Tag Archives: Change

Capture

Posted on by under regular

I posted a lot of photos to Instagram on May 4, 2013. It was a big day, after all–maybe the biggest day of my life, besides the one I was born or the one when I found out how much Jesus loves me or the one when I first tasted coffee. Those were all big, good days. But this one was different, because I graduated college.

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I posted a lot of photos to Instagram because I was proud. I was proud because I’m a first generation student, the first one in my family to graduate college. And I was proud because college is a hard thing, a thing that demands that you get out of bed so many times when all you really want to do is sleep (in this way, I feel that going to college is akin to having a baby. Seems like a solid theory, right?)

So I posted a lot of photos, photos popping with smiles, each one shouting, “I”M HAPPY!” And I was happy–so, so happy. But later I scrolled back through my Instagram feed, and I realized that some of the other emotions got lost in the happy, that the filters on those photos blurred the truth that they represented. HAPPY is a terrific element of photos, but I needed to remember that they showed off more, that they weren’t just snapshots of a happy moment, but of a life that has its happy and its joyful and its honestly hard and its toast-hits-the-floor-jelly-side-down moments. It’s hard to believe everyone else has those toast moments when no one Instagrams them, am I right? That’s where the words come in.

I posted a lot of photos, like this one:600960_10200295378679631_1466166855_n

I like this photo. I like it quite a bit. I like it because, for one thing, we look super happy, which we were. The joy that seems so evident is real–you can’t make that up. But we were also exhausted, which perhaps you cannot see, but I can. The day had been unimaginably long already at this point, and we’d all just done this great big thing, but we didn’t feel any different, only tired and a little bit hungry and amped up on adrenaline. We’re all sort of bumbling around, unsure of how to feel or what to do, and we find each other and hold on, looking into the cameras again and again until our cheeks burn.

We find each other because it’s what we do–we find each other because we’ve learned to do that, but the picture doesn’t tell about the process, about how we’ve fought for the relationships that look so sunshiney here. We’ve spent four years loving each other, and I can tell you those four years saw snappy comebacks and broken hearts and grumpy mornings. I can tell you that I’ve looked each of these people in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry,” and also, “I forgive you.” I can tell you that they have taught me what it’s like to have a friend and to be a friend, that when I have felt certain there was no reason for them to give me another chance, they always did. I can tell you that when they call me, I answer, and when they need me, I go, and when I see one of them coming toward me, I get excited because things are better when they’re around. It’s a photo of six tired, happy kids, holding onto one another, unsure of most things but that. It sure did get a lot of likes on Instagram (they like us, kiddos.)

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In an unromantic twist, I headed straight to the bathroom as soon as I filed out of the Coliseum. Once I finished (I set my diploma on the floor and decided to Lysol it later), I came out just in time to see my mom disappear around a corner, and my heart began to race, because it was my mom. I shouted, “Mom!” and at least 17 middle-aged women turned to see if I was theirs, but not my mom. I wondered, as I chased after her, if their daughters had ever asked if they could call them, “Mom,” or if the title ever sounded strange when it hit theirs ears. I wondered if those same daughters relished the word like it was dark chocolate, sweet and rich and the real deal. I said it again to her, but she still didn’t hear me, so instead, I touched her shoulder, and when she turned and saw me–when they all did–they came around me in the way a family does. They told me how proud they were and I believed them. We took this picture.

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Later, I wondered if the chap who snapped it had any idea that we weren’t a normal family, but rather, one who had shifted and swelled and meshed with one another. I wondered if he’d noticed that I had different eyes than they did, that I had a different story, if any of that showed up on the screen. I wondered if the picture shows that the night before, we’d argued over what appetizers to order for dinner or that my mom had woken up before the sun with me or that there was a time when I believed they couldn’t ever possibly feel like my real family. I wondered if the picture said, “But they do. They are.”

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I guess, relatively speaking, that I didn’t post that many photos–maybe four or five. But it was enough for the instagram likes to drain my cell phone battery, and those made me smile–you shared in my joy, my pride, my affinity for photos that make it seem that I graduated college in 1983. And the day–the long, beautiful, perfect, exhausting day–was one to be celebrated, so I was happy to celebrate with all those people who follow my life in photos.

But I needed words. I needed to place paragraphs under these moments, paragraphs to say it’s what you think, and it’s not what you think. I needed to let sentences explain that it’s everything you see, it’s all the sunshine, and it’s more, and it’s less, because it’s shadows, too. I needed to show you these photos and ask you to celebrate them–like them, please–but also, give me a chance to explain. I needed to admit that it was a long, long day, that I came home and stared at the wall in a stupor for a good half hour because I wasn’t sure how to start wrangling my emotions. I needed to show you a picture of me with my favorite people in front of my favorite place and put into letters that I’m scared to leave them, scared because they’re the best thing. I needed to say, also, that I’m excited, excited because I will always believe the best is yet to come, in some way or another. I needed to say all of this, and I needed to show you, too, that we were happy.

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It was a big day, after all. Maybe one of the biggest days of my life. Thanks for celebrating with me.

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King and Lionheart

Posted on by under regular

A week full of moments like this: I am standing in line for a roller coaster, inching forward, telling myself the moment I step onto the vehicle is a faraway one, not something to consider. I am enjoying where I am, the sights and smells and the heat of the air around me. I am laughing with my friends as we wait, but we know we’re in line for something big. Something wonderful, oh yes; something stomach-flipping, absolutely. It’s been a summer-long roller coaster queue, actually, ever drawing closer to stepping on, and the name of the ride, my friends, is called Change.

I know that there are many, many facets that pile on top of one another and cause me to shirk away from the big, bad monster of change: my personality, my childhood, my fondness for doing things well (new things aren’t necessarily things I can do well, you know?) In short (HA!), I’ve spent the past several years shaking in my boots as I climb onto the coaster again and again, reminding myself of the promise of adventure, reminding myself that the very essence of adventure is the exhilaration of new, not the familiarity of I’ve-got-this. Actually, I’ve spent the past several years learning again and again that I’ve never got this, but that this works to my advantage, in more ways than I know. As I get closer to His heart, I find myself opening my eyes in the morning to a great big God who leans down and whispers in my ear: “Ready? Let’s go. I got this.”

“‘Safe?’ said Mr. Beaver. ‘Don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.’”
―C.S. Lewis

But lately it seems like more things have been different than have been the same. First they slowly shifted, and I stood my ground. Then all at once, as if I’d walked into a house with a bucketful of water hanging over the door frame, I was drenched in it. “I can’t do it,” I murmured. I noticed that the world insisted, “Yes, you can!” But the still, small voice—the one that seems louder and louder everyday—said, “You’re right.” Slowly, softly, I begin to learn surrender again. Slowly, surely, my fears fade. I look around and realize I’ve been on solid ground the whole time.

“He stood me up on a solid rock
to make sure I wouldn’t slip.
He taught me how to sing the latest God-song,
a praise-song to our God.
More and more people are seeing this:
they enter the mystery,
abandoning themselves to God.” –Psalm 40:2-3

So this week—this summer, and inevitably, in the months to come—have been a seemingly constant flow of this business of change, and of trembling, and of the reclaiming of the strong Spirit. I look ahead, and I begin to shake in my boots. So many unknowns, so many uncertainties, so many foggy days where I can see only the three footsteps ahead, and nothing else. But here’s what else I’m learning: in the Light of the day, there is much joy to be grasped. In the today, there is a dark chocolate brownie to be (metaphorically, but if you want to bake some real ones, that is not frowned upon) eaten. There is the best friend who nods along, who finishes your sentences—even the unpleasant ones—with truth. There is the hand that holds yours while you nap in some buttery August sun, content to simply be. There is the hours-long coffee date where eyes smile back at you and promise, “You are a masterpiece.” There are tiny hands that cup your cheeks, and, with a smile of adoration, kiss your nose. See, sometimes I have write them out here to be able to turn around and see that yes, they are there, and yes, they are brilliant. And more than that, I hope you’re able to turn back to look at the days before this one and you too can point and agree that yes, they are there, and yes, they are brilliant.

At the end of the day—or at the beginning of a new week, or right in the middle of an ice cream sandwich—I am reminded by the same still, steady voice that I have not signed up for the carousel, that I have been in line for the roller coaster all along, that surrender can be tricky, but I should really go ahead and strap myself in for Adventure. I’m not one to be OK with missing the party.

“So I answered, ‘I’m coming.
I read in your letter what you wrote about me,
And I’m coming to the party
you’re throwing for me.’” –Psalm 40:7-8

Perhaps I’m in good company when I admit the boot-shaking; perhaps you’re nodding along, “mmhming,” relieved that you’re not the only one.

Perhaps you bound out of bed every day hoping the UPS guy drops off a big, scary cool package of Life Changes. Perhaps the idea of eating the same thing for breakfast every day makes you want to gag. Perhaps you would be really comfortable with moving to the moon just for kicks.

Either way, I’d like to have coffee with you. You tell me about your moon dreams, I’ll regale you with my Earth stories. We’re all on this ride together, friends, with the greatest Captain we could imagine. And everything about that takes me from boots-shaking fear to barefoot-dancing joy. What fear?

“But all who are hunting for you—
oh, let them sing and be happy.
Let those who know what you’re all about
tell the world you’re great and not quitting.
And me? I’m a mess. I’m nothing and have nothing:
make something of me.
You can do it; you’ve got what it takes—
but God, don’t put it off.” –Psalm 40:16-17

 

Darkly, Deeply, Beautifully Blue

Posted on by under regular

“Oh! ‘darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,’
As some one somewhere sings about the sky.”
—Lord Byron

Look, I fought against it. I didn’t want to get all emotional on you again. But I can’t hide it from you; I want to give you my life, and this week, it’s been one dramatic emotion after another. I blame the sky. It’s been awful dramatic itself in the past days.

It’s this week. There are so many reasons to stop and feel, you know? We’ve been walking these sidewalks for all these months, and let me tell you, when you’re halfway to Spring Break, the days in those classrooms seem to stretch  endlessly like the gray expanse above you. I’m a feeler. I’m in touch with my emotions and yada yada yada. So walking these sidewalks, sitting on these steps, knowing that soon, it will all be different—these things fill me up with those different waves of energy that spin you around until you’re not sure exactly where you are. But just as it happens, because this is the way life goes, you work out your wings and ride the wind. People say stuff about that to the tune of “Everything changes.”

My melodrama kicks in high gear, too, when I have to say goodbye. I always find it extraordinarily odd to walk through the last days with people you’re so used to having a part of your days. In the next week, they’ll start to depart, but right now, they’re here, and try as I might, I can’t make this any sweeter.  I’ve sat in the production room at work with Kristen for hours while we frantically pounded out articles and blurbs and now I feel this sense of urgency to talk more, to take advantage of her ballet bun popping around the office, giggling at my stories and nodding in acceptance when I admit that I hide the Reese’s cups in my desk. I’ve gotten latte after Monday-morning latte with Caitlyn while we recapped our weekends and shared the burdens of deadlines and due dates and really, is that bald man staring at us right now? I’ve spent all my social minutes at church huddled to the side with Michelle, sharing plans and dreams. I’ve wandered into Joanna’s and Gracie’s rooms to say hello, or to borrow that yellow skirt, or to find refuge. For three whole months, their rooms will sparkle cleanly; their beds will exude loneliness; their food shelves will boast one stale granola bar and a bag of popcorn. And still, I’m grasping, trying to hold on to the moments we do have, wonderful in their own right, but I can’t seem to squeeze out the extra appreciation I feel I should. Let’s break for clouds, aye?

Anyway, you can try to tell me you’re not feeling it, but I see it on the faces passing on the sidewalks. It varies: “Not yet!” “I’m so ready I could kick this squirrel.” “When did this happen?” “I’ve still got three more years.” (I’ve been there. That’s dangerous thinking.) Still, it’s been all over our apartment, dancing through the office, on the faces of old friends you meet in hallways: “Don’t leave without saying goodbye to me. Please.” The truth is, of course, that this is the cycle of life; it’s the cycle of school years, coming and going, and it’s the way it works in real life: Everything changes; we know this. But don’t go without saying goodbye.

And just in case we Tuscaloosians needed a reminder that at any moment life is ready to send you spinning, Friday marks the first anniversary of the day that changed everything. We’re looking around at each other with eyes that ask, “You remember, don’t you?” You can feel it blowing all over town, traces of panic and darkness and brokenness in the wind. And yet, there is so much hope. Watching people go is a heart-smooshing reality. Dashing headfirst into a new season, even if it is summer, is a scary jump. But the promise is that there will be a new thing.

“Be alert, be present. I’m about to do something brand-new.
It’s bursting out! Don’t you see it?
There it is! I’m making a road through the desert,
rivers in the badlands.” —Isaiah 43:19

And well, I’m emotional for other reasons. Quite unfortunately, I had a near-death experience with my cup of Chick-Fil-A half unsweet tea/half lemonade and I’m here to proclaim that one must drink acidity, however delicious, with caution, or one’s lungs will pay the price. Wisdom, people. I told a half-hour narrative on the phone with my mom today, and  she responded, “Well, that’s a little bit dramatic.” Perspective, pals. This week has been full of it, looking back and around and forward. I can’t help but get a little emotional thinking about it.

And here we are, on the cusp of summer, whatever that might hold. Here we are, on top of the one-year benchmark, reliving memories we can’t escape of an experience we must own. Here we are, savoring last days and giving goodbyes, tearing up and holding on. Here we are, walking boldly into what’s ahead, a new thing. Here we are, a little emotional. I blame the sky.