Dramatic (Thoughts from a 4)

I was nearly halfway done with a draft for today’s blog post, which was flowing rather well and shaping up to be quite coherent, when I realized something:

The whole premise was incredibly sad.

Like, I was practically crying as I wrote it. As much as I don’t want to cry in public today, I have even less of a desire to make anyone else sad today, and so I scrapped the entire thing and decided to write about something else entirely.

So.

For the past we’re-not-going-to-say-how-many-months-because-Bible-study-isn’t-a-race, I’ve been working my way through the book of Psalms (in tandem with wandering my way through some of the New Testament in no discernable order). And, y’all, among all of the many lessons I’ve been learning while I camp among the poems, it has become abundantly clear that David is dramatic. He’s also an enneagram 4.

Sidebar, because I don’t think I’ve talked about enneagram here, and that’s definitely another can of worms for another day, but if you’re already familiar with the enneagram but not super familiar with me, I’m a 4. I haven’t decided with which wing I most identify, but I’m definitely a 4.

Enneagram 4s are often referred to either as Individualists or Romantics. We are supposedly the most rare enneagram type (not particularly important to me but it’s a point of pride for many 4s, so I’d be remiss not to mention it) and are usually creative, emotional beings. We crave acceptance that we feel we’ll never truly experience because no one can ever fully understand the workings of our complex minds, and I think a bunch of us are empaths. I know I sure as heck am, which I’ve complained about here far less than I might have because the pandemic was really stinking tough to experience as an empath.

But back to David.

This morning I was in Psalm 142, which David wrote while hiding in a cave while the then-king Saul tried to hunt him down to murder him. In all fairness to David, hiding in a cave under any circumstances is a bummer, and I can’t imagine the extra layers that come with a) hiding for your life from b) a man whom you used to charm with your harp skills, all because c) God has declared you the rightful king of Israel once this other guy, who is literally insane, dies. If anyone’s got a right to write some angsty poem-prayers, it’s probably David. So I’m not here to criticize him.

Actually, I’m here because the theme of the tear-jerker blog post I almost wrote was how the world crushes the things that are soft and vulnerable and sensitive. As someone still working through the aftermath of being a hyper-sensitive child who had to build walls to protect her heart growing up, David’s vulnerability—in Psalm 142 and throughout the entire book of Psalms—shouted out truth to me this morning in phrasing I hadn’t heard before.

See, David was a man after God’s own heart (1 Sam. 13:14, Acts 13:22).

And David, the man after God’s own heart, was emotional, sensitive, vulnerable, and soft.

I am emotional, sensitive, vulnerable, and soft.

The world sometimes says that being those things makes me broken and weak, but God? God said that it made David the man to write the poetry of the Bible; the man whose words are full of Messianic prophecies—whose life was a Messianic prophecy; the man from whom would proceed the Messiah, Emmanuel himself.

Do you see? Do you understand how incredibly freeing that is for those of us who feel constantly like we’re somehow this fractured mess of too-much and not-enough all the time?

In my ”best” moments, I can be organized and driven and ruthlessly logical, but what if those aren’t my best moments at all? What if, like Jesus shouts throughout the gospels, the kingdom standard for “best” is wildly different from what the world tries to pawn off on us?

What if I am enough just as I am?

Since I last updated this blog, plagued by the sense that I wasn’t living in the fullness of joy offered to me because I was too content being comfortable in bland survival, I’ve started setting my alarm clock half an hour earlier to clear time in my morning for consistent Bible study. As I suspected, hearing that alarm blaring at 5:45am is not my favorite thing, but by golly, y’all, there’s nothing quite so sweet as when I’m nestled in my armchair with my journal and I find that I can all but hear my Abba-father’s heartbeat as I curl up in His lap.

“I don’t want to look in a stranger’s eyes when I come into this place; let me grow familiar with the lines, the lines upon your face.”
    – I Confess by Tenth Avenue North

Those lyrics often float through my head in those precious, quiet morning moments. Because the more I get to know the God of the Universe, the more I find that I want to memorize every contour of who He is. And the more I learn the contours of who He is, the more I realize that there is a spot, pressed close against his heartbeat, that is exactly the size and shape to fit my unique design.

David was dramatic.

So am I.

There’s a place in the kingdom for both of us.

There’s a place in the kingdom for us.

– Melissa

Waking Up Grateful

Do you ever wake up and just meditate on how good it is to be alive? Marvel at how lucky you are to be somewhere with a roof over your head? Nestle deep into the gratitude that comes from knowing you’re right where you’re meant to be?

This morning I found myself propped up on my elbows in bed, gazing out over my precious home, overcome by thankfulness for this time in my life. It was so incredibly peaceful, there in the muted light that managed to force its way through my blackout shades, and I realized that I spend way too many mornings bemoaning waking up rather than celebrating being awake. How sweet it is to just rest in contentment.

And I really am so content with where I’m at right now.

(Except we won’t talk about where I’m at academically, because we all know that I am so so tired of being in classes, but this too shall pass and so will I and so on.)

My physical location, this house that showed up at just the right moment for me last year, has been my home for eleven months now. That’s longer than I’ve lived anywhere since I moved to Texas to start undergrad back in August of 2014! And, truth be told, it’s far better than anywhere I’ve lived since I made that move. These walls have seen some major ups and some major downs in my life, listened to me shout songs of worship at the top of my lungs and heard my tearful prayers when I begged God to make it all make sense and to bind up all my broken places. In this place I’ve learned anew how precious it is to dive into God’s word on a regular basis, to pray bold prayers, and to double-check that the freezer door actually shut all the way so I don’t accidentally defrost everything inside… I have covered my environment with celebration, with bold colors and precious places, with my love of adventure and of people. I’ve made this space my own. What an adventure it is to have a space to make entirely my own, what a dream come true and what a privilege.

That was part of what I delighted in this morning. But the other part was what maybe don’t say out loud as often as I should:

Not a day goes by that I don’t catch my breath in amazement at the spiritual and emotional journey I’m on.

I know I risk being repetitive to write it here once more, but every day my soul grows in its hunger and fondness for this awesome God I serve. The more I discover, the more I long to know more and the more my life looks radically different from anything I could have dreamed.

This morning I ended up reading in Psalms 8 and 9, my soul still full of the joy that followed the overflow of thankfulness that had kickstarted my morning. Both beautiful psalms of worship, and both seemed to embody my joy and wonder in unique ways.

Actually, I started with Psalm 9, where the psalmist is declaring his gratitude for the works that he’s seen God do in his life (verse 1: “I will give thanks to you, Lord, with all my heart; I will tell of all your wonderful deeds”) and declaring the might of God over that of the world (verse 20: “Let the nations know that they are but men!”). It’s a psalm of gratitude both for what God has done and what God will do, and there are numerous references to telling of God’s works and bringing a song of celebration. And isn’t that what gratitude does? It brings us to a place where we can’t help but see all the reasons we have to worship.

From there I moved backwards a chapter to Psalm 8. And Psalm 8 is just straight adoring God for what he’s done. It starts and ends with this beautiful statement:

“O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”

And what follows (or precedes, if you’re at the end) is the psalmist listing out the ways God has displayed his might and majesty in the way he’s dealt with us as humans. ‘What is man that you are mindful of him,’ David muses, ‘the son of man that you care for him?’

Y’all, God uses us. He uses our jars-of-clay, bumbling, messy selves to declare his majesty here on Earth.

Does that not make you so excited?! Because it should! It most definitely should!

Oh man, guys, it’s nearly midnight and I’m getting pumped up all over again because there’s just so much to celebrate, so much to be incredibly thankful for. It’s overwhelming and thrilling and I don’t even know everything yet! There is still so much I’ve yet to discover about my amazing Abba-father and what it means to be his!

I guess I should wrap this up so that I don’t accidentally sleep through church tomorrow. Or, rather, church today. It’s 12:01am now.

Huh. Turns out that my ability to wrap thing up takes a nosedive at midnight. Interesting.

I guess my takeaway from today, the reason I wanted to get this all down before this crazy week wrapped up is just the reminder that choosing gratitude is a great first step to increased joy. It’s really hard not to rejoice as I look around this beautiful life I’m living and recognize the goodness of a father who never tires of loving me.

I think I’ll get some sleep now.

Wake up grateful, friends.

– Melissa
Overwhelmed by Big Daddy Weave

my soul magnifies the Lord

Here we are: on the other side of another leap in time that isn’t truly that at all.

2018.

And, just like a year ago, here I sit: sentimental and utterly in awe of all the ways my God has carried me throughout the last twelve months. (In fairness, it’s been a bit over a year since I did this; my top-of-the-year blog post for 2017 was several weeks into the year because that season was crazy.)

What you’ve probably forgotten if you follow this blog, and didn’t know if you don’t generally, is that last January I declared that 2017 was Narnia. Then I forgot all about that declaration and just lived life to the hilt, not remembering my metaphor until just recently.

Well.

2017 was Narnia in all the ways I’d hoped and never known to hope, and while last night was no “Last Battle,” it was an amazing culmination to an amazing year.

2017 was also a song. It began with one, and the sound reverberated through nearly every step, and it taught me something about myself.

My soul sings.

It sings a song so loud, so intense, that sometimes I don’t think I can bear it. There is a passion within me deeper than anything I’ve ever known, and my words can’t tell it and my tears can’t release it, and it’s so beautiful that sometimes I want to swan-dive into the sunset so that the radiance of it can wash over me.

And I don’t think it’s just me. But that’s hard to say because…well, the whole concept is just hard to say.

Soul-songs are one of those things that I can’t quite linguistically pin down. Which isn’t to say that I haven’t been trying for days and weeks and months. I totally have. I still am. And while I’m not sure how well it will go, here goes.

I believe our souls sing a song. It’s a song unique to each of us, and it’s shaped by who we are and who we’ve been and where we’re going and where we are. And, I think, it’s exquisitely beautiful.

In fact, if I could invent a world exactly to my liking, it’s one where we’d know our soulmate because we’d be able to hear their soul-song. Like, the brush of a hand against yours and you’d hear a song that would take your breath away and you’d know.

But that’s a rabbit trail.

I think our souls are constantly singing a song of us, but we don’t notice it because it’s so constant. However, there are things in my life—and hopefully in yours, too—that make the music swell up and fill my chest. And it aches a little bit, but it’s a good ache.

One of the (many) things that stirs my soul is the golden hour. You know what I’m talking about: those fleeting moments when the world is gilded in magic and it seems like anything can happen and might happen and will happen. And anything that happens…it’ll be good.

A few days ago I found myself gliding across the New Mexico desert on what could be called anything but a peaceful drive. My family is many things, but harmonious is not one of them, so put any number of us in the cab of a truck for five hours, and life’s bound to get at least mildly unpleasant for at least most of us.

For a bit, though, the sun was in that perfect spot and outside everything glowed and the shadow of our pickup truck raced along beside us and entranced my soul. And, despite the bickering behind me, my soul sang of freedom and vitality and all the things I’ve been learning to celebrate loud this year.

Of course, eventually the world faded back to normal, a transition fast followed by dusk, and the stars appeared, and we followed our headlights into the night. And my soul-song faded to the background and colored my dreams.

Since I live for those moments when my song swells, this year has been amazing. Because while 2017 has been some kind of year, there have been so many of those crescendos.

It’s incredible.

Perhaps not so startling, though.

After all, my year started with a song among friends, with my back pressed to a piano so that the music could drive deep into my soul and stick.

So why should I be surprised that it stuck?

My year has been so full of music. Concerts and corporate worship and late nights curled up on Gracie’s bed with the guitar and our voices. Unabashed dancing on my way to work. Radio hopelessly loud as I chased life all over the country.

Zephaniah 3:17 says, “The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.”

That has always been one of my favorite verses. Because it tells me that this song inside me, the one I’m just beginning to discover, it’s only echoing the one that’s being sung over my life by the one who’s put the breath in my longs and the blood in my veins.

In some ways, it makes me really sad that I’m not a musician, that my fingers will never be able to coax the music out of me and into the world through an instrument. Yet I find that so many others—the true musicians of the world—have so beautifully captured the various melodies of my heart that I can’t feel too sad about it.

In fact, there’s a lot of hope and security in knowing that, while our soul-songs are so unique, they’re also so similar. We’re not alone in our hopes and dreams and fears and insecurities.

2017 was Narnia and it was a song, and it was staring deep into the eyes of my Aslan and knowing myself better for it.

Now I stride into 2018, stronger than ever, ready to learn more and love deeper.

Last year started with a song among friends.

This year started with food.

Hallelujah.

– Melissa
|my soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior|Luke 1:46-47|

our make or break words

There is a small insect flying around my room, and it’s about to drive me insane. It hasn’t done anything to me. It’s not biting me or trying to get in my ears or entangling itself in my hair. But it is distracting and aggravating and it needs to find a new home.

(I know I could just kill it, but dead bugs gross me out more than live ones annoy me, so…here we are with me starting off my blog post with a gripe about bugs.)

In all reality, I don’t know what I’m writing about. I have started this blog post no less than half a dozen times just in the last twenty minutes, but I’m getting nowhere.

Believe it or not, I drafted this post on black paper in white text in a font that I never use. It’s an odd method for trying to overcome this block, but hopefully it worked and you’re actually reading a blog post right now. If it does work, then all the oddity is worth it.

Some people probably would have the sense to just stop trying to force something to be written that clearly does not want to be written, but I have very little common sense and so here I am, plugging way at trying to unpack my summer.

I’ve been back in Texas for…almost two weeks now? Yeah.

It feels much longer than that, but not in the “OH MY WORD, LIFE IS AWFUL AND SLOW AND ENOUGH ALREADY” kind of way. More in the sense that this feels natural, it feels normal, it feels established.

Not like it should feel to have lived in a room for less than two weeks after spending fifteen weeks in a different time zone.

Already Mackinac feels pretty remote, which just adds to the weird time-displacement thing that I’ve got going on.

Has it really only been two weeks since I clocked out for the last time? Like, two weeks ago right now I was sitting on my carriage, about to give my last tour of the summer. I was talking to my mom as she stood on the side of the street that I’d travelled many times a day for the last 100 days.

And somehow those 100 days weren’t long enough for me to feel as though I’m out of place now that I’m back in Abilene.

The whole muddle of it is doing a top-notch job of messing with my head.

I know I didn’t really blog much about the last half of my summer. Much of it was a lot like the first half of the summer: joy and growth mingling with exhaustion and heartache.

The highlights were, as is so often the case in life, sweet people and the heartfelt kindnesses they spoke over me.

Like, one day an older gentleman handed me my tip with some joke that I found genuinely funny, so I laughed aloud because the sun was bright and the grass was green and I was alive, and he met my eyes and said, “That giggle: I like it. Do that often.” And then he smiled and was gone.

Just quiet kindnesses like that.

So many blessings were spoken over me, and luck at school wished, and meaningful clasps of my hand to convey that I was a human and I was real.

I wasn’t just some driver to them.

I was a human.

That’s the real takeaway here: let’s just treat each other like the people we are. None of us are faceless. None of us are nameless. We have backstories and hurts and fears and loves.

Duh.

So let’s act like it.

On the flipside, the definite lowlight of my summer was when my favorite horse died and I spent two days giving tours around a lump in my throat, fighting with varying levels of success to keep the tears from flooding my eyes and washing down my cheeks.

The worst day, the first day of knowing that I’d never get to drive my sweet boy again, I pulled up to drop off a load of tourists, gushing at the crew to ‘have a fabulous day’ and ‘thank you for taking my tour’ and the thousand other things that I usually meant but meant a little less that day, and one of the guys who was helping unload my carriage remarked, “Wow, you’re in a good mood today.”

Thinking he was serious, I cooed back with my smile firmly in place, “Oh, it’s all an act. Today sucks.”

And he quietly replied, “I know. Your eyes tell it.”

Which was exactly the right thing to say. It was the exact nod to my humanity that kept me from losing my mind.

So if you’re reading this, Daniel, thanks.

…I think that might be what I have to say.

What I had to say.

However you want to put that.

Huh.

It took all those words just to come up with a few simple points:

1. Time still feels weird and irrelevant.
2. My summer was neither all bad, nor all good.
3. Our words can make or break humanity.

– Melissa

let the words of my mouth and the mediation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, oh Lord, my rock and my redeemer. [psalm 19:14]

Hope & Joy & Restoration (i’m still here)

A couple of weeks ago as I wrapped up the first week of my junior year of college, one sentence kept running through my head, mantra-like in its persistence and pervasiveness:

“Something’s got to give or I will.”

It had been a long, stressful week following on the tail of a crazy-busy summer, and my heart wasn’t here at school. The more I thought about it, I wasn’t sure if my heart had ever been here at school. Freshman and sophomore years were their own brands of crazy, riddled with long bouts of intense homesickness and severe burnout.

Two years of fighting to stay at Hardin Simmons because of some higher purpose, some feeling of ‘this is where I’m supposed to be,’ and all I felt was worn out.

I almost dropped out.

Two weeks ago today I was completely ready to go to the registrar’s office, drop all my classes, pack my truck, and leave. I had developed a pretty solid two-year-plan that involved finishing my degree in Business Administration and diving into the home renovation world via flipping houses—first with Dad, then increasingly on my own as my skill set continued to grow. I was going to miss friends, but it kind of came down to prioritizing my mental health over the fear of letting people down by leaving. And besides, long-distance friendships are a thing, right?

I’m still so so grateful to the people who talked to me for hours all throughout that weekend—my parents, sister, and best friends—who I know would have supported and embraced me regardless of which path I chose. God knew what he was doing when he assigned me a family.

Today I just finished my third week of school. And I’m in a totally different head space than I was in two weeks ago.

The new phrase that it permeating my life is, “God, you have restored my hope.”

And I’m weeping with joy just to type that, because this journey is proving to be so much more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.

As much as I sat down with the specific idea of sharing this, though, I don’t know how to put it into words.

I…I guess I came into freshman year, like I said, with this idea that God had me exactly where he wanted me, and I struggled with not being able to fully delight in being where I felt called. But, you know, God doesn’t always call us to comfort, so I slogged on through homesickness (that I would’ve buckled under if home had been any nearer than 19 hours away). And as I think it through now, I still don’t know whether that divine purpose that I kept clinging to was truly still a calling in my life, or if I just feared giving up, feared failing at sticking out this scholastic, grown-up undertaking. Whatever the reason, I still clung to that phrase.

But that phrase felt so threadbare this year.

When we were in Scotland we got to tour Falkland Palace, and one of the more breathtaking spots in the palace was the chapel. Partly because I just am overwhelmed by the breadth of the church, how it spans history and continents. But one can’t enter the chapel without noticing the beautiful tapestries on the walls.

Tapestries fade with time. They weather and the threads come loose. Mice get into them.

They have to be restored before they are truly worthy of awe.

My conviction of my belonging had to be restored before it was worth anything.

In the past two weeks, I have not once told myself that I am in Abilene because I am called to be. I think that I’ve let go of that concept all together, because in all the prayer and seeking counsel that I’ve done lately, I’ve realized that I am not bound to Abilene by God or anyone else. I can make the choice to stay here, or I can make the choice to leave, and neither one violates the call that has been made on my life.

I choose Abilene.

I choose it.

I choose a church where I am (finally allowing myself to be) drawn into a community of believers who are fervently pursuing the heart of God and joyfully sharing that hope with the world.

I choose friends who have so much to teach me and love me in ways I’ve never asked them to.

I choose a horse who lives down the street from me and who makes me laugh every day (even if we’re both getting chased by wasps that will not freaking go away!)

I choose professors who know me and genuinely care about how I’m doing and who have been so gracious about my needing to step back and catch my breath.

I choose Abilene and I choose to hope.

Hope.

That’s my new favorite word.

Joy.

That’s still my favorite word. The two go hand in hand!

Restoration.

(This is the part where I’m a rebel and declare that I have three favorite words because this is my blog and this is America and I do what I want and…yeah.)

As much as this post has rambled and as much as I’m not sure that I’ve communicated all that I’d like to, this is me. This is where I am right now.

I don’t want to take steps backward, but I know that I will.

I don’t want life to hurt anymore, but sometimes it does.

I do want to paint hope and joy and restoration and all their abstract realizations all over my wall, but I can’t do that because I am renting and I don’t want to have to pay fees on top of what I’m already paying to live here, so…

Anyway.

God is restoring my hope.

And for this I shall forever rejoice.

– Melissa
(I usually use this space link to something, but I can’t find just the right song for tonight/this week. There are plenty of lyrics coming to mind, but I’m way too tired to put together some kind of mashup, so…go listen to music that gives you hope, because hope is pretty legit.)

Why do we associate Leap Day with frogs?

So, funny story:

I’ve been celebrating Leap Day for months.

Like, literally.

Because anything I jump off of something or into something or just up in the air for no reason at all, I like to shout, “Happy Leap Day!” because being exuberant about a day doesn’t just have to be constrained to the one out of four years when there are 366 days to be alive. (And Riley needs to get over himself, because the definition of ‘leaping’ isn’t as narrow as he says it is, and I can celebrate whatever I want whenever I want.)

That said, people today haven’t been very celebratory.

Through words and images on facebook and through their voices in-person, people have been complaining that, ‘why have an extra day if it’s just going to be another Monday?’

A) Mondays do not have to be the tragedy you make them out to be. (But I think that’s another post for another day.)

B) It’s not just this one Monday that having a Leap Day affects.

Tomorrow, it’s only going to be March 1^st because tomorrow’s yesterday (today’s today) was Leap Day. No Leap Day would equal tomorrow being March 2^nd. And even though I know we all want to rush into the Ides of March, isn’t it great to know that we have an additional day before we have to get a handle on March?

On December 31^st, it will only still be the year 2016 because today was Leap Day. Now maybe 2016 will be kind of sucky for you. It happens. We all have a crummy year now and again (some of us have consistently crummy years, and sometimes that’s life’s fault and sometimes it’s just because we’re looking at life from the wrong perspective). But regardless of how life looks as we glance over our shoulders on December 31^st, we’ll have an extra 24 hours to unpack and process it thanks to Leap Day.

Maybe I’m too much flowers-and-sunshine.

Or maybe I’ve just learned that leaping off of things is really fun (unless they’re too-tall things that cause injury to those who leap out of them, and then that’s not so fun because doctor’s offices are ick) and that life’s lemons are always just a good squeeze and a couple pounds of sugar away from being really great lemonade.

So Happy Leap Day 2016.

And also Happy Monday.

And also be Happy.

Because no day is accidental.

– Melissa
P.S. This is worth a moment of your time.

i feel pretty jubilant today

Stagnating is one of the things that terrifies me the most.

Now, don’t get me wrong: in some ways I love to stay still. I love to put down roots somewhere, and once I do I cling to ‘normal’ and hate, hate, hate change.

But I hate to stagnate.

I hate to sit in one place doing nothing for too long. I also hate observing people sitting in one place doing nothing for too long.

This is the reason that sometimes, when I’ve had to sit still for a while, I will suddenly spring to my feet and do something silly and active and not sitting still. This is also the reason that even if I don’t jump up and do something random in a random moment I will still jump up and move with intensity if it’s (finally) time to do something else.

And as awesome and dynamic as my relationship with God is, sometimes I let myself stagnate, and I hate it. Sometimes my prayers seem to get stopped by the ceiling and I don’t remember what it’s like to be held because I’ve dug my heels in and refused to go where I’ve been told to go. I don’t grow and I won’t go and I cry the entire time because where is God? because why am I not getting what I want how I want it when I want it?

Not good times.

Praise God for loving me despite me being so me.

But you know what the opposite of stagnation is?

Movement.

Growth.

And those moments of obvious, measurable movement in my spiritual journey stand out as some of the most breathlessly beautiful things I have ever experienced in life.

I remember my junior year of high school, preparing to go on our annual mission trip to Mexico. It was a hard year for me, mainly because of the leadership position I had been put in and because of the leader that was directly over me. There had been many tears, much frustration, and probably some energetic rants to the people I trusted best. And then, one day, kind of out of nowhere, it dawned on me:

I wasn’t the same person I had been a few weeks before.

Through all the struggle and all the pain, something had clicked and I had changed for the better. It was an almost physical feeling of elation; I danced in it for days. The journey remained hard, but I wasn’t the same and I was able to meet it with a new strength and new sense of purpose.

I’ve been dancing through this week, too, and once again it’s something I can’t quite adequately describe.

See, for a long time I have really, genuinely disliked people. As a whole. As a species. Humans are prone to idiocy, laziness, and a herd-like mentality that only makes things worse. Really, what’s to like?

Now, sure, I made exceptions. I had a group of about fifteen humans that I loved and maybe twice that many that I could tolerate for a decent amount of time. I’m not even kidding.

But if I’m called in life to mirror Christ to the world, then hating the very people he loved enough to save isn’t exactly the right game plan.

So I prayed about it. A lot. Beginning the first semester of my freshman year. What use was this new mission field that I felt certain God had brought me to if I disliked everybody too much to even talk to them? Because if there’s one thing I know from being a hard-headed introvert, it’s that few of us have voices outside of the relationships we build, and here I was not building any relationships at all. (Well, I kinda built two. But that’s not the point.)

And so I kept praying.

And I cried.

And I detested humanity.

And I prayed.

But it’s been within the last week that I have realized that I don’t actually hate the human population anymore. I don’t know when it happened. I guess it’s been a gradual change that I’ve just now noticed. Regardless, it’s pretty amazing!

I think I’m actually learning to love people. As a whole. I’m making friends with more than just one or two people. I’m interested in what people have to say, not because it directly pertains to my life but because they are human beings, created in the image of God, and the ability to communicate at all is intrinsically beautiful.

It’s crazy and mind-blowing, and it’s so nothing I could have done on my own.

Simple though it sounds, it’s exactly what 1 John 4:19 has to say:

“We love because he first loved us.”

The more I learn about how vastly and perfectly I am loved, the more I know how to love others. The more I am embraced by vast love the more I see the vast importance of embracing others.

Three things, though, that I must clarify:

1. I am still an introvert. I still love coming back to the quiet of my room at night. I still process everything internally, and lately I’ve often laughed at how busy of a day I think I’ve had simply because of how many internalized conversations I’ve carried out. So please don’t think I’ve suddenly become the life of the party. (I actually haven’t gone to any parties this semester, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.)
2. I am still a human being and I do not, by any means, have this down pat. I do not suddenly possess the saint-like ability to love everybody no matter what. Despite the fact that I’m doing way better about seeing people as fellow image-bearers of God, there are actually still a couple of people that I would rather leave the room than be around. I acknowledge that they’re valid and probably wonderful people who I just dislike for no apparent reason, and that I just need to get over myself. I’m working on it. God’s working on me.
3. Despite how this post may read, I am not going to run out and make friends with the entire world. I don’t want to. Because (referring back to point 1 here) I’m not actually an extrovert and I can’t handle trying to be friends with the entire world. It’s not how I’m wired. But what I am going to do is continue doing what I’m learning I do best: loving you in the moment we’re together. And when I meet somebody new, I’m going to do the same for her, too. (Or him. We need a gender neutral pronoun, and I refuse to accept ‘them’/’they’.)

So that’s kind of what’s on my heart. That’s kind of why I’ve been so singy/dancey/overall jubilant for days.

The dark days will come. They always do, because that’s how weather works.

But in those days, when all might seem lost, I’ll remember today, I’ll remember what it feels like to know that I’m not the same person I was this time last year, and I’ll know that the sun is coming back again.

– Melissa
1 John 4:7-21

P.S. This whole ‘love’ thing has nothing to do with Valentine’s Day or being seasonally appropriate. It was an unfortunate coincidence. In the future, I’ll try to go back to warning you if a post is going to have to do with the latest and greatest holiday craze.

A Seasonally Appropriate Post

Christmas music makes me cry.

Not all of it, granted. And I’ll also admit that a lot of music makes me cry.

But pause for a moment and take in the concept that we sing about:

The omnipotent, omniscient God became a human baby.

What’s the average weight of a newborn? 6, 7, 8 lbs?

That’s nothing.

My backpack weighs more than that most days.

The Lord of Lords became a baby who weighed less than my backpack.

Like, what even? That’s humility beyond my understanding, vulnerability beyond my comprehension. It’s kind of taking my breath away just to even type that.

The God of the universe was cradled by a teenaged mother, who probably sang lullabies to help the King of Kings fall asleep.

I mean, come on! If that doesn’t blow your mind, then your head must be made of something other than brains and bones. (If that’s the case and you haven’t had some kind of surgery to implant a titanium plate in your skull, then I’d suggest you talk to a doctor because you might be a cyborg…)

One of my favorite pictures is from two years ago, when I was directing a goony bunch of high school and junior high students in a Christmas play, and we’d all gathered to take pictures in costume. My younger sister Gracie was playing Mary—and, let me tell you, she looked cute and she knew it—and my best friend was playing Joseph, and the two decided to make fun of each other rather than acknowledging how awkward it was for a thirteen year-old to be playing the wife of a seventeen year-old.

But…we weren’t too far off from being pretty accurate: it’s more than likely that Mary was, by our culture’s standards, just a child herself when she gave birth to Jesus. Probably thirteen or fourteen. Joseph could’ve been as young as sixteen or seventeen, though he might have been older. We can’t know for certain.

Jesus came into the world weighing less than my backpack and trusted himself to the care of a teenage girl from Nazareth.

Let me just say that I wouldn’t trust myself to raise a child, much less thirteen year-old Gracie (or even fifteen year-old Gracie.)

That’s what the Christmas songs are about. That’s what fills my eyes with tears.

The magnitude of the gift…it’s too great.

I don’t feel worth it.

I don’t feel worth anyone giving up the glories of heaven to lie in a feed trough and cough on the dust stirred up by a stable full of restless animals. I don’t feel worth anyone learning the pain of burs and splinters and skinned knees and the cruelty of other humans.

But Jesus did.

One most likely not-so-silent night, nestled away in a smelly little stable in Bethlehem, Jesus took his first breath of earth’s air and changed everything forever.

***

I think I’m failing at writing this post in the way that I want to.

I think maybe my heart’s too full and I’m trying too hard.

Let me try again.

***

Take a deep breath. Hold it for just a moment.

Okay, now rummage around your mind and find all that cynicism you’ve accumulated over the years. It’s okay that it’s there, your life hasn’t been easy, but it’s not something you need right now. Gather it up.

Now let that breath out, and exhale that cynicism, too. Like I said, you don’t need it at the moment.

Humor me just a moment more and go back into your mind palace (mine’s actually more of an attic, hence the subconsciously attic-y metaphor I’ve got going on here) and poke around in those cobwebby corners for that spirit of exuberance you retired years ago. Remember that glow of excitement that everything used to bring bubbling up within you? That’s what we’re looking for. Childlike glee.

Found it? Yeah, I know: the lens got foggy with disuse. But don’t give up on it. Because it’s Christmas, and you’ve got ample opportunity to polish that sense of delight.

Is there a Christmas tree around? Notice how the lights stand out against the green of the branches? The way the ornaments nestle in like they’re basking in the glow? Remember your first ornament? How proud you were to hang it from a branch and how you didn’t notice when Mom came along later to double check that it wouldn’t fall?

And the weather. Outside. What’s it like? Prayerfully it’s not a bajillion degrees outside, but I suppose it could be. If it’s chilly, though, check out the way the air intensifies everything, the way the colors stand out from each other in crisp perfection. Summer smears it all together, but winter clarifies the world. It’s pretty spectacular, snowing or not.

We’re going to try ignore all the department stores. They make me nervous because there are people everywhere. And too many of them haven’t read this blog post and are still clinging to their cynicism. (So it’s your job to be a beacon of joy and hope. Show ‘em what they’re missing and make ‘em wonder if maybe there’s something better out there.) But if you do end up in Wally World or wherever, look for the joyful people. The ones who remember what a joy it is to be alive in December.

Are you feeling any better? I hope so. I desperately hope so. I hope that you can spontaneously break into laughter because you remember what a beautiful world you’re a part of. I hope you’re remembering how it is to feel things instead of retreating back into the safety of numbness, because safe does not equal fulfilled.

Christmastime is such a roller coaster season for me, because—whether I like it or not—I approach life with a vivacious attentiveness that demands that everything be felt on, like, twenty-seven levels or so. And there’s just so much to take in! Colors and tastes and smells and feelings and songs!

The songs especially are big for me. There are the fun, peppy songs like Jingle Bells and Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree that just make me want to dance. There are the popular songs like All I Want For Christmas and Winter Wonderland that make me just a touch frustrated and just a touch sad because I don’t have a significant other to share the season with and I wish I did.

But then there are all the other songs, my favorite ones, the ones that tell the story of the season. I know the traditional ones by heart, and I know most the new ones pretty well, too, and I basically sing along no matter how hoarse I may happen to be. And sometimes I cry. Because…well…what the songs have to say is pretty amazing.

They tell of a baby, born in a stable, heralded by angels, and greeted by society’s outcasts. But not just any baby: the baby who was God-become-flesh, come to earth to dwell among his creation and, ultimately, to redeem them from the fate they’d brought down upon their own heads. It’s a beautiful story. It’s a true story. And it’s a story with incredible implications in my own life.

Sometimes I wonder if we don’t forget to remember those implications. If we don’t just go on about our lives when, in reality, we should stop to let our breath be taken away by the beauty of perfect humility and perfect love.

I’ve actually put together a list of a few of my favorite Christmas songs. For you. Wherever you are. My prayer is that you’ll be able to carve out a few moments of quiet to let the words wash over you, to replace the bustle of preparing for Christmas with the peace of the victory Christmas has already accomplished. And I pray that, with childlike awe, you’ll learn something new about Christmas this year, and that you’ll live it in a way that makes other people notice.

I love Christmas, because nearly everybody is glowing with the magnanimity of the season. But the people who are glowing with something more…those people are truly a delight to encounter.

Have a joy-filled day.

– Melissa
Christmas Playlist on Spotify

Christmas Playlist on YouTube

 

 

i am not the girl with no substance

I worry.

I worry that people think I’m no more than the silly nonsense I spout on a regular basis. That they won’t take the time or won’t have the opportunity to find out that there is depth to me. There is some level of maturity here. I do actually have opinions and philosophies that don’t involve random animals.

It’s not that I don’t have control of the situation. I could resolve myself to stop being so ridiculous and try for a closer impression of what is culturally considered to be normal behavior.

I just don’t see the point in being serious or somber all the time. Because some days my heart is breaking inside of me and it’s honestly really fulfilling to see you smile at the unexpectedness of whatever I just said to you. I feed off of your laughter and it helps me laugh, too. Life isn’t a tragedy, not even when I most suspect it to be, and sometimes my gibberish is just a maddened attempt to remember that.

And on the days when I’m really doing fine, or when I’m practically glowing with joy…then there’s definitely no point in being somber. Because why act all depressing when you actually feel like singing? So sometimes I sing nonsense ditties, and sometimes I tell you stories about the time I babysat a worm while his mother was at work, and sometimes I will offer to write the paper you’re currently bemoaning because I know my version of whatever your topic might be is wildly more entertaining than whatever you were planning on writing and maybe the break you’ll take while I hijack your laptop will help you to see past the struggle to find a reason to smile.

That’s what I think, at least: that life doesn’t have to be filled with solemn adherence to “reality”. That maturity doesn’t have mean that we stop hoping for fantastic happenings.

Also, can I just take a moment to point out that I really hate small talk? I do. I don’t see the point of it and I have trouble engaging in it. And if we’re having a conversation that you would define as ‘small talk’, just know that I am finding some purpose in what we’re talking about. Even if that purpose is simply to learn more about you based on your opinion on things like the weather.

(Not kidding. Your opinion of the current weather, your mood on Mondays, the way you roll up your sleeves, they all say something about you, and I’m often fascinated by the message. Which has no real bearing on the point of this post, so sorry about the rabbit trail, but I’m not actually sorry because this is my blog post and I do what I want.)

I am not a small-talker. But I am a storyteller. In case you hadn’t noticed. Which, considering that my life is full of adventures and oddities and ridiculous occurrences that you’d think only happen in books, isn’t an awful thing to be. I love to tell you wild tales, filled with vivid language and wild hand gestures and just enough embellishment to make you eye me in disbelief so that I can dissolve into laughter and correct myself and still leave you astonished. And when I get bored with the insanity of my own life, I turn to the grand adventures of the characters in my head. I’m sorry that your imagination has faded with time and disuse, but mine hasn’t, and that brings me great joy.

But for all the stories and for all the nonsense, I do know how to be serious. I know how to walk into chaos and step into leadership and get things done. I know how to steel myself for the hard talks, when we don’t agree and we’re breaking each other and ourselves and something has to be done. I know how to sit and listen when what you are going through is anything but a joke and you just need someone to be there to acknowledge that it’s not okay and remind you that you are not alone.

Please do not mistake my jubilance or silliness for a lack of substance.

Or maybe it’s not a mistake. Maybe I am wrong and I am completely deluded and shallow after all. But if that’s the case, then maybe take a breath and contemplate what your relentless solemnity is gaining you.

Don’t forget to laugh.

Because even if you don’t agree with my pell-mell dash of chaos, you were not designed for perpetual sadness. The world is much too beautiful for that. There are just too many things reasons to smile.

So find one!

Laugh!

Rejoice in today, because tomorrow will be hard too. Life is hard. I grant you that. But smiling makes it just a little easier.

And for those dark days, I will be here to make jokes you can’t understand and burst into seemingly spontaneous laughter because of something that happened six years ago that I just remembered, and maybe my joy will be enough for us both in that moment.

I worry that no one will take me seriously.

But more than that I worry that people won’t remember what a joy it is to not be confined to seriousness.

– Melissa