I wonder

I wonder about life quite often.

I wonder why I'm here or

I wonder what tomorrow looks like.

I wonder why my hair's not auburn and then 

I wonder why I've always wanted red hair.  

I wonder about my worth and 
I wonder if I'll change the world someday.

I wonder if I even harbor that capability. 

I wonder why the rain cleans the world after we make messes.

I wonder why we make messes in the world and 
I wonder why I want to clean up messes in all the ways that the rain can't.

I wonder why I love the Earth so much.

I wonder if my words can help the world love the Earth too.

I wonder if I will see the world and

I wonder if someone will see the world with me because

I wonder if I will ever get married.

I wonder if anyone will ever like me enough to put up with me for that long. So

I wonder why I'm single, but then

I wonder why I'd ever want to share my life or the dog I plan on having. (In reality,
I wonder why I truly do desire to share so badly.)

I wonder if it will be just me and that potential canine or

I wonder if I will have babies.

I wonder why my parents love me so much.

I wonder if my love can move my children to change the world when I'm gone and

I wonder how I'll go.  Will it be a quiet farewell or a grand finale? And even though

I wonder where I'll end up,

I wonder why I worry so much. Because

I trust, I love, and I believe in the One that many wonder about. No, of Him

I am certain.

I wonder why I've ever wondered.  I suppose it's simply that

I wonder what He has in store. 
I wonder why life is this unending and unsolvable secret, but then I listen:

"Breathe.

Whatever happens, happens.

Whatever happens will be beautiful." 

I wonder if I can change the world. 

I wonder if He'll let me. 

I wonder about this long string of wondering. Above all,

I wonder if my hair will ever be red.

I lack

I have never arrived at a lack of words.

I have always been so enchanted by the power that they harbor; each word unique in its meaning, its sound, its presentation.  Words can be both shields and swords, flowers and weeds, nurturers and thieves.  In its immeasurable versatility, only the word "word" itself is undefinable.  Conscious or premature, words have the ability to (in a single moment) change hearts, start fights, jerk tears, spark laughter, steal happiness, fix a marriage, make music, give directions, share oneself, establish identity, shed light upon beauty; words have an inevitable and incomprehensible impact.  To me, the worth I claim from expression through words reigns supreme to any other success.  As competing thoughts ensue continually in my head, all of those words -so many captivating words- dangle themselves in front of me like prey.  The challenge of verbal mastery to achieve both eloquent linguistic expression in addition to flawless prose propels my perpetual love of words…they have always been mine.

I have never arrived at a lack of words.

Until recently.

Each one of these words feels forced.   

With each new letter that comprises each new word, I am swimming in what feels like (for the first time) verbal incompetency.  And I hate it, you see, because I sit here, with a mind full of thoughts more eager than children on Christmas morning and yet I have nothing. to. say.  My heart paces almost painfully while my hands are prepared to pounce on the keys to type type type type type type type these endless thoughts of mine, and yet their preparation proves worthless.  Even the ‘tick’ of the keys induces nausea. It’s an awakening instance where expectation and desire cease to align with reality, for my desire as of late is to use words in the easeful manner that I always have.  But. I’m simply unable to render a masterpiece like I had once thought possible.

I mean, these are all words pouring out of me and yet they mean nothing.  I am literally saying nothing when I write this.  Perhaps this is a result of nineteen years of endless chatter.  Maybe I'm running on empty; that my thoughts are not worth sharing.  It could be the universe's quiet way of telling me it’s time to shut my trap.  Whatever it is, it hurts.  I’m so numb to so many things lately; confused about my purpose, my future, my surroundings, myself.
 And for the first time in my life, I simply do not know what to say.
But the one true thing that still sets me free from the slavery of circumstance is the Truth that I am not my own.  It is not about my purpose, or my future, or my surroundings, but rather His.  And even while I read this lackluster, forced, insignificant verbal vomit in which I say absolutely nothing about anything with words more empty than a desert sea, His unyielding love consoles me greater than any single string of words ever could.

Until now, I have never arrived at a lack of words.

Then again, I suppose they were never my words in the first place.

I break

A letter for any friend, anywhere.

       My beautiful, bright-eyed friend. 

       I have held you in my prayers, and I know you are hurting, but allow me to tell you about the human heart.  There are endless qualms of the heavy-hearted, and many-a-heavy hearted being served their own.  For we are all broken, unique in our brokenness.  Any pain that currently greets you is divergent from any other pain felt by any other person on Earth.  All pain, though, stems from heartbreak, for our hearts break in different ways.  But no matter which direction they break, they break for the world, you see?  Our hearts break not for the Lord, but rather for His Glory and Will here upon Creation.  For Him we feel no disdain, but in the fleeting moment during which we spend in this world, we break for what surrounds us.  Yet any trial we face is not the true battle at hand...it's what's woven in the fight that is imperative; how we fight for Him in the face of our own personal heartbreaks.  To Him we owe that much, for it is by Him that the battle has already been won.  The Lord gently carries our broken hearts and tainted souls in His hands.  And with each bat of an eye, each stroke of this pen, each second in time, we are a new moment closer to an eternity with Him.  An eternity so beautifully orchestrated by the greatest act of love in existence.  An eternity in which all facets of our earthly-bound flaws spill over, and we no longer harbor the burden of what breaks us.  An eternity offered to us because of a God who conquers the battles we so often feel we face alone in our brokenness.

         So stand firm in your qualms.  Lift up your heavy heart, child.  Above all, love your brokenness.  With it, you are blessed.  By it, you are chosen.  And in it, you're renewed and breathtaking, broken no more.  

I sleep

BOOM.

I normally sleep through the storm.

Not the other night, though.  That night was different.  A branch forcefully hit my window and I shot out of bed, pacing.  I simultaneously took deep breaths and sips of water to calm my racing heartbeat.  

Was this a dream? I normally sleep through the storm.

Closing my window, the storm seemed less real to me.  It became an outside force to my comfort as I laid back down.  My attempt at ignorance, though, propelled the anger of the storm.  Relentless clammer beat against my eardrums as violently as it did my window pane.  Whirlwinds whistled responsively to the banging thunder, like a lone soul howling at a roaring lion.  This battle between wind and thunder kept me restless.  

Unusual.  I normally sleep through the storm.

My longing for peace taunted me with each arising sound.  I tossed, craving audial consistency among the sporadic booming on the other side of my window.  I pulled my grandmother's antique bedside clock to my ear, my focus intent on the ticking.  But this was no use; focusing on that ticking was like hearing a metronome keep time in a never-ending sonata of chaos.  My concentration was devoured whole by the weather. 

I claimed defeat.  I normally sleep through the storm.

I moved to the kitchen and put chamomile tea on the stove, decisively making the effort to not let the storm fuel my restlessness.  Yet once again, the less I paid my acknowledgement, the more forcefully it demanded my attention.  So you know what I did?  I faced that bully of a storm who wouldn't let me sleep.  I marched right outside in the pouring rain, tea in hand at 4:26 in the morning.  I was about to cry out when I simply…stopped.  I was still amidst it all.  That rain felt alive on my half-asleep skin as I laid down in my driveway and let the inevitable take its course.  The storm was messy, scary, noisy, and refreshing.  It was abrasively invasive and encompassing.  It consumed me entirely.

It was unlike anything I'd ever known;  I normally sleep through the storm.

I always sleep through storms.  I close my window as winds howl and lightning strikes.  People around us are starving, hurting, dying, crying, lying awake at night in the storm, and yet our empathy lies dormant by our bedside; our compassion is asleep right beside us.   When I slip into bed each night, my head hits a pillow of comfort.  I wrap myself in sheets of fear and pride, blanketed in apathy.  I hear the dependable ticking of my clock as time passes day after day after day through the storms around me.  But that peculiar night, when I faced the storm, I was disgusted with comfort and angry with apathy.  I was reminded of the beauty in risk; the worth in all things horrific.  What do we even have to lose? Absolutely nothing.  Whether it's a few mere clouds or a swallowing monsoon, we have nothing to lose, until fear and pride dictate our actions.  It's in those instances when  all things are at a loss.  It all just hit me.  It hit me like the rain.

I was soaking in the downpour when I realized this.

I was saddened by the thought of all I'd lost.

I was renewed by His Truth that all weather is calmed.

I found solace facing the storm. 

I wear

I have an extensive wardrobe.  Extremely extensive. 

 My friends all laugh when they peer into my closet, because I own enough scarves to make a parachute, enough dresses to host a small prom, and enough shoes to put TOMS out of business.  If you take a look at my wardrobe sometime, it's difficult to tell where it all begins or where it ends.  I suppose clothes have just always fascinated me.  It isn't vanity, no, but rather my appreciation for the aesthetic appeal of a good outfit.  Vintage or new, designer or thrift, bargain or splurge, the colors, the fibers, the design, the patterns; they just attract me.  So blame it on my womanhood when I tell you this, but I can easily recall almost any memory by an outfit.  In fact, I can tell you the exactly what outfit I was wearing when I wet my pants on letter "K" of the alphabet carpet in Kindergarten, or the one I wore when I graduated from the sixth grade.  I remember the outfit I wore as a kid when my family visited Chicago's Navy Pier, the same day that my sister and I ran through the fountain.  I remember what I wore on my first date, and what I wore the day I had my heart broken.  I remember my outfit when my brother left for college, and eventually the one I wore when I myself left home college-bound.  Looking back on my life, I'm able to recall what clothes I had on when I was informed of my mother's cancer, my cousin's birth, my good friend's death, and my grandmother's passing.  

I can remember every outfit from my earrings to my shoes.

But those outfits are simply gateways to my memories.  A visual.  I see those outfits when I touch upon those events that shaped my life, but then the emotions that were once evoked in me resurface.  My green corduroy jumper and white tights were nothing compared to the embarrassment that I wore after "leaking", as my kindergarten teacher so creatively called it.  My black sweater and black-and-white flowered skirt couldn't cover up my sense of accomplishment after finishing elementary school.  My denim shorts and yellow shirt were covered in relief from the cool Chicago fountain on that blazing July day.  My confident navy blue shirt and white lace skirt failed to conceal my hopeful shyness on my first date.  On my last date, my delicate light blue sundress only enhanced my fragility when I was hit forcefully with the realization that I cared for someone more than he would ever care for me.  The day my brother moved out, my comfortable pajama pants were a reflection of the safety that I still had access to in a way he no longer did.  And when I finally moved out, my eager Hope College tee-shirt spoke volumes about my excitement for higher education and new-found independence.  I wore worry and a turquoise shirt when I found out about my mom's cancer.  I wore a pink dress and a smile when I found out my cousin was born.  I wore my tennis uniform and an immense amount of pain when I heard that Jon had taken his own life, and I wore a grand sense of loss beneath a floral bathing suit when I heard my grandmother had died.  I wore those emotions with a presence greater than the clothes on my back.

So.  I have an extensive wardrobe.  Extremely.  Extensive.  

I've worn joy in the day brighter than I deserve to.  I've worn despair at night when the brightness of joy seemed unreachable.  I've worn love as boldly as I possibly know how, wearing shame and pain after that boldness fades away.  I've worn the crimson hues of anger and the tranquil blues of peace.  I've put on the wrinkled items of confusion and worry.  I've worn strength quietly when confronted with daily trials, and I've worn it loudly when circumstance attempts to create my demise.  I've worn beauty when life's ugliness begins to surface, and humility when dealt a good hand.  You see, these emotions, these experiences, these pieces of my past, these "outfits", attractive or horrid; they are granted to me by a God with the greatest sense of design in history.  For where there is pain, it is paired with rebirth.  Sadness is lined with contentment.  Indifference is stitched tightly with passion.  Above all, everything hateful, fearful, tainted or broken in this world is woven with a love that surpasses our mortal comprehension.  Like my closet, this wardrobe proves difficult to tell where it begins and where it ends.  My only prayer, though, is that my wardrobe continues to grow, for He is a God who never fails to make everything fit perfectly.

I choose

"At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honorable as resistance, especially if one had no choice."

-Maya Angelou

Last night, I saw the sunset.

Actually, I watched.  

I'm a firm believer in captivation through observation.  

It's difficult, really, to simply say "I watched that" without the acknowledgement of gain.  Seeing is inevitable; watching is a choice.  Through the choice to watch, you are also choosing to be moved; to watch is to choose.  And while my cold, tan feet dug into the sand and my arms crossed to keep me warm, I chose to stay and watch the sunset.  This choice resulted in my inescapable enthrallment.  Not only did I see the colors of the sky, but I watched a piece of the day God had given me.  I didn't just see a sunset, but I watched His creation, His colors, His masterpiece.  I didn't simply see art, but I watched art at its finest.   Choosing to dive over seeing and immerse myself in observation, I made the choice to allow God to open my eyes.

Last night, I heard the waves crash.

Actually, l listened.  

I completely trust that there is power behind all that we hear, but its in choosing to listen that its revealed.  

The familiar sound of waves filled my ears.  It's a sound I often crave in silence; it's a sound a long for in panic.  It's a sound that is consistent, but one that conveys a different message each time I listen.  I heard those waves crash, one after another, winding down after a long day of work, and I craved to hear more.  So I listened.  I listened to God putting the world to rest.  I listened to His water speak to the land each time they met.  I didn't merely hear the waves, but I listened to the lullaby that He offers nightly to Creation.

Last night, I felt something.

Actually, I opened.

I am certain that the Creator of you, of me, of that sunset and of those waves, wants so badly for us to be open.  

Of course we can see.  Of course we can hear.  Of course we can feel.  He designed us that way.  But above all, He designed us to choose.  He wants us to watch.  He wants us to listen.  He wants us to open ourselves.  Life would be simpler if choices weren't presented to us, but where would purpose exist?  Where would hope be?   What would be the point of anything if God designed us a with a cookie-cutter?  God loves us so much, that He shares His glory by granting us the power to choose.  Last night while I chose to watch, listen, and open, that power of His absolute delight in us consumed my eyes, my ears, and my heart.

So last night, I chose.

Actually, I surrendered.

And now, the choice to surrender is something I refuse to relinquish.