The Orange Ceiling

It's been three weeks since the election results, and I still can't come to grips with what has happened.

I woke up on November 9th feeling lost and grieved. Texts from friends across the world flooded my phone with fear and empathy and horror. Oh God, what have we done?

In my office and in my family, I hear people talk of his policies. That's how they justified casting their vote for the Grabber. At best, I hear the phrase, "lesser of two evils." At worst, I hear actual praise of him. My heart is grieved to its very core that this is who we've become.

They say it's not about who they are as a person; it's about what they will do in policy.

In my job, I am known as the "face" of the university.
I dress, walk, talk, and make myself think as such. No matter where I go, no matter what I do--especially when I am on the job--I am conscious of  that responsibility.
I may be the best at my job, the most thorough and practically compassionate, but if my words and behavior are ugly, then that is what people see and what people will believe the university I stand for is.

In the same way, the principle is true across the globe. They see him first. They hear him first. My God, follow the man on Twitter if you don't understand my point. We are being led by a hissy-fit of a man.

My Hispanic minority friends are afraid.
My LGBTQ minority friends are afraid.
My foreign friends are afraid.
My female friends are afraid.

Just before the election, I was in a Walmart and was sexually harassed. These guys just followed me through the whole store cat-calling and making comments and laughing to themselves because they saw how clearly uncomfortable they were making me.

When I got back in the car, I had myself a long, angry rant. Right now, we have a president who has made decisions I do not always agree with, but I know, at the end of the day, he is a good man who promotes kindness and mutual respect.
The man who is now our president elect has been caught on camera bragging about how he can do whatever he wants to women because he is a powerful man.

Any God-fearing man who can imagine himself explaining what "grabbing [a woman] by the pu**y" to their young daughter means when she asks and can still put himself behind that man is a disgrace.

Adults should know better. They may use a truly awful man to justify their choices, but kids don't know any better. The leaders of our country help shape who they become. We now have chosen a model for behavior that communicates to them that sexual misconduct and disrespect is normal and acceptable in society, just as long as you're in the power seat.

We have a Republican house and senate. They hate Hillary enough that they would have curbed anything nutty. Now, though, we have an absolute whack-job in the hot seat of the same party. A man who got grounded from his Twitter account in the final days of the election because he was making a fool of himself is now in charge of the nuclear codes.

I hope to God I am wrong. I hope his unbelievably horrendous behavior is beaten out of him as the reality of this new position sinks in. Until then, we pray, we seek peace, we choose not to completely lose it in political conversations with our families, and we hope tomorrow will be different.

On Prayer and Pens

Lately, I've been feeling the crux between who I am and who I could be. 

The could be isn't necessarily a good one. 

I, like all humans, have the propensity for both good and evil. 

Creativity, excitement, book worm-iness vs. numbness, depression, anxiety

Sometimes, I delude myself into thinking that I do not do the good for me because I don't have the time. Time-filled days call my bluff, though. I do not do good because I can't make myself. 

And what's so funny and terrible is that if I would move, the rest of me would follow. If I would move, I would keep moving. It takes practice. 

One good day doesn't mean that the next will be just as productive. But that also doesn't mean to give up. It means to practice, in the smallest of ways, discipline. Be consistent. Be persistent. 

I got a letter today from my friend and now long time penpal Leslie. 

Together we discussed prayer and pens, how difficult prayer can be and how settling and clearing writing can be. 

Several years ago, an author named Lauren Winner came and spoke in chapel at JBU. She was super zany with her big ole butterfly glasses, electrocuted looking hair, and Miss Frizzle clothes. Her content didn't help build a case for her either. The most dynamic moment in my memory is of her holding up an invisible squash as though it were the skull in Hamlet and asking if that squash were prayer. 

That question has quietly gnawed at me for all the years since. 

Was that squash prayer? She had tilled the soil and planted the seed and remembered to water the sprout and weeded the garden and pruned the dead leaves and protected the small plant from bugs and squirrels and then, squash. Was that squash prayer? Well...yeah. 

Does that mean that prayer may be more fluid a concept than we think it is sometimes? 

I think yes. 

The deep breath I take to center myself before a phone call, the conscious mercy shown to a persnickety coworker or friend or student, the serotonin supplement I remember to take, the dishes I put up even though it isn't my turn, the letter I write to a friend, the moments spent reading a book and using my mind, all of that might just be prayer. All of that is pursuing righteousness and godliness. 

And prayer, connection, propels us forward, even if at a glacial pace. 

Leslie ended her letter in a way I found poetic in the most beautiful way, and it works as a "call to action", I believe, in a way I'd like to share (pieces of which are paraphrased). 

I hope life is moving forward for you in the best ways. Writing these letters reminds me that life has substance, structure, and is in need of redemption, though the process of writing in itself presses me to pursue a better ending. And seeing your thoughts reminds me that I am not alone in my inward struggles, that everyone has them; an ever-needed "of course other people live life too" moment is always found when I open your envelopes. 

May we all pursue better endings and good words.

Merci

"I'm just a soul whose intentions are good. Oh, Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood." 

The other evening, I was talking to a professor friend of mine and listened as she described a student who had been treating her really horribly.

As she spoke, I had a pit feeling that it was a student of mine.

It was.

Had she known, she probably would not have been so candid.

A few days later, I came across this student and saw him lash out at another professor.

Of course they struggle to love him. Of course they struggle for grace.
He comes across as a terrible person.

But they weren't there on his tour, when I heard his father verbally tear him down for two hours.
They weren't there for the emails, the phone calls, the personal interactions where I saw the light in this kid doused over and again with darkness.

They see the result.
They don't see the context.

There's nobody you couldn't love if you knew their story.

The moment I figured out the student, my heart was burned with mercy because I know him. I know his heart, and I know how much he wants to be good and how much he desperately just wants to be enough.

Over and over in my head, I heard, "He doesn't know. He just doesn't know what he's doing."

Maybe that is how the Lord finds enough grace for us every morning. He knows our stories. He knows our deficiencies. He knows how desperately we just want to be loved and to know that we are enough and to know that who we are is good.

When we are cruel, when we are unreasonable, when we are abrasive, he knows our hearts and he knows that we do not know what we do.

I am not always merciful. I try to be, but I'm not.
What I do know is that I have seen good people let themselves become bad people because there were defining moments when they desperately needed someone to speak truth into them and there was no mercy to be had.
I do know that I have seen bad people grasp fast onto extended mercy and allowed the Lord to revolutionize their hearts.
I know that I have needed that person many times.
And I know that I am called to be that person time and time again.

Airport Music

I'm currently  sitting in the airport terminal of Houston, eating a stupidly expensive burrito, and wishing the wait were over. My perfect spot got bombarded by a mom and child, and I'm trying to drown my ears with music. 

The terminal, though, is also trying to drown us all in what it constitutes as the right noise, as though the blaring sound of humans were not enough. 

Fairly, it's nice music. It just also has a thousand voices yelling over it, which deafens the niceness. 

So I sit here, burrito and phone and earphones and try to some space for inner peace...and Ben Folds. 

Between the waves of songs, there's a little lull in which I can hear the world around me again. And, for a few seconds, I'm afraid I'll have to turn mine up louder. My brain soon focuses, though, and I am in my happy place again. 

The terminal did not quiet, my music didn't get louder, my brain chose which noise to hear. 

In my case, this is good. Tricking myself into believing I have a bubble keeps me calm in the business. However, I can't help but think about the way this is true of all times. 

We choose what we hear. We choose what we see. We guide and direct ourselves, train ourselves, to head in one direction over another. And, once we are patterned, it is hard to break your eyes and ears out of their set gaze. 

I met my husband twice. 

First day, first class of college. 

First day, last month of Belfast. 

My language here is important. We didn't reconnect. We re-met. 

In my mind, Julius appeared four times, and two of those he wasn't even there for. 

Seeing him at the bottom of the steps at a party and thinking how lost he looked (the night he met his first wife), talking to his "girlfriend", learning they were an item, and being totally shocked at the impossibility of that couple, wondering where he was our second year and Facebook stalking him with my roommate (only to discover he had moved away and gotten married to the girl), and seeing him at the bottom of a flight of steps in the student center the semester he returned to Arkansas and thinking how...foggy he looked. Not lost, just...muted. There wasn't an energy there. 

In actuality, he had existed a lot more actively. 

We were in a Leadership program together for a full year, we had overlapping friend circles, we were even in a group project together that first year. He had to show me the PowerPoint to prove it. I remembered the third member of our group, but not him. 

And a couple weeks ago, upon mentioning a game of jenga I had played with the campus chaplain my senior year, Julius said, "Yeah I remember. I was there." 

Shock all over. He had sat at a table with me and one other person for a good while, and I had no memory. 

I didn't see him. 

I was popular and driven and opinionated and clearly had my eyes and ears and heart set in a totally other direction. 

Joking not joking, our buddy Ogle once told me--right before he brought me Julius--that I was attracted to the wrong people for me. 

I can see now what he meant. When you spend your life searching in only one direction, you may deceive yourself the world is flat. 

He hadn't fit my script for what I believed my people were, so my brain erased him, as I'm sure it has so many other truly good, beautiful people, who I could have become so much better for knowing. 

Then Belfast happened to me. 

By the end of that year, all my scripts had been set on fire. 

Then, on my doorstep, a Julius. 

From the moment we met, there was a mutual understanding between us that I couldn't have twisted into existence by my own powers. It just was. 

In Julius, I had a surety that I couldn't explain, despite how broken we both were. 

Sometimes it's good to find your space in big loud places, but don't forget. What you thought was noise may be, hidden by only a few rows of people, notes from a grand piano and pianist alike. I was settling for a copy when a concerto sat before me. Sometimes, opening your ears is worth the inconvenience of connection with the uncomfortable and unknown. 

The Concrete Spider Web

If you've never been in Dallas, know that you are missing out on a serious civil engineering masterpiece/disaster center.

Roads on roads on roads.

In a ten mile drive, I can switch highways more than four times and have it take me over an hour to make the drive.

Other times, I can make a 30 mile trip in 30 minutes.

It's a death trap where I spend the majority of my time thinking, "THIS IS WHERE IT ENDS".

I am in Texas this time for a 3 week recruiting trip. Since last Sunday night, I've battled head on the pit of despair through the Dallas streets. Sometimes, it's nice. I have time to process the day and think.

Other times, my hands and heart sweat so badly that I can hardly think.

After a week of that, it was nice to have a break in the form of my husband.

Since I'm gone for so long, my university flew him out to me for the weekend.

Even though part of that was spent recruiting (what a champ!), it was also so nice to be able to chill, watch HGTG and FoodNetwork, and wander the DFW area.

Notable highlights in our shopping ventures were introducing Jay to World Market and Half Price Books.

He was just the cutest exploring all the different cultures and thinking up ways he could recreate all the different wood pieces.
Half Price Books was a perfect storm. Two nerds, together, and inexpensive books and nerd paraphernalia. We ended up with quite the haul.

Then, we grabbed a crepe together at a sweet little cafe called Frogg, and made our way to the airport.

It's not very nice to abandon your husband two months after you get married, but we are making it work. Texting is a beautiful thing.

When I get unstuck from the tangles of traffic, it'll be very nice to go home.

The Tale of Two Flowers

My friend Adam recently asked me to write him a story.
SO, this morning I sat down after two mini college fairs and let myself write.
Without pretense or goal.
And, for the first time in a very long time, I wrote a little.
Here for your mid-Thursday morning's amusement, I present to you, "The Tale of Two Flowers".

Once upon a time, there was a flower.

The flower was neither particularly beautiful nor particularly ugly, just enough of both that it was able to maintain its presence in the garden without being pulled for either reason.

Then, one day, a boot. The boot meant no harm, but harm it caused, and the flower’s stem went snap!

The gardener, working away at his weeding, didn’t notice the flower for some time, but when he did, he was very sad, for he remembered the day he had planted that flower, just as he remembered planting each one of his flowers.

The black tulips he had thought were purple upon purchase of the bulbs.

The rhododendron which had begun to dominate the back corner.

The daffodils.

He looked at the flower, wondering if a stint would sustain its life.

Such a break could not be amended, though.

Then, the gardener had a thought, and he cut the bloom right at its crease, took it into the kitchen and put it in a slender vase.

Hours later, inside the house, a girl awoke to a dark and damp morning: a lonely day needing tea.

She flopped her feet to the floor, found her slippers, grabbed a sweatshirt, and made her way down the hall to the kitchen.

The girl was homesick and heartsick and in need of…

A flower.

Left with its mates in the bed, the little bloom would never have been noticed or loved. But there, in the little green vase on the cold, metal counter in the great big house, in the dark, wet country, it was more beautiful and more wanted than any other petal on the grounds.

A good gardener knows his flowers. 

Hearing Voices

Recently, I became an associate editor for a very small publishing company,  called Kharis.

Someone in my office asked me how I dig my way through manuscripts written by non-writers.

Editing is like music to grammar-y people. In more ways than one.

For me, when I hear music, it's difficult for me to keep track of the actual melody. To do so takes conscious effort. More often, I naturally hear the harmony.

In the same way, when I read a paper or manuscript, I don't hear the content. I hear the grammar. So for me, it isn't a question of agreeing with the information being said, so long as that information is being communicated in the clearest, cleanest way possible.

And, like music, each voice has a different tone.
When you are listening to the radio, you can tell by various clues and the texture of the music whose it is, even if there are no vocals.

The longer you "listen" to any particular writer, the more you know their voice. And, the more you know their voice, the more you "learn" them. You anticipate particular errors or writing patterns, favorite words. When you need to add in a section to provide more clarity, you know the language structure to use in order to graft in the new piece seamlessly.

Like most things, I find that I get re-directed to God when I get into my land of metaphors, as he, too, understands this. He knows my tendencies toward both sin and saintliness. He knows the posture of my language and my heart. And, like any good editor, he knows how to redirect in order to gain the best possible outcome. It's up to the owner of the manuscript, though, to accept the edits.

Managing Managing

I underestimate each year the degree of anxiety which comes alongside the planning and executing of my travel schedule.

And, each time, I am also reminded at how very little people outside my office know about what my job is. I don't make outrageous 3-week vehicle requests because I am selfish.

Why would I want to leave my husband and bed for 3 weeks to live out of a suitcase in big city traffic working 13 hour days?

I love my job, but those are realities of travel season.

I am ball and chain to the almighty college fair schedule.

It's a good schedule, and excellent when organized properly between public and private schools.

Plotting a 3 week venture easily slips you into a coma of stress, though.

I found myself last week unable to continue past a week at a time, taking deep stress breaths all through.

Five minutes behind the call or email from another university and you've lost  your school visit.
One day late scheduling a reception and you've got to work real fast to find an alternative solution that fits with the entire board of trustees, the president of the university, and the calendar of the high school you're working with, each subject to change at any time.
Move too slow and your vehicle request comes in simultaneously to the rest of campus, leaving you car-less.

It's a gigantic puzzle.
Just like a puzzle, this is doable. It requires a meticulous plan, looking at every aspect from every aspect. The management of the project is something which can't, at any time, look the other way.

Every good manager knows, however, that to be an excellent manager, they must have management of themselves. That means self-care, friends.

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I found myself hitting the trails in Siloam running off the angst.
Thursday, the hubs and I hit up the town on bikes.

Lots of water, healthy food (mostly), good sleep, and exercise.

Every aspect of me from every angle, just like my master travel plan.
That's what self-care looks like and, while it's easy to slack, taking care of the traveler is just as vital to a great travel season as the route.

New Year Resolutions

Being on a perpetual school schedule, New Year's isn't really new year. Start of school is new year.

Start of year meetings, student move-in, travel planning, all of those denote new year to me.

That means, it's time for some new year's resolutions.

This year, I want to reconnect.

It's super easy to allow my job to consume me. It's a consuming job. That isn't an emotive phrase. That's a fact. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but I can allow it to become a bad thing, as we all can with our travails.

One of my catch phrases (it's never the wrong time to have a motto going, and they transition as you do) from my time in Belfast was, "Be an active participant in your own life."

It's easy to be in constant maintenance mode that you forget to be an active participant.

Not just texting a friend back but actively remembering to pursue friendship.
Not just getting home and doing life but actively remembering to love and serve your spouse.
Not just going to church or bible study but actively remembering to seek out the Lord.
For me, it's not just hoping I feel alive and creative one day again but actively struggling through the marshlands of re-wiring my brain to read and learn again.

It's that desire aspect, right?

It's so...active.
Which is exhausting.

It's exhausting to want to serve my husband. It's exhausting to even think about wanting to spend time with a friend outside of my normal, extroverted work. It's exhausting to seek out God, who might ask more from me than I feel like I have energy to give. It's exhausting to choose brain function instead of Netflix.

Ironically, though, it's the very things which look so daunting that will pour forth the most joy, the most energy, the most vim. They are why we live.

In my reconnection, I want to begin an active prayer for direction.

I love my job, but this is the last year, I fear, that I will be able to actively contribute in a positive way. I've begun to get the border collie syndrome really badly and need something else to chew on and work on. Mental and emotional atrophy are a real thing. I crave growth and challenge.

At the same time, though, I don't feel any particular pull.
At each step of my life, God has given me the next step at the right time, so I am not worried. It would be nice to have that light in front of me, though.

Currently, I have one thing I am actively in pursuit of: A PhD in English at the University of Arkansas.

In order to do it, I would need to receive their full fellowship, which I have the scores for but dont' know if I'll receive.
Alternatively, I don't know if I want to receive it.
I don't know if I want to do it.
I don't know if I can do it.

My Master's degree almost killed me. Granted, there were a lot of outside factors going into that, but what if depression and anxiety take over my life again?

There's just a lot to consider.

While I am here in this position, my third goal is to get better at my job. Continue to work to be an employee who they enjoy having. Continue to look the part of my job. Continue to practice patience with my really sweet, sometimes really dumb students and parents who do not read my emails and respond back asking questions I have already answered in the email they didn't read.

That's it; those are my goals: Connect, pursue, and contribute.

It's Her Turn: Why I Support Hillary Clinton

I am historically non-political.
Honestly, I'm not even registered to vote. Though I will be soon.

This isn't because I don't care; it's because first, I'm Oklahoman, so my vote was basically a burner. Second, because I've never been educated enough on the people or the issues to vote.

And, though I am a very strong personality, Until I entered the work force, I had never considered myself a feminist.
I like gender roles, I think women probably are the, for lack of a better term, the "weaker" sex.
I don't really even like most women.

As this election season has progressed, though, it's become more and more difficult for me to contain my feelings.

This morning, after watching Michelle Obama's speech at the Democrat National Convention, I find myself needing an outlet.

At this point, it is pointless to continue to whine about who is running. Your feelings do not matter. What's done is done. Your choice now is to choose out of those two.

Yeah, vote third party and feel good about yourself, but recognize that your vote for a non mainstream candidate means nothing and helps nothing. Sure, it's your way to boycott without actually boycotting, but one of these two candidates will be president. Do you have no moral decency to not at least try to choose? Have some semblance of participation into our future?

Here is why I am voting for Hillary Clinton.
Do not read this as an apologetic for Hillary. Read this as a decision between Trump and Hillary.

Let's call a spade a spade: Obama was elected because he is black.
I have heard many a misogynist claim that it would be unfair to vote for Hillary because she is a woman.
But it is the same thing, friends. Same thing.

My non politically correct feelings have been that given the choices, it's Hillary's turn.
She was FLOTUS, she tried 8 years ago, and she has continued to be fiercely active in order to make any sort of movement as a woman in our political system.

If any woman is running or should win, it should be Hillary. She's the one who has taken the brunt of the criticism for being who she is. The same people who criticized her lack of femininity are the ones now criticizing her for being a woman.

Personally, while I see sexism as being second to racism, I can still see the way that breaking a couple hundred year streak of male-dominated society could start truly changing things for us.

Maybe I wasn't more feminist before because I didn't totally believe there was a reason to be.

However, after working in the professional world for just a few short years, I have already seen how blatant sexism is in the professional world.

The way I dress, the way I talk, the way I express myself, it's all under scrutiny. There is just something essentially wrong with being us. When a man is strong, he is seen as strong. When a woman is strong, she is called everything but that.

We mother children, we are active in the workforce, we are active in our churches and socio-political circles, we pretend everything is completely fine when we lose a couple pints of blood each month.

And we have to do it all in heels.

I have never felt so apologetic for being who I am than during this period of my life. It isn't even my workplace that's at issue, don't misunderstand. It's the whole structure of society that has been designed to make women into pseudo-masculine robots or to oversexualized bimbos.

I was a waitress a few years ago. Sometimes I would get bored. Delivering fajitas can only be so intellectually stimulating. So, I started doing social experiments.

The one that has stayed with me is the one I started after a few weeks of waitressing.
Until this time, I looked like myself. Hair pinned, light makeup, clean.

I recorded my tips from the first three weeks.
Then, I added heavy eye-makeup, bright red lips, a lot of volume in my short hair, and used a higher voice.

From day one of the experiment, I consistently made 20-35 percent or more in tips per day/week.

The same principle hasn't stopped. When I play into my feminine side even now, I am more apt to being liked. It's when I open my mouth, stand up for what I believe, and am unwavering in my convictions that I am seen as a major threat and a bully, when I fully believe that the same words from a man would not be met with such a response.

I am tired of women losing just because we are women.
I am tired of successful women succeeding through sacrifice of who they are.

Yes, there is probably a better candidate out there, there's no arguing that.
However, there isn't a stronger physical manifestation of the diligent fight for women's rights than Hillary. She has clawed her way to where she is.

She has horrible taste in attire.
She's not exactly delicate.
She's an actual criminal.

However, given such a choice between candidates, why would I not choose a woman just to choose a woman?

Trump is clearly a horrendous choice. Sexist, racist, thoroughly narcissistic. A lover of hate. A man who enjoys seeing the world burn with chaos just to see it burn. A man who perpetuates the ideas of pathetic, weak, bimbo women (from his comments about Heidi Klum to his moronic trophy wife to the maddening, sickening situation that is Freedom Kids).

Hillary, though she has some shades in her past, actually cares. Actually tries. Actually takes this seriously. Actually thinks men and women are created equally.

Why would I not vote for her in such a circumstance?
Why would I not jump at the chance to smash the glass ceiling stifling women in America?

I want to be able to tell my future daughters that they can be anything they strive for. And, I want when I say it to be able to hold up an example of that, rather than a backdrop of complete patriarchy.

It's time for a woman to win.

The Keys to Searching

Notoriously, I lose my keys. 

Having a spacial memory, I can distinctly remember the circumstances around which I lost the keys, but the parameters can fit any number of places, which makes finding them incredibly difficult. 

Yesterday, my fiance and I went to my grandmother's to pick up a few things with my mom. 

Right before we left, I misplaced the keys, sending us on a 45 minute hunt. 

It was incredibly frustrating, especially because there was an extremely limited number of places where they could have gone to. 

The four of us searched and searched and, at a certain point, as I was hunting through a basket of blankets there was no chance of my keys being in, I found myself thinking, "I have to find them. I'm hunting so thoroughly." 

Immediately upon thinking that, though, I had a counter thought: "It doesn't matter how thoroughly or diligently you search; if you're looking in the wrong place, you'll still never find it." 

This gave me a lot of pause, as I considered in how many areas of our lives, not just in mine, we find ourselves "searching for _____ in all the wrong places." 

It takes a lot of practice and self-control and patience to begin your search in the right place. 

I found my keys. 

Facing my car, I gave an exasperated sigh and through up my hands, which shifted my perspective. 

There, draped very clearly just above the back door, were my keys. 

All four of us had missed them. Rather than looking up, we focused our energy in dark places we'd already looked, tearing apart the car and house over and over again, even though we knew knew knew they weren't there. 

But, since we didn't have any ideas, we kept looking in the familiar places. 

Sometimes, it takes giving up to find what you're looking for. 

Money Matters

We're currently in the most grueling portion of my job: financial aid season.

This is, essentially, the moment of truth.

It consistently shocks me how little I understand of human nature.

Some awards I look at and think, "Oh. Crap. This is a terrible award letter. They were so close to receiving the Pell grant, their parent loan is way too high for their EFC (expected family contribution), etc. They're not going to be able to swing this."

Then it's those same families that call me back so grateful for our department's generosity, determined to make this work, and talk to me about values, about call, and about the feeling of belonging.

I leave those conversations feeling hopeful about what it is I do. I can see a full map of their financial situation, I know the truth. They feel that this is where the Lord is leading them, though, and I can't argue. Granted, I get a little irked when they call me up and tell me that "God told me to go to another college", but I remember very clearly how called I felt to come to this university. It felt right. It felt like home.

Other families, however, make me feel less inspired about human nature.

Sir, I can see how many hundreds of thousands you make a year, how you have a million in investments, and how you have 50-90k in cash savings alone. And only one child. Do not for one second try to make me believe you can only afford 1k a year for your child's education.

And, while those conversations truly annoy me, they say something about a families values.

"It's not God's will for Billy to take any kind of student loan, so we're going to have to find other options through your school." [Read: We're too busy to look for outside scholarships and we don't want loans, so it's your responsibility to pay for his education]. No, ma'am. Budgeting and finances can be really rough and looking for outside scholarships can be tiring, but it is not our responsibility.

"We want to build a house soon, so we won't be helping Suzy with college finances. What other scholarships can you offer her?" [Read: We want a pool more than Suzy's education]

"I know I could save money by living with my parents, but it's just a real burden to have to commute that far, so I need to find other financing options through the university" [Read: Even though I could save 9k a year by living at home, I don't want to drive half an hour. Find me more money somewhere else]

I could go on. I see a lot of goodness in people, but I also see a lot of ugliness. I also see a lot of fear. Some parents I speak with are willing to risk everything because their child loves my school, but they are afraid. Sometimes, it's just close enough to work. Sometimes I have to guide them through the process of redesigning their dreams, deferring them, or awaken a different dream. It's hard.

It truly isn't that I'm coldblooded about financial aid. Believe me, I well remember the agonizing worry that I wouldn't be able to afford this school. But my parents knew and I knew that this was it for me, this was home. They sacrificed and saved and we made it work.

Because at the end of the day, money isn't about money.
Money is about values and about the heart.

And nobody wants a 24 year old girl trying to cast $100,000 vision for their child.

Quarter Life Crisis

Don't get me wrong--I lead a pretty charmed life.

I don't make a lot, but I make enough for a roof, food, and generosity to others. In the end, that's all you really need. I love my family, my housemates are kind are loving, my fiance (yeah I'm engaged now) is a great match for me, my job provides me with financial resources and good friends, Northwest Arkansas (for all its chicken smells and bad cousin-kissin' jokes) is actually a wonderful place to live, and we even are in the process of buying a home.

All good things.

In the quiet moments, though, as I'm responding to emails in my half-cubicle, dressed in a blazer, heels, and slacks, I wonder how I've let myself become myself.

I wrote a poem while in college about flowers and domestication which included the bitter line, "twist me beautiful, make me useful" and the hope that, if the flower were quiet enough, no one would notice its freedom and commandeer it.

Though high-strung, achievement-drivenness is something which has always characterized me, free-spiritedness did as well.

Yes, I scored highly in high school, but I made my final speech colorful and snarky. Yes, I scored highly in college, but I never ceased to attempt to overthrow the academic lead blanket. Even in my Master's program, I combined different subjects, drew from erraticisms, and made brand new arguments. I didn't score high, but I was original.

Barefoot, loose-haired, sun-dressed, sun-kissed, nerdy. I've always struggled with fitting in, but fitting "me" has never felt such a struggle.

I've traded in my whole self it feels like, and I don't fit here in this world.
Is this what every mid-twenties person feels like? Is this growing up, or is this what it feels like to betray your personhood?

I've always believed that God doesn't give us gifts or passions without the desire to use them, but maybe I'm wrong. And, if I were to be honest with myself, I don't even know what a profession selected for my gifts and passions would look like. I've forgotten how to do anything other than waking up, sitting at my desk, going home to Netflix, and falling asleep at a decent hour.

I'm boring.
And everything else sounds absolutely exhausting.
Because, yes, change is at my fingertips.
But I'm tired. I'm in an open-office layout, and my job forces me to be extroverted all day long. No, I don't want to hang out with more humans after work. Perpetual input and output exhausts me for anything other than soul-numbing sitcoms.

We don't work to live; we live to work.

A week or two ago, it was time to decide whether or not to renew my contract. I took multiple skill assessment tests online to see what kind of profession my particular set of differences would make me suited for.

"Craftsman" isn't going to get me far. I'll end up as a John-the-Baptist-in-the-Wilderness type woman with an Etsy store and three teeth.
But would I be happy? Would I feel fulfilled?