Writing a New Story

    Lately I've been feeling lost.  My lease ends in September and I still haven't found a place I can afford that isn't further from my school and further from the people and places I have come to know and love here.  Teachers go back to school in a week.  Usually I'd be ready to go back to work, but this time I'm dreading it.  At the end of the school year there were many lessons I was excited to research and plan out, materials I wanted to sit down and order and things to make for my classroom. Over the summer I haven't once been able to bring myself to lift a hand to accomplish these tasks.  I've also started dating someone, which I should feel excited about, but I've started to think more about what I want to do in life maybe I want to go to Africa still and teach or raise orphans, maybe I want to go live in Colorado or Oregon or maybe closer to my best friend in Pennsylvania.  I don't know if I want to stay or even know what I'm doing in Houston.  It's been tough since I've gotten here, but this move has been one of the biggest blessings in my life.  It's just right now, I don't know which way is up or down, what decisions are right or wrong and what the cause of this aching heart is.
    
      While I have been feeling this way for a few weeks, this past Sunday morning came and Shauna Neiquist spoke at Ecclesia.  God must have known I needed her words, because she spoke right to my heart.  If you know me, you know I can be quite emotional about a lot of things in life.  I'll shed a tear here and there for something ugly, something beautiful, something hurtful or something joyous, so tearing up in church once and a while is not unusual for me.  As Shauna spoke though, and even when she was done and I left the building, I could not stop these tears from streaming.  She broke me.  She really broke me.

    
     She spoke about our stories, how each one of us is made up of multiple stories.  These stories are what define us from others.  Sometimes we let our old stories, the not so good ones, keep us from writing new stories.  Most of my life I've been letting old stories control my thoughts and my actions, always asking God to take them away, but never fully knowing how to let him.  When I came to Houston I started to feel the process of rewriting these stories take place, because here I was on my own.  I had no past here, I had no friends, no family, no community, no one and nothing to run to for comfort.  It was a new start and it was just Jesus and I.  I had to rely on him for everything, even though sometimes I didn't want to.  Since then though these old stories seem to have crept there way back into my mind and soul, taking control of my helpless heart.  I started to think about these old stories, the ones that have clouded my heart, my mind and my soul for years.  The stories that make me think I'm not smart, not beautiful, not an artist, not a writer, not good enough for a Christian community, not strong enough, that I can't do anything right, and that I have no special talent.  These are the stories I need re-written.
     I realized I've been waiting for the world to tell me I'm not these things.  I've been relying on the words of humans to tell me that I'm smart, that I'm beautiful, that I'm artistic, that I'm a writer, that I'm good enough to belong to a Christian community, that I am strong, that I can do things right and I'm not a complete screw up, that I am talented, and worth loving, hoping that if I hear it enough I might at some point in my life believe it.  These old stories are so ingrained into my being though, that no person outside myself could ever re-write                       these stories for me.  It has to be Jesus and I once again.
    
I've come to think though that it might take a community for someone to be healed and be able to re-write these stories.  A place where someone has to be honest and can be honest about themselves and their hurting without feeling like they are being a burden.  A place where a person can be real and not feel like they are being judged for the decisions they have once made.  A place in which a person can feel whole.  I've come to realize though that it has to start with me.  I tend to keep my life hidden, only sharing the parts people feel the need to ask about.  If I feel safe enough with you, I might throw out a thought here and there or share a feeling I might have or a struggle, but for most of my life that has been a rare occasion.  I don't really like to talk about those things and sometimes pretend like they don't exist.  For some reason I can write about them, but when it comes to words spoken I can't seem to find them.  Since Sunday Shauna's words have resinated in my mind, helping me realize the actions I need to take in my life.  The actions that will help me re-write these stories and heal what has been broken for far too long.
    
     One thing she told us that day that really stuck with me was this story about her friend.  One of her friends had been going through an abusive situation and as she was in the process of getting out of it and healing, she went and got a tattoo on her wrist.  The tattoo said GOOD.  It wasn't facing so anyone else could read it, but the words were placed facing her so she could read it.  When she was asked why she had the word GOOD tattooed on her wrist and facing the way it was facing, she said, "Because it is for me.  To remind myself that I am GOOD."  She then asked if there was one story we could re-write what word would that be?  What word would we tattoo on our wrist to remind ourselves that we are that?  I thought about it for a while not being able to come up with just one and then I realized what it would be, "FORGIVEN".  Mine would be FORGIVEN.

What stories might you need to re-write in your life?  What word do you need to tattoo on your wrist?

No Talk, Just Be

     Last year, on Mother's Day, I posted a blurb about my mom.  Actually, it was more like an essay when I finished. I talked about what many things she had taught me growing up and did for me.  I wrote about the things I didn't realize or understood then, but do now.  As Father's Day came around this year, I thought about my dad.  What was it that my Dad taught me and do for me?  I started analyzing the relationship I have with him compared to the relationship I have with my mother, and realized they were two very different types.  Both good, and both needed.
   
     While my mother and I's relationship consisted of deep discussions, lessons and learning,  my father and I's relationship consisted of "being".  Just being together and doing.  I don't remember very many conversations with my Dad, but I do remember learning and doing many activities together.  I remember the time we spent together.

     While I don't remember everything from infancy and toddler age, I do remember what stories my mother tells me of those times, and the videos recording them.  At this time in my life my dad and I colored together.  He may have gotten mad and thrown a crayon a time or two (because I wouldn't give up a color), but hey he tried and I was still learning how to share.  My Dad also never discriminated against the typical "boy" and "girl" stereotypical activities.  He played everything with me, tea parties and Barbie dolls included.  When we lived in places with pools he'd play pop goes the weasel with me and tote me around.  He was also really great at making me feel like I could fly like Superman.

     As years went by some activities changed, some stayed, but I remembered more.  I'm not sure if I knew then how much his time spent just being with me meant, but I sure do now.  In the winters my dad would take me sledding.  He'd ski with me.  He'd skate with me.  We'd even build snow forts and snowmen.  One year we even tapped a maple tree in our back yard for the sap and made syrup.  We also caught a squirrel and barbecued it.  Looking back now, I guess you could say my childhood was magical.  Well most of the time... because you see, dads don't always do everything right.  Like the time he tried to share his love of rides with me at age 3 maybe  and took me up to the largest yellow slide I had ever seen in my life.  He sat me down on his lap on a burlap sack and sent me plunging into what I felt was my death.  I'm pretty sure the people in China could've heard my cries that day.

     My dad also took me treat-or-treating every year for Halloween, until I got too old and wanted to go with friends.  One year when I was probably 4 or 5, he took me trick-or-treating around the neighborhood.  There was one house that put on a scary horror show and once it was done you received a paper sack filled with candy.  Of course my dad thought it was a great idea to take me in.  I on the other hand didn't even want to enter.  I didn't trust the hooded figure, with no face holding an axe like weapon.  My Dad said that the only way we could get a bag of candy though was to go in.  I didn't even have to watch, I could close my eyes if I wanted.  Well, let me tell you that bag of candy was not worth listening to chainsaws, hearing people scream bloody murder and fearing for their lives.  I felt like I was living a nightmare and it would not end.  At the end of the show though we got our bag of candy like my dad promised.  Not to mention a lifetime of nightmares to follow it.

     Being a girl, I probably had the best type of dad, if I ever wanted to do girly things.  While my mom doesn't really enjoy shopping, my dad loves to shop and buy things while shopping. He also knows how to paint nails better than I.  He does need a little work on shaking up fingernail polish bottles though, because they do tend to explode in his hand.

      My Dad is also an outdoorsy type of guy.  Naturally a lot of our time spent together was outdoors going fishing, hunting, ice fishing, ricing, practicing shooting and bringing out the dog to train them for hunting.  He taught me everything I know about those activities.  We even built the conoe we took out with us on these little adventures.  One year, probably when I was 5 or 6 my dad took me ice fishing with a family friend of ours and his son.  Well, he must have forgotten to put sunscreen on my face, because I received the awful gift of sun poisoning that day. For all of you that do not know this, yes you can get sunburned in the winter even when it's freezing and there is snow on the ground.  My face looked like a red blimp.

     Even though my dad might have caused me some pains he also eased some as well.  There was a time when I was young and stupid and thought it would be really awesome if my younger brother pulled down the Christmas tree in our small little rambler.  Well needless to say that bit me in the foot, literally. I cut open the side of my foot from a piece of a glass ornament, while watching cartoons in the dark.  Not the smartest idea I've had in my life, might I say.  My dad being how awesome he is took me to the hospital to save my foot.  That night he rented a movie and put it on, King Arthur, I remember.  He bought some licorice for me to gnaw on while he changed my wraps and cleaned my cut.  It was so painful, but my dad being the man that he is tried his best to ease that pain.

     When I was in middle school and high school, my dad became my official project manager.  We built the furthest throwing catapults, the highest flying rockets the best sounding instruments and the best designed everything.  We were rock stars at school projects.  Not only did I get good grades, look awesome coming in with bomb projects, but I learned a lot and had fun spending time working on a project with my dad.  We may have had some tufts about how to do certain things, but overall the time we spent creating together is irreplaceable.

     My dad and I also bonded through movies.  My mom has always hated the Sci Fi, super heroes and blow em' up movies.  I didn't mind them.  Over the years we'd sit and watch the old and new Star Wars, Star Trek, The Avengers, Lord of the Rings, and many more.  We still check to see who's seen the new ones in theatre and talk about how good or bad they were.

     Besides the outdoors, my father and I also spent a lot of time in the garage.  It started with the promise that I would get this old fixed up VW when it was finished and I turned 16.  I would spend hours with my dad in the garage cleaning parts, sanding, handing him tools, holding parts and being the little handyman.  Needless to say I am now 24 and that VW is still not finished.  My family never buys new vehicles so my vehicles tended to need lots of garage time and lovin'.  We would spend time fixing what needed fixing and cleaning what needed cleaning.  These are the times I probably treasured the most.

     The thing is, my father and I never really talked during these times unless he was telling me how to do something or needed a certain item.  Yet, during these moments I felt the closest to him.  Sometimes we try awkwardly to talk about life, but honestly I think I feel closer when we don't.  The relationship I have with my dad has taught me that sometimes its just a persons presence thats important.  You don't necissarily need to say anything to bond with ones heart and soul.  Talking sometimes can even take away from that.  It's the "being" thats important.  Being present with the person, no phone, no computer, no daydreams and distractions.
Being all there, mind, body and soul.

Love you Dad.

My Inspiration

There used to be a time in which people asked me who I looked up to.  I never looked up to anyone.  There was never anyone in this world I knew long enough, close enough and well enough to know what they had been through and how they had handled this life.  Therefore there was no one I ever looked up to.  It wasn't until this year that I realized I looked up to someone.  That someone being my younger brother.  He probably doesn't know it and neither does my family, but I very much do and figured I'd write about it.  My brother was not someone I looked up to growing up.  He was an angry child.  Someone I was probably very much afraid of actually.  He was angry most of the time, but he had a very big heart.  A heart for those who struggled in the world and didn't seem of importance to the everyday person.  It wasn't until this past year that I started to notice his value in life.  He was very much a stronger person than I.  I know he's never drank as much as me or made such awful decisions as me.  He has grown so much with God and has such a deep relationship with him and the people around him.  That is what I truly admire.  He has come to know God in such an intimate way and has used his talents as a way to help those who need it most in this world.  The thought of how blessed he is and how far he's come makes me want to cry.  At the age of 20 you'd expect a person to be finding out who they are and what they are going to be in this world.  My brother on the other hand already knows this.  He is a photographer.  He is an artist.  Someone who captures the perfect moment.  He is a writer and a speaker.  Someone who has the right thing to say at the right time.  He is a believer.  A man who follows God.  A man who knows what he believes and isn't afraid of it.  Me, I grew up an absolute mess.  I struggled to be good.  To be perfect and pure.  God knows I am far from it.  I've struggled day in and day out to live a pure and perfect life.  But all I can seem to do is make a perfect mess out of my self. My brother on the other hand is changing lives.  He's about to go to India and save prostitutes in temples, love orphans on the street and capture the moments the rest of the world needs to see.  He always has the right thing to say, when you need advice on what decision to make in life.  He trusts the big guy above with everything he has and is stronger than anyone I know.  I know nobody in this world is perfect, but my brother I swear could be close.  When I think of who I look up to in this world, I think of him.  I never put anyone on a pedestal, but if I could be like someone in this world though, I know it'd be my brother, I've seen his actions and know his heart.  They are real and true and kind and loving, just the way I'd like to be.  So, now If someone dares to ask, who do you look up to?  My answer would be, " My Brother."  Yes it would be, my very own youngest brother. 

Memory is a Funny Thing

Memory is a funny thing.

I remember learning about it in a class once.

Can I remember everything I learned about it?

No.

I remember there were stages.

Little compartments in our brain.

These compartments hold new and old information.

There is only a small amount of information a person can process at a time.

New information stays in short term.

The old; long term.

It takes some time to get to long term.

There are many steps along the way.

There are different ways a person recalls the information stored away in compartments.

People use their senses.

Memory can be skewed.

It can be changed.

People can be made to believe things and forget things.

I have never been very good at remembering specifics.

I wish I could.

I admire people who can.

People who know facts.

People who know an abundant amount of information on a certain subject.

I admire that.

I wish I knew what it was like to have a brain like that.

I remember people.

I don't think other people really care about the people I remember.

I do.

I'm really good at remembering people.

But people don't care what I know about people. 

I remember people I've encountered for a few minutes.

I remember people I spent a few days with.

I remember people I've known for years.

I remember people I've lost touch with.

I remember people I've never even met.

I remember people I've taught.

I remember people who've cut my hair.

I remember people who have served me.

I remember people who've taught me. 

I remember people who've said hi to me on the street.

I remember people who have given me gifts.

I remember people I volunteered with for a few hours.

I remember people who have come into any of my work places.

I remember people I've talked to at a booth.

I remember people who I've served food to.

I remember people I've worked with.

I remember people I've sat next to on the plane.

I remember people who have come to unlock my car.

I remember people I have roomed with.

I remember people I have been on dates with.

I remember people who have walked me home.

I remember people I had class with.

I remember people I've stood in line with.

I remember people who have rung up my items at a store.

I remember people who stand guarding stores.

I remember people who've let me pet their dog.

I remember people who have given me a job.

I remember people I've washed my hands next too.

I remember people who have held the door for me.

I remember people who I've seen publicly speak.

I remember people I randomly meet on the streets, in a store, at a game, at my door, at the park, at the zoo, at a museum, at the theatre, etc.

I remember the people I meet anywhere.

I think we tend to remember things we find important or that we can relate to.

We tend to remember that in which we experience,

that in which we enjoy and that we attach a feeling to.

I think what people remember and know tells a lot about who they are.

It helps a person see what’s important to them, what they value in life and believe.

I used to think I didn’t know hardly anything important. 

I sometimes still do.

Coming to these conclusions though, I think I’m ok with mostly just remembering things about people.

I love people.

I enjoy people.

I enjoy their experiences, their talents, their stories, their dreams, their mistakes and their journey.

I enjoy learning from them.

Some people think I’m a teacher, but I know I’ll always be the student.