I have been rather astounded this week and how attached I can become to certain inanimate objects.
My car died this week. The power steering is, for all practical purposes, gone. It is technically fixable, but my family doesn't really want to put that much more money into a minivan with almost 140,000 miles on it.
Those of you who know me well can probably guess that I was pretty devastated when it happened. I love that car. It's an 1998 Ford Windstar Limited . . . a pretty nice looking minivan (though it only has one back door . . . a characteristic that made my car exceedingly ghetto in the eyes of the kids I nannied last summer). It's the car I've driven since I got my permit. I've driven very few other cars . . . I've avoided it as much as possible. The Beast, as I've affectionately called it for years now (Becky the Beast, actually), has a character all its own. There's a short in both turn signals that occasionally causes them to buzz before actually turning on. The engine was pretty powerful for a minivan, and because of its rather advanced age, it absolutely roars when accelerating even a little bit. There are a few scuffs on some of the corners (learning experiences that, thankfully, haven't been repeated), and there's rust around one of the rear wheel-wells and under the gas cap, and there are two holes in the back bumper (recent installments . . . the result of me getting rear-ended just after school started).
I know just about every dent in the car. I can tell you where about half of them came from. I can tell you that the car pulls to the left no matter how many times the tires are realigned. I can tell you that on a good day, until the power steering went out, the car could handle going 80 down the freeway without any trouble. The fastest I ever got the car to go was 90 . . . I slowed down when I smelled something burning, and never saw any other negative results of that 5-second rush. :)
I just loved driving the Beast. I'd go get myself lost out in the middle of nowhere and just drive, perfectly content.
My car's been with me to hell and back. It's always been my place of safety . . . whenever I've needed to get away from everything, whenever I've just needed somewhere to be alone to think or pray or cry, I've hidden in my car. Thinking back on how many accidents I've probably narrowly avoided (the whole driving and crying thing doesn't work very well), I'm beginning to think that the Beast has been my inanimate guardian angel for the past few years.
I had to say goodbye to the Beast this afternoon.
I cried.
The whole time I kept trying to tell myself that it was just a car . . . that I shouldn't be so upset. After all, God has been faithful and has provided a "new" minivan (new being very relative . . . this one has just over 117k miles on it), so I still have a car that I can feel comfortable driving. And yet . . . part of me still feels like I lost a close friend today.
And it's making me wonder how my life would be different if I cared about the fate of people as much as I cared about my car.
I mean, really . . . we're donating the Beast to Courage Center (since it will be perfectly drivable once the power steering is replaced), so it's not really dying. I'm just not going to be able to see it anymore. But I have friends who are spiritually dead . . . friends who, if they died tomorrow, I would lose for all eternity. However . . . I can't remember the last time that made me cry.
I'm thinking there's something wrong with this picture.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Thinking about the Future
I've been doing a lot of thinking lately . . . particularly about the semester after I graduate from Northwestern. I'm graduating a semester early, so the plan has been me working for that spring semester and then going off to grad school the next fall. At least . . . that's been the plan until recently.
Last spring break I went on a missions trip to Tijuana, Mexico. We worked at a mission called La Roca . . . it's basically a shelter for battered women and their children, a place where they can stay as long as they're willing to earn their keep helping with chores and such, where the children can go to school, where they can learn skills to help them make it on their own when they decide to leave, and most importantly, where their souls can be fed. In the week or so that I was there, I absolutely fell in love with the place. The ministry is one that is very dear to my heart—it shares my passion for battered women. While I was there, I felt for the first time in my life that I could possibly live and work quite happily outside of the country . . . or even outside of the Twin Cities.
That feeling hasn't left me in the almost 11 months since I returned from that trip. I could probably count on one hand how many days have gone by since then that I haven't thought about Mexico. Now, I'm gearing up to go back in less than 6 weeks for another spring break missions trip to the same location . . . and I've made a decision that could mean me taking the greatest step of faith of my life so far. When I go back to Tijuana, I'm going to ask the director of La Roca about the possibility of working there for the 6 months or so between graduation and grad school.
Even as I'm writing this, the idea sort of startles me. I've thought about the possibility off and on since I was there last, but not until the last couple of weeks has it seemed real to me. Never in my life had I considered going into missions, even short term. I simply didn't see that as my future. Even now, going to a Bible college, I'm not majoring or even minoring in missions. All that I know of missions is what I have seen and heard from friends and family who have served/are serving around the world. I cannot see myself as a missionary.
However . . . I can see myself working and serving others in another country, at least short term. I suppose they're really the same thing, but me being a missionary is just . . . such a foreign concept. I can love people, I can serve people, I can help people . . . but win people to Christ? I'm tempted to laugh out loud at the thought. I know very well how wretched of a sinner I am. I don't need a fire and brimstone sermon to convince me of that. I fail in so many ways every single day of my walk with God. Half the time I don't even really know what I believe beyond the very basics of Christianity, but I do know that I do NOT believe in shoving my beliefs down anyone's throat. I can engage someone in a philosophical and theological debate, but unless I feel a clear nudge from God, I won't push such a debate into a "you're going to hell unless you believe in Christ as your Savior" conversation.
It's ridiculous that such an image comes to my mind when I think of myself being a missionary. None of the missionaries I have ever had the privilege of knowing come across that way. Unfortunately, that seems to be the general impression that the rest of the world has of Christianity, and because of certain encounters that I've had with other "Christians," I'm afraid I often find myself agreeing with that impression.
Maybe that's why I feel like God might be calling me into . . . well, a missionary role of sorts. Maybe He's calling me because I could use the proof that even someone as confused and sinful (and often stupid) as I am can be used by Him.
The idea of going into missions (at least short term . . . after grad school, God alone knows what I'll be doing) scares me. A lot. But not nearly as much as I would have expected it to. I know that I can't possibly do it on my own . . . but if God is working in and through me, the possibilities are virtually endless. So whether I wind up in Mexico, somewhere else in Latin America, or on the other side of the globe . . . I think it's going to be ok. Challenging, yes . . . uncomfortable, yes . . . but good. Because no matter what happens, God will still be good, and He will still be God . . . so what in the world am I worrying about?
Last spring break I went on a missions trip to Tijuana, Mexico. We worked at a mission called La Roca . . . it's basically a shelter for battered women and their children, a place where they can stay as long as they're willing to earn their keep helping with chores and such, where the children can go to school, where they can learn skills to help them make it on their own when they decide to leave, and most importantly, where their souls can be fed. In the week or so that I was there, I absolutely fell in love with the place. The ministry is one that is very dear to my heart—it shares my passion for battered women. While I was there, I felt for the first time in my life that I could possibly live and work quite happily outside of the country . . . or even outside of the Twin Cities.
That feeling hasn't left me in the almost 11 months since I returned from that trip. I could probably count on one hand how many days have gone by since then that I haven't thought about Mexico. Now, I'm gearing up to go back in less than 6 weeks for another spring break missions trip to the same location . . . and I've made a decision that could mean me taking the greatest step of faith of my life so far. When I go back to Tijuana, I'm going to ask the director of La Roca about the possibility of working there for the 6 months or so between graduation and grad school.
Even as I'm writing this, the idea sort of startles me. I've thought about the possibility off and on since I was there last, but not until the last couple of weeks has it seemed real to me. Never in my life had I considered going into missions, even short term. I simply didn't see that as my future. Even now, going to a Bible college, I'm not majoring or even minoring in missions. All that I know of missions is what I have seen and heard from friends and family who have served/are serving around the world. I cannot see myself as a missionary.
However . . . I can see myself working and serving others in another country, at least short term. I suppose they're really the same thing, but me being a missionary is just . . . such a foreign concept. I can love people, I can serve people, I can help people . . . but win people to Christ? I'm tempted to laugh out loud at the thought. I know very well how wretched of a sinner I am. I don't need a fire and brimstone sermon to convince me of that. I fail in so many ways every single day of my walk with God. Half the time I don't even really know what I believe beyond the very basics of Christianity, but I do know that I do NOT believe in shoving my beliefs down anyone's throat. I can engage someone in a philosophical and theological debate, but unless I feel a clear nudge from God, I won't push such a debate into a "you're going to hell unless you believe in Christ as your Savior" conversation.
It's ridiculous that such an image comes to my mind when I think of myself being a missionary. None of the missionaries I have ever had the privilege of knowing come across that way. Unfortunately, that seems to be the general impression that the rest of the world has of Christianity, and because of certain encounters that I've had with other "Christians," I'm afraid I often find myself agreeing with that impression.
Maybe that's why I feel like God might be calling me into . . . well, a missionary role of sorts. Maybe He's calling me because I could use the proof that even someone as confused and sinful (and often stupid) as I am can be used by Him.
The idea of going into missions (at least short term . . . after grad school, God alone knows what I'll be doing) scares me. A lot. But not nearly as much as I would have expected it to. I know that I can't possibly do it on my own . . . but if God is working in and through me, the possibilities are virtually endless. So whether I wind up in Mexico, somewhere else in Latin America, or on the other side of the globe . . . I think it's going to be ok. Challenging, yes . . . uncomfortable, yes . . . but good. Because no matter what happens, God will still be good, and He will still be God . . . so what in the world am I worrying about?
Monday, December 17, 2007
Grace and Love
Some interesting questions came up when I was talking with some friends last weekend. The biggest of these questions was, "Why do people love each other?" While that's a good question, a better question was found in the thought that the big question sprang from: "I'm a terrible person . . . I have so many flaws, I fail so often . . . I'm just all-around inadequate. Knowing how horrid I actually am, why would anyone love me?"
It's a question we've probably all asked at one time or another . . . some of us with more frequency and a greater sense of self-doubt than others. It's a question that I've struggled with for years. I've done some pretty terrible things . . . heck, I DO some pretty terrible things on a fairly regular basis. There are days when I'm pretty convinced that if people had any idea how often and how far I fall, they would run as fast as they could in the opposite direction.
It's interesting how hearing someone else ask the question in your own heart can help you get a little bit closer to an answer.
Here's the thing . . . I don't know that love needs to make sense. In fact, if love made sense, it probably wouldn't be love, because love is such a reflection of God's character, and God's character is not something we can ever hope to fully grasp. I can't exactly explain why I love anyone; I just do. Love isn't dependent upon merit. Love acknowledges flaws and emphasizes strengths. Unless it's love for God, love isn't something that's ever really deserved. It's just given.
When it comes down to it, rejecting the love of another person because you think you don't deserve it really amounts to 1) accusing that person of being an idiot and 2) throwing something wonderful that they're offering freely back in their face. It ultimately comes down to a question of whether you believe that God knew what He was doing when He saved you. If He did, then you must have a great deal of worth, regardless of your ability to see it.
Granted, it's a lot easier to say that than it is to take it to heart. I know it, I believe it . . . but can I accept it?
I believe that one of Satan's strongest lies is that beating ourselves up over our failures will somehow make up for them. It's ingrained in us as human beings—all across time and culture, sacrifice of some sort has been the common answer to the problem of human failure. I actually did a project about the concept in my AP Psych class my senior year of high school, which culminated in what may be my best (and certainly my most morbid) artistic endeavors:
Here's the thing. Yes, we need to acknowledge when we've messed up. We need to realize that we're flawed individuals in need of a Savior. But continually beating ourselves up over past mistakes is wrong. That Savior that we so desperately need already came in the form of Jesus Christ. He's already paid the price for our failures. Clinging to those failures is the moral equivalent of slapping Christ in the face and saying His sacrifice wasn't good enough.
Last week in one of my psych classes we talked about forgiveness. My professor told us that there are three kinds of forgiveness, and that all three are important: forgiveness of others, forgiveness of circumstance, and forgiveness of self. Forgiveness isn't forgetting. Forgiveness isn't pretending that what happened was right. Forgiveness is realizing that dwelling on what happened isn't going to make it go away. Forgiveness of self is realizing that the fact that you fail doesn't make you a failure—it makes you human. It's looking at failure as an opportunity for improvement rather than a reason to develop a self-depreciating attitude.
But thanks be to God that, though you used to be slaves to sin, you wholeheartedly obeyed the form of teaching to which you were entrusted. You have been set free from sin and have become slaves to righteousness.
Romans 6:17-18
If we have accepted Christ's gift of salvation, that means that we're not slaves to sin anymore. It doesn't mean that we never fail anymore, but it means that our failures don't own us any longer! Christ died on the cross so that sinful people like us could be free, not so that we could keep going around beating up on ourselves for what we've done wrong. He made the ultimate sacrifice so that we don't have to. Too often we try to complicate God's gift of grace. We try to make it all about us, when really, it isn't dependent on us at all. By saving us, God brings glory to Himself. Because really, what could be greater evidence of His glory than the gift of eternal life that He offers to us freely?
It's a question we've probably all asked at one time or another . . . some of us with more frequency and a greater sense of self-doubt than others. It's a question that I've struggled with for years. I've done some pretty terrible things . . . heck, I DO some pretty terrible things on a fairly regular basis. There are days when I'm pretty convinced that if people had any idea how often and how far I fall, they would run as fast as they could in the opposite direction.
It's interesting how hearing someone else ask the question in your own heart can help you get a little bit closer to an answer.
Here's the thing . . . I don't know that love needs to make sense. In fact, if love made sense, it probably wouldn't be love, because love is such a reflection of God's character, and God's character is not something we can ever hope to fully grasp. I can't exactly explain why I love anyone; I just do. Love isn't dependent upon merit. Love acknowledges flaws and emphasizes strengths. Unless it's love for God, love isn't something that's ever really deserved. It's just given.
When it comes down to it, rejecting the love of another person because you think you don't deserve it really amounts to 1) accusing that person of being an idiot and 2) throwing something wonderful that they're offering freely back in their face. It ultimately comes down to a question of whether you believe that God knew what He was doing when He saved you. If He did, then you must have a great deal of worth, regardless of your ability to see it.
Granted, it's a lot easier to say that than it is to take it to heart. I know it, I believe it . . . but can I accept it?
I believe that one of Satan's strongest lies is that beating ourselves up over our failures will somehow make up for them. It's ingrained in us as human beings—all across time and culture, sacrifice of some sort has been the common answer to the problem of human failure. I actually did a project about the concept in my AP Psych class my senior year of high school, which culminated in what may be my best (and certainly my most morbid) artistic endeavors:
Here's the thing. Yes, we need to acknowledge when we've messed up. We need to realize that we're flawed individuals in need of a Savior. But continually beating ourselves up over past mistakes is wrong. That Savior that we so desperately need already came in the form of Jesus Christ. He's already paid the price for our failures. Clinging to those failures is the moral equivalent of slapping Christ in the face and saying His sacrifice wasn't good enough.
Last week in one of my psych classes we talked about forgiveness. My professor told us that there are three kinds of forgiveness, and that all three are important: forgiveness of others, forgiveness of circumstance, and forgiveness of self. Forgiveness isn't forgetting. Forgiveness isn't pretending that what happened was right. Forgiveness is realizing that dwelling on what happened isn't going to make it go away. Forgiveness of self is realizing that the fact that you fail doesn't make you a failure—it makes you human. It's looking at failure as an opportunity for improvement rather than a reason to develop a self-depreciating attitude.
But thanks be to God that, though you used to be slaves to sin, you wholeheartedly obeyed the form of teaching to which you were entrusted. You have been set free from sin and have become slaves to righteousness.
Romans 6:17-18
If we have accepted Christ's gift of salvation, that means that we're not slaves to sin anymore. It doesn't mean that we never fail anymore, but it means that our failures don't own us any longer! Christ died on the cross so that sinful people like us could be free, not so that we could keep going around beating up on ourselves for what we've done wrong. He made the ultimate sacrifice so that we don't have to. Too often we try to complicate God's gift of grace. We try to make it all about us, when really, it isn't dependent on us at all. By saving us, God brings glory to Himself. Because really, what could be greater evidence of His glory than the gift of eternal life that He offers to us freely?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
"The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn . . . "
Those of you who have seen the movie Moulin Rouge (and many of you who haven't) know how to finish the title.
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return."
There's also Ewan McGregor's repeated rant about love:
"Love is like oxygen. Love is a many-splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love!"
Sappy, right? Especially within the context of the movie, where the focus is entirely about romantic love (and/or lust). But if we take those lines out of context and look at them in terms of life in general . . . there is so much truth in them!
I was talking with one of my roommates about Love last night. She was reading 1 Corinthians 13 before she went to bed. Just about everyone has heard this passage before:
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.
I've been learning a lot about what it means to love this semester. I have been so weary, so utterly at the end of myself, that I have started to see more clearly what it means to let God love others through me. I haven't had anything of my own to give until this last week, really; and yet, I found that I was able to help some people through hard times better than I would ever have been able to on my own power. God is just awesome like that.
I've also been learning how to be loved. I discovered several years ago that I'm not very good at accepting love. I want to be self-sufficient. I'm stubborn, I'm independent, and I'm too smart for my own good. I don't want help from anyone. This semester, though . . . I have been forced to seek out help for the first time in ages. I've needed to rely on one friend in particular more than I've ever really relied on anyone. She's been absolutely amazing, and the best part of all of it is that she's been able to rely on me, too.
Over the past three months, I have been completely broken. I have had panic attacks, I've bawled my eyes out, I've spent large amounts of time hiding in my car or going for walks by myself because I didn't know where else to go or what else to do with myself. I've struggled to focus in my classes. I've barely felt human.
Things are finally looking up. I found out why I was struggling so much, and now I'm working to make it right. But part of that is asking for help . . . and for grace. I'm finding myself going to my professors to figure out how I'll end up with decent grades at the end of the semester.
God has been so faithful in all of this. He's blessed me with the most amazing friends I could possibly have asked for. I totally don't deserve them. He's given me the strength that I've needed to get through everything. He's humbled me. He's been gracious and patient with me. He's never left me for a moment.
When you think about it, the description of Love in 1 Corinthians 13 is, in many ways, a description of God's character. Think about it.
God is patient, God is kind. He does not envy, He does not boast, He is not proud. He is not rude, He is not self-seeking, He is not easily angered, He keeps no record of wrongs. God does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. God always protects, is always trustworthy, always gives us reason to hope, always gives us the strength to persevere. God never fails.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Plants are Addicting . . . in a Healthy Sort of Way
It's true, they are.
Rather early on in the summer my fish, Diego, passed away. I decided that I wanted to get a plant rather than another fish to come back to school with me in the fall. I looked at several options, did a bit of researching online, and came up with a great idea—a bonsai tree! I went to a couple of different stores that I knew would have plants for relatively low prices, and ended up finding a tree at Walmart.
This is Fezzik as he originally came to me. The rocks that you see were glued together on the top of the pot. He was obviously healthy, but I knew that without some love he'd die pretty fast (it's not easy to water a plant that has rocks glued to it!). I did a little research and determined that he was a ficus retusa, or ginseng ficus. I did a little more research and found a great website selling bonsai supplies. I bought him a new pot and some different soil, and then set to work prying away those silly rocks. When all was said and done, he looked much nicer.
I still have Fezzik. He has fewer leaves now (it's not exactly a growth season right now), but he's still relatively healthy.
Once I got to school, I decided I wanted another plant. I went to Byerly's and found Esperanza, my bromeliad.
Esperanza was a sort of temporary installment. The blooms on bromeliads only last for a couple of months, and then they don't grow back. Her bloom is fading fast now, so pretty soon we're going to have to lay her to rest.
I decided last week that I wanted to look for some new plants. I went to a couple of different places, but I didn't have much luck at first. Yesterday I finally went back to Byerly's with my roommate. We walked out with three new plants.
I found a new bonsai. I've decided this one is a "she," but haven't come up with a name for her yet. She was sitting on the shelf looking all pretty, and when I went over to check her out, I realized that there were rocks glued together over her soil, too. She also had a branch that was split. Other than that, however, she looked healthy. I decided I had to rescue her. From the little bit of poking around online I was able to do last night, I've decided that she's probably a "brush cherry" tree, but I'm not 100% sure of that. Whatever she is, she's quite pretty. I've once again ordered a different pot and some new soil for her that should get her in a week or so.
We also found a "house bamboo" plant . . . I think it's pretty cute.
The other plant is another that I may try to bonsai. I'm not sure yet. I'd tell you what it is, but I don't recall of the top of my head. This is what it looks like, though:
Now, I know what some of you are thinking. Why on earth would I want to have so many plants to take care of? They're not like animals that move around—all they do is sit there and look pretty. Well, that's sort of the point. They look pretty. But there's more to it than that. They smell nice. They clean up the air in our room a bit (a big plus for someone like me who has allergies). They're like pets in a lot of ways, really. I haven't named the new ones yet, but I will.
Actually, one of the most interesting things about growing plants is the fact that they teach patience—LOTS of patience. I am not a naturally patient person, so it's good for me to do things that help breed that particular virtue. (That happens to be one of the reasons I like knitting so much.) Plants also reward patience. If you help them grow, give them enough care to thrive but not so much that you care them to death, they turn into something beautiful that can last for a long time. My mom has an ivy at our house that she's been growing for YEARS. It started out pretty small, but over the years it's grown into something quite impressive.
To make a long story short . . . you should go buy a plant. Now. I don't care if you don't have a green thumb. Start with something easy (do a Google search for low maintenance house plants), and go on from there. It can't hurt to try.
Rather early on in the summer my fish, Diego, passed away. I decided that I wanted to get a plant rather than another fish to come back to school with me in the fall. I looked at several options, did a bit of researching online, and came up with a great idea—a bonsai tree! I went to a couple of different stores that I knew would have plants for relatively low prices, and ended up finding a tree at Walmart.
This is Fezzik as he originally came to me. The rocks that you see were glued together on the top of the pot. He was obviously healthy, but I knew that without some love he'd die pretty fast (it's not easy to water a plant that has rocks glued to it!). I did a little research and determined that he was a ficus retusa, or ginseng ficus. I did a little more research and found a great website selling bonsai supplies. I bought him a new pot and some different soil, and then set to work prying away those silly rocks. When all was said and done, he looked much nicer.
I still have Fezzik. He has fewer leaves now (it's not exactly a growth season right now), but he's still relatively healthy.
Once I got to school, I decided I wanted another plant. I went to Byerly's and found Esperanza, my bromeliad.
Esperanza was a sort of temporary installment. The blooms on bromeliads only last for a couple of months, and then they don't grow back. Her bloom is fading fast now, so pretty soon we're going to have to lay her to rest.
I decided last week that I wanted to look for some new plants. I went to a couple of different places, but I didn't have much luck at first. Yesterday I finally went back to Byerly's with my roommate. We walked out with three new plants.
I found a new bonsai. I've decided this one is a "she," but haven't come up with a name for her yet. She was sitting on the shelf looking all pretty, and when I went over to check her out, I realized that there were rocks glued together over her soil, too. She also had a branch that was split. Other than that, however, she looked healthy. I decided I had to rescue her. From the little bit of poking around online I was able to do last night, I've decided that she's probably a "brush cherry" tree, but I'm not 100% sure of that. Whatever she is, she's quite pretty. I've once again ordered a different pot and some new soil for her that should get her in a week or so.
We also found a "house bamboo" plant . . . I think it's pretty cute.
The other plant is another that I may try to bonsai. I'm not sure yet. I'd tell you what it is, but I don't recall of the top of my head. This is what it looks like, though:
Now, I know what some of you are thinking. Why on earth would I want to have so many plants to take care of? They're not like animals that move around—all they do is sit there and look pretty. Well, that's sort of the point. They look pretty. But there's more to it than that. They smell nice. They clean up the air in our room a bit (a big plus for someone like me who has allergies). They're like pets in a lot of ways, really. I haven't named the new ones yet, but I will.
Actually, one of the most interesting things about growing plants is the fact that they teach patience—LOTS of patience. I am not a naturally patient person, so it's good for me to do things that help breed that particular virtue. (That happens to be one of the reasons I like knitting so much.) Plants also reward patience. If you help them grow, give them enough care to thrive but not so much that you care them to death, they turn into something beautiful that can last for a long time. My mom has an ivy at our house that she's been growing for YEARS. It started out pretty small, but over the years it's grown into something quite impressive.
To make a long story short . . . you should go buy a plant. Now. I don't care if you don't have a green thumb. Start with something easy (do a Google search for low maintenance house plants), and go on from there. It can't hurt to try.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Warm Fuzzies
I've discovered a new, cheap way to make a bad day better.
I was rather crabby this morning. As is obvious from my last post, I was up very late last night, so I only got about 4 hours of sleep. On top of that . . . well, there's just a lot on my mind. So I was very crabby.
I decided after chapel this morning that I wanted to go back to my room for lunch, to get a little time alone. When I got to my dorm, I realized that I was seriously craving Leeann Chin, so I grabbed my keys, hopped in my car, and headed over to HarMar Mall, an old strip mall a couple of minutes from campus.
When I got to HarMar, I decided I wasn't quite hungry enough to eat yet, so I walked inside, intending to look around. I remembered that there's a little pet store in the mall, so I thought, "Hey, they have furry things . . . furry things always make bad days better!"
It was a great thought.
And it totally worked.
There were puppies in varying states of consciousness, from peaceful, snuggly sleep to wriggling and wrestling and just being goofy. There were little kittens, most of which were sleeping, snuggled together in a mound of warm fur. One particular kitten, a light orange tabby, was awake and meowing. I really wanted to take him home with me.
There's something incredibly comforting about furry things. When I'm at home and having a bad day, my dog is always there to help me feel better. She'll curl up in my lap and sleep while I read a book, or she'll bring me toys until I finally decide to get over myself and play with her. She's just a sweet little ball of smiles and unconditional love—a warm fuzzy.
So that's my new plan for bad days—if it's at all an option, I'm going to make a run to the pet store.
Maybe I should look into getting a weekend job there . . . ;)
I was rather crabby this morning. As is obvious from my last post, I was up very late last night, so I only got about 4 hours of sleep. On top of that . . . well, there's just a lot on my mind. So I was very crabby.
I decided after chapel this morning that I wanted to go back to my room for lunch, to get a little time alone. When I got to my dorm, I realized that I was seriously craving Leeann Chin, so I grabbed my keys, hopped in my car, and headed over to HarMar Mall, an old strip mall a couple of minutes from campus.
When I got to HarMar, I decided I wasn't quite hungry enough to eat yet, so I walked inside, intending to look around. I remembered that there's a little pet store in the mall, so I thought, "Hey, they have furry things . . . furry things always make bad days better!"
It was a great thought.
And it totally worked.
There were puppies in varying states of consciousness, from peaceful, snuggly sleep to wriggling and wrestling and just being goofy. There were little kittens, most of which were sleeping, snuggled together in a mound of warm fur. One particular kitten, a light orange tabby, was awake and meowing. I really wanted to take him home with me.
There's something incredibly comforting about furry things. When I'm at home and having a bad day, my dog is always there to help me feel better. She'll curl up in my lap and sleep while I read a book, or she'll bring me toys until I finally decide to get over myself and play with her. She's just a sweet little ball of smiles and unconditional love—a warm fuzzy.
So that's my new plan for bad days—if it's at all an option, I'm going to make a run to the pet store.
Maybe I should look into getting a weekend job there . . . ;)
The Pros and Cons of Loving People
I've come to the conclusion that I allow myself to become entirely too attached to people.
Don't get me wrong—I love loving people. It's just who I am. The problem is . . . well, sometimes, loving people is painful.
If there's one lesson I've learned in my brief 19 years of life, it's that goodbyes are inevitable. They also suck, especially when they involve someone you love. Even if they're only temporary goodbyes, they're still incredibly painful.
I've had to say a lot of goodbyes in my life. They never seem to get easier. I've never been good at them; in fact, I avoid them whenever I can. I hate having to let go of someone I care about, even if it's only for a little while.
There was a time in my life when I tried to stop myself from loving people too much. I was tired of having to say goodbye. It didn't last all that long—it's entirely against my nature not to love people—but in some ways, it was rather nice. If I didn't care about anyone else, I never had to worry about losing anyone. I never had to say goodbye.
I know that loving people is totally worth the pain it sometimes brings. The fact remains, however, that love is a painful thing at times. I don't particularly like pain.
(Ironically, Superchick's Beauty from Pain just came on . . . rather a fitting song to be listening to as I write this.)
This is more or less the vaguest and most angsty blog I've written in awhile. I apologize. In my defense, it is 3:30 in the morning. There's a reason I stopped writing late at night . . .
Don't get me wrong—I love loving people. It's just who I am. The problem is . . . well, sometimes, loving people is painful.
If there's one lesson I've learned in my brief 19 years of life, it's that goodbyes are inevitable. They also suck, especially when they involve someone you love. Even if they're only temporary goodbyes, they're still incredibly painful.
I've had to say a lot of goodbyes in my life. They never seem to get easier. I've never been good at them; in fact, I avoid them whenever I can. I hate having to let go of someone I care about, even if it's only for a little while.
There was a time in my life when I tried to stop myself from loving people too much. I was tired of having to say goodbye. It didn't last all that long—it's entirely against my nature not to love people—but in some ways, it was rather nice. If I didn't care about anyone else, I never had to worry about losing anyone. I never had to say goodbye.
I know that loving people is totally worth the pain it sometimes brings. The fact remains, however, that love is a painful thing at times. I don't particularly like pain.
(Ironically, Superchick's Beauty from Pain just came on . . . rather a fitting song to be listening to as I write this.)
This is more or less the vaguest and most angsty blog I've written in awhile. I apologize. In my defense, it is 3:30 in the morning. There's a reason I stopped writing late at night . . .
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