Over a year

I haven't posted in a while. Over a year. A lot has happened in that over-a-year. I won't get into it now. It doesn't matter. It's not important.

And that's the problem. Nothing is anymore. I'm not sure when things stopped mattering to me for longer than the experience itself lasted. It's been at least a day. But that's as far back as I can bring myself to care.

I posted something two years ago. About Pain. About how Jesus is the answer. How someday Pain won't matter anymore. Because the believers will be in Heaven, and the unbelievers will have something far worse than a bad day at work or a dead relative to worry about. I didn't include that last part. It's rather morbid. Because the unbelievers will be in Hell.

And that's the problem. My problem, anyway. I'm not sure if I'll be among the believers or the unbelievers. I've done things I'm not proud of. Said things I regret. Felt things that we tell ourselves no good person should ever feel. Rage. Desire. Hatred.

I believe all the things I was taught as a child. About the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Well, most of it. There are some things that we have to figure out ourselves. Things that can only be gained through our own careful study of the Scriptures. I'm not here to tell you what those things are for me. Some days I can't even remember what those internal debates were about. All I'm trying to say is that I'm not sure what I'm doing anymore.

I believe that the Father sent his Son to die for our sins. That all we have to do is accept that gift and Follow Him. That the Holy Spirit intercedes on our behalf, guides us in the way that we should go. But there are moments that I'm not sure if I've done that. If I've been listening to the Spirit within, or just acting the way I think a believer should act. If it's even worth it after all these years to make sure.

Logically, I know that it is. But the problem with Pain is that it makes it hard for us to think logically. Pain is all-encompassing. After the initial strike, it suffuses us with Numbness if we don't know how to manage it. Bites and consumes until all we have is Pain and Numbness left.

Sometimes I feel good. Can feel the thick, red line connecting me to the Father. But I'm human, as we all are, and I feel bad again. Like the World and the Father has moved on without me, and all I have is my Great Disappointments.

The thing about the World and the Father is that they are fundamentally different. The World moves on. The Father doesn't forget. The things that matter anyway. He doesn't forget His Children. Forgets their sins, if forgiveness is asked. But not the Children themselves.

I don't know why I started typing this. Just that I did. I'm not sure what I was trying to articulate, or if I even managed to produce a coherent thought. Maybe this can be another one of those "groanings which cannot be uttered" that the Holy Spirit is supposed to translate to the Father. If I truly have accepted the Son, then the Spirit has to be used to this by now.

There's more to it than you think

I wrote this post last night, and I meant to put it up then. But life happens, and I’m just now getting around to it. So please, pretend it Good Friday.

Sunday is Easter. My Facebook feed has been full of posts about Jesus being risen. About how He is the reason behind this holiday. That we need to remember that it’s all about him.  That Easter isn’t about the egg dye, egg hunts, or Easter dress.

It’s a little bit about the egg dye.

Last year, a few of my friends from freshman year of university started doing weekly dinners to keep in touch. Since then, these encounters have evolved from casually reminiscing about past times to us making newer, more ridiculous memories. The memories usually involve us doing something that we had talked about for years finally coming to fruition. One thing that we talked about every year was dyeing Easter eggs. But it always got away from us. We forgot. Made other plans. Tomorrow morning, that’s all going to change. Four 20-somethings are going to dye eggs, two of us for the first time. Tomorrow morning will just be another memory this reunified group of idiots makes and never forgets. Long after the eggs are eaten and the shells composted, I will think back to what will surely be a fiasco and smile. Because egg dye matters a little bit.

What’s Easter without an egg hunt? Easter, all the same, sans that thrill of finding candy and coins nestled in brightly colored plastic. Parents and grandparents have had hunts for me, siblings, cousins for as long as I can remember. When I was five, Papa whispered the location of the five-dollar bill into my ear. I had no real concept of money. But he was whispering, whispering always led to something cool.

As I grew up, my family moved a state away. Easter became this fleeting affair spent with nuclear family. Times were tough for us for a while. There’s one Easter in particular that stands out in my mind as one of those recollections that never leaves. I was fifteen. We lived in a tiny grey house with no central heating or air or countertop space in the kitchen. For whatever reason, this Easter in particular saw high tensions. The holiday had snuck up on us, and we were woefully underprepared for any of the typical Easter things. We didn’t have much candy. No egg dye. I don’t even think we had very many eggs. My siblings and I had resigned ourselves to an Easter without. We still had plenty to be thankful for. Easter was about Jesus, and in my fifteen year old mind, this was an opportunity to refocus on the resurrection.

But that’s not the story I’m trying to tell here. My parents were determined we have an Easter egg hunt. I’m not sure why. It wasn’t much. Nothing was at that time in our lives. There was some candy. Coins. Little knick-knacks that I’ve lost track of. And one big lesson. My parents truly are a gift from God.

Egg hunts and egg dyeing are frivolous. But it’s in that frivolity that I have learned something so valuable. Without the Resurrection of Christ, these memories have no meaning or root. His sacrifice is the reason I have these friends. The reason my parents can put God first, love each other and take care of their children the way they do. Because without Christ, my parents never would have raised me a Christian. I never would have gone to Bob Jones. Without Christ, this frivolity never would have had any meaning.

So this Sunday, when you are in your Easter dress praising the Risen Savior, remember: it’s a little bit about the eggs.

Goodbyes are a good thing.

If you told me four years ago that I would still be in school, missing the friends that have graduated and dreading losing the ones to graduate in just a few weeks, I would have laughed at you. I would have laughed at you and claimed that I don’t make friends like that, friends that last. Four years ago, relationships were a thing that lasted for a little bit and then stopped mattering as time went on. Four years ago, I wasn’t even that close with my family.

Something changed when I started having to say goodbyes.

Goodbyes.

We’ve all had our fair share. Goodbye to friends. To loved ones.  To people we would miss. To people that we were happy we would never have to see again. Goodbyes are a part of life, just as hellos are an unavoidable component of the human journey.

Goodbyes bring with them an air of finality. They signal the end of an era, of a meeting, of an acquaintanceship. Or they function as a “till next time.” Regardless of their purpose, goodbyes invoke emotion, whether that emotion be intense or neutral.

I’ve had a lot of hard goodbyes. But perhaps the goodbyes that hurt the most are the ones that never end. The ones that drag, that last. The ones that you keep trying to get out of your chest, but time or the other party don’t let escape.

I’ve always liked finality. Definition. I like terms to be clear. I like to know what is expected of me and what to expect from others. I do not like not knowing what is coming next or when what is will end. I have long accepted that the world does not ever cater to this desire. Life is in a constant state of flux. What is expected or known to be true can change immediately.  There are some things, of course, that don’t change. That the sun rises, the earth turns, and Greenville drivers don’t know what a turning signal is.

Technology has given us the ability to never say goodbye. I can, at any moment, engage a complete stranger in parts unknown in conversation about the subplots of an online work written by a teenager in her pajamas. I can chime in on the financial state of the United States while eating a gallon of ice cream with a shovel. The Internet has given us the tremendous ability to connect with people across the globe. But when technology gives us something, it always takes away.

Sometimes the thing it takes is a good thing. Like running water takes away waste. Or like vaccinations take away diseases. But the advent of constant global connectivity has taken away our ability to say goodbye. In this age, I can still talk to people that I have not seen in years. People that I may never see again. And while this may be a good thing for good relationships, it can also make the heart yearn for some form of definition and finality.

Even if that definition is not the heart’s desire.

I like knowing where I stand. With people. With information. At weddings. I like to know what is going on around me. And I like to know how to escape. Some days I miss being able to walk away from something and that being that. But then I look at the people I love. I look at them and I think, “Oh, how great to live in an era where my loved ones are only a few finger taps away.”

But there comes a time in every relationship where we must say that final goodbye. The trick is to know when the end has arrived. It’s a hard thing, in this decade, to truly cut ties with someone. There’s an art in a well-said goodbye. But even the bad ones, the sad one, the odd ones, are better than never saying goodbye at all.

A hope deferred

Everyone has desires. Things that they want. That they think they need. Whether it be a dream job, a relationship, a night’s sleep. If you’re living, you want something. Desire never really goes away. In itself, it isn’t a bad thing. I desire lasting friendship, herbal tea, and fine coffee. I want good sleep, good food, good instruction. I also have desires that are less than wholesome and entirely wicked.

On its own, a desire is relatively harmless. It’s when that desire has the possibility of fruition, the chance to be dwelt on, to be expressed that it becomes truly dangerous.

I came to college in Fall 2010. I started off as a Journalism and Mass Communication major in a four year program. I was set to graduate it May 2014. May came and went, a summer passed, and instead of finding a job in my chosen field, I returned to school for a fifth year of training. It’s my own fault. I didn’t work hard enough, didn’t ask the right questions, didn’t check and double check every little thing. I wanted to graduate in May. But that didn’t happen. I wanted to graduate this December. I had everything worked out. I thought I was going to be finished. I had hoped that this would be my last semester. When I realized my new course, my heart stopped beating and I stared dumbly at the computer screen before texting my family.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

I realize that there are people who have seen and experienced far worse than me. I have seen and experienced far worse than this. I don’t intend to minimize the sufferings of others. What I am trying to do is convey the brokenness only a dashed hope can incite. The difference in my life is that I was hoping for something, and I found out that it couldn’t happen. It didn’t matter why. My heart was sick. My heart is sick.

That, compounded with the fact that I am surrounded by memories of loved ones who have since moved onto the next stage of life, has made the first few days of this semester harder than I would have anticipated. Even small things like coffee cup lids and tea bags have the ability to make me smile then frown at the recent parting from chosen family.

Life is full of deferred hopes. Life is full of goodbyes. Nothing lasts forever. Everything ends. All things, except this: our Father in Heaven.

I am graduating in May. The friends that I have parted from will be in heaven someday where parting comes no more. Christ will return, bringing joy and banishing sadness and pain from his children. And that is something I can hope for.

You think you know someone. Until you don't.

You think you know someone, and then they do something that make you realize, no, you do not. That's not always a bad thing.

There comes a point in every relationship where one party will do something to make the other stand there, mouth open, shock flooding their features. But that's not always a bad thing either.

Sometimes you do something, say something, or don't do or say something that is so unforgivable that you fully expect that friend to tell you to leave. And then they forgive you and you realize that you don't know them at all.

Everyone has a sin they find unforgivable, even if they themselves commit that sin. They hold it over themselves and close up, shutting out people in an effort to self-punish. Mine is betrayal. Betrayal of trust, of family. There are a lot of things that fit into those categories, and I have committed each of them more times than I can count against people I'm supposed to love. I expect them to be done with me, but then they forgive me, and I remember: people are surprising.

It's weird, that moment when you realize that the person sitting across the table loves you. Really, truly, set-themselves-on-fire, shout-from-the-rooftops loves you. There's embarrassment and butterflies and soul-crushing shame that you are so bad and wrong that you can't possibly deserve this love. There's awe and gratitude that someone can see past the crap and walls of protection and layers of inappropriate humor and still, somehow, want a part of that.

I've never been in love. I'm sure it's as wonderful and terrible as everyone claims it to be. But I am quite content with and all together surprised by the love I do have: that strong, unbreakable bond of chosen family. It's different from being loved by a parent or a sibling. It's a love that is wholly unnecessary and fragile, yet somehow vital and strong.

There's an old quote that says "blood is thicker than water." Everyone takes it to mean that the people you are born to are the ones who deserve your loyalty. But that's not it at all. The full quote is "the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb." Meaning that the relationships you choose, the people you decide on, are more lasting than a simple familial connection. It's different than familial love, because it doesn't have to exist.

That's not to say that family isn't important. But in order for family to mean anything at all, you have to choose it. So when that person you've chosen to be a part of you family hands you a perfectly prepared cup of coffee, or forwards you the answers to the study guide unprompted, or lies for your benefit, and you realize that they love you, too, it's life-changing. Crazy, unexpected, and just plain weird, that there is a real, live human being that loves you, flaws and all.

And, sure, they're going to do something stupid. Something you hate. But it's important to remember that love is not the absence of conflict. And that you need to forgive them, because they have forgiven you.

Mountains and Tapestries

If I were to write a dictionary full of words I know, this semester would be used in an example sentence about regression. The first three years of my college career have been full of learning experiences, new skills and new things. I started out pretty shaky--what freshman doesn't--but I then I started to get it, learning how to make my way through college and prepare myself for life on the outside. The first three years were filled with such growth. I rocketed to a high point in November of last year, and I made some progress last semester. That semester's growth wasn't as marked as last fall's, but I learned a lot about myself and others all the same.

This semester was different. This semester was a lesson in regression. At first, I thought I was just moving down the mountain into the next valley. I didn't worry too much about it. That's normal. About halfway through, however, I realized that was not the case. Instead of moving up the mountain of progress or down into a new valley, I had slid, was sliding back the way I came. I wasn't moving forward, I wasn't sitting still. I was regressing. Slipping deep into the valley I had so recently climbed, digging deep into the vale that I thought could go no lower. Going down, down, down until I was lower than the beginning, clueless, frightened, and alone. 

A second word I could use this semester as an example sentence for is reevaluation. Reevaluation of self, of faith, of friends. Of capacities and life goals, of preferences and relationships. I reevaluated almost every thread in the tapestry of my life and pulled many of these threads out all together, leaving the fabric thin in some places, altogether bare in others. And when I looked at it, I couldn't help but wonder how someone so young could have a life so devoid of direction and perceived meaning. 

Somehow in all that digging and deconstructing, though, I never lost hope. Hope that there was something bigger than me and more powerful than my helplessness. That there was Someone who had a plan and a promise of a brighter someday. That same hope that served as a lantern as I was digging and as the loom as I deconstructed, was the same hope that I used to climb out of the mine I had dug around me and the shuttle to weave the tapestry anew. 

This semester was about regression and reevaluation. I'm not on top of a new mountain yet, but I'm not in the bottom of that pit anymore. I guess that in itself could be a mountain top experience. It's a different mountain than the one I just slid down. My tapestry doesn't look the same as it did four months ago, but at least it doesn't have holes. I typically look back on a semester and can pull one big takeaway lesson that I can apply to my life, for the rest of my life. This semester is different. This semester was about the reestablishment of what I know to be true. Who I am and what I believe in. This semester was a review, not a new adventure.

The thing that God reminded me of this semester, through circumstances both personal and observed, is that good isn't what makes me happy. Good is what makes me like Christ. And if unintentional regression and forced reevaluation are what accomplish that end, then they are the best things that could happen to me. 

If I could trade it all in, I would. Because it's no fun to try to figure out what's going on in your life and why. It's no fun to have to look at the walls closing in around you and wonder why everything was so different now than it was at the start. But thankfully, it's not my choice. It's over. It's done with. It was God's will. And while I didn't like the shadows that I found myself in, it was ok. Because He had been there alone before, and He was guiding me through. All things work together for the good of them that love God. Even the things that I think are bad.

Hello again. It's been a while.

I'm not one to pretend that people are waiting with bated breath for my next blog post. After all, this is just a forum for me to share my passing thoughts with those who care to read them. Sometimes people do in fact want to know what goes on in this noodle of mine. Most of the time though, people just pass the post on their newsfeeds. And that's ok. I'm not writing this for other people. I'm writing it for me.

And you, too, obviously. Since you are, in fact, reading these words that probably will not be proofread. Sorry, not sorry.

The initial purpose of this blog was to talk about my escapades as an RTV soul in a JMC world. I have not delivered on that purpose. I apologize for that. Not too much has happened that is worth sharing. Until recently.

The Friday before Thanksgiving, the cast and crew of my morning show gathered together to sing praises to God and thank Him for what He has done in our lives. It was, in every sense of the word, very cool. God is constantly working in the lives of all of His children. It was a small thing. Only 30 minutes long. We had grapes and hastily selected songs and a key board with no stand. We improvised. It was a good time.

On another RTV related note, I spent the better part of my afternoon with a graduated friend planning out a radio show that we want to do in the near future. It was silly and filled with laughter and shenanigans that I will never write about here (because there is not enough time), but will never forget. The rest of my afternoon was spent catching up with a friend from freshman year. Tonight was spent on the Mezzanine laughing and joking with a friend from sophomore year about things I honestly don't remember now.

For so many of my fellow college students, social life and major life do not coincide, do not overlap. I am so thankful my experience is different.These are two instances, unrelated in every way except my major. Friday and today I remembered why I am so proud to be the last RTV Queen. Because it's a family. And family is everything.

I may not see any of these people after I graduate. I may not ever hear that they got married or had kids or became a media professional. I may never hear about their dogs or mourn the loss of their loved ones with them or find out that they escaped the media world for something with normal hours and free holidays. But that's ok, because I will hold the memories of our time together in my heart forever, as cliche and ridiculous as that sounds.

I am thankful for my RTV Family.