On Being Adult

Two weekends ago, I traveled down to Dallas for a college friend's wedding.

It was beautiful and strange to see her get married. She's had a pretty crazy journey through the past several years. These friends' weddings are a fun time to be able to get back together with people I was close to in college and have now been dispersed throughout the states.

These girls comprised a good portion of my freshmen year hallway, except a little sister, a husband (who was in the male half of our freshmen friend group) and a hometown best friend that have since been added as honorary members.

For the purpose of consolidation, two work friends and I decided to drive together and picked up a student who needed to attend a friend's wedding of her own.

She was very perky. One of the questions she posed to me on the way there was if I was sad that we didn't get spring break like the rest of the campus.

It resulted in this conversation:

"Well dude, when you become an adult--"
"--I AM an adult!!"
"No. You are not. Anyway. When you become an adu--"
"--which I am already"
"No. You are not. Anyway. When you--"
"I'm already an adult though."
"Do you work a 9-5? No? Do you pay your own bills? No? Have you ever lived on your own for any amount of time? No? Not an adult. Now then. Allow me to answer your question."

I went on to explain to her that when you become an adult, you learn to appreciate different things. Life is not a hallway of your best friends, playing music on the quad, learning, and every meal prepared for you by someone else.

I've learned to appreciate the good coupon (there was an online deal for half off pizza from Dominos last week that saved a ton when I went on a school visit), the way I can make a shower floor shine, when I get to go to the post office, a well written grocery list, a pencil skirt that is functional, fashionable, and comfortable, the fact that on spring break we get to wear jeans to work.

It's a different life, this chapter of realism. It takes a lot of energy to be a college student. Ha. This slower pace works well for me, but it is funny. From her perspective, it all sounds miserable what I said; but those are all things I genuinely appreciate about the day to day.

Different years will bring different stories, and this is mine right now: the daily grind of the newly adult.

Nowata Pond

Each week (that I'm not working or otherwise in Texas), Julius and I go to craigslist Bible study together.

To get there from my little baby town, we take Highway 16, which is a deathpath of twists, small lanes, dumb, running woodsy creatures, and Arkansas drivers. And, because of the winter, darkness. No street lights to be found. It can be pretty terrifying. For Julius. He holds on. I'm not proud of that, but it's also not completely my fault.

We've been driving for weeks on this road and have thought we've gotten to know it pretty well.
Then, Daylight Savings happened.

It's light at 6:20pm when we leave.

The entire drive there, it was: "Woah! Look at that field of sheep!"
"Woah! That barn has a roof of solar panels!"
"Woah! Since when was there a church there!"

And my personal favorite: "Woah! Wait. That's not a lake?"

That's right. There's a certain place on the road that we were both convinced was a big pond.
It's a giant hole filled in with gravel. I guess neither of us ever thought it was odd that there was no reflection.

Darkness and light. It changes everything.

Things you thought were beautiful and good turn out to be a pit of black rocks.
Things you thought were nothing turn out to be full of life. And sheep.

For me it was just a reminder that life isn't always what it seems, both good and bad.
And what's fascinating is that you aren't able to know what's what except through discovery or time.

If we had pulled off to go check out the "pond", we would have had our imaginings about it disillusioned pretty fast. Otherwise, like what happened, it took the seasons changing for us to be shown the truth of the matter.

Wanting to Want

When I was in middle school, my brother drove me around a lot.
Technically, for the entirety of my life, my brothers drove me around a lot. Not even necessarily for my own purposes; I was just very portable and someone had to make sure I wasn't left running around falling in empty pool shells (again).

Middle school, though, was another chapter to my angsty growing up phase (it lasted most of years 8-21).

Chon always asked me how I was.
I always said, "Tired."

Once, on my way to somewhere--it was probably Haley's house, but along the far end of 91st street--he gave up and asked me if I was ever going to stop being tired.

In fairness, we found out months later that I'd had mono for most of my seventh grade year. Never missed a day of school or swim practice either (read: I was an exhausted punk but at least I was determined).

I think about that interaction often, though, because often I ask myself the same thing.

Was I always like this?

Was my college extroversion and GO GO GO nature a hiatus from my hibernative temperament?
Was my year of depressive sleep and darkness enough to suck away years of future waking?

I'm not unhappy. Actually, I'm very content.
But shouldn't I want more from life than naps?

At a certain point, you begin to wonder if this is a phase or if this is your life.
Because it feels as though no amount of sleeping or working out or joy or attempts to read and write can pull me back up to my former capacities to engage and devour language and pour my own language out.

Hadden: Belfast Brought Back

There is an acute release of the soul which comes only when in the presence of one who knows you.

Not someone who has heard your story or your interests or work ethic or habits but someone who is able to discern your character, who is unwilling to misunderstand you.

They are not flippant and they take their time to study, so as to gather the whole picture before making judgments about who you are. Very few in any person’s life can go into this category.

Hadden is one of those people for me.

As the director of studies in Northern Ireland, he was the person who picked me and my team up at the airport during my very first visit (I sat by him the whole van ride to the manor and heard the story of how he fell in love with his wife Betty), and he was the person who was my stable ground when I moved. Though our visits were infrequent, he always approached me with love, with compassion, and with Christ.

There’s something about “old folk” I love and it’s this: they don’t give you no bull crap Christianity. 

Rather, it seems to pour out from a deep and still place and it resonates with truth inside the listener.

I heard a lot of bull during my struggle but never from Hadden, and I think that’s why I love him so. He listened, validated the truth of my words or weeded out the untruth, then redirected me to Christ but also to tea and a hug. It was not indulgent, but it was also not canned.

Hadden saw the ugliest, most pulpous parts of my wreckage, and yet, he trusts me, he loves me, and he always speaks truth over me.

Sometimes I forget who I am.

Who I am here, I feel, does not always reflect who I was there.

Perhaps it is because I did feel so lost and forgotten and silenced that I now find myself almost constantly talking, in a way that practically screams, “NOTICE ME NOTICE ME NOTICE ME”.

Do I want to be noticed or do I want to follow Christ?

Because, if I were to be totally honest with myself, when I was fully following the Lord, I was deep and still and quiet and, somehow, I was seen, though I didn't draw overt attention to myself (you know, being that I lived alone and for a long time had no friends). And now, when I am surrounded by others, I often feel more unknown and misunderstood and alone in my true self than I did then.

Part of that is how I have ceased to write. And part of that, as well, is that I am closer to “reality” than I was there. I am closer to the consequences of my own words, good or bad, than when I lived abroad and this nondistance is discomfiting.

Being known to the level which I desire takes a lot more time than my patience feels as though it can handle, which leads to a lot of explaining on my part. That, as you know, can never end well, as words, unlike consistent behavior over time, can bounce all kinds of directions in other people’s perceptions.

To be known is to have a voice without speaking.

And it’s as though I forget to trust that the Lord writes my reputation, not me. What will be will be, and nothing I can do is going to make me get ahead. All I can do is follow.

I’m pretty passive and a very good follower in so so many ways. That is not one of them.

What do I fear?

I fear that reverence to my true nature will lead me back to being alone, deeply alone. And sometimes, in a very human way, I don’t think it’s worth it.

Yeah, sometimes I really miss the immaculate times of tea and tears with God, but other moments, I do not remember those experiences clearly enough to want them over what I have now.

Then comes Hadden to speak in chapel this week. Hadden, whose friendship blossomed during a time when no one could hear me, and I remember how right and pure and exactly good and better than everything else it is to be someone who is known. To be known by man is precious; to be known by God is worth far more.

Waking Up is Hard to Do

Done wrong, mornings are the worst.

Have you ever deliberately thought about about mornings through an anthropological lens? 

Who wakes up early? Who wakes up at 2pm? 

Of those who do either, what do their lives look like? 

And of those, which are choosing to rise and which and forced? 

I often joke about how much I dislike greeting the day. 

A large part of that is because I know how lovely mornings can be. 

My senior year, I would wake up, go work out for half an hour, come back and sit on my balcony, eat breakfast and journal/do my devo. 

Then I would get ready for class and leave. On time. 

More importantly than anything else, NO ONE WOULD TALK TO ME. No one else was awake either in my house. I was alone. 

It was the most beautiful beautiful beautiful part of every day and I looked forward to it each morning. 

For that hour and a half or so, I had flawless, unadulterated silence. I could start my morning fresh and lovely. 

It was important to me. 

Doesn't matter what time I wake up, someone in my house is already awake and interacting with me, verbally or nonverbally. I cannot handle it. So I stay asleep an extra hour and a half, wake up sleepy, and barely make it on work each day. 

But I love my job. 

Other people I know dread mornings for very different reasons. 

When I waitressed, I knew so many who worked the night shift, stayed up all night drinking and smoking pot (and doing lots of other nighttime activities), waking up at 2 in the afternoon, showering, and making it to their 3:30 shift. 

Because why would they wake up? Wake up to hangovers and empty time and too many thoughts of, "What am I doing with my life?" The people I knew couldn't wake up early because they didn't want to think. What they live is not a life. It's a pattern. It's a schedule. And they don't even make the schedule themselves. 

When I lived alone, I never greeted the morning. My eyes opened to text every few hours of the 24, but there wasn't a conscious decision to get up, get out, get going. 

I've known many others like that as well. Early nights and late mornings. Because we don't want to be awake at all. We don't want to exist. And we can't stay to a schedule. Not ours nor anyone else's. 

Then the early risers.

The at-home moms, the at-work moms, the working fathers, the multiple job workers, the interns, both sexes of the unmarrieds. Driven, determined, potentially robotic, but steely and resolute nonetheless. 

Their actions are measured and backed by a goal: I will pay my rent, I will buy 10,000 diapers, I will get that promotion, I will take care of my family, I will get this recommendation, I will fill I will build I will win. 

What's ironic about the life of the sleepers and the life of the sleepless is that it is often driven by the same thing. 

Very often, on both poles, is the desire not to think. To work, to exist, to make what's needed to survive (or thrive), but not to really live. 

I'm sure there's balance out there, and I'm sure there are those who fall outside the categories of observations I've noted here, but I find that without careful measurement and very conscious efforts of spending time alone to unknot my thoughts with myself and the Lord (especially at the start of the day), I lean and fall into the pattern of doing life and avoiding active participation in it. 

Snow Dump

Despite the fact that we had 70 degree weather all last week, Arkansas decided to grace us with winter. HELLOOOOO SNOW and ice. and sleet. and uck.

My dear housemate Sarah left me a note saying she went ahead and walked to work to get out her angst about the whole affair.

I had to unbury my vehicle.

My response to frustration is laughter. It's kind of disconcerting actually.

While I was attacking the multiple inches of snow and ice coating the Big Blue Whale, I repeatedly laugh-yelled "THIS IS RIDICULOUS", as I knew that once I got to work, I was to be leading an outdoor campus tour for a group of students.

During this treasure hunt, two of the littles from across the street came outside to throw show in the air and squeal with happiness.

Talk about perspective.

Me, the cranky adult, super annoyed at the super inconvenience to my two mile commute and minimal effort lifestyle, thinking only of how the ice was going to destroy a perfectly decent February morning and visit.

Then the littles, delighted at the prospect of school being out and having all day to play, build snowmen, have snowball fights, make snow ice cream, sled, and have fun! It felt like that scene in Father of the Bride II where the father looks out of the car window of horrible parent-child interactions while the mother looks out her window to picturesque scenes of parent-child affection.

Snow is the same then as it is now, but my response and sentiments toward it have become increasingly...icy (forgive me).

And yet, no matter how in my way and underfoot it is (literally), I can't help but quietly stare at it glitter and make my campus and my office and my home feel magical and wintery and right.

Once the tour was over and we, the counselors, were frozen but pretty cheerful, as per always (thank you, coffee), and I picked me up some marshmallows and designed a yum recipe for cocoa (two parts powder sugar to one part cocoa powder, dash salt, almond milk), I settled in to my blanket and my fate.

Hello snow.

Theology of Suffering

This semester, I'm taking a class with one of my favorite college professors. Part because I miss school and part because it's his last semester, and I never got to take this course.

It's called Critical Concerns with Adolescents. I justified taking it because, hey, I work with adolescents, right?

It's a more interactive, feelingsy style class structure than I was anticipating or like, but it's been nice to get out from behind my desk.

For one of our recent meetings, we had to write our personal theology of suffering.
He wanted our answer to the question: "What do you believe about suffering?"

My definition of suffering.

I think of this a lot, as I have since I was small and trying to reconcile my own feelings of social isolation with the more "pertinent" suffering of my best friend with her rough neighborhood and her parents that yelled.

That struggle continues now, as I see the ways that I have "suffered", which seem so...insignificant in comparison to my friends and people I love a lot.

How do you bring something to the table if you don't believe in its validity while, at the same time, can't help but feel its effects?

I didn't know my answer when I started typing, but that's often how it is with me. Give me a pen, and I can tell me my thoughts. I swear my mind is trapped in ink.

What I came up with is this:

 Suffering is anything that causes division, be that be division of self, division of mind, or division of emotion.
It is a felt, abstract concept, not one that can be put in a concrete way. Because of this, there is no empirical way to measure suffering on a straight measure.
What is suffering for one might be nothing for another. However, both of them get to “count.”
I come into contact with this word and my own struggles of literalism when I talk to my boyfriend.
Neither one of us have very clean stories. But they’re both messed up in different ways. And those differences affect us and our relationship strongly, as we struggle to work out our past hurts.
We have both suffered.
But when I come to the table with an area of woundedness, I feel as though my pain is insufficient compared to his and, therefore, doesn’t get to be counted as legitimate.
I was never married. I have never struggled with addiction.
I had some rough relationships. I was desperately lonely for a very long time. I know what it feels like to crawl into myself and die a little.
But those are not measurable to one another because we are different people. We have different stories.
I don’t know what it feels like to have a spouse leave or really anything else that he’s experienced.
But we both know what it feels like to have your heart divided. We both know what it feels like to be divided from those we love. We both know what it is to have our minds turn against us, to lose control, to feel a chasm open up between ourselves and the Lord.
For other people, it’s a literal division from body parts, division from the capacity to function “normally”, division from social spheres, division of parents, division from whole families, division of self. We feel it all. So, while we may not understand everyone’s exact point of “suffering”, we all know what it is to feel something less than whole.