingers begin to move. 

“I sigh...”

by Priscilla Gray

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Sounds of a Study Lab

I now work in the College and Career Readiness department of Tri County Community College. This means that I usually end up doing a lot of things during my three-hour shifts (it's part-time) one of which is occasionally facilitate an open lab for people who are studying to take their G.E.D.

Last night there were very few people and they were mostly studying on their own, so I grabbed a scrap piece of paper and a pen (which I have to travel with as this department has an obsession with pencils. I find, on average, one, three-year-old, promotional pen to every five #2 pencils) and then started my own version of a writing exercise.

Sidebar: I have found that being out of school, I will periodically give myself homework. Like telling myself to sit and think about the sounds I heard and how to describe them, rather than doodle. 

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

Sonic* Studying

- The rhythmic vibration of the old air condintoner, alternating between noise and quiet, like a weary Grandfather napping in an threadbare arm chair, snoring, in and out.

-The muffled static of papers sliding together and apart.

- The frustrated knock of a pencil hitting the table, only to be picked back up again seconds later. As if the driver of the wood encrusted lead was only looking for a different sound besides the steady pull of the black tip against the white scrap paper.

- An extended and somewhat labored copier, broken up by the incessant beeping of an error warning, which is broken up by the curt, yet good natured, "Shut up!" of the operator of the machine.

- A wide range of sighs:

     -The frustrated one that preceded the the pencil drop
     - The weary one that starts with a slow intake of breath
     - The wishful one, accompanied by an expression implying that their eyes are seeing anything but the ghostly yellow/white of the wall infront of them.

- The dynamic tones of the lead facilitator as she jokes back and forth with students. Inflecting more on the punchline of dry humor than on any legitimate statement or direction.

- The stifled puffs of air pushed, in quick succession, out of the nose of the girl who seems incapable of not laughing at everything that happens or is said.  

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

There was more sounds to be sure, but the students left and the lab closed. 

*Sonic |ˈsänik|: adjective 

relating to or using sound waves.

Through a Rose Colored Glass (La Vie en Rose)

The upbeat staccato notes dance out of the end of the trumpet, as the man on the other end puffs his cheeks in and out, pushing air through the shiny brass tubes. His eyes open wide and eyebrows dancing up and down with the effort.

Behind him the graceful fingers of a pianist cavort over the worn ivory keys. Her shoulders move up and down with the beat brought by the drummer at the back of the stage, who closes his eyes and feels the beat tapping out of the end of his sticks.

A tubist, clarinetist, and guitar player take up the rest of the stage. Each lost in their own instrument. 

It's the people out in the smoky hall in front of the stage who get to really appreciate how the instruments come together. 

In the dark corner booth, a man with the dark mustache and suit sits, his ice melting into the scotch in his cut glass tumbler, leaving yet another watermark on the scarred table. He sits with one leg crossed over the other, the well pressed crease centered down the side of each. He seems unmoved by the beat of the music that fills the hall from its baseboard to rafters, but every once in a while the tune wins and the careful observer is rewarded with a subtle tap of his foot. He sits with a pen poised over the paper on the table and every few minutes he jots something down, careful to avoid the upper corner of the paper that had the misfortune to fall in a previous customer's fresh watermark. His free hand periodically goes up to his mouth as he takes a long breath through a thick brown cigar, then sends a ring of smoke into dimly lit air. He keeps his eyes trained on the band, rarely distracted by the mass of movement between his table and the stage.

At least a dozen couples move around the rough hewn wooden floor that has been made smooth by the movement of hundreds of feet over the years. The thick heeled pumps, spinning around the shiny black and white wingtips, both moving too quick to really see how scuffed the toes are from their constant movement. Above the shoes skirts twirl up and down, confused by the repeated change of direction as their owners spin in and out against the pin stripe vests of their partners. Above the swishing skirts, you can catch glimpses of exhilarated and white smiles, jumping out from flushed faces that contrast nicely against the pleased, and confidently demure, grins on the faces above the pinstripes. 

Laughter breaks over the top of the band, emerging from a cluster of tables pushed against the wall where a group of dancers take a much needed break. A girl whose carefully placed curls are starting to come loose around her face jokingly swings her tired feet up onto the lap of her partner, pleading exhaustion. As the band starts up a new song he holds his hands out to her, inviting her to return to the throb of their whirling compadres. Her smile doesn't leave her face as she wearily shakes her head, and sneaks a swig out of her friend's glass. Unfazed, her clean shaven partner doesn't budge his invitation, and she lets out another laugh before standing and leading him on to the dance floor instead. 

On the stage the trumpeter lowers his instrument and steps up to the microphone. As he opens his mouth a smooth, low, gravely strain of words escapes over the room. A faint impromptu cheer rises from the crowd as he makes his announcement. 

"Sisters and Brothers, this is Reverend Satchmo getting ready to beat out this mellow sermon for you. My text this evening is 'When the Saints Go Marching'. Here come Brother Higgenbottom down the aisle with his trombone. Blow it boy."*

From the back of the stage another man has emerged with the announced instrument. He lets loose his string of notes as the trumpeter taps his foot against the stage, waiting for his cue to start singing. As the song progresses so does the swinging and stepping on the center of the floor. 

The night is begging to go on forever, and yet the band begins to wind down with a slow melody that showcases the slow pluck of the guitar and the dancing fingers of the pianist across the high octaves of the keyboard. The trumpeter lets them play alone for two counts of eight before letting the main melody emerge from the wide end of his instrument. After a full minute he drops the trumpet to his side and reaches for the glass of water on the old wooden stool next to the microphone. He lets the last few gulps slide down his throat before clearing it softly as the piano and guitar hold the mood. He takes hold of the old silver microphone, looks towards the ceiling then drops his swaying head, eyes closed, and begins:

"Hold me close and hold me fast 

The magic spell you cast 

This is la vie en rose 

When you kiss me heaven sighs 

And tho I close my eyes 

I see la vie en rose 

When you press me to your heart 

I'm in a world apart 

A world where roses bloom 

And when you speak...angels sing from above 

Everyday words seem...to turn into love songs 

Give your heart and soul to me 

And life will always be 

La vie en rose"*

Slowly, as the band escalates through the end of the song, the couples reluctantly pull on their coats, and wrap scarves around their necks. The girl with the curls has pushed the fallen ringlets inside her felt beret, and linked her arm through her persistent partner's, the remnants of her exhilarated smile still flitting across her face. They stroll out the door under a full moon that cuts through the late night haze hanging above the Chicago harbor, and the club falls into an exhausted silence.

The band begins to pack up their instruments amidst scattered compliments to each other's playing.  The man in the mustache approaches the stage and introduces himself as a reporter for the Times, doing an article. He sits with the trumpeter on the edge of the stage and begins by asking him about his music.

The trumpeter lets out a rumbling chuckle, and shakes his head.

"There is two kinds of music, the good, and the bad. I play the good kind."*

The reporter nods as he scratches notes on his water stained piece of paper. He continues to ask questions and scribble the answers for a few minutes before Louis, exhausted from the night of playing, shakes his head and breaks into his famous smile that seems to take up the entire lower half of his face. Happy wrinkles escape the corners of his eyes as he reaches out and sets calloused fingers in front of the mustached man's pen. He takes a deep breath before summing up the article as he sees fit:

"What we play is life."*

 *All real Louis Armstrong quotes.

Entitlement: Revisited With a Side of Perspective and Large Helping of Reflection and Opinion

Home. 

This morning in church we talked about Colossians 3 about children honoring parents. Michael (our pastor) first asked for those who were twelve and under to raise their hands and he addressed the fact that Paul wrote this with the expectation that the children in the early church would hear it and follow it. 

Then he said this, “Now those over twelve who still live at home with their parents.” Pav who was on the row in front of me immediately turns around and whispers, “That’s you Peige, put your hand up!” And then Pav’s ever loyal seven-year-old daughter turns and smiles and points at me till I, laughing, raise my hand in the air. 

Guilty as charged. 

How do I feel about the current state of things? Well...let me weight the options. 

I could be upset about the stigma of kids who come home and their inability to function properly. Or I could be humbled that I have the ability to come home and live free of rent while I pay off bills and get myself situated financially. I’m going with the latter. 

I could take out my frustration at not living independently by avoiding my parents and being moody around the house, to “prove I don’t need them”, or I could work with them to become a functioning household of adults. I could appreciate the time I have to live close to them and catch up on the two years of changing that we’ve three done farther apart. 

I could feel childish that I ride in the backseat of the minivan every Sunday as we go to church, or I could be thankful that they are letting me ride along and use their gas, which saves money.

I could scramble for sarcasm, bitterness or resentment to prove to myself that I am independent individual, or I could know that I am in fact more independent that I ever thought and remind myself to be a little dependent for the sake of unity. Because I believe independence, maturity, or responsibility is not defined by outward actions, age, or position in life, but rather with an ability to look at life and make wise, sound, decisions for the benefit of everyone involved, present and future.

I am striving for that sort of maturity and growth. I refuse to be held captive to any other stigma of what defines ‘responsible’ or ‘mature’ individuals. 

So am I embarrassed to be home? No. I’m not here to ‘find myself’ or because I have no other plan. I am here because it is a grace that I have been given to get to be here and it is the best decision for myself, my family, and my future at present. I am confident in that. 

And if I am confident that I am where God wants me, why should anything else matter? 

I have been reading in Timothy and am starting to memorize this passage.

"But godliness with contentment is great gain, for we brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world. But if we have food and clothing, with these we will be content. ... Pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, steadfastness, gentleness. Fight the good fight of the faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called and about which you made the good confession in the presence of many witnesses."      -1 Timothy 6:6-12 (abridged) 

If I really believe this, I should never have any time for discontentment. 

I have been reflecting on this passage for about a month now. And so many different thoughts have come from it. 

One of them being thoughts on perspective. 

People carry their burdens differently. Some things in life leaves scars there is no mistake, but I have scars that have healed and disappeared overtime.

What if someone had been through hell on earth, but had such an eternal perspective that you couldn’t even tell? Or more so, that they couldn’t tell? That they were so set on the foundation that nothing else matters outside of Jesus. Is that possible? 

Some people consider things like cars breaking down as tribulation, what about the people who live on the streets? On one meal a day and one set of clothes? I’ve seen believers who have been through infinitely more than they show, and yet will come and comfort someone going through something comparatively minuscule, and give the other person as much grace and assurance as if it was the whole world falling apart. How do you do that? Without telling someone, “Suck it up, you think you have it bad...let me tell you.” But then that leaves it open for another person to one- up that person. 

I think we sometimes fall into the trap of one-upping each other’s trials and we will become competitive over how much we overcame to follow Jesus. How stupid is that? 

One of my favorite conversations I ever had with a camper was in my last summer in the cabin. Our director had that night had done a simple, low pressure invitation to the campers to come to know Jesus. I sat with one eleven year old camper that night talking about it. She had already accepted Jesus, but she was sharing something that had come to her while her fellow campers were raising their hands. 

“You know,” she told me, “I used to be embarrassed that I didn’t have an awesome story of how I come [sic] to Jesus. You know, people will give testimony about how they came out of this awful hard stuff, and me I just said a prayer in Sunday School. But tonight down there by the fire, I got to thinking. It doesn’t matter how you come to Jesus, it just matters that you come.”

She was on the right track of thinking. I don’t think I could have grinned bigger or affirmed her more. 

Timothy talks about only needing clothes and food to feel content, what if we lived that? Everything we are and have is a gift. We are entitled to nothing, so why live like we are? 

(Future posts on Comebacks coming)

The Second thing that keeps coming back is the simplicity of this list. The verse says to be content with food and clothes.

 It doesn’t say anything about if you are debt-free, own a car, have family, are in good health, if you have a certain social network, a bed, a house. It is simply, if you have food and clothing. Not even, if you have well-balanced, tasty food, or clothes that fit, or are comfortable, or in your style. Just simply, food and clothes. 

What if we lived like we were entitled to nothing?

By no means am I suggesting shunning all that we have, giving away everything so we have only food and clothes. In fact if you read farther in Timothy it addresses those who are rich, saying only that they should be generous and put value in Jesus, not their money. And if all they really care about is having some food and clothing to be content, I’m not sure they could be anything but generous.

I am saying what if every little thing we have, frustrating, happy, sad, hard, angering, whatever, was considered a blessing. The hard things make us stronger, the easy things bring joy, but all of it should come with an attitude that we deserve nothing, but death and everyday we have life, and food and clothes, we are more than blessed.

So I am here at home. Looking, on paper, like an unsuccessful individual a college graduate working part-time and living across the hall from her parents. But I have food, and clothes. More so, I have amazing, loving, non-busybody, fun parents, a room to myself, food that is delicious, nutritious and in-line with things that don’t make me sick (i.e. lactose and gluten).  And I have clothes that I get to choose and buy (albeit largely from thrift stores) and a huge family that loves me and knows me and understands me. I have a nationwide, and even international, network of friends and fellow brothers and sisters in Christ that make me feel loved and accepted. And this is just the short list.

So please, Michael, ask for kids over twelve living at home, I will raise my hand. And raise it high. Because I am not a failure, a homebody, a overly dependent immature or irresponsible person. I am simply exceedingly blessed.






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20/20

This mid-August evening is carrying a tease of Autumn. I can feel it in the way the breeze moves steadily through the tops of trees and in the calm of the temperature. I can hear it in the peaceful chirp of a few stalwart crickets, and in the absence of bullfrogs. I can see it in the washed out greens of the leaves, worn and weary from the summer sun. I can smell it in the crisp, cool, trail left by discreet wind across my face. 

These are things that I am experiencing as I sit on the front porch of camp, my last night on the front porch at camp, my last night of the summer at least. 

This has been a calmer week than any of the twelve or so before it, and it has given me more time to reflect and think than I’ve had in three months and one thing that has come up a lot is the things or ways that I convey things to others. 

I know at least half of the ways that I fail at communication. I know of ways that I wear the blinders of obliviousness, or the ways that I will plow through a conversation in a way that makes sense to me without out once considering how the other person is receiving it. Writing has been my salvation for some of these problems, but I seem to have some big ones left. I never seem able to communicate how I see you. 

Yes, you. The people I know. The people I love. The people I spend my summer with. The people who care enough to read my thoughts. 

How can I ever communicate the depth of what I see when I look at you? 

It’s not just your features that I see, the hugeness of your smile, the color of your eyes, awesome free mess of your hair. I see so much more. 

I see the warmth that overtakes your whole face when you look at someone you care about.

I see the confidence in your eyes when you feel completely and totally in your element. 

I see the excitement that you have over sharing a passion that you have with another person.

I see past your business side to how deeply and unconditionally you care for everyone’s complete well being. 

I see behind your defenses to the vastness of your heart. 

I see the way you push and challenge yourself to grow and learn.

I see the way you have taken your past and turned into a blessing to others.

I see the way you have refused to give in, and refused to back down and let darkness win.

I see the way carry your struggles so as not to burden anyone else.

I see how many people you reach out and care about.

I see past assumptions of heart and thought that people have put on you, to the true fantastic you.

I see the way you let people, small or big, famous or maybe just a camper, inspire you to be bigger, to be greater and to never settle for less. 

More so I see all of this from a lens of complete honor and gratitude that I have the opportunity to know you and the opportunity to see you. 

I can not express the privilege that I feel for the different ways that you all have trusted small pieces of yourself, whether joy or sadness, failure or success, with me. 

I sit on the front porch of the lodge at the end of my fifth summer at camp, speechless at my blessings. Speechless at the pleasure it has been to work with each and everyone of the staffs of 2008-2012. Speechless at the love and care that I feel for everyone of your beautiful, flawed and fighting souls. 

The timer on the porch light has flickered on, casting and bluish tint on the back of my hands and the wind is now bringing the definite chill of cooler weather. In front of me the trees are silhouetted against the deepening blue of the sky. 

I am curled up in the center rocking chair, underneath the window that held the cumulative cabin cleanup scores and free choices of the day. The foot underneath the leg that is holding my computer has been asleep for at least five minutes. 

I feel the coming Autumn in the air and sit and pray that it brings you all a thriving life and that somehow you will see for a moment a glimpse of the way I see you. That you will look in the mirror and see, Beautiful. 

This is the Sound...

I have a ton of things to write, including, but not limited to, a wrap up of camp post, a post about my room at home and what I found there last time I was actually in it. This is a post about sound. Specifically some of my favorites that warm my heart as of late.

I got the topic of thinking about this as I drove away from a few short hours with my family. We had last been all together (eight kids, two parents) since last May. We were able to relive that for two hours.

My brother drove me to Blairsville, where we met Angela who would give me a ride back to camp. I had not even spoken to Andrew since April so as the minivan leaned against the pull of gravity around the curves of my mountains I was struck by his voice. I was momentarily captured by the evenness of his tone and the thoughtfulness that I find in the spaces between his words. His voice has a good resonance, but it is not so deep you feel like you're standing at the bottom of well listening to it reverberate down to you.  It took the space of a year or more not hearing it to take note of the brilliance. This has set in me a determination to pause long enough to hear the beauty in other's God-given voice boxes.

Laughter is another one of my favorites. Taylor, my co-Head-Counselor, is hilarious and we are both easy laughers so we spend a significant portion of anytime together laughing. As I sat in the staff lounge adjacent to our office I heard him start laughing and it made me smile before I even thought about it. Any sound that familiar almost instantly puts me at ease without even trying.

Similarly we have a guy on staff who has the best man-giggle in the world. When Owen gets going laughing hard, everyone has to laugh with him. His laughter best transcribed would be, "A-hoo-hoo-hoo, A-hoo-hoo-hoo, A-hoo-hoo-hoo." It's fantastic.

On the last Sunday a group of us central and support staff went up to field two to hit around a baseball. I am not fantastic at doing that but the sound of the baseball hitting a bat is one of the most satisfying sounds.  When a ball is really nailed, everyone within earshot gets to participate in the feeling of victory.

I love the sound of simple piano melodies. Any music is fantastic, but something about a uncomplicated melody on the piano stirs my emotions and whisks away my unease.  (One of my favorites is here, the Chuck/Sarah theme from Chuck. Skip to about 1:00 mark to hear it).

I like the tap of the keys on my keyboard as I type. I like listening for the changing speeds as my fingers move faster or slower across their white plastic surface.

I love the sound of an orchestra tuning their instruments before beginning a show. The dissonance of so many types of instruments coming together in preparation for the organized music usually inspires me more than the coming show.

I like the sounds of quiet, and by that I meant the sounds that emerge when there is quiet. The sound of the breathing, in and out. The sounds of a squirrel running around the branches of a tree. The sounds of bugs crawling in the grass. The simple "plop" of a fish jumping up out of the lake to catch a surface bug. The drip of a faucet. The whir-clack-whistle of a refrigerador.

I love the sounds in a hug. The security of peace and quiet that surrounds you as you embrace each other. Even tears and sobs are muffled and safe within a hug, it's own little protective bubble.

I love the sound of opening a new pages of a book. The stiffness of the pages and the necessary breaking of the binding.

I like the sound of cards shuffling.

I love the sound of a large group singing. Not a chorus, or a choir, just random people singing whatever part they can reach.

I love that every person I know has their own set of sounds to love. Your voices, your laughing, your breathing, your crying, your sleeping, the sound of your footfalls.

What are each of your favorite sounds?

Brief Life Updates

I am easily captured by the ideas of things. It will start as a spark and simmer in my head till I act on it. Some of them are odd and some of them are stereotypical. Some are good, some are bad. My most recent action towards satisfying an idea was yesterday, when I bought two of Old Navy's baseball shirts. 

Since I was twelve I wanted a baseball shirt. I could even track it back younger to my days spent with Angels in the Outfield (1994) and Rookie of the Year (1993) or The Sandlot (1993).  

Never underestimate the power of movies in your childhood. One of my craziest dreams is to ride and elephant, bareback, which stems from growing up on Operation Dumbo Drop (1995).  

On a side-note of childhood and movies,  both Operation Dumbo Drop (1995) and Angels in the Outfield (1994) started a deep love for Danny Glover. You are probably all familiar with the idea of apple pie being a staple stereotype of home and America. I never liked apple pie too much, but I did like Danny Glover. His voice is my apple pie. 

Another idea I always thought would be fun is to dye my hair. Just one of those that washes out in six weeks because the goal is not to change how I'm made, but give myself the ability to adjust to change and have fun (and seeing my mom and sister's faces when they saw me yesterday was a lot of fun).  I've danced around it for about a year or more. SURPRISE! I acted on it on Monday. Beks, my former co-counselor and avid hair dye-r did the deed, and quite well I might add. 

So here I am, sitting on my bed at home on a 30 hour vacation from camp, with black hair and a baseball shirt, because sometimes that overused, cheesy, should-never-be-a-life-mantra phrase,"Seize the moment" applies. 

What next? I'm not sure, but due to everything that I need to do in life, it will probably involve a computer and a lot of writing. 

Bring it. 

But first, I really want to go hang out with Jesus. I am reading in the Timothys and its great stuff. Stay tuned for posts about that, and likely one about ending my fifth summer of camp, and since my life and plans are still cloudy/non-existent, there will still be plenty of posts addressing that issue. 

Until that time, don't let one phrase define your life, but "carpe diem" is not a terrible one to have in your vocabulary. 

The Best Policy

I don't understand.

Am I exhausted? Am I depressed? 

I am scrambling. I am wanting to volunteer 'selflessly' for things I don't want to do, so I can throw my own pity party and have an explanation for why I feel this way. To give myself a better reason to cry, to release the mess inside of me.  But that's cheap. That's a bandaid on a festering wound and I refuse to settle for any sort of false healing. 

I am wanting to be done. To be through with the checklist, the planning. I want to be done with the fine print. 

I want to be able to be still. To just live. To choose my chaos, to be free to pull an audible. 

So what do I do? I shed a disappointingly small fraction of the tears that have been building for a month and leave the rest weighing heavy on my chest.

I sit.

I pray. 

The only words I have, "God heal me."

I write. 

I wait.

How's that for honest?

Cornhole and Socks (Lydia's that is)

I feel as though I could write a novel a day. The little details of camp. But I don't have a notebook with me all the time,  and I definitely don't have time to write, so you get this: a mish-mash of moments and observations.

The other morning I went out on the field and the air was so humid and the sun was so hidden that the dew was still there at eleven in the morning. It made the grass silvery and all the footsteps of the morning classes left tracks like the beach or in the snow.

There is a camper who is here right now. When she smiles her eyes curve down and her mouth curves up, making the biggest, most lovable circle of joy around her face.  Her teeth take up nearly a third of the surface area of her face. The front teeth are a little too big, like many eight-year-old's are, and they are a little crooked on the sides, as her mouth tries to cope with the change from baby teeth. And like almost every child ever, there is normally a stain on her teeth from leftover chicken fingers or a ring pop from outpost.

On certain nights at the lodge between the hours of 10:30 and 11:55 you will find a group of staff on the front porch engaging in hardcore cornhole or hardcore rocking. I am in that position right now. My feet are crossed up in the chair and it's a little too small for me so the arms are digging into my thighs and the wicker seat is making marks in the side of my feet. If I think about it this is not very comfortable at all but it seems much better than having my feet on the ground.

Every time Lydia, in the chair next to me rocks, her arm catches the arm of mine and pulls it down disjointedly and I wonder if she looks over and reads what I am writing or if she is just letting me do my thing.

There is a loud arhythmic thud of the beanbags hitting the board and the encouragements and berating of the players, at others or themselves. Every minute or so Thomas will announce the score for those who care. And then he asks the Braves score from Laura who is sitting on the floor listening to the game on her phone.

Daniel is shooting against Dustin and the beanbags keep piling up around the hole.

To my left I have surrendered control of my camera to Meagan. She's filming the people around her, taking a break from talking to Rebecca on her right. The filming reminds Rebecca to tell a story about her time in China.

To my right Bailey is sitting her fleece, Grinch, pajama pants is watching the back and forth of the beanbags with a sleepy expression on her face. She is zoning in and out, much like Champ, still holding her phone.

James and Karina are on the end talking about her future plans.

At the board under the stairs Thomas is throwing against Lydia now. She's still wearing her tribal outfit of red shorts and long athletic socks.

At this point in the night its easy to get lost letting your head roll back and forth watching the beanbags fly over our heads and I think that this post is getting repetitive. I could go on writing but I need to stop.

So I'll leave you with one last observation from camp life:

The other night I lay on the pavement by field two, waiting to hand out gold coins to the campers for a game. I lay back and looked up at the sky. It was so open and perfect that it seemed like I could see the curve of the sky. The clouds looked like cotton that had been picked apart and stretched out against the bright blue. I made all the campers tell me a shape they saw before I gave them their coin.

The little moments make life. And mine is overflowing as of late. Keep looking for your own small moments and let them make your day.

"A Lone Wolf Set Loose Upon North Georgia"

Today was my day off and my biggest goal was to sleep. Done. Woke up at ten. Delightful. 

My family came to see me for a few hours and we sat in a park and talked and watched a squirrel literally do flips. Wouldn't you know I didn't have my camera. 

I came back and wandered aimlessly for a while before settling down to a kind of sad movie. Not the best three and half hours of my life. 

Then I went outside to write in a journal, which is below and the rest of the night will be in the pictures. 

Melancholy. 

It's not sadness, but it manifests itself similarly. 

The feeling that there's a blender at the bottom of your chest. Like it's creating a vacuum that churns your stomach and pulls on your heart till your insides feel like an indistinguishable mass. 

This is a symptom of sadness or of melancholy. 

Sadness is an attack, but melancholy I think is simply a complete inability to process, brought on by exhaustion.

So in an effort to combat the melancholy that makes me want to curl up in a ball and sob till I am drained of everything that could be confused, I'm redirecting with a list of things that make my heart happy.

1. The perfect asymmetric design of the white clouds, stretched out across the perfect blue of the sky. A sky so blue that the exact color has never and will never be harnessed or trapped to any medium other than reality.
2. That Laura, our photographer, just narrated her approach to hug me. "A walk, into a run...into a...jump!"
3. That I woke up and put a skirt on. I literally always wear bike shorts on under my skirts and dresses, but stil, wearing it and feeling the wind move the fabric around my knees or hearing the swish sound it makes as I walk. Something about wearing skirts makes me want to run on my tiptoes and use the words, "Flit" and "Flutter". 
4. Similarly, walking in bare feet. Something about being so solidly connected to the earth makes my hippie heart happy.
5. The phrase, "my hippie heart".
6. Finding different ways to capture and record life.
7. The silhouette of the leaves and trees against the sky.
8. Composition books and G2 pens. 

This is all I have written in the entry. For the purposes of this blog I am continuing the list for the rest of the evening. 

1. The smile on Danielle Harris's face and the way she let me borrow her car and escape the crazy melancholy of sitting by myself at camp.
2. Nearly every Ingrid Michelson, or He is We, song.
3. Overalls
4. The way my wheels turn while wandering Walmart alone. 
5. The conversations you have at random with cashiers in Walmart or Ingles.
6. Sitting by myself at the counter in Huddle House and enjoying a Western omelet and cheesy hash browns.
7. The conversations that people have with each other. (I heard a lot about eating cake from the cooks at Huddle House). 
8. The conversations that people have with me, especially after I tell them I can't eat bread. In case you were wondering the cook who expertly flipped my eggs in the pan by throwing it up in the air and catching it back "blows up" when she eats bread, but she still does. But she's starting to break the habit. She also compassionately scraped the griddle before cooking my food to get any break crumbs off. 
9. People surprising you with unexpected compassion.
10. Finding a present for someone that makes them laugh.
11. The feeling of being back with people, because going so long without interaction left a small hole in my fabric of being that was only partially filled by hugging a bunch of people and laughing way too hard with Mary Beth and Katlyn.
12. The way writing is therapy, worship, creativity and a processor at the same time.

PS - The title is what my sister said about me in a text when she asked what I did with the rest of my day.

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