It's almost nine on a Friday night. My husband, Brian, is out playing soccer and I'm watching the Red Sox game. Not a very exciting evening, especially to be a Friday.
I am feeling very...hmmm...self-examining tonight so bare with me. I realize that my posts are quite long, and that you may get bored before I finish. However, I write to clear my head. I just let you read it in case you can help.
I am what one might call a confused Christian. I'm not confused about being a Christian. I'm confused about certain things that go along with that. Church, denominations, theology, and Christians in general.
I was talking to my friend Cyndi the other night about some of our friends that are "super spiritual". We talked about the way so many Christians look down there noses at those of us that have imperfections. So many Christians seem untouchable. Whether intentional or not, they are intimidating. I wonder if the disciples thought that Christ was intimidating. I can picture Jesus walking into a room, sitting down next to Peter and, dripping with sarcasm, saying, "So, Peter, how's the sin coming along today?" I know that Jesus became human and walked among us like a regular human, hiding his red tights and superhero cape under his other garments. I just can't imagine that Jesus was like so many Christians that I know, smugly smiling and shaking hands during the meet-and-greet time during the offering, then returning to his seat, leaning over to John and saying, "Can you believe what Mary is wearing? I can almost see her ankles in that."
I was one of those Christians for a long time. I thought I had to be a certain way because I sang in the choir and led worship. My flaws were hidden under my hypocrisy. I pointed fingers, thinking that my sin was a secret. I shunned my own sister because she wasn't quite "holy" enough. I sacrificed friendships because of my reputation. What it boiled down to was that I was weak in my faith. I didn't trust myself to be a tangible example so I attempted to be the holy untouchable. I hate the way that I was then. Those people that really knew me, knew that I was broken internally and spiritually childish.
There are those that would look at my life now and think that I am not "holy". Do I go to church every Sunday? No-but I don't lie about it anymore. Do I sin? Everyday in some way or another. Do I pray and read my Bible? Not like I need to but always when things are rough. Do I claim to be a Christian even though the truth is that I have failed God more miserable than most? Absolutely.
I am a big fan of grace and mercy. I don't understand it at all, but I'm a big fan. I don't mistakenly assume that I can do whatever I choose and God has to forgive me because, hey, I'm a Christian. I know that he will if I ask but I sure as hell don't know why. The only thing that I can compare it to is my relationship with Brian. There have been times when I have been so angry with him that I didn't even want to see his face. He's made me cry harder than "Dead Man Walking". There was never a time that I didn't want to work it out, that I didn't want to be married to him anymore. I want to fix it and move on. I know it's going to happen again and again and again (you always hurt the ones you love) and I'm okay with that because I know that we will have mercy on each other. As much as this gives me an example, I know that what God does is so much more difficult.
I've never turned my back on Brian or intentionally done something that I know he hates (except that one time...). I have never openly defied him. I love him. And I love God but I do those things constantly inside of my miniscule humanity. Being human and loving God is tricky to me. What he is and what I am don't even touch edges. But somehow, what he is and what I am still wrap perfectly around each other.
Friday, September 30, 2005
oh joy
Tonight, there is a very important event occurring in my life. When I was 7 my dad took me to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park. I didn't really understand then what it meant to be a Red Sox fan. I had heard about it plenty though. Growing up, there was a lady that I called Aunt Eva. We were in no way related but she was like a second mother to my dad. She lived and died with the Red Sox. I remember watching her, sitting in a rocking chair, crocheting or doing cross-stitch, about 3 feet from the TV, screaming and cursing everyone the Red Sox played. I thought back then that it was just a game. She would be so angry and frustrated, especially when the Yankees came to town.
A few years ago I started keeping up with the Sox again. My friend, Erik is one of the biggest fans I've ever met. He has the stamina to sit and watch every game all 186 of them. In 2003 it looked like our year...but the Yankees...grrr!!! Thwarted by Aaron Boone in game 7. Rage and anger came flooding over me. How can we keep doing this? Year after year after year. It had to be a curse. What else could explain Bill Buckner letting that ball roll through his legs(by the way I remember Aunt Eva making death threats on Buckner and I think she would have acted on it if she wasn't already 65 years old)? Why did it seem that every year there was something that got between us and the championship?
Then there was Papi. I know that every player on the team last year had their share of winning moments. Schilling's bloody sock, Damon's home run, Pedro. But for me there is David Ortiz. For those of you that don't know, he is clutch! Last night he hit a home run to tie it up in the 8th and a single to win it in the bottom of the 9th.
So tonight we face the Yankees. Derek Jeter (hate him), A. Rod (hate him), Bellhorn (traitor). We must win 2 out of the 3 games to win the division. We play at Fenway and we have the best home game winning percentage in the league.
Most importantly, we have Papi. go sox
A few years ago I started keeping up with the Sox again. My friend, Erik is one of the biggest fans I've ever met. He has the stamina to sit and watch every game all 186 of them. In 2003 it looked like our year...but the Yankees...grrr!!! Thwarted by Aaron Boone in game 7. Rage and anger came flooding over me. How can we keep doing this? Year after year after year. It had to be a curse. What else could explain Bill Buckner letting that ball roll through his legs(by the way I remember Aunt Eva making death threats on Buckner and I think she would have acted on it if she wasn't already 65 years old)? Why did it seem that every year there was something that got between us and the championship?
Then there was Papi. I know that every player on the team last year had their share of winning moments. Schilling's bloody sock, Damon's home run, Pedro. But for me there is David Ortiz. For those of you that don't know, he is clutch! Last night he hit a home run to tie it up in the 8th and a single to win it in the bottom of the 9th.
So tonight we face the Yankees. Derek Jeter (hate him), A. Rod (hate him), Bellhorn (traitor). We must win 2 out of the 3 games to win the division. We play at Fenway and we have the best home game winning percentage in the league.
Most importantly, we have Papi. go sox
Thursday, September 29, 2005
The road everybody travels...
I have been thinking a great deal lately about love. I was in love a lot growing up. I cried over boys in high school, and I cried even harder in college. I was always one that leapt whole-heartedly into love. I wanted to be in love and be loved intensely and unconditionally.
the funny thing is, that when each new love came along, I convinced myself that whatever I felt before couldn't have been love because what I was feeling at that moment was so much deeper and so much more perfect than the love I lost. When I met my husband we talked about our past relationships (with the exception of one of my exes--we refer to him as 'those we don't speak of'), and I asked him if he had ever been in love. He said yes, twice in fact. Of everyone that I had dated, I could only think of one to put into that "true love" category. How come he got to love with more people than I did? We hadn't been together very long at that point and I didn't know if I would marry him or fall in love with him. But I liked him, a lot.
I don't really understand too much about the way that love works. I know that I had a brother that I had only met twice in my 28 years, once at 3 and once at 26. And I loved him somehow. He died a few months ago and I cried for him, even though I don't even know what color his eyes were or what his wife's name was. I know that if given the opportunity, I would have known him and loved him even more. I know that I have my dearest friends, some that I only see once or twice a year, if I am fortunate. And I forget birthdays and what it sounds like when they laugh. But I love them. And I have my memories about love and certain things trigger those and I remember specific things that I loved about specific people. And I love those people for those memories and for the lessons learned about love. And I have my husband...He told me last night that he had a dream that I died. In the dream he thought to himself, "okay, I will move on and find someone else". But he couldn't. He could only think of the everyday occurrences between just us that make us love each other, like rubbing feet under the blanket each and every night. When he told me about his dream, I thought about those people who lose a companion tragically and then move on. It is not an attempt to replace what was before. It is, in my opinion, a need to create newness and more and different love.
I think a lot about the way that God loves me and the way I love him and how different it is. This is not my attempt to be overly spiritual, but it is virtually impossible to talk about love and not mention God, at least for me. I am more baffled by his love for me than anything else in the world. If Bigfoot walked through my backyard, carrying the Loch Ness Monster and they were both abducted by aliens right before my eyes, it would make more sense to me than God's love. I wish that I loved him more. I wish that I expressed it better and that I was better. I am so human that it is frightening. The thing with God is that, as much as I strive to understand his mind and as much as I study to learn what he is all about, the more baffled I become. But I do believe that God appreciates that about me. He appreciates the search. I think that is part of the way that I express my love for him. I look for him. Sometimes I look for him like a mother, panicked because her child is out of sight in a crowded room. Sometimes I look for him like a window shopper. Sometimes I look for him the way you would a blind date in a restaurant. I have no answers for anyone about theology or denominations or religion in general. I am never a perfect example to be followed. I am a failure to many who feel that I am a "wasted vessel". But I'm kind of on the road that everybody travels. I am on a search, not for the best church or the easiest way or something that feel good. I'm not searching for a god that is convenient and lets me do whatever I want. I'm not searching for salvation. I'm searching for my resting place, my eternal solace.
In my mind, I am a child wandering through a field of tall grass. Sometimes I run, out of fear for what's behind me. Sometimes I stop and pull the petals off of a flower. Sometimes I trip on the uneven ground. But I am looking for one thing. It is a tree, tall and perfect with beautiful green leaves and plush grass underneath. It is a perfect place of shade and serenity. For me, in my child-like mind, it is the face of God. You may think this is gibberish and that's okay. You might be thinking, "God is a tree?" No-not my point. My point is that, for each of us, the idea of being with God is different. For my husband it's sitting in the middle of the ocean, on a surfboard, watching the sunset and waiting on the perfect wave. For me, it's sitting under the shade of an enormous tree, barefooted with grass between my toes. No sounds, no traffic, no cell phone, no bills to pay, no obligations. Just me and the breeze blowing by. For me, at the end of my search, that's what I want to find waiting. I know the Bible speaks of heaven, with mansions and streets of gold, and I imagine it to be beautiful. But for me, I'll take my place in the shadows of a weeping willow and sit peacefully under the watchful eyes of my Father infinitely.
the funny thing is, that when each new love came along, I convinced myself that whatever I felt before couldn't have been love because what I was feeling at that moment was so much deeper and so much more perfect than the love I lost. When I met my husband we talked about our past relationships (with the exception of one of my exes--we refer to him as 'those we don't speak of'), and I asked him if he had ever been in love. He said yes, twice in fact. Of everyone that I had dated, I could only think of one to put into that "true love" category. How come he got to love with more people than I did? We hadn't been together very long at that point and I didn't know if I would marry him or fall in love with him. But I liked him, a lot.
I don't really understand too much about the way that love works. I know that I had a brother that I had only met twice in my 28 years, once at 3 and once at 26. And I loved him somehow. He died a few months ago and I cried for him, even though I don't even know what color his eyes were or what his wife's name was. I know that if given the opportunity, I would have known him and loved him even more. I know that I have my dearest friends, some that I only see once or twice a year, if I am fortunate. And I forget birthdays and what it sounds like when they laugh. But I love them. And I have my memories about love and certain things trigger those and I remember specific things that I loved about specific people. And I love those people for those memories and for the lessons learned about love. And I have my husband...He told me last night that he had a dream that I died. In the dream he thought to himself, "okay, I will move on and find someone else". But he couldn't. He could only think of the everyday occurrences between just us that make us love each other, like rubbing feet under the blanket each and every night. When he told me about his dream, I thought about those people who lose a companion tragically and then move on. It is not an attempt to replace what was before. It is, in my opinion, a need to create newness and more and different love.
I think a lot about the way that God loves me and the way I love him and how different it is. This is not my attempt to be overly spiritual, but it is virtually impossible to talk about love and not mention God, at least for me. I am more baffled by his love for me than anything else in the world. If Bigfoot walked through my backyard, carrying the Loch Ness Monster and they were both abducted by aliens right before my eyes, it would make more sense to me than God's love. I wish that I loved him more. I wish that I expressed it better and that I was better. I am so human that it is frightening. The thing with God is that, as much as I strive to understand his mind and as much as I study to learn what he is all about, the more baffled I become. But I do believe that God appreciates that about me. He appreciates the search. I think that is part of the way that I express my love for him. I look for him. Sometimes I look for him like a mother, panicked because her child is out of sight in a crowded room. Sometimes I look for him like a window shopper. Sometimes I look for him the way you would a blind date in a restaurant. I have no answers for anyone about theology or denominations or religion in general. I am never a perfect example to be followed. I am a failure to many who feel that I am a "wasted vessel". But I'm kind of on the road that everybody travels. I am on a search, not for the best church or the easiest way or something that feel good. I'm not searching for a god that is convenient and lets me do whatever I want. I'm not searching for salvation. I'm searching for my resting place, my eternal solace.
In my mind, I am a child wandering through a field of tall grass. Sometimes I run, out of fear for what's behind me. Sometimes I stop and pull the petals off of a flower. Sometimes I trip on the uneven ground. But I am looking for one thing. It is a tree, tall and perfect with beautiful green leaves and plush grass underneath. It is a perfect place of shade and serenity. For me, in my child-like mind, it is the face of God. You may think this is gibberish and that's okay. You might be thinking, "God is a tree?" No-not my point. My point is that, for each of us, the idea of being with God is different. For my husband it's sitting in the middle of the ocean, on a surfboard, watching the sunset and waiting on the perfect wave. For me, it's sitting under the shade of an enormous tree, barefooted with grass between my toes. No sounds, no traffic, no cell phone, no bills to pay, no obligations. Just me and the breeze blowing by. For me, at the end of my search, that's what I want to find waiting. I know the Bible speaks of heaven, with mansions and streets of gold, and I imagine it to be beautiful. But for me, I'll take my place in the shadows of a weeping willow and sit peacefully under the watchful eyes of my Father infinitely.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Gravy
Here it is--There are two things for sure that marriage makes you:
1. Lazy
2. Hungry
This could be the worst combination in the world. Before I was married, or even engaged, I was tiny. I walked, went to the gym, was active. I ate salad and veggies. Then, I got engaged. I discovered the comfort of food during that period of time. The stress of planning and paying for a wedding caused me to gain a little weight--enough to have my wedding dress let out 2 weeks before my big day. I thought that after that I would immediately just drop back to my size 2 that I had become accustomed to, that I loved, that enabled me to purchase any piece of clothing I desired. I was wrong.
As I grew in my marriage, I outgrew most of my clothing. And I'm not alone in this. Just about everyone I know that gets married gains the "freshman 15". Men are not the exception. Before marriage, I sat and watched my husband spend $12 by himself at Taco Bell (let's face it-that's a lot of food) and eat every single bite. He was fit and healthy---and then we got married. His gain is not a bad thing in my eyes. I still think he looks amazing. And even though I am not obese by any means, or even overweight by our societies standards, I know that I have packed on my freshman 15. I like to think that when I step on a scale, the extra pounds are because my ring is so heavy. Momentary lapse of reality, that's what that is. I make the excuse that I eat more regularly now, I cook a lot. However, just about everything I make has gravy in the recipe. I learned to cook in the south. It's fried, smothered in butter, and COVERED in homemade gravy. That's the way to do it!
So what now? I talk just about every day about exercising when I get off work and eating salad with no cheese, croutons, or dressing. I say, "Monday I will start my diet and get my membership back at the gym." And then it's the following Monday and I'm eating fries, smothered in gravy and a burger, cooked medium rare with everything on it, and I'm dipping it into the gravy, and my arteries are crying out for mercy. When I realize that I can't make this commitment because I am weak, I go to the old standby-The diet fuel.
I recently spent $150.00 on a weight loss program that consists of taking 7 pills a day and drinking a meal replacement shake for breakfast. I think the goal is to shake the fat off my body because I become so jittery. Then I eat MORE because I want the food to absorb the pills so I will stop looking like I am on crack. But I spent the money and I will take all the pills, weight-loss or not.
Then, there is the South Beach diet. I have two friends who are both amazing cooks that were on this diet. I thought I would give it shot. They give you recipes and a grocery list and tell you what to eat every day. The first two weeks are the hardest, your most limited but where you are supposed to see a big change in your body and lose a significant, but healthy amount of weight. In those two weeks I drank nothing but water, and a river of it. I ate raw veggies, meat, eggs and had no bread...and no gravy. I was committed, no cheating, stayed the course. After those two weeks I weighed in...Not one pound, not one. Not even half of one. Nothing. I was sucking on sugar-free candy to keep my sanity for two weeks and nothing happened. What a waste! I was bitter and felt jaded. Of course my two friends on the diet lost a whole person between them and loved the whole thing. I left my house after I weighed in and stopped at the store. I bought a Mountain Dew and headed straight to Molly's for their famous fries and Guinness Gravy. It was perfection.
My friend Amanda hates gravy. I don't think she is normal. What's not to love? But I digress.
There are the exceptions to the wedding weight, but those are also the people like my former Power Pump instructor who had twins and was smaller after giving birth than she was before. I try to be kind to most people and give them the benefit of the doubt in most situations. BUT people like that, I want to punch right in the face. How does that happen? How do they get to be the exception to the rules of the cosmos, the laws of God, if you will and just stay skinny? I take some comfort in the idea that they are probably unhappy and potential just bad people.
Lastly, there are those with the eating disorders. This is a whole other class of people. I can't understand making oneself vomit. I have an easier time with anorexia-just don't eat. Who wants to vomit? You look for a man with big hands just because you know he'll be able to hold your hair back for you while you are reliving that last meal. Then there are the laxative takers-just as bad. It doesn't matter if you're skinny because you're stuck in the bathroom all the time.
My point (don't really have one-just trying to wrap it up) comes back to one thing-being married makes you happy. It makes you secure and satisfied and frustrated and confused. It makes you want to wake up in the morning for another adventure, and it makes you want to go to bed early to forget the day. But the two things that marriage makes you that you can't control and can't escape are lazy and so very, very hungry.
the end
1. Lazy
2. Hungry
This could be the worst combination in the world. Before I was married, or even engaged, I was tiny. I walked, went to the gym, was active. I ate salad and veggies. Then, I got engaged. I discovered the comfort of food during that period of time. The stress of planning and paying for a wedding caused me to gain a little weight--enough to have my wedding dress let out 2 weeks before my big day. I thought that after that I would immediately just drop back to my size 2 that I had become accustomed to, that I loved, that enabled me to purchase any piece of clothing I desired. I was wrong.
As I grew in my marriage, I outgrew most of my clothing. And I'm not alone in this. Just about everyone I know that gets married gains the "freshman 15". Men are not the exception. Before marriage, I sat and watched my husband spend $12 by himself at Taco Bell (let's face it-that's a lot of food) and eat every single bite. He was fit and healthy---and then we got married. His gain is not a bad thing in my eyes. I still think he looks amazing. And even though I am not obese by any means, or even overweight by our societies standards, I know that I have packed on my freshman 15. I like to think that when I step on a scale, the extra pounds are because my ring is so heavy. Momentary lapse of reality, that's what that is. I make the excuse that I eat more regularly now, I cook a lot. However, just about everything I make has gravy in the recipe. I learned to cook in the south. It's fried, smothered in butter, and COVERED in homemade gravy. That's the way to do it!
So what now? I talk just about every day about exercising when I get off work and eating salad with no cheese, croutons, or dressing. I say, "Monday I will start my diet and get my membership back at the gym." And then it's the following Monday and I'm eating fries, smothered in gravy and a burger, cooked medium rare with everything on it, and I'm dipping it into the gravy, and my arteries are crying out for mercy. When I realize that I can't make this commitment because I am weak, I go to the old standby-The diet fuel.
I recently spent $150.00 on a weight loss program that consists of taking 7 pills a day and drinking a meal replacement shake for breakfast. I think the goal is to shake the fat off my body because I become so jittery. Then I eat MORE because I want the food to absorb the pills so I will stop looking like I am on crack. But I spent the money and I will take all the pills, weight-loss or not.
Then, there is the South Beach diet. I have two friends who are both amazing cooks that were on this diet. I thought I would give it shot. They give you recipes and a grocery list and tell you what to eat every day. The first two weeks are the hardest, your most limited but where you are supposed to see a big change in your body and lose a significant, but healthy amount of weight. In those two weeks I drank nothing but water, and a river of it. I ate raw veggies, meat, eggs and had no bread...and no gravy. I was committed, no cheating, stayed the course. After those two weeks I weighed in...Not one pound, not one. Not even half of one. Nothing. I was sucking on sugar-free candy to keep my sanity for two weeks and nothing happened. What a waste! I was bitter and felt jaded. Of course my two friends on the diet lost a whole person between them and loved the whole thing. I left my house after I weighed in and stopped at the store. I bought a Mountain Dew and headed straight to Molly's for their famous fries and Guinness Gravy. It was perfection.
My friend Amanda hates gravy. I don't think she is normal. What's not to love? But I digress.
There are the exceptions to the wedding weight, but those are also the people like my former Power Pump instructor who had twins and was smaller after giving birth than she was before. I try to be kind to most people and give them the benefit of the doubt in most situations. BUT people like that, I want to punch right in the face. How does that happen? How do they get to be the exception to the rules of the cosmos, the laws of God, if you will and just stay skinny? I take some comfort in the idea that they are probably unhappy and potential just bad people.
Lastly, there are those with the eating disorders. This is a whole other class of people. I can't understand making oneself vomit. I have an easier time with anorexia-just don't eat. Who wants to vomit? You look for a man with big hands just because you know he'll be able to hold your hair back for you while you are reliving that last meal. Then there are the laxative takers-just as bad. It doesn't matter if you're skinny because you're stuck in the bathroom all the time.
My point (don't really have one-just trying to wrap it up) comes back to one thing-being married makes you happy. It makes you secure and satisfied and frustrated and confused. It makes you want to wake up in the morning for another adventure, and it makes you want to go to bed early to forget the day. But the two things that marriage makes you that you can't control and can't escape are lazy and so very, very hungry.
the end
Wednesday Morning
I am sitting in my cubicle with my coffee and my low fat yogurt, trying to get motivated to start this day. I hate this cubicle. It's like my cut off from the outside world. I have no windows, a face a wall that is made out of metal and covered with magnets that should be holding something important, I guess. Mine hold pictures of my husband and my dog. There are post-it notes all over one wall, left by the girl who sat here before me. I never took them down. I figure that if they were important to her, they might be important to me. Not yet, but maybe soon. This is the career that I have chosen, and I will one day enjoy it when I get out of this "Awefulcle" (what my friend, Amanda calls it). The girl in the cubicle next to mine plays her radio just loud enough for me to hear. It's some sort of "soft and easy favorites". Sadly, I think the most exciting part of the day just occurred. A roach as big as my head just crawled out into the open and, since there is only one man here right now, I enlisted him to kill it. Unfortunately, the roach won. Greg stepped on him and hit him with a box. The roach turned and faced Greg as if to say, "is that all you've got for me?" and ran behind my cubicle. I have been assured that he will go back there and die. I will be fine as long as he doesn't touch me in any way. I'm not one to run away from a spider or other reasonably-sized insect, but the roaches in Florida are enormous, and they fly! It's one of my worst nightmares.
So now I'm in my Awefulcle with my feet tucked up underneath me in my chair, waiting for this roach to pull on my pant leg and demand that I turn over my purse.
Why is Wednesday such a bad day of the week? Does it have middle-child syndrome?
So now I'm in my Awefulcle with my feet tucked up underneath me in my chair, waiting for this roach to pull on my pant leg and demand that I turn over my purse.
Why is Wednesday such a bad day of the week? Does it have middle-child syndrome?
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
First Ramble
My husband and I have a blog together, which is cool. But I really need a place of my own where I can talk about the most unimportant important things going through my mind.
Lately, it has been important for me to reconnect with those people that I miss most in my life-my former classmates from Emmanuel College. There are those that are constants, that have always been around for the last seven years. Then there are those that I have wondered about. Where are they? What are they doing? Are they happy with what they have chosen to be? My time in college was the most amazing. I had a family of friends and a group of support that I have never found since. I was swarmed daily with people that I love and people that I hated. And it was a beautiful thing. I miss that. Lately, I have longed to see faces and hear voices from my past. I have desired to be involved and in the know about the ones that got away and the ones that I let go of.
I am trying to remember when I got this old. I am only 28 and feeling like the best of my years are behind me. I ache in the morning as I roll out of bed to go to a mediocre job where I am overworked and severely underpaid. I hear high school students talking in the mall and I cringe at the mindlessness of the conversation.
But I have this husband-this wonderful counterpart that stabilizes every part of me. He is free and reckless and takes risks that terrify me to tears. Last year during the beginning of hurricane #1 that came through Polk County, he climbed onto our roof, getting as close to God as he could be at that moment...And I cried. I wanted him to come down and I yelled and called him foolish and drank a glass of wine to calm my nerves. But it's because I am jealous of his spirit. I don't take risks. I am not reckless. I worry. And he hates it, I know. But he is amazing and loves me as I quiver on the shore while he scuba dives. He tells me of his adventures of repelling down a 100 foot rock face and running out of air 30 feet under water while spear fishing. And I shake my head and roll my eyes and tell him how I want him around forever so he can't take these risks. And on the inside I live vicariously through his child-like freedom and pray to be brave enough to jump off the deep end.
Lately, it has been important for me to reconnect with those people that I miss most in my life-my former classmates from Emmanuel College. There are those that are constants, that have always been around for the last seven years. Then there are those that I have wondered about. Where are they? What are they doing? Are they happy with what they have chosen to be? My time in college was the most amazing. I had a family of friends and a group of support that I have never found since. I was swarmed daily with people that I love and people that I hated. And it was a beautiful thing. I miss that. Lately, I have longed to see faces and hear voices from my past. I have desired to be involved and in the know about the ones that got away and the ones that I let go of.
I am trying to remember when I got this old. I am only 28 and feeling like the best of my years are behind me. I ache in the morning as I roll out of bed to go to a mediocre job where I am overworked and severely underpaid. I hear high school students talking in the mall and I cringe at the mindlessness of the conversation.
But I have this husband-this wonderful counterpart that stabilizes every part of me. He is free and reckless and takes risks that terrify me to tears. Last year during the beginning of hurricane #1 that came through Polk County, he climbed onto our roof, getting as close to God as he could be at that moment...And I cried. I wanted him to come down and I yelled and called him foolish and drank a glass of wine to calm my nerves. But it's because I am jealous of his spirit. I don't take risks. I am not reckless. I worry. And he hates it, I know. But he is amazing and loves me as I quiver on the shore while he scuba dives. He tells me of his adventures of repelling down a 100 foot rock face and running out of air 30 feet under water while spear fishing. And I shake my head and roll my eyes and tell him how I want him around forever so he can't take these risks. And on the inside I live vicariously through his child-like freedom and pray to be brave enough to jump off the deep end.
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