Subject: hello

This song makes me think of our relationship; the loss of our friendship. What am I doing here? I sit in this cold and hard chair, my back to the rest of the world; all I can see are the words in front of me. I type a letter then delete four. And so the process of trying to say “hello” proceeds. The clock ticks on and yet here I still am: type and delete, type and delete. All I need are five letters to say what is on my mind.

The next hurdle heightens my awareness of fear. It is all in a name, the last word on the page. Melissa, Mel, M…: not many options, but enough to make me question my identity, or rather your portrayal of me. Is there a formal way to not sound formal, a loving way to not sound in love? You never called me Mel, and M is too intimate, reserved only for people who know me better than I know myself.

“Send” looms persistently on the top of the screen. My eyes start to hurt as I stare way too intently at the little, white cursor resting gently on top of those four letters. My pointer finger just barely graces the button that would fly this short note hastily through cyber space. How can the word “send” trigger my body to freeze, my mind for a moment shuts down to keep from lingering to memories past.

This is a big deal being made over a small gesture of friendliness. My intentions are pure, having been filtered several times over in the last couple of days. It is impossible to not wonder of your well being. Your well being used to mean the world to me. People ask about you and the realization that I have no clue if you are ok, if you are even out there somewhere, makes my heart hurt.

And if you respond, if you are out there roaming this great world and happen to stumble upon my short note, how will my heart react? Will the sadness deepen upon realizing that we are no longer a part of each other’s lives; upon the realization that “outta sight, outta mind” is an absurdity?

I sit here and try to force a tear out. In the event that you would email me a response I want to be prepared. Tears do not surface and all that is produced is a clenched face, a frustrated soul. I am not sad anymore about your absence, aggravated for sure, but not miserable. I wish we could be friends. I wish that the mistakes would disappear and we could share our lives, if only briefly.

And now I am crying. Because that is all I want, that is my only intent. I am not interested in your love life. I am not longing to love you the way I used to. I just miss YOU. I miss the way you knew me, and I miss our inside jokes, I miss the laughter that can only be produced between two intimate souls.

I have gotten over my love for you. I have moved on, conquering as I go, forgiving every day. But I will always miss our friendship. And that is what I am trying to say. I just want to say “hello.”

Adventures In…ch.21

Adventures In…

“Casserole Eyes.”

The damp green grass felt cold against their feet as the warm sun trickled in through the branches of orange leaves. The riverside was a fitting place to test the waters of love. Their eyes met and she decided it was time to try on vulnerability. Her lips quivered as she looked deep into his shiny brown eyes. But as her mouth attempted to verbalize her heart’s poundings all hope was shattered. In a short moment, the dreams of life together, of a vacation home on the coast, of small, bare footed children running around carelessly all disappeared. For it was in that moment, as she looked into his eyes, into the depths of his soul, that she knew his response. No words from him were needed. She knew. And turning around in passionate sorrow, she fled. As she ran up the grassy hill the wind flowed through her skirt, her hair entangled around her face, the tears dripping in slow motion down her cheeks. She looked back to catch his silhouette against the cattails and purring river, against the confusion and setting sun.

Sometimes fairy tales don’t go as planned. Most of the time, sunny afternoons surrounded by nature’s bliss, only stoke so big a flame. The heart can be led by pretty pictures and quaint ideas, but when reality seems illusory the mind tends to wander back home. And while I sit on my bed, commitments made to never day dream again, I am impatient. Desires are unleashed when day dreams are permitted, but patience and sound mind have a tendency to run out on me.

I am so ready to write a good story. Thoughts of pathetic beginnings and sad endings are not welcome anymore, yet it is becoming dreadfully difficult to keep them at bay. Lazy days on friends’ couches are cherished for sure, but my heart is so restless. The young ones flutter around carefree and in perfect ease, but I have found no peace in pretending that love and companionship were never mine.

My sister and I were discussing boys and their eyes and their feelings and their souls and, as romantic as it all sounds to be, we chose to discuss the sadder end of the tale. Whether it is in a moment shared between two friends, or maybe a date (whether it be the 3^rd or 12^th), or even between two strangers, there is a moment when in their eyes everything you do not want to hear is seen. For me, those things said through the gaze sound like, “Thanks mom, now go make me a casserole,” or “I could tell you anything ’cause you are like a sister to me.” As much as these could seem like compliments at times, they are inappropriate at best (and heart wrenching at worst) to be heard when your eyes are trying to scream “I think I could love you!”

My sister and I call the look of unreturned and unmatched love “casserole eyes.” It is a look that lets you know nothing more will ever come. It reminds you of what you already suspected but somehow hoped to be completely false. It sets a boundary and makes the idea of friendship seem like a painful limitation.

To say that this is how I feel would be to dramatize my mundane life. However, I have felt the slight burn this look can cause. I am currently restricting myself from looking deep into every male’s eyes so as to guard my heart from unsuspecting feelings. The desperate seeker in me runs from face to face trying to find someone who will feel for me like I want to be felt for.

And it is here I realize that to refrain from desperation I must dream. I must dream of fairy tales, of all my hearts desires multiplied alongside a scenic river bend. A scene of embrace and romance instead of half hearted dreams where the girl runs away (or on some days, runs right into the river…).  When I surrender my heart and let go of everything I think I know about love and boys and relationships, when I let go and freely dream, is the moment I stop looking around desperately for an affectionate glance. My dreams call for surrender, patience flourishes in surrender, and someday it will all tell a story of happily ever after.

Adventures In…ch.20

Adventures In…

Desperation.

I am not desperate (despite the ever increasing common opinion). I am not desperate for the love and affection of man, nor am I in dire need for a Friday night date. However, I am catching myself more than frequently making jokes about how I would like a boyfriend or about how I “need” someone to take me out. Phrases from my mouth such as, “We should get married” and “If any of you proposed to me I would say ‘yes’” may grant me immediate access into desperation’s club, but it is all just in fun. Or is it? Here I sit, and my mind keeps whispering “there is truth behind every joke.”  I dissect my heart for the deeper meaning, concluding that while singlehood is swell, deep, deep, down (yet arising at an increasing speed) I long to be in a relationship.

To expound on my enjoyment of singlehood helps me to remain positive and light hearted. I cherish being able to chose what I get to do on weekends. I delight in the anticipation of knowing that Mr. Right could be the mister right around the corner. Getting to spend my free time with a pack full of guy friends, feeding them pancakes, giving them rides to church, all this would be slightly prohibited if I was in a relationship. Learning how to trust boys, surrender to God, and in this unexpected season practice patience, is important to me right now.

Yet, then there are those moments when I am getting dressed up (for no one), or sitting in church without an arm around me, or wishing that “Fish Taco Tuesday” was actually a real tradition with a boy who automatically came over at six without me having to call him; these moments, even if they just last a second, are causing me to admit that not only am I ready to date again, but that I long to date again.

I am not dwelling on what I do not have; I am not throwing myself a mini pity party. Rather, I am stepping up and bluntly (hesitantly and painfully) admitting that I want a boyfriend. Now, before every male in my life goes running, know that this does not affect my pre existing relationships. This does not mean I want my mother to search the congregation on Sunday morning, scoping out arranged marriage potential. No, this is just my heart attempting to be honest with my brain; this is a declaration that after 1 year and 2 months of my marriage dissolving, I am now, for real this time, wanting to date.

Maybe to some people “1 year and 2 months” seems but a short time, or maybe to others it is considered lengthy. However, it is not the days, or weeks, or months that I count. My heart beats to its own clock; the hands of time being the seasons of life, the numbers are the monuments of growth. I am not desperate, but the clock is ticking; my heart is ready. My heart is longing.

While I would like to use this space to toss out my phone number, my height and eye color preferences, my favorite hobbies (think-long walks on the beach), I will hold back. Admitting my deep, and for some reason, somehow embarrassing desire to date is liberating me from desperation and its tempting games. My mouth is mum, from this point on, to attempt marriage proposals on each of my unsuspecting male friends. No longer will I grasp for straws. I will not ignore that empty space where an arm should be wrapped around my shoulders; however, I will refrain from anxiously combing the church for a potential suitor. This is trust. Trust that God will bring me the desires of my heart. Trust that God will restore my label as “Susie Homemaker.” Trust that “Fish Taco Tuesday” will happen. Trust that hanging out with my guy friends on Friday nights is exactly just as simple and beautiful as it should be.

I am not desperate.

Adventures In…ch.19

Adventures In…

26.

It is 2:20 in the afternoon, and I cannot sleep. This is drudgery when you work the night shift and 2pm feels like 2am. The wind is blowing through my closed curtains in such a way that I feel as if I might be somewhere magical. But the subtle and alluring breeze that lifts my floral curtains does little to usher me into dreamland. I get up and turn some music on as I am tired of listening to my head go on and on about the day. On my way back in to my bed I stop at the birthday package my mother and grandmother sent; after snagging a huge handful of Halloween candy from the box I crawl under my comforter and start on a small pack of Skittles.

I have been 26 years old for four days now, and the fact that I am eating candy in bed at 2 in the afternoon makes me wonder if instead of aging I am somehow going back in time. If anyone knew how much candy I could consume in one sitting my sanity would seriously be questioned (as well as my nutritional standards and dental hygiene). If the average American understood how much I like the smell of the wind coming through my window, if they knew how badly my heart burns to know God, if they saw how frustrated I can get when my pack of Mini M&M’s won’t open, they wouldn’t know what to say. And this is me at 26.

It is as if the wind is filled with sweet restoration, and as it blows through my windows or while it overtakes me when I stand outside, I am renewed. It takes very little prodding of joy to make my arms flail out to the sides in abandonment. I contemplated this unrestrictive declaration of my limbs the other day as my mentally disabled client saw me do it under the light drizzle of rain. It apparently looked intriguing to him because the next thing I knew he was standing with his arms out to the side as well. I am sure we looked silly standing in the driveway under the dreary sky, but it did not matter. I explained to him that I was letting the small pieces of rain fall against my open palms and he chuckled.

Most of the time I am unaware of my arms being raised in surrender; it usually occurs to me after the fact, when I look around and remember that I am standing in a grocery store, a parking lot, or church. However, I don’t care what people think (unless I accidently knock someone over in my free spirited display – for this I apologize). It took me too many years to realize that life should not be taken so seriously. After spending my adolescence hating the way I looked, after spending four years planning my future around someone only to watch them carelessly walk away, and then spending another year wondering “what next?,” I finally learned that all this is just the little stuff.

I never thought I would live past 21 years. This is a sad thought now, but at the age of 18 it seemed a reasonable expectation since I was sure there wasn’t anything worth living for. Right before my 21^st birthday I got married and found something to live for. Yet living for the world and the things it deceivingly holds is a sure fire way to feel ultimate disappointment. But finally, here at 26, I have found something really worth it- a God that doesn’t judge me for my sweet tooth, a God that teaches me everything I need to know on forgiveness, joy, and love.

As childish as I might look standing on the sidewalk with my pockets stuffed full of candy, my arms stretched out in surrendered worship, and the restoring winds blowing through my hair, I rejoice in being alive. I am 26.

Adventures In…ch.18

Adventures In…

Hugging.

I wasn’t much of a hugger, that is, until a couple weeks ago. My human nature is not necessarily inclined to the touchy feely embraces that most people find warm and comforting, that is, until a couple weeks ago. Somehow along the process of separating from man and clinging to God, my human nature underwent a shift. It has been some time now since the divorce, and the process of separation has ceased. My relationship with Yahweh is ever constant and the process of growing in His love will never end.

And that is what has brought me into this new world of joyful expression, the world of hugging. I am currently too relaxed to research the term “human nature” but for me, and the sake of this writing, it seems a fitting term to define that thing inside of me that, based off subconscious (and usually selfish) motives, longs (or sometimes loathes) to do something. In respects to hugging, the “human nature” in me used to cringe and shy away from anyone’s outstretched arms or “come hither” look. And of course I never questioned this unruly and guarded part in me as it seemed normal and uncomfortably comfortable.

I have been told countless times in the past that I am a terrible hugger. I must admit, my style was quite awkward, but this can only be expected of a body when the mind is entering into the early stages of “fight or flight” mode in the advancement of an onccoming person with arms stretched wide. In studying my body position in this previous manner of hugging I noticed that while my arms longed tightly for that warm embrace, the bottom half of my body kept far distance with feet firmly planted like two deer caught in headlights. Bending at the waist was really the only possible way for my body to compromise which made for one far-reaching and unsteady hug. The “offensive” hugger who (unknowing of my very large bubble of personal space) was left to bare all of my weight as my feet appeared to be stuck in cement, my legs of stone.

Family members and close friends (all of whom seem to love hugging to an extensive degree) started calling me out on my most inhibited ways in this form of affection. I strived to be an affectionate initiator of hugs, but my feeble attempts were short lived and pathetic at best. I needed to change my “human nature.”

In an attempt to not exhaust the “H” word or my prolonged description of my inadequacies, I will make this part quick. What was so powerful to convert a shy person with a 5 mile radius no-touch zone into an unashamed lover and giver of hugs, cheek kisses, back rubs, and gentle hand squeezes? JOY. Overflowing, can’t contain, must-tell-the-world (or at least everyone within 5 feet of me) by expression of this glorious, life changing joy. When I come into contact with someone (be they an old friend, new friend, family member, or stranger) I must let them know and feel this joy. I hug them with every intention of this all consuming overflow to contagiously pour over them. Everyone must comprehend, if even for a brief moment that they are loved; my joyful limbs refuse to stand motionless while someone walks by passing into my newly liberated personal space.

I used to own a shirt that in the upper left hand corner said “I love to hug.” Bought at a thrift store, it resembled everything great about the hippy decade it was sewn in. Sadly though, the wearing of that shirt was like adorning a blatant lie. I no longer own that shirt as its material could only survive so many decades before literally coming apart at the seams. However, I no longer need that shirt, for mere words could never do justice for joy.

Adventures In…ch.17

Adventures In…

Boys (Part seven).

How to Erase a Crush (Part One)

I am not one to give up so easily, but in the world of singlehood I find the moments all too precious and in much need of savoring; time cannot be spent pining for the affections of someone who is unaware of your human existence. So here I declare (foot violently stomping ground for emphasis) “crush over.” I do not enjoy having my dating life (or lack thereof) suspended in this perpetual state of confused feelings and stand-still abandonment. (Other foot now triumphantly stomping ground), here I pronounce, “I will find a way, there must exist a way, to stop this little crush!” Me, the boy (or the absence of the boy), and the crush make three too many things taking up space in my mind which is much needed for other things such as crossword puzzles, movie nights, and sleep. In but a short time the “love-life” portion of my brain might be back to emptiness and all the glorious freedom of pure (capital “S” added for emphasis) Singlehood; but not yet. Here I sit debating the word “crush” and wonder at its origin. What word could claim itself as the opposite of “crush”? A few come to mind but none of them carrying relevance to this form of “crush” nor do they impart any wisdom on how to get myself out of this awkward state of mind. What I do comprehend (from previous learning experiences) is that to get out from crush’s squeeze is to step into a new point of view. This usually results in a clarity causing me to realize the crush was nothing more than a temporary trance into minor relationship misjudgment (or at worst, minor insanity blinding me to the ever so blunt reasons as to why I could never be with a person of that personality type, profession, or geographical location). Point in case is that I need to force myself out of here and get to there- that place where irrationalities are realized and this week’s crush becomes next week’s forgotten stepping point along this usually not so wild but sometimes crazy ride known as singlehood. Where is the elevator, flying car, or saddled elephant to take me from here to there? Will the absence of his presence from my social calendar result in a quicker transition? This is not me over-thinking but rather me just killing time; me just relishing in a moment of the life of a single girl.

Adventures In…ch.16

Adventures In…

A new season.

It resembled a sleepover as the rightfully relaxed lay about. Couch cushions and random bed linens created dividers between our bodies, but to stand back and look at the pile of people, it was hard to tell which limbs belonged to which faces. The lights were dim and the animated movie had just ended; everyone’s hearts were light and any previous adult cares were now erased by a two hour display of vibrant color and goofy humor. As the television screen went black we slowly tried to shake ourselves out of the world full of cute monsters and happy endings. Conversation picked up as our brains were aroused from their nearly sleeping state. Drowsy minds were eventually intrigued by a simple comment, and theories and questions of love quickly thickened the air.

My life has done a complete 180. Two months ago seems like another lifetime as I try to comprehend the immensity of what it took to get from there to here (and how it all unfolded as if overnight without any drum roll or flag procession as I had imagined that this type of life change would). Anyone who knew me three months ago could tell almost humorous stories of the place I lived in, the battles I had just emerged from, and the seemingly visionless life I walked. I was in a place of absolute solitude and trying to calm my survivor-driven brain down. The battle was just coming to an end as I loaded the truck and left the city I adored.

There was an absence of expectations as I moved to California. I knew I was alive. I knew I had survived. I knew I was ready to begin. But begin what? I had no doubt that life was already in motion; surviving with the day by day mentality that I clung to gave me a daily renewal of what it means to really live, every morning being like a gasp for air after sitting at the ocean’s floor. So maybe it’s perfect to say that I began a new season by heading west. Regardless though, something began, and I feel as if I was caught up in a grand whirlwind; it picked me up in my quiet, meditative, post divorce world and dropped me into a bliss of glorious friendships, majestic encounters with my Father God, and more sunshine in a couple months than the Midwest sees in a full year.

This is life in Redding, California, in an apartment shared by two sisters who are growing closer by the second, and in a house full of seven of the most inspiring men of God I have ever met. This is life in the most loving embrace from Yahweh. This is a season of restoration; my winter has turned into summer, somehow skipping right over spring.

I feel it utterly impossible to express to anyone the current greatness of my life (or the complexity of how I am nowhere near the person I was but a year and a half ago). Living with my sister, the perfect job, the amazing hugs from friends, these are all superb blessings I could have never dreamt of but a year ago. Here I find myself living in a season where the blessings don’t cease to rain down. While this year is not going to last forever (8-10 months left to be exact) my mind has gone nowhere near debating what I plan to do next. Now aware of the whirlwinds that can exist I feel humbly powerless and rightly surrendered to wherever God will lead.

Adventures In…ch.15

Adventures In…

Boys (Part six).

Four a.m. And we debated like two high school girls. Sitting on the counter top of our dimly lit kitchen, baggy sweatpants catching the drippings of the giant, juicy apples we snacked on, we hashed over every possible scenario.

“This is what you are going to do. Text him tomorrow and say, ‘what are you doing this weekend?’ That’s a good open door.”

Pause; we took bites of the apples, chewing loudly as are brows furrowed at this brave and astounding thing I just suggested.

“So…I text him…and…ask him what he is…doing? ….He will say he is busy!”

“How about….”

Another pause; this was an intense subject -boys, and not just any boys, but boys we liked. “Crushes” to be exact (well, at least I think that is what the final deliberation ruled them to be).

“Maybe we should watch that movie again, ‘He’s Just Not That In To You’.”

“No, no, no…that’s not it. These boys acted like they liked us and now they ignore us!”

So we ate some more of our apples. Gosh, those apples were big, but not big enough to last through to the end of the topic. While she brushed her teeth we carried on, her mouth full of toothpaste and her words barely distinguishable as she tried to impart her wisdom.

And this is my new discovery into the life of a single, adult girl, one who desperately would like to date a specific, very much cute and cool boy, but somehow, even after a heart-to-heart with her sister, cannot find the smarts or words to ask the boy out on a date. Call me old fashioned, but I have this romantic dream where he asks me out. But suppose (as me and my sister did tonight) that this boy is perhaps too shy to ask me out…or maybe he doesn’t realize I am attempting to flirt with him…or…maybe…just maybe (as me and my sister, heads down, quietly brought up) he doesn’t actually like me in that way…what am I supposed to do? Do I take the risky move to ask him out on a date? Or do I walk away, attempting to push him out of my mind like last week’s bad hair day, and hang my head low telling myself that he won’t ever want to date me?

As productive as me and my sister’s 4 a.m. chat seemed to be, here it is, 5:36 a.m. and I feel almost as lost as I did before that first bite of apple. On a more positive note, me and my baby sister are experiencing somewhat similar boy situations at the same time (something I never thought would be a possible circumstance for us to share in). And also, those apples were really super good.

Adventures In…ch.14

Adventures In…

Boys (Part five).

You seem unaware of my existence, the existence that lies outside of the friendship realm. In most moments of my day, I try to console myself by believing that you are shy or even complicated. On the more somber of moments I quietly wonder if you possible just don’t like me “like that”. When I walk into the room, hair perfectly combed and lip gloss lavishly applied, I wait for your eyes to glance my way. In the event that they don’t (as most cases turn out), I sluggishly limp away feeling much like a deflated balloon. On the rare occasion that you notice me, I hold the stare for as long as possible, my head contemplating the lingering uncertainty of your unpronounced feelings towards me. “He loves me, he loves me not…” the childish poem echoes on as you walk past without even acknowledging my existence. And then it finally happens, before the hands of the clock hit twelve, you sit next to me; and for that moment, my heart pounds as fast as it can while still keeping me alive and barely away from self-combustion. You talk, and I listen. I talk, and I wonder if you are listening. Did you notice when I tried to complement you? Did you hear me when I tried to give you the opportunity to ask me out for next Thursday night? If these remarks made it past your handsome face and into that intelligent mind of yours are you merely just avoiding them, or do you hear my heart better than I think you do? I’ve got this dream in my mind where we go on a great adventure, my hand in yours. But you are the one that asks me to venture. Because of this I am left alone, to sit, and think about you. I relinquish over-thinking and stay away from over-indulging in ice cream as a means to get over you and this murky situation. You either do or you don’t. If I have been unclear or shady in my pronunciation prior to this, forgive me (and my, how I hope this is all merely just a case of misunderstanding!). Do not delay in making up your mind, declaring your intentions, or defining this relationship. I like you, and if only your appearance didn’t make my knees rock like a ship at sea, I would tell you straight to your dark eyes. It’s a bit of a crush…

Thoughts On…ch.2

Thoughts On…

Vulnerability.

Vulnerability is a hard word for my lips to formulate. My tongue holds locked in fear while the syllables perch in waiting. It is a hard enough word to verbalize, let alone comprehend. My mind quivers while it contemplates the complexity of such a thing. I eventually form the word in my mouth. Quickly I spit it out but the taste lingers far too long, and a headache starts to ravish my mind. The word rolls around inside of me, it is something that somehow refuses to escape. Small steps in learning to be vulnerable have led me here – staring in the eyes of vulnerability with unprecedented uncertainity. Standing on this ledge the eyes invade my view, my focus unable to stray. There is no other way to get around it then to jump off the ledge and give in, being utterly consumed by all that vulnerability gives out. Not only do I want to embrace this but I want to let go so completely that my honesty and openness will combat the anxiety of vulnerability’s requirements,”what ifs”, and falsities. There is no room for fear in this type of embrace. My heart is on the table, my eyes are locked with the situation before me, and all assumptions, judgments, and comparisons are obsolete. I will attempt to relish this moment as it is a turning point in my unwritten history. Vulnerability is the first page…