Seven Pounds

A couple of days ago some friends and I went to see the movie Seven Pounds. The mystery of the film is part of what makes it, so I don't want to give anything away. But I will say this: whether you like it or not, it's sure to spark some great discussion.


I am intrigued by what I perceive to be an increase in films with deeply spiritual themes. There is most definitely a trend in Hollywood towards diving into some sort of spirituality.


Seven Pounds certainly takes that to a new level; one, I thought, was rather obvious.

But today I was discussing this film with some co-workers. The only other person who had seen it didn't really enjoy the film because she found it terribly sad and depressing. My reaction, while also very strong, was totally the opposite. "Yes, what happens is very sad, but it's so deeply redemptive," I reasoned.

And a strange thing happened then. I realized abruptly that though I was surrounded by people who had also grown up in the Bible Belt, our realities of spirituality in everyday life are vastly different. For their reaction was a collective: "What does that mean?"

In a moment of great insensitivity (go figure) I blurted: "Are you serious?"

"Yes. I have no idea what that means."

I thought for several moments until finally admitting I couldn't describe redemption as it related to the movie without giving away much of the plot. "You know," I flicked my wrist a bit dismissively, "it's the whole idea behind Jesus. We all sin, his death and resurrection paid our debt. Redemption. It's like someone else paying a debt that you owe. Only it's not a monetary debt, it's deeper, more valuable or life-changing..." I trailed off because my answer wasn't computing with my audience.

I can't stop considering this whole scene. At first I was appalled by what I felt was a lack of intelligence. Read a book, would be my advice to my little brother if he were to pull a conversation like this. But I'm wrong there. How is it that these people have grown up in the South, in church they say, and don't understand the basic idea of redemption? But then it's more personal-- how have I worked with these people for six months and not had a conversation that speaks to the deeper things in life?

Selfishly, I want to say it's because they're shallow. They like to party, get drunk, be hungover at work talking about partying and getting drunk etc etc... Realistically, I say I've failed them. Not because they have asked for me to speak deeply with them; far from it. But because I know that a large part of my purpose is to love people, to build relationships, and to lead them to the deep Living Water. Not to be a snotty bitch. And unfortunately, I play that role all too well.

Growth

I read past posts, even from a few months ago, and I realize I have grown. Or at the very least, changed. My opinions are more developed, my thoughts more advanced.

I have always been one to keep a journal because I know my thoughts become more clear when I write them out. But more, I love to go back and read my words months and years later to see where God has brought me. I amuse myself, in retrospect. The seeming immaturity of thought just one or two years ago gives me great hope for who I will become.

Other times, I am reminded of the passion and drive I had to pursue dreams that are still in my heart and that could very well become realities if I'll buckle down and get going. I don't want to regret things in life because I'm afraid to do them. I would much prefer to DO something and regret that than to avoid doing something and regret my lack of action.

To live and to love will always be dangerous
But it's better than playing it safe. ---Kendall Payne

A Conundrum

I know I am a writer. But I want to be an author.

The problem of what to write about is not really a problem at all, it's how to go about it.

They always say "write what you know." Who they are and what I know are good questions.

But I do know about my life and I know my doubts. I know that I like it when the sun shines into my face and the wind lifts my hair. I know that I love the company of my family and the company of my friends and that laughter may very well be the best sound I have ever heard. I know that my writing has two distinct styles, and they are reflective of my heart and it's sometimes contrasting positions. One style is what happens inside me. It is where my doubts live and it is where my thoughts go on and on, tumbling one over the other and then suddenly stopping to look out the window and feeling gratitude towards the stillness. The second style is sarcastic and snappy and a bit of a bitch, really, but very often hilarious, and always true. (Maybe exaggerated at moments. Hyperbole is a beautiful thing.)

And so the conundrum is this: I am both thoughtful and sassy and both have taught me equal truths about myself and the world and what God is working on. (To clarify: he's working on me. All the time, everyday, in every moment. And he's working on you. Are we working on ourselves? That digs a little deeper now, doesn't it?)

My pressing question is this: how do I write both together? Because I am both, together.

Maybe writing both together is not so important as being both together.

Love

I become deeply nostalgic at Christmastime. So much so, I often wonder if my thoughts are at all worth my attention; they are glimpses of the reality of my mind, through rose-colored glass.

This year, I am most nostalgic for the moments in my life of great clarity-- when I knew where I should be and what I should be doing. Those snippets have been rare, and short-lived. I constantly feel out of place, or in the wrong place. I long for clarity of vision and the feeling of security in its pursuit, even if its pursuit is the most dangerous of adventures.

I know: I am loved. My life is purposed. Everyone has a story, and mine is a unique one to tell.

Change

Donald Miller wrote one of my favorite written passages in the introduction to his book Through Painted Deserts. He talks about change in a way that is both beautiful and heart-breaking, hopeful and melancholy. But I find that change is that way; it is a paradox. He writes:

“…I could not have known then that everybody, every person, has to leave, has to change like seasons; they have to or they die. The seasons remind me that I must keep changing, and I want to change, because it is God’s way. All my life I have been changing. I changed from a baby to a child, from soft toys to play daggers. I changed into a teenager to drive a car, into a worker to spend some money. I will change into a husband to love a woman, into a father to love a child, change houses so we are near water, and again so we are near mountains, and again so we are near friends, keep changing with my wife, getting our love so it dies and gets born again and again, like a garden, fed by four seasons, a cycle of change. Everybody has to change, or they expire. Everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons.

I want to keep my soul fertile for the changes, so things keep getting born in me, so things keep dying when it is time for things to die. I want to keep walking away from the person I was a moment ago, because a mind was made to figure things out, not to read the same page recurrently.

Only the good stories have the characters different at the end than they were at the beginning. And the closest thing I can liken life to is a book, the way it stretches out on paper, page after page, as if to trick the mind into thinking it isn’t all happening at once…”

Everything is changing. I left home for a year and I came back again. I had two worlds and somehow they combined, but they are so far away from one another. And one of my favorite pieces of my Colorado world is drifting away from me. He feels all of the 2,000 miles between us, but it is more than a physical distance now. It is a heart distance that I fear will never be restored. I fear it, even while I think it may be for the best. He is my best friend. We have shared the greatest communication I have ever had with anyone and we walked together through each other’s darkest nights. Because we shared those things, it is impossible for him to leave a place of nearness to my heart; but just as I predicted, his time in my life has been a season and I feel it slowly dying.

I knew this season would change; I knew it was coming. But I also knew our season had not ended when everyone told me it should. I have learned that I must time my own life. I must feel the changes for myself and act accordingly. These are my seasons, not yours. My summer might be shorter than you thought and my fall may stretch out beyond the days you imagined. I pray that my next winter will be short and that spring will come quickly. And maybe we will share a meal or two together in another cycle of our seasons, but it is clear it will not be this one.

And so I feel the melancholy and the hope of Donald Miller’s words, simultaneously.

Seasons

I love the way seasons change. It seems like everyone writes about the seasons and uses the imagery to explain life, which makes me want to avoid it. But I can’t. I love the different stages of the years and how they change, slowly but surely, always coming back to the places they were before; but we have changed, we are different.

I spent the year following my graduation from college in Colorado, and I loved my life there. But I missed the four distinct seasons the same way I missed my family—because they are a part of me. I drove along the highway today, heading east in the middle of North Carolina. The clouds of rain were slowly blowing north and the leaves swirled in the air. When the sun came out, I thought about how much I love these Indian summer days, when the oranges and reds light up the trees but it’s warm enough that jackets are unnecessary. I thought about how I love the seasons, even the bleakness of winter because it makes me hope for the spring. And as my mind wandered to plans for Thanksgiving, I realized that it isn’t just the seasons of weather that I am grateful for—it’s the seasons of life.

Creepy McCreeperson

Dear Creepy Old Men,

Stop looking at younger women; more specifically, stop looking at ME. Get a life. Stop sitting in the comfy chair at Panera Bread, hoping a hot young item will come sit in its counterpart. Because that hot young item is not your counterpart, has no interest in being your counterpart and really wishes you'd just leave her the hell alone so she could enjoy her coffee and few moments to herself.

You are weird, you are creepy and you have no shame.

Stop looking at me.



P.S. your leather trench coat is too big for you.

Gray Hair

My gray hair is really starting to get out of control.

I've had gray hairs-- a few, here and there-- since I was eighteen. I have very dark brown hair (nearly black, but if you call it black I'll be very upset). About a year ago, just after my twenty-third birthday, I decided to get low-lights for the first time, to cover the little eruption of silver that was appearing at the top of my forehead. I've since paid the ridiculous amounts of cash required to maintain youth about three times. The last time was eight weeks ago and darling Michelle, my most glorious and amazing hairdresser, painstakingly colored each and every gray strand on my head, often peering into my scalp as though it might contain the Holy Grail. Lord bless her.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of assuming my shampoo was for color treated hair. Yeah, not so much. I have been traveling constantly for work these past eight weeks and about four weeks into them, Michelle's masterpiece that is my hair began to show signs of wisdom again.

Wisdom is supposed to come with age, but in my case it's come a little early and lately, quite a bit more rapidly. The Bible says "gray hair is the splendor of the old."

HELLLLLLOOOO, I'm not old and I'd really prefer a different type of splendor!

I am exactly six days away from reviving my youth with chemicals and tin foil. Everytime I look in the mirror I feel like Christmas is that sixth day. But maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I really am gaining wisdom more rapidly than before, which at the very least should make me feel better about the fact that my life has been one big fat chunk of a bummer since July.

Sucky life = wisdom? No, I don' t like that at all. It's a more complicated equation than that. It must involve taking what sucks and learning from it, making it meaningful. For me that means writing it down and working it out with the composition of words on a page. So here you have a nice little exploration of the deeper meaning of my gray hair.

Here's a not-so-deep truth: I color my gray hair because I am vain and because I believe society when it tells me that my youth is more beautiful and desirable than my gray hair.

And also I like the way my hair shines after it's colored.

Vanity.

I Watch People

I watch people. I watch women with their infants sitting at café tables reading magazines and sipping tea, thankful to be out of the house. I watch them and I wish for their lives. I watch men in their business suits bustle into Starbucks and hastily order coffee to-go, thinking they really don’t have time for the barista’s chit chat. I watch them and I wish for their sense of purpose. I watch the wives of older men, reading books about Europe and dreaming of retirement and what traveling freedom will feel like. I watch them and I hope for the ability to do that before I am old. I watch two girlfriends chatting over cups of coffee, analyzing their relationships endlessly. I watch them and I long for my best friend’s loud voice. I watch the young man making coffee in the bookstore, checking his timepiece as he counts down the minutes until he can see his sweetheart. I watch him and I hope my beloved feels the same urgency for me. I watch the little girl with her father, batting her eyelashes and asking if she can please get two books, instead of the one he promised. I watch her and I remember myself, small and wide-eyed. I watch the old man in his button down shirt and corduroy jacket, brushing the long white strands of hair over to the side, hunting for the cookbook his wife keeps talking about. I watch him and I hope for such lasting love.

I watch people. I see relationships all around me, in this city where I am alone. My relationship to every person I see is stranger. That word is not so scary as it was once. When I think of strangers now, I am a little bit glad for my privacy. And then I’m suddenly overwhelmed with loneliness and wish someone would feel the need to meet me. See, I’m smiling at you; don’t I look nice?

The things that are most important to me are relationships. The things I enjoy watching most are relationships. The things I talk about most are relationships. My spirituality is a relationship. Eternity is based on a relationship. Human interaction in nature is a relationship. Our wounds that are deepest are all based in relationship, in frailty and failure. I find the human experience so very unique from person to person; then again, we are all so much the same. We all feel so deeply and long to be loved in a way that is not conditional. And so it is relationship that is always current, always the most important thing.

I have found, in the process of growing up, that relationships change. Sometimes that change is the hardest thing. The most difficult changes are the trees with the most brilliant colors, because they were given the most nourishment, the most rain, and therefore must change the most. It is my childhood that is falling away, and my innocence. As the cold winds are blowing through my leaves, my heart and my mind, I am coming to understand that the sunshine of summer, the verdant and lush prosperity, is not constant. The dreams I had as a little girl of riding off into the sunset on a white horse are only the beginning. It’s what happens when the sun is down, when the trees are bare, that defines a life. Growing up means facing the starkness of the seasons and learning that when we find someone to help us put our jacket on, walking beside them in the coldest storm can keep us warm. There will be different companions on different parts of the walk, but I hope for that one who is constant, even as others join us and depart.

I guess what I’m saying is, while I still dream of Prince Charming and long for the fairy tale, I understand now that my life will not be that way. There is no perfect man, no perfect life. This world, this tragic world, is full of the walking wounded. Everyone has hurt, everyone needs more love. Just as my parents’ wounds created new ones in me, I will create new wounds in my own children. I will bring joy to the life of my husband, yes, but I will also make his life more difficult in some ways. We will assume that there will be damage; we will undoubtedly inflict it upon each other. We will guarantee hardship, we will guarantee moments of regret, but we will also guarantee love in the midst of it all. Because that is the only hope there can really be—love.

My utmost purpose in life can be no greater than to bring hope, bring hope by love.

Airports & Small Children... & Small-Minded Adults

I'm in an airport right now, it's 8:30 AM and there is a very young child eating an ENORMOUS ice cream cone. So for those of you who might be thinking about having children in the future, let me give you a little bit of advice here: that is a mistake. Sure, sure, it makes the kid happy right now, but in 45 minutes when we all get on the same airplane and your kid is in the midst of a sugar high, screaming and laughing and touching my armrest with her sticky little hands and I start flashing you annoyed looks and sighing heavily while rolling my eyes in the general direction of your delinquent offspring, you're going to be sorry you shelled out $6.50 for a waffle cone full of stimulants that are legal to feed your six year old. Do you hear me, happy little family? You'll be sorry.

It's not so much the kids traveling that bother me though. Truly, I know kids will be kids and truth be told, I'd probably give them ice cream too. Heck, any kid that got up at 6:00 AM to catch a flight deserves something. But the trip to Disneyworld they are embarking upon should be enough.

But no, it's not the kids. It's YOU, Mr. Businessman in your perfectly tailored Brooks Brothers suit, argyle socks and black tassled loafers, it's you. You who felt the need to inform your neighbor about every last detail of your sleeping patterns for the past 48 hours, at a decibal so high, I could have sworn you were a politician on the floor of the House, advocating for anti-genocide funds for Darfur. Oh, but nooooo. You're not that savvy. I have to tell you, I feel SO enlightened to know that the bed you slept on in Cleveland last week was too firm for your taste, and that your wife, Susan, got home from work late last Friday so you went out to dinner and she had a steak, but you were way past hunger by that point so you just had a bowl of soup. (What?!?) But at least you were able to sleep in until 8:15 on Saturday. I agree with you, sleeping until that hour IS shocking.

Yes sir, my day is going to go by so much more smoothly now that you have fully disclosed to me and the entire Delta flight 6040, that you do, in fact, drink coffee in the morning, but have steered clear of energy drinks since that incident at the national conference last spring (one can only imagine this had something to do with your penchant for chatting up unexpectant strangers). Ya know, I probably could have helped you out there buddy. I could have told you that any additional morning boost isn't really necessary for a man who attacks the day with your level of zeal!

I bet any one of us on this plane could have told you that. Any one of us on this 6:45 AM flight, slowly sipping our coffees and reading our newspapers and ever so quietly day dreaming about what we would say to shut you up... if we had the energy.

The Looming Future

Or, not so much looming. I'm anxious for it. It really wasn't that long ago that the peace I felt was deep inside me. I remember a moment of looking at the people around me in the midst of work and feeling such deep satisfaction. And I was making a sandwich in a little restaurant.

I can't imagine that the satisfaction I felt at that moment and for so many other moments around it existed as a result of my job. No, it must have been something more. That is the question then: what is it deep inside us that creates peace? Is it inside us? Is it external? Is it both?

So I search for a job or a location or a situation that will help me find that peace again. Perhaps it is a combination of all those things, all aspects of life that roll up together and create joy.

I think our lives change with the seasons and sometimes we aren't ready for that inside ourselves. But the colder winds force us to go back and grab a jacket, and maybe a scarf and hat too, and wrap ourselves up to keep what's inside us there, to keep the warmth a part of us. The atmosphere will undoubtedly continue to change, and so will we. But with each new season we step into, we bring a piece of each passing one, and so we grow.

One-fourth

I suddenly realized recently that I have lived at least one-fourth of my life already. Most of that time was for "growing up." But the more I think about it, that's going to be the way life goes in general. When I'm eighty-five years old, will I look back and think, it was all growing up?

For the past several years, I've been waiting. Waiting to graduate college (done). Then waiting to be engaged (has not happened). Waiting for marriage and children (see previous). Waiting to have a real job (disappointment). Waiting to have my own place (I live with my parents--temporarily...right?). Waiting to get an idea and write a book (hmmm...).

When will I stop waiting?

I am not stuck. Repeat. I am not stuck. I spent my college years planning for a life where I would be happy, not sitting in an office, not miserable in my relationship, not living in a place I hate. I graduated, then spent a year of fun out west. And now with my "real" job and "grown-up" life, I'm unhappy. Strike that, let's call it "situationally depressed." I sit in an office most of the day. Without windows. Begging for more work because I'm so bored. I live in the town where I grew up, which is quite a bit more delightful when visiting. My relationship is the only happy place in my life, and still, it's hard.

Not stuck, not stuck, noooot stuuuuuuuck!!!

So, I'm looking for a new job, in a new town and trying to have a better attitude. Have you ever tried to change you attitude by sheer inner willpower? Does it work for you? Because for me, not so much!

I want to make decisions in my life that might be wrong. I want to risk making the wrong choice for love. I want to move to a whole new city because it's adventurous. I want to write a book.

And I will.

Because I can.

Up or Down?

Recently, a friend had an epiphany of sorts. It's a simple idea, really, but one we as a society fail to grasp in our day-to-day lives. He spoke about the choice we have to make about how we view each day-- do we look up, focusing on what is good, hopeful and worthwhile, or do we look down, maintaining a perspective of all that is wrong in our individual world while grasping at things that don't matter in the long run?

Both this friend and I are going through seasons of change and are both unhappy with where we currently "stand" in life. We had this conversation on the phone while I was on a business trip doing a job that I find completely unfulfilling. I am not challenged and will wilt inside without challenge. So, I have a very poor attitude towards all things related to my job. In short, I'm looking down. I find myself waking up in the morning thinking only of how much I hate the way my day is about to be wasted on my miserable job.

...how much I hate, my day, my job. Everything about that is selfish. In reality, my job is incredibly helpful to many people who are overwhelmed in their current state of life transition. In reality, I have a regular paycheck in an unstable economy, I work for an organization that believes in values I solidly support, and I'm able to travel extensively on my company's dime.

Why then, does my attitude always come down to the fact that I'm bored? I don't want to be a selfish, miserable person who can't see that she's part of a really good thing. However, I strongly believe that when you do what you love, when you are fulfilled doing what you love, you then become a more positive influence on everyone around you and on the world in which you move.

I find this quote profound:

"Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

--Howard Thurman

Howard Thurman was the dean of the chapel at both Howard University and Boston University. He was a civil rights activist and pastor who brought people together. He worked for principles he believed in and did what the loved and in so doing changed the lives of countless individuals. He came alive and he brought others with him.

I'm still trying to figure out my perspective on my life right now. I suppose the lesson I'm learning is to see that I am blessed-- I have a job, a paycheck and a chance to see many new places-- but also, I need to do something that I love, something that enlivens me and therefore emboldens others to pursue what makes them come alive.

The hard part then, is figuring out what that thing is.

A hard place

I hate that my first blog will be about what's hard, but isn't it always the hard things that push us back to what we love? I love to write. I love the stability I feel when the words begin to flow, and so I find myself here at the computer, aching to pour words out.

For some reason, I have found it hard to do what I love during a time when my day is mostly wasted on the things I hate. So blessed long since I have written for the sake of it.

I am disappointed in my new job, but also in myself. I had a boyfriend once tell me that my propensity towards quick, life-changing decisions scared him. I suppose that is what took me away from him physically at first, and ultimately forever. It was a legitimate fear and one I should have paid more attention to, perhaps. I made the decision to return to the south where I grew up, after a blessed year out west, because a single job was offered to me. It looked decent on paper-- mostly the benefits, not the pay so much; but it was twice what I had been making in the restaurant and it was a regular paycheck. Now I feel miserable, but at least with the hope that I am not trapped here in this job or in this city.

I want so much to own my life. It seems that I have allowed it to belong to people who think they know what is best for me. I have come to that point of growing up where I don't feel as though I have to listen to everything other people think I ought. I need to make some big decisions all by myself, even if they are mistakes, so I can establish my own life and know that I have done a thing by myself, for myself.

I like being on the road, where my day-to-day actions aren't accountable to other people.