Files

I like things to be put in order. At my required counseling session for a college class last week, that is what my professor said about me, "Lisa, you like things to be in order. God made you that way. God is a God of order. Things in your life aren't orderly, so it's hard on you." She didn't say exactly that, really, but all of those things were points she made at some point in our conversation. I like counseling. It makes me feel like I'm putting all the different clutters in my life into little file folders and stamping a label on them that says "Yes, I did think this through". Oh dear, I'm almost obnoxiously orderly. I also take counseling seriously. In junior high, when my parents thought I was crazy and took me to some professional counselor who was supposed to be really awesome and took me to Starbucks, I would hang up the "goal lists" he gave me in my room. I actually did the things on the list. If I didn't, I felt bad and disorganized. So, being the sort of person I am, and having stamped all those files with "Yes, I did think this through", it was time to move them to the "...and I've done something about it" stamp. A few phone calls. A few emails. A very sweet friend who helped me clean my apartment because it was past the point of me handling it on my own. Long talks with Em, even though we're usually half asleep. A lot of prayer. A few fears. Yet where do I find myself? Balancing on the edge of a diving board, just like the first time I learned to dive - now taking a deep breath, about to pluge, then stubbornly sitting down on the end of the board, refusing to budge. That is to say, I feel that I know quite well some pretty major steps I (and my husband, by default, who is much more prepared for them than I) am about to take, but I can't seem to work up the resolve to push them through. Change is hard on me. I think it's hard on most people, and they would tell you that, if they were honest. Mostly people aren't honest, they just come up with excuses for why the change is bad to try to justify their fears and stress. I do that a lot. I try not to, but I know that I do. Emi tells me I do. I'm trying to admit to hating change more and making excuses less. It's hard. Becoming a better person is always hard. I know, because it is in my file of things that I've thought through. Now I have an invisible goal list with goals that I never imagined having when I was 13. Maybe I should write them down. I always feel more accomplished when I make lists. There are little index cards with lists on them scattered through our apartment. Some of them are legible. Most aren't. I feel as though this ended up being pointless, which is too bad. I'm tired and have some kind of ridiculous allergies, so now was probably a bad time to write. Sometimes you just need to write, though. It helps to put things in files.

Grandpa

I've been thinking a lot about self-esteem lately. I've always been fairly confident in my appearance, not because I'm exceptionally beautiful, but mostly because I never thought too much of how I looked. Many of my friends struggled with massive insecurities about their bodies, often leading to very self-destructive behavior, but somehow I escaped most of that.

Until I lost weight. I know that sounds really odd, but in high school I had put on a decent amount of weight, so when I graduated I was a tad overweight. I thought my body looked pretty nice that way, though. I had nice, full hips & bottom, and an ample enough chest, with a comparatively small waist. The summer after my freshman year of college, I grew ill and began to lose a lot of weight, fast. Instead of losing weight in a pleasant way, I mostly just became curve-less. My face looked thin and tired and colourless. Plus, I broke my nose for the second time, creating an awkward bump on the bridge. I didn't like it at all. By August, I knew the truth: I was ugly.

I put on a little weight after, only to lose it & more quickly. I'd look angrily in the mirror every morning, wondering what the strange, ghoul-like creature staring back at me was. But every morning, we got a little more used to each other. I'd always been pale, but now my skin seemed translucent, even a smidge blue. This was perhaps one of the single most convincing factors for me that I was no longer attractive. Yet, the more I got used to it, the more I liked it. I liked how, if I dyed my hair darker, there seemed to be something unusual and dramatic about my face. I liked experimenting with blush for the first time in my life. I even became okay with the new size and shape of my body. Still, there was one thing haunting me: my crooked, bumpy nose.

I sat next to Em, examining my reflection in a mirror. He didn't think I was ugly, I knew. In fact, if I had asked him then (or now) he would insist I'm the most beautiful girl in the world. Of course, as it always is with women, simply having someone tell you that you're beautiful doesn't much change your opinion - unless, of course, you're already convinced you're gorgeous. Then it may strengthen it. But on this particular examination of myself, I noticed something, "I have my grandpa's nose."

My grandpa has a long, narrow nose (like mine) that he's broken something like 4 times (like mine). Em thinks he looks like Clint Eastwood. I like my grandpa a lot. He has an odd sense of humor and has retained serious golf injuries (who does that?). He's been a huge supporter of me my whole life and I'm glad to call him my grandpa. And I have a nose that looks like his.

So maybe it is just how we think about things, after all. I think my nose looks pretty regal. Yeah, regal.

Happily

Two weeks ago, I got married. Thus begins the "happily ever after..." part of our lives. And the parts where Em has really bad breath in the mornings and I try to reconcile a 45hr workweek with newlywed bliss. Chicago's weather also seems to think I need more time with my husband, and happily offers 68 degree weather in August, providing me with the opportunity to leave the little froyo shop I work at an hour early at night. Its difficult to say what being married is like. It's like not being married, except now I wake up next to a beautful man who probably attempted multiple times the night before to steal all the blankets from me. I bathe much more than I used to, and have officially made my first casserole, pyrex pan and all. I'm not certain exactly what I thought it would "be" like to be married. In jr. high, my best friend went through a really rough time. She was struggling with depression, the usual teenage angst and hormones, and some family problems. We moved a bed from my grandma's storage locker into my room because there were so many nights she stayed with us. One summer, she stayed with us nearly the entire few months. We stayed up til 4:00am, making things out of clay, watching movies, and talking. We ate too much sugar, went grocery shopping together, and listened to music. All my best memories of my teenage years were during that time. Being married is mostly like that. We stay up too late giggling and talking about the future. We argue in the grocery store about what kind of juice is the best and rent a lot of movies. We try to figure out what superheroes we would be and we do the dishes together. It's wonderful and complicated and sometimes heartbreaking. Most wonderful of all, it's the beginning. If all goes well (and we don't die young), I have years ahead to learn how to be the best friend, best lover, and best partner for Em, and he has years to do the same for me. Happily ever after is a rigorous training school.

Bows

"Becca's here!" I happily announced to my mother as my best friend of eleven years walked into the room. She immediately helped me to move a table, because she is one of the most helpful people in the world. Continuing into the evening, we chatted about the best way to tie bows, what kind of jewelry we like the best, how my wedding had taken on an "earthy" ambience, and all those sorts of things best friends simply must talk about when one of them is getting married in three days. This time, it's me.

I recieved several phone calls today and only accepted one, from my fiancee himself. He'd just learned about a medical emergency in his family. We paniced. We freaked out. Then we realized that life will go on, we can still get married though it may not be the most ideal circumstances for a wedding. And I remember what one of my bosses told me in his semi-thick Indian accent that I found so hard to understand when we first met, "In the end it's about you and him. You do what you can, but the other people don't matter."

I've been thinking about all the different advice I've been given about marriage, including that. Still, the best is a piece of advice from a woman I barely knew that I met at a music festival a few years ago, before I had met Emi. In a canded and spirited conversation about marriage, she told my sister, my best friend, and I, "Marriage makes you realize what a terrible person you are," she laughed and explained that she never realized how selfish she was until she had to put her husband before herself. What she said seemed sensible at the time. Nonetheless, it has taken on a new meaning lately as Emi explores what it means to die to himself and gives more and more of his time and energy to our relationship. The more he invests his life in me, the more I realize how in the same way I need to return that type of love to him. I'm naturally a generous person - giving sounds easy to me. However, I'm also a very independant person and find it difficult, often, to give up my own will for his. Yet God hasn't given up on me.

In three days, I walk down an aisle overflowing with flower petals (I keep buying more...), and pledge my life to the most incredible man in the world. Every day after that, I'll learn a little more about what a terrible person I am, and what a gracious and forgiving God who is leading me.

Here's to many adventures. And bows.

Fail

I barely made it up the last stairstep. My breath sounded short and... wheesy. I plopped down on the couch, happy that my 6-year-old subject was pretty worn out, too. I sat there, desperately trying to remember what normal breathing felt like. It took me a good ten minutes to get to the point of normal breathing. "I don't feel good," Tyler moaned. I understood the sentiment, so we sat on the couch for awhile, drinking water and munching on Goldfish. We played with the Goldfish a little, because that's just something you have to do with the snack that smiles back.

Sleeping on the floor in a strange apartment without a pillow turns out to be one of my body's least-favourite activities. I did acquire a pillow though, finally. I've had odd and irregular eating habits the past few weeks. My legs start to tremble, threatening to fail, if I've forgotten to eat for too long. I like to pretend that I'm just being a wimp, but I know better than that. I'm tired, but that I've gotten used to. I'm angry, and that's something I never wanted to get used to, but maybe I have.

The last time I went to get a blood draw, the nurse was unable to get anything out of me. She wiggled the needle around, searching for a vein. She found one, but apparently it didn't have enough blood in it. I was left with a vein bulging from my arm, freezing cold, and trembling violently. I stumbled to my classroom - no time to waste - and sunk to the floor in the hallway. I was somewhere between my body just failing to move any more and a slight state of shock. Em came over to me and I showed him my arms. I cried, though I still don't know why. Mostly I just felt angry.

I question God a lot when I start getting sick. I get angry at God a lot when I can't make my body move the way I want it to. I think Christians in general like to shy away from admitting that they doubt or get angry at God, but I'm pretty sure it's a universal thing. The Bible is littered with people who cry out and God, not understanding the state of their lives. In the end, basically all we know is that God's got it. We don't always get answers to the question why, we just know God is bigger than us.

So all the pain I've dealt with the past year is okay, because I don't have to understand why. All the anger and the confusion and frustration is okay, as long as I remember that God is sovereign and I am not outside of His will. I'm not accusing the Almighty of being unjust. Sometimes one just needs to get stuff out of their system, sometimes that helps us recognize God all the more. Sometimes I tend to separate "me" and "my body," so let me broaden that a little to encompass more than my health. All the difficulties Em and I have had (and will have) are okay because God is in control. All the disappointment I've felt toward my parents and friends is okay because God is good. All the trouble I'm having finding that "ideal" job is okay because God is bigger than work. I don't really have to understand why, after all. I just have to rest in what I know is true about God.

Relate

Friendship is a really odd topic for me. I have two friends who I've been close to for the last ten years, about. When I was in high school, I was relatively popular and never seemed to have a problem finding someone to spend time with. I started writing this blog because I had been stewing over all the things going on in my life that go with growing up. When someone asked me what I wanted to write about this time (I've blogged before and abandoned them all for various reasons), I said something like, "Health. I'm really interested in being healthy. And education, because I like it. Getting married. Moving. My usual theological rants." Basically things that are happening in my life, but maybe I could also take a broader perspective on.

So here's the thing, I'm bad at making friends. Em and I talk about this on a regular basis. My sister has lectured me about this since I was about 13. So I've gotten a little more intentional lately. I planned three different "dates" this week, with three different women I have something of a relationship with that I want to deepen. My first one was today. It was with a girl I met when I started college and we were close friends for a few months, but recently have barely spoken. I got to Panera first. She arrived a few minutes later. We talked about some of the things we're working through on our upcoming marriages. Then we sat. In silence. For what seemed like 15 minutes, at least. So I sat there, wondering how it happened that we ended up with absolutely nothing to talk about. Then I went to work, and I wondered how I seemed to have more in common with my manager, a culinary student with completely different beliefs than me, then a girl who lives a very similar lifestyle to me.

Tomorrow I have date #2, and date #3 may have to be rescheduled as work is eating my life a tiny bit right now. Date #2 is with one of my better friends that we've just sort of not made time for each other recently. Date #3 is with a girl I've known vaguely for two years, though have never been close to, who has recently gone out of her way to be incredibly kind to me which has made me realize she's probably the type of friend I actually want to have.

I'm really bad at the whole friends thing. But I'm getting better. I try not to directly talk about God in every single post because I feel like that's a little unnecessary. Maybe it isn't, though. Because sometimes it becomes like the point of the thing I'm writing about is the thing itself, but it really isn't. The point of making good friends isn't just that. It's so that I can practice being the type of friend God wants me to be, and so I can have people in my life with the same intent in their friendships. The point of taking all the vitamins my doctor tells me to and exercising every day isn't so I look better or feel better, it is so I manage my body the way God intends for me to. The point of education is to use my mind in a way that brings glory to God. So now, this whole week turns into a sort of exploration of what God's view of friendship is. I'll keep you all posted.

Home

I write about the idea of "home" a lot. If you read anything I write - from Facebook statuses, to former blogs, to one of my (6?) novellas - you'll notice the common thread. Home. Well, maybe a lot of other common threads, too, but that's one of them. I'm a girl obsessed with getting home.

Last Thursday night I was packing my things, unsure of where I would live when I returned to the city on Monday. I was afraid. Possibly more afraid than I have ever been. I was exhausted and every bone in my body hurt. My body did that cruel thing where it reminds me it will never work the way it is supposed to again, and my stomach swelled in protest to the heavy boxes I'd been moving around all day. I cried. Halfway out of pain, halfway out of terror of sleeping in a cardboard box.

While the pain was legitimate, maybe my fear of homelessness isn't. In actuality, I wouldn't have been homeless. The living situation I'm in has been far from ideal, but my friends have been incredibly kind and generous with their space. That isn't the point, though. The point is that maybe the point isn't that I have a home. Maybe God can use my life better if I were homeless and starving and strapped cardboard to my bleeding feet every morning because they had become too swollen to fit in shoes anymore. Maybe I would understand love better if I knew what it was like to be unloved and unnoticed. And in my life, the sad implication of this idea that God could drastically use a homeless person for His glory is that the past 2 years that I've spent in and out of doctors' offices, adjusting to new medications, afraid of dying, unable to get out of bed some mornings, may very well be how God decided I can best glorify Him.

And I didn't.

A large part of the past two years I've spent shaking my fist at the Heavens and angrily pushing my body to it's limits. I demanded that if God really cared for me He would heal me. Back when I believed that I would make a complete recovery, I asked God for some magical medication that would speed up the process. Instead of that, the next time I went to the doctor I learned that I never would fully recover. And I grieved that. But now, trying to live every day, the fact is that God is sovereign. God allowed my body to break for His glory. God has allowed the past several months of incredible stress, cutting remarks, and failed plans for His glory. Because God's mind is always bigger than my mind, and perhaps what seems bad to me is not really so bad.

Tonight I have no home, I've moved from place to place all week, though with security. And in my relative homelessness, may I glorify God more than ever. For He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. Blessed be His name.

Boxes

I'm packing away all the things that make up my life right now. It's always weird to file all your things away into boxes, "This I won't need again til Winter," one thinks to oneself, "so it shall go into the Winter box." I'm terrible at filing things. I am pretty sure my swimsuit ended up in my Winter box. Boxes, boxes, boxes.

I have less clothing than I thought. In general, I have less "stuff" than I thought. I'm also getting rid of stuff. I hate having stuff. My family's biggest grievance against me is I have a tendency to throw away too much when I clean. I just like everything to be simple. Clean. New. I'll be two weeks somewhere new, then two months, then a few years, maybe. Always moving, like I always wanted to be.

I'm afraid, because I look at pictures from a year ago and think "I looked so well. I looked healthy and my skin was pink and I was a little fat." I look at my reflection and wonder at the dark circles under my eyes and the grey-blue tone my skin has taken on, as if to say "you should have been dead by now." I feel odd saying all that publicly, to the grand total of 3 people who read my blog, but the fact is that for the most part I don't like to talk about it. I don't like to think about it. I don't like to think that I might not be able to do and be everything I want to. I don't like to think that my body isn't a normal, healthy, 20-year-old body.

Generally, when I'm feeling angry about my health, I run across things like this. I will probably not be ill the rest of my life. I will never be able to check the "excellent" box when paperwork asks about my health condition, but it is manageable. The fact remains, though, my health is what it is for a reason. It's not punishment or judgement. It's another opportunity to glorify God. In my work, in managing my time, in caring for my body and establishing good health habits, in my friendships, and maybe most of all in my upcoming marriage.

So here I am, packing my life into boxes. Boxes, boxes, boxes. Uncertain of exactly what the future holds, and where the next few years may take me. But understanding that in a few years, maybe I'll be packing boxes again to go on a new adventure. Maybe more frightening. Nonetheless, trusting God that my boxes & I will end up exactly where He means for us to be.

Happy

"Happy people don't try to make other people miserable," I said to Em yesterday, "miserable people try to make other people miserable." He started to disagree with me, then stopped. I don't know whether he decided to agree, or just decided it wasn't worth an argument. Maybe both. Nonetheless, I've been thinking about it ever since, going back and forth on if I actually believe this. I think I do.

Sometimes happy people make other people miserable, but I do not think that they try to. Happy people are too busy doing awesome things to do things that are not awesome. Like making people unhappy. I don't think they would be happy if they were in the business of making people miserable. You don't see happy evil overlord (okay, maybe the Despicable Me guy, but he was mostly happy after he stopped making people miserable).

Maybe happy is a bad term to use. Everyone has been tossing the term happy around lately. Its a word people like to use when they talk to young 20somethings who have their whole lives ahead of them. "Are you happy?" they ask, and, "will that make you happy?" or, my favourite, "will you still be happy with that decision in ten or twenty years?" I'm not convinced that this "happy" thing is all that everyone makes it out to be. I think if happy were everything, I would drop out of school and become a barista and learn to play bass. A bass-playing barista. With blue hair. I would probably try to start a band. It would be a really terrible band. I would call it "Frying Bryan". I would be a blue-haired, bass-playing barista in Frying Bryan. My entire life would be a tongue twister. I don't know if that would make me happy, either, but that would probably be my first attempt at the whole happy thing. I'm not positive about the happy thing, though. Being happy seems pretty trite.

I would rather be satisfied. I'd rather be joyful. College is probably one of the least happy things I've ever done. Surviving Systematic Theology I was probably one of the most difficult things I've ever done (and it's sequel is coming Fall 2013). I don't know that I'll ever be "happy" about finishing school. I'm not convinced I'll ever look back and say "I'm happy I did that, fellows." When I'm old I am going to call people "fellows", though. I digress. The point is, well, I do it because its satisfying. Learning things means something. It's important. I will probably look back and say it was satisfying and necessary and important. And I think that is enough.

Satisfied people don't make other people miserable. People who can look back on their life and say that everything was worth it, that everything was satisfying and necessary and important don't doubt others' ability to do the same. I want to be one of those old people who believes young people can do anything. I am trying to be a young person who believes I have the chance to do anything. There's too much hope and potential in the world to waste time telling other people why they shouldn't or can't live the lives they've imagined. There's enough other people doing that already, after all. I'll let the miserable people make other people miserable. I'll work on living a life I can be satisfied with.

Pain

Most of this week has been... painful. I woke up Monday morning quite earlier than I like to wake up running of fever of roughly 102. Last week of school, of course. Important day to be in class, of course. Since then I've been resting at a low-grade fever with a sore throat and some nausea. I think what I've come to hate the most about being sick is the acheyness and the exhaustion, though. The other things would be manageable if you didn't get that "I'm-going-to-die" type of feeling along with it. It doesn't help that every time I get legitimately sick (not just I-don't-feel-good sick, because I'm in a constant state of that) I panic a little bit that all the doctors have missed something and I truly am about to die from some horrible illness. You call it paranoia, I call it last summer.

 All in all, it's being a very unpleasant and difficult week. It has certainly had its bright spots, though, like going out to get some real food and watch a movie with Em last night. We talked like young British boys nearly the entire way home and giggled uncontrollably. His giggle is one of the best sounds in the world. In the spirit of thinking about really nice things while not feeling so nicely, I shall list pleasant things to do when one is ill:


Eat really wonderful soup (preferably Soupbox) and drink good tea, preferably while lounging in bed


Catch up on all your favourite TV shows on Hulu 


Hug someone really nice 


Make a coccoon out of pillows and hibernate for a few hours 


Write love letters 


Take pictures of your sick face, so when you're well again you can appreciate that your skin is not normally that colour 


Lay on the grass on a sunny day and soak up the warmth 


Take a bath 


Read an entire book 


Use your sick-raspy voice to see how much like a space alien you can sound


Enjoy a deep, medicine-induced sleep (and just think - when you're sick is the only time you should do this, so enjoy the soundness) 


Escape from the world and enjoy some quiet 


Get your fiancee to study Song of Songs (okay, well, he actually did that on his own, but the effect of that is a wonderfully thoughtful and romantic man being even more wonderfully thoughtful and romantic) 


Apply for jobs, even if you don't want them it makes you feel productive while doing something mindless 


Talk to your mom (let's be honest, 80% of people want their moms when they're sick, the other 20% had bad mothers) 


Wear really fantastic undergarmets and/or pajamas 


Watch an children's movies 


Drink more juice than would ever be suitable otherwise (because who doesn't love juice?) 


Teach yourself origami 


Go for a walk, even if you don't feel like it. Moving around a bit will at least sort out a few crunchy muscles 


Listen to instrumental music 


Plan a mini-celebration for when you're not sick anymore (treat yourself to ice cream?) 


Dream about travelling 


Re-evaluate your life 


Talk to an old friend on the phone 


Do some homework (I know, doesn't sound fun, but it is a nice feeling to accomplish things even when not feeling well) 


Spend some time with God; thinking, praying, cracking open the Bible or listening to sermons online, whatever your jam is 


Remember what it was like to be very young 


Imagine what it would be like to be very old 


Laugh 


Practice winking 


Take your temperature (I like thermometors, don't judge) 


And mostly just lie in bed, and when you get tired of lying in bed, remember that when you're not sick you wish you could just lie in bed.

Spin

Finals week is starting to tumble in at a rapid pace. Too rapid. I'm scrambling around trying to get enough sleep and simoutaneously not fail school. Those are some of my favourite things: sleep and not failing school. I'm trying to piece together some "big life events" at the same time.

I'm a little overwhelmed, but I'm doing a decent job. I could definitely use some peace right now, though. And probably most of the things on that list. Finals tend to do that to a person. I want to buy a bike. A bicycle. Eventually a "bike" in the motorcycle way, but for now just one with pedals. I've been scouring Craigslist for one, even though I only have a very vague idea of what I need. I'm really excited about biking this summer. I haven't ridden a bike in about 2 years. I don't really know anything about biking. I'm trying to figure out where I'll live for 2 weeks this summer before my roommate and I can move into her apartment. I'm excited to spend this summer in the city. When I was a kid, my sister and I would always pretend to be grown ups. I would always pretend I lived in Chicago, and now I do. Lifelong dream fulfilled. I also always had about 17 adopted children, but we'll overlook that one.

In a way, we both ended up living our dreams. We always had a tendency to dream pretty big, too. She always wanted to travel the world. She's visiting Spain this summer, adding her 7th country to the list of places she's been. I'm staying in a city I've always adored this summer, and working 4+ jobs (shhhhh, I know I'm crazy), which is a very me thing to do. I'm excited for new experiences, and I'm excited for building on relationships I already have this summer. Em and I have been taking some pretty big steps lately. Getting ready for this summer has demanded quite a bit from both of us. Apartment hunting in Chicago is largely depressing and dissapointing. Trying to find said bicycle that I am obsessed with obtaining has been more stressful than I anticipated. I'm trying to decide how much is a reasonable food budget for a single girl who prefers to eat mostly fruits & vegetables. I'm trying to figure out how to manage the changes in my skin that come with growing up. I'm coming to terms with the idea that my clothing budget is rapidly shrinking. I'm thinking about buying a shower curtain and knives. I'm excited to live in the world, instead of the controlled environment called "dorms" and to be able to cook my own food. I have slight paranoia about the realization that I need a haircut and have gone to the same stylist for about 10 years, and have no idea how to go about finding one I like here. The little things about becoming an adult are the weirdest, I suppose. Ironically, one of the weirdest blessings for me in all of this is one of those things most would consider a curse. The tiny, cozy little studio apartment. I couldn't be more excited to run my life out of a tiny space. I've always wanted to live in a very small apartment. Em and I don't want to live in any one place for terribly long, at least not until we're substantially older, so buying is out of the question. Plus, even when I was a young teenager, I was set on living somewhere tiny. My mom teased me once after a friend told us of her tiny 3-room house in Africa because my eyes light up with delight at the idea of living in such a simple place. Plus, who really wants to clean a huge house? Oh wait... I'm a maid...

Good

I drank a Red Bull tonight for the first time in about 3 years. It was probably one of the worst decisions I've made in quite some time. I sat in the library with Em for about 3 hours while he worked on a massive theological paper. I vaugely worked on a paper (and when I say vaugely I mean it) and looked up things for our wedding, tapping him on the arm every few minutes to see what he thought of this or that.

Em is much more studious than I am. Most of the people I'm close to are more studious than I am. My sister is graduating college with honors in a few weeks. She's really great, on top of being smart. When she visits, people always think we're twins, which is a fun time. I'm not nearly as good of a student as she is, though. I've been thinking about art quite a bit. I am not really artistic. I tend to give people that impression, but I'm actually pretty terrible at most (if not all) creative sorts of things. I like art a lot, though. Soon after I became a Christian, when I was 14 and in the middle of writing my first novel (the first completed one) and thought I would end up being an editor some day, I started wrestling with the idea of evil in what I wrote. This was something that I and my writer friends talked about on a pretty regular basis. Things like, can I have a character swear if that is what the character would do? Or do I have to tone down the sin represented because I'm a Christian? This semester, this same idea was something that one of my professors discussed in class. I never really answered that question for myself until the past few days. I've recently garnered a fascination with the show Being Human (UK and US, I'm sort of a fan of both). The idea of the show is a vampire, a ghost, and a werewolf who live together in a house and attempt to appear human. It sounds cheesy, and I know a lot of people who really hated it, but I would actually reccomend it if you aren't terribly squeamish.

I was watching an episode a few days ago and I was just completely grossed out. And that's why I like it. See, I wasn't particularly grossed out by the images, but by the idea of what was going on. It was showing sin (though not calling it sin) and the idea behind it was that these sinful actions were entirely disgusting. The characters who live entrenched in sin are portrayed as disgusting beings, not as witty or sugar-coated. One of the driving ideas behind the show is that everyone is completely depraved; humans and monsters alike. As I was watching it, I realized how horrified I was by the sins that were being portrayed. Not just in one instance, but throughout. Everything from lying, to sexual immorality, to murder, to completely grey areas were displayed quite accurately. In response, I had this incredible moment where I realized that all the disgust I felt toward the characters on the show is exactly the response I should have to sin. I realized that in that moment, my complete abhorence of sin was probably the most Godly reaction I've ever had toward any sort of film - most of all Christian films. I think that matters. I think it matters that art can cause me to hate sin. I think that idea should affect the way that I write. It should affect the way I doodle on my notes for the one class I use paper in. It should affect the way I look at art. More than that, I think that realization about the depravity of sin (and, in turn, me) should affect every part of my life. I'm bad at endings, and I'm working on that, but the Red Bull is wearing off. Please pardon the lack of paragraphs. They were originally there, I promise. Somehow they became lost in between me typing and posting and they refuse to come back.

Ancient

Here's the deal. I really like to write. I mostly just like throwing up whatever happens to be in my brain onto paper. That is to say, don't expect anything great from me. My writing skills are still about what they were when I was 15. Granted, I had written two novels by that time, but no one ever said they were good (they weren't). I also have a larger vocabulary now, though I'm convinced my spelling has declined. Mostly, this is just me talking about my life, things I do, things I learn, and all that fun stuff.

I turned 20 last month, and I am fairly certain everything is downhill from here. I was babysitting a few days ago and the 3-year-old I watch hopped onto my lap, looked at me for a moment, and then observed, "Why do you look so bad?" I'd forgotten to put on makeup. I explained that I was very tired. She frowned and proceeded to tell me I looked old. She was right. I could have easily passed for ten years older that day. It was a weird experience. Even on little sleep, I used to look my age. Even without makeup, I used to not look like I'd weathered a battle. I also recently discovered my first grey hair.

Now, I'm not actually that upset that I look old some days.After almost a year and a half of being sick, I've finally got my body mostly under control, but I still have the dark circles under my eyes and weak muscles to testify to my illness. It's odd that 3 years ago, I didn't give a thought to my health and I existed almost entirely off of marshmallow cream and Kool-Aid. Over the past year, there were days I wasn't able to stand. There were days I legitimately believed I would die before I made it to 20. I went from being terrified of needles to lying on one of those weird doctor's office beds making suggestions on which arm the nurse draw blood from.

Anyways, I read this a few days ago and have been thinking about it ever since. I've been thinking about time and what it is and what it means, and what I'm doing with mine. Because more than most people my age, I have a pretty decent idea of how fragile that time is. I'm not really sure where I stand with time right now. There are things that I'm really glad I'm doing, and feel like I'm stewarding my time well. In a job interview a few weeks ago, I told my interviewer that I saw good time management as an integral part of following Christ. She looked confused, and I wasn't really sure how to explain it any better, so I probably didn't. Sometimes I get really awkward about things and just quit making sense. That wasn't an attribute of myself I wanted to display in that interview. Anyways, I think the point is that there's more to life than just existing. There's more to time than passing through it. There's more to growing old then memories and people that break your heart. If every second doesn't matter, then none do. And that's me, being presumptuous.