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.