The Fault in Our Stars/How Many Tears Can One Shed in Approximately Two Hours.

Listen.  If your boyfriend, that you had a fleeting romance with, is suddenly diagnosed with leukemia and dies in the ER, it is probably not wise to go see a movie where the main character's boyfriend also tragically dies in the ER due to cancer.  This is pretty basic stuff, folks.  But I'm not a pretty basic girl.

Instead, this not so basic girl threw herself into the theater, forcing a few friends to go with her after several other friends told her that they would absolutely not go and see this movie with her and sh freaked out and panicked because SHE HAD TO SEE THIS MOVIE, so she drove to Birmingham and watched it with two friends that she knew would appreciate it as much as her insane self also would. (shout out to C. Graham and Yates, whaddup!).

And you're wondering: What does it look like for 3 grown women to struggle to not be the loudest criers in a theater full of teenagers?  Horrible.  Like the most horrible thing on the planet.  Like as horrible as sitting down in a public bathroom stall to realize, too late, that there is no toilet paper times infinity.

But the truth of the matter is that I was exposed to this story in the summer of 2012 (coincidentally the summer I met Richard, but this is beside the point).  The story I am referring to, in case you have been under a protective/unemotional/want-to-deny-yourself-beautiful-things rock lately, is The Fault in Our Stars.  I read the book that summer and freaking fell madly, deeply, widely in love with the characters and the author.  This author, John Green, has a way with words that I strive to emulate and channel when I write.  He is witty and has a way of laying out exactly what you're thinking without even knowing that you were thinking it until you read his words and OH MY GOSH YOU WERE THINKING THE SAME THING.  But he says your words way better than you could ever dream of.  The depth that he is able to portray in a young adult book about two teenagers with cancer that fall in love is a thing of the cosmos.  I can't even.

So, you see my friends, I HAD to see this movie.  It wasn't even a question.  NO, it did not matter that I would spend the entire movie tearing up, to only have the flood gates OPEN and to start SOBBING thirty minutes before the movie ended and to think it would NEVER END I SWEAR I DIDN'T KNOW WHEN IT WOULD END.

Because I was invested.

But truth be told, this movie-going experience would have been different if Richard had never happened.  I still would have lost my composure in front of a multitude of teenagers, but the deeper heartache would not have been there.  The deeper understanding, longing, and empathy would not have been there.  But this is no surprise.  Everything would be different if Richard had never happened.

Wouldn't have it any other way.

Sundays Are for Cleaning. And Apparently Crying.

Sundays and I have been in a fight lately.  But I think we're about to make up.

I have been finding myself crying every Sunday, lately.  At least over the past several weeks.  This is not incredibly surprising since I'm, like, the most emotional person you've ever encountered, but it's really been throwing a wrench in my days.  WHY AM I CRYING SO MUCH, I've found myself wondering.  I LOVE SUNDAYS, WHAT'S THE DEAL!?!  But I think I've figured it out.

See for me, Sundays are for cleaning.  I enjoy throwing on (loud) music and starting the process of cleaning up the crumbs of the week before.  Sweeping, dusting, vacuuming, etc.  I am, by no means, a "clean freak," but I love how fresh the house looks/smells/feels after a solid wipe down, shaking off all of the remainders of the days prior, setting it up for a new week.

I also find myself cleaning out my mind, heart and soul on Sundays.  It typically starts with a church service, where I am fed spiritually and emotionally.  Hoping to carry on the feeling I get after hearing God's word, I usually find myself reading, writing or studying later in the day, with a tendency to focus on things that will satisfy my heart and mind (don't worry - I gorge myself on junk TV and such on Saturdays.)  I prepare myself for the week ahead, while reflecting on the days I've just left behind.

Because of this routine, Sundays tend to be full of reflection, contemplation, and grace-filled insights. Thinking of what my life looks like now, remembering what it looked like before, daydreaming of what my life may look like in the future.  Shaking off the worries and the burdens and sitting in utter awe of God's unconditional love and grace.  And because, remember, I'm, like, the most emotional person you've ever encountered, I typically find myself with tears streaming down my face.

But it's okay because crying is my reaction to most emotions - happiness, sadness, frustration, anger, elation, boredom - and I believe it is my soul's way of cleansing itself.

So even though Sundays make me cry...I adore them.  What other day of the week can you wake up slow, drink obscene amounts of coffee, be fed spiritually while visiting with friends and family, enjoy nap time, and reorganize your life for the days ahead?

I hope your Sundays are just as lovely.  But maybe a bit less emotional.

White, Blank Page.

I'm sitting here, on my bed, staring at this white, blank page in front of me, trying to figure out the words to type out.  I know that in order to be a successful writer, one must...write.  Sometimes writing is just the easiest part of my day, words flowing out of my fingers like nobody's business, like my fingers were created to type.  But sometimes the words run away and hide from me, deep down in the crevices of my brain.  I know they are there but bringing them to the surface can be difficult.

So I guess I'll just write about writing.  I am trying to blog more, again.  Knowing that I need to practice this skill and actually practicing are two different acts.  I am attempting to encourage (read: force) myself to write at least two blogs a week.  At least two blogs a week just on my personal blog alone; not including writing I'll be doing for Shattered's blog among other things.  Oh and this doesn't include, you know, trying to write a book.  So basically there's going to be a lot of typing going on up in here.

To date I have written approximately (read: exactly) 5,817 words for my book.  That's enough right?  It's coming along slowly, but sweetly and surely.  Maybe by 2050 I'll have them all written out.  It's such a delicate balance writing a book that you would actually like people to read.  Figuring out a way to delicately interlace straight forward facts and all the emotions and thoughts and feels in a way that shows grace, love and sincerity is kind of a ridiculous idea if you really think about it.  But I'm determined (read: stubborn) and I'm going to make it happen.  I recently found out that I FINALLY got into graduate school...for next year.  I will start Summer 2015.  I am choosing to see the silver linings in having to wait another entire year and one of them is to finish this dang book.  I work well with due dates and deadlines.

I shall now leave you with a gift.  A gift of a picture of my dog contemplating the world's problems.  Like maybe why there are not enough tennis balls on this planet.  Or why he can't seem to physically catch the reflection from his collar tags.  Or why our cat hates him so much. 

You're welcome.

Waiting.

(photo credit: http://piccsy.com/2011/12/friend-9aw5ypauv/)

Waiting.  We're always waiting for something.  Some of us are waiting for new job opportunities or promotions.  Some of us are waiting for our favorite artist to release a new album.  Some of us are simply waiting for our dinner to be ready.

But some of us are waiting for something much deeper; something we may never really receive in this lifetime.

Answers.

There is the girl waiting for answers as to why her husband of 6 months was taken from her due to illness.  Why him?  Why her?  Why them?

There is the girl waiting for answers to her questions about her boyfriend's sudden death.  A sudden death that she walked in on, finding the love of her life with a gun in his hand.  She knows it was an accident but there are still answers she wants.  Answers she needs.

The daughters, sisters and brothers of the man that was violently gunned down by the police.  What was going through his head when he died?  Why did he not abide the police peacefully?  Why did it have to happen that way?

The children in foster care longing for answers from their parents.  Why can't they take care of them?  Why won't they fight to keep them?  Why do they have to be in the care of people that are not blood relatives?

The couple that desires nothing more than to be parents, to have a child of their own.  Why do they have to wait?  Why are so many others around them able to conceive so easily?  Why not them, too?

The family that has just laid their 5 year old son to rest.  Why them?  Why him?  Why would God let this happen?

The girl that longs to be loved as much as she once was by her boyfriend that suddenly lost his life from leukemia; she keeps getting so close to love before it is snatched away.  When will it be her turn?

We're all waiting for something.  We're all waiting for the answers we may never get.  I constantly wonder why we all have to wait.  Sometimes life makes no sense, and we're grasping at the walls searching for answers.  I'm tired of waiting and I know you are, too.

Tonight I pray for all of you that are waiting for answers.  Take heart and remember that God is sovereign over all things.  Including the waiting rooms in our hearts.

God grant me the serenity 

to accept the things I cannot change; 

courage to change the things I can;

and wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time; 

Enjoying one moment at a time; 

Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; 

Taking, as He did, this sinful world

as it is, not as I would have it; 

Trusting that He will make all things right

if I surrender to His Will;

That I may be reasonably happy in this life 

and supremely happy with Him

Forever in the next.

Amen.

--Reinhold Niebuhr

Let's Stop Mucking It Up.

Obedience.  Most of us probably cringe just a tiny bit when we hear/read/think that word.  We think of all the negative connotations it has, all the times we had to obey without wanting to.  But obedience has been in our lives from the day we were born and will be there until the day we die, forever and ever, amen.  Shouldn't we stop fighting with it, just make up and accept it for what it is?  Yea, right, we aren't that smart.

This word/act/idea has been hammered into me lately, basically nonstop.  It was looming in the air when I found out I was wait listed for graduate school recently.  It has flowed in and out of my heart as I have had to sit patiently waiting for love.  It's a constant mantra I chant to myself when I am not happy with my surroundings, knowing that I am exactly where I am supposed to be according to God's will but actually hating my surroundings wishing I could stab them with a knife.  Dang, why is it so hard to adhere to, sometimes?

This week I had some beautiful one-on-one time with the girl I mentor at Harris Home, the group foster care home here in town.  I'd found out she'd been skipping class some and lying to the staff about where she'd been.  I picked her up from class and took her to get coffee so we could sift through these actions.  I did not really know what I was going to say as I was driving to pick her up.  It's obvious she is acting out for reasons that I can't even begin to understand.  I have no idea what it is like to have been bounced around between my own home, various group homes, and detention centers my entire existence.  I never had to witness my mother with more men in my lifetime than the number of years I've been alive. To have siblings from multiple fathers.  I can't even begin to fathom that lifestyle.

But as I was driving to get her, I was praying, asking God to give me the words to speak to her and it occurred to me (read: The Spirit interceded here and planted thoughts in my head) that because her mother never really disciplined her, regulations and rules look like hatred to her.  To her, because staff members are asking her to be obedient and are holding her accountable for her actions, they must not care about her at all. Because they are withholding things from her that she feels she deserves and needs, they must be out to make her life miserable.  She doesn't know what discipline from a loving place looks like.

And although I am privileged enough to know a savior that has my best interest in His hands and to come from a loving family that taught me the reasoning behind obedience and to understand that God may be withholding things from me right now because it's not time yet, or because these things aren't in His will for me (big deep breath in), I still get frustrated.  I still get upset.  I still want to skip class and lie. Why is that? Why do we get mad when we know that The Lord's got this and His idea is WAY BETTER than anything we can even dream up?  We should be rejoicing in His plan always, but instead we get caught up in our own thoughts and timelines and rebel.  So even though I know better, I am no different than my sweet foster child, and I bet you aren't either.  We're all rebelling against something.

So what do we do?

Prayer through these situations is key.  Praying for God to open our hearts, cleanse them of our own stupid pride and to teach us to obey Him.  In church today, it was said that it is impossible to joyfully obey something that we hate.  But we are called to do that.  And the only way to do that is with the help of the One that knows what is best for our lives.  It's such an easy concept but we always go and muck it up in our complicated human ways (I'm pointing my fingers are you Adam and Eve.)

So let's try our best to be patient and obey (note: I'm saying this more to myself than to anyone else.)  God's got this.  Why question the intentions of the One who created our intentions?  Let's stop mucking it up.

I Had His Handwriting Made Into a Ring.

I had Richard's handwriting made into a ring.  Before you head over here to have an intervention with me about moving on, or ask me multiple questions about where my heart is, let me explain.

This is something I recently decided to do for myself.  Something intimate and sincere and lovely.  It was also something I was going to keep quiet, only telling a few friends, and those that may ask me what the ring means if they notice it.  But, I love it, and the meaning behind it, so much that I am choosing to share.  (Is anyone really surprised here, since I share just about everything with you people?)  It's likely that 97.3% of you will think I am a little loco, and the other 2.7% of you will think it's awesome, and that's only because the 2.7 represents my friends that have to like it no matter what their real thoughts are.

Richard used to address me as "darling."  I would be straight lying to you if I said I loved it from the beginning.  At first I kind of resisted the nickname and scrunched up my nose at it.  I think it was because it is not a word we hear very often anymore, unless it's said by a creepy older man in the gas station or something, you know what I mean?  But it grew on me the more he said.  It grew on me because when he said it he was sincere.  I have many memories of answering the phone to a, "hey darling," and a few letters that began with this word.  It is now become a word that I adore.  I believe it to be romantic and old-fashioned and embodying true emotion.

This word has officially become a reminder, a symbol and token of the transformation that happened in my heart when God placed sweet Richard in my life.  It was a time of struggle, beauty, hope and redemption.  It was a time that has shaped me into who I am now and will forever be a part of my story.  It is a poetic, one-word summary of it all.

A synonym for the word "darling" is beloved.  When I hear that word I think of the Lord and how He is constantly calling out to us, Beloved, look to me when you're troubled.  I'm the only one you need.

I was Richard's darling and he was placed before me by God.  He was placed here to show me a glimpse of what a genuine Christ-like love looked like.   I was his darling and he was the Lord's darling and we are all His darlings.  It's really quite romantic isn't it?

I am fortunate to have many handwritten letters from this darling of mine.  I am fortunate to have found someone on Etsy (dear Etsy, I love you forever and ever amen) that can take a loved one's handwriting and turn it into a piece of jewelry.  I hit the jackpot with this one.

Now I not only carry my story in my heart but on one of my fingers as well.  When people ask about it I can tell them how God worked in my life through a beautiful mess.  Through a boy that called me darling and reminded me that I am a darling daughter of Christ.  It's perfect.

Friends, I'm in Love. With a Bunch of Teenagers.

When I moved to Huntsville I was excited to begin a new chapter of my life.  I was ready to get reacquainted with a city that I grew up near and ready to carve out my own identity.  I spent time seeking out various volunteer opportunities, searching high and low, near and far for the right ones.  Nothing seemed to stick. 

After Richard died, at the height of my sadness, I was grasping at straws trying to find something to pour myself into, something to participate in that had nothing to do with me and my sadness.  A selfish route to charity, I suppose, but this is where I was in life.

One day I was sitting at my kitchen table mulling over a website of a ministry in Nashville that I adore.  I looked at their job opportunities out of curiosity and saw one that caught interest.  "Director of Adoptions."  Whoa.  What do I have to do to be that?  Among things like, you know, have a lot of job experience working with adoption, there was also the requirement of having a Masters of Social Work.  I can do that.  To my excitement, a MSW was one of the degrees that was offered online through my employer.  PERFECT, I thought.  I got started on my application, chomping at the bit to get everything in.  I chomped at the bit so hard that I realized after I applied that I had missed the deadline by a month and the program was already full.  I'd have to wait another year to apply again.

Fine.  I took this as God's calming hand, instructing me to pump the brakes and really pray about whether or not this was something I should do.  I decided to spend the year seeking out social service organizations to volunteer with to make sure it was something I really wanted to do.

Enter Harris Home for Children. 

It went something like this: I googled "foster homes in Huntsville;" Harris Home for Children came up; I checked out their website; I liked their Facebook page; literally 3 minutes later my friend Kristin (that knows my heart and what makes me tick) sent me a text, "Hey girl, I saw you liked Harris Home on FB.  I was in leadership class with the executive director.  Want me to introduce you guys via e-mail?"; I kissed Kristin on the face (not really, but had she been in the same room as me it would have happened); she e-mailed Tony (Executive Director) and introduced us virtually; Tony e-mailed back and we set up a time for me to come in and tour; I met him, asked him how I could help out; he told me I could be as involved as little or as much as I wanted and that there were board member opportunities available.  A little time and lots of paperwork later and here we are.

I have the opportunity to serve an organization that houses up to 32 foster kids at once.  A group home in the middle of my city, covering the heads of children ages 12-20, that strives to provide a stable, healthy environment for them.

And friends, I'm in love.  I am in love with these beautiful kids that were created in the image of God.  These kids that are in a less than ideal situation due to no fault of their own.  I wish I could give them everything I own, all of my money and resources.  Unfortunately those are not the things they really want (which is good since I'm not made of money).  They don't want things.  They want their families.  They want the same things we all want.  To be loved.

Sadly I cannot give them their families, but I can love them.  And oh do I try to love them all.  I step on campus with as full of a heart as I can muster, hoping that a simple hug will go a long way for them.  Hoping that an intentional ear to hear what they have to say will make them feel special.  I pray for them, cry for them, rejoice for them and just freaking love them. 

Looking back to my first few months in this city, struggling to find the right place to pour myself into seems so long ago.  I was trying so hard to find my perfect fit, focusing more on myself than those that needed to be served.  After all that it just took a little research and a lot of prayer for the perfect fit to be placed in my lap. 

Also, a great piece of irony to add to this story would be that after a year of hoping to get into an MSW program I ended up getting wait listed.  The most shocking part is that I was not all that upset about it.  Disappointed? Yes.  Still praying to be accepted so I can begin pursuing that degree? Yes.  Crying and wallowing on my sofa?  No.  Why?

Because if I had never been too late applying in the first place, I would not have taken time to seek out Harris Home and I would not be as in love as I am today.  God's plan is always better than my plan.  Interested to see where He throws me next.