Chapter Two

It's been a while. Too long. So much has happened in such a short time since being back at Gordon, and I don't even know where to begin. Adventures! Friendships! Theater classes! Improv! Sophomore year hit the ground running.

Let's talk about the woods.

I've been spending a lot more time out here lately, thanks to my slightly lighter class schedule and awesome weather. There are so many more trails behind campus than I realized! Often, I'll go out in the morning only intending to find quiet nook to read in for an hour, only to stumble out mid-afternoon with pine needles and flowers in my hair, exhausted and happy, having discovered 3 new favorite spots. I'll explore, read, listen to music, and sometimes picnic. Occasionally I'll venture out with one or two adventure companions, but mostly I just explore on my own. It's awesome. 

Speaking of friends, I gained a whole new group when I made it onto Gordon's improv troupe, the Sweaty-Toothed Madmen! Seriously, these 8 people are the coolest; it's a privilege to be counted as one of them. Aside from the fact that they all have awe-inspiring talent and our rehearsals consist of dancing around onstage and pretending to be chicken farmers or dentists or royalty, they've all become like family to me immediately. We go on McDonald's runs at 1am and have photoshoots and a group text and movie nights. It's no big deal. 

Other than that, life is a lot of things. It's rehearsing in practice rooms for Musical Theater and sprinkling cinnamon on customer's drinks at Chester's. It's Monday night hot chocolates with Austin and Friday afternoon tea-and-reading-time on the beach with Josh and Merisa. It's making Cate and I's third-floor room in Wilson (affectionately dubbed The Birdhouse) look as adorable as humanly possible with coordinating comforters and fluffy pillows and yes, a tiny birdhouse that we are going to paint and hang on the door. It's letters from Madison at New Tribes and phone calls from Mom after class and new friends and old friends. It's the great exhilaration of starting new things and comfortable warmth from picking up old ones. 

In conclusion, sophomore year is the best and I can't wait for it to be cold. 

Oh, and here's the most recent awesome song I've found:

I love this feeling,

but I hate this part...

The Privilege of Sorrow

The way certain physical places have deeply rooted stakes on our hearts will never fail to leave me wonderstruck. I can talk your ear off about how strolling around Gordon's campus this past week has lifted my spirits and refreshed my heart. Even this morning, I traipsed through the woods, smiling and humming and thrilled to be alive. Telling my friends how "happy" and "emotional" it's been to return. Forgetting, once again, what it truly feels like to have a place who's memory rocks you to your core.

Forgetting, that is, until I saw a video of Kubasaki High School on Facebook tonight. 

May I never, ever claim Colonial Forge as my true high school. Having been reminded, I will shout it from the rooftops once more: Kubasaki is my school. Okinawa is my home. It changed me and affected me in a way that no other place will likely ever do. Just the other day, I remembered something I'd written a few weeks before I left, and sorrow stopped me in my tracks because my heartbreaking prophecy had finally come true: 

In time, this place, that I can feel under my feet and touch and smell and listen to, will become nothing more than a hazy picture, a dim memory, just like all the other ones, with no life or feeling behind it. There's no escaping that. It just happens over time. It was the hardest blow. I curled up in a ball right there on the sidewalk and cried. 

And it's true. Gone are the days when I can feel the heat of the Plaza pavement under my bare feet. Gone are the sounds of morning cicadas and the Japanese national anthem floating over the jungle. Gone is the memory of the stair railings to the second floor of the 200's building at school. The smell of the auditorium. All of it. It's disappeared. 

Until I saw this. I turned off the sound and stared at the screen, and all of it (and more) came flooding back in full force, and I sat in my lousy dorm in lousy America and wept silently and uncontrollably at the shock of the sorrow. 

11929445_1180308018651226_1924932764_n.mp4

(I know that this will mean nothing to so many of you, and yet to some, as it does me, it will mean everything. So I'm putting it here.) 

All I can say is that I hope all of you one day experiences a place that has the same profoundly severe impact that this place had, and has, for me. No matter how much it tears you apart. I think that until one has the experience of being changed by a place, there is a part of the soul that will never have the privilege of being cracked open. 

Heart is Where the Home Is

In three days, I will once again set out for the mountains of upper New York and abandon suburban toilets and makeup and cell phone service for trees and mountain air and bug spray and tennis shoes, this time not as a La Vida camper, but staff.

And that's amazing and all- and believe me, no one is more psyched than me that my time in Stafford is coming to a close (since I'll go straight to Gordon after my time at Base Camp ends), but I realized something. Though several beautiful and terrible revelations have come to me this summer that are worth writing about, I've recorded all but none of them. Sure, I've journaled and talked with a few dear friends, but I've almost stopped using the one cathartic method that's always been my standby, and it makes me sad because I probably won't be able to for a while.

What's with me? Is it because the powerful, awe-inspiring truths that God has revealed about His character this summer are just too intimidating to try and capture on this measly page? Because deep down, I don't really believe anyone out here would want to know what's happening in my heart and mind? Because I still doubt every day whether my life is worth writing about?

Yes. Yes. And yes. Unfortunately.

But inspiration struck! In a lovely twist of fate, I read something (duh) that reminded me of a sweet truth that always strums a strong chord within me, and cried because I hadn't felt it in a while.

I don't belong here in Virginia. Or at Gordon. Or in Okinawa, or California, or anywhere. I've never had a place I steadfastly called home, and it's been this dull sorrow that never really goes away. But in those moments, I remember that awesome, mind-blowing truth that- neither does anyone else, because God tells us that our kingdom is not of this world. We're never really home... until we're with Him.

But it doesn't stop there. For the past ten days, I visited my family in California for the first time in two years, and guess what? I've never lived there in my life, but I was home. It was this rich, loving moment when I felt surrounded by the people I love and connect with most and thinking, these are my people; this is what I've been missing. They're home to me. My parents and brother are home.

When I think about marriage, I think about having a home in my husband. I think about how every time he walks into a room, I might not necessarily always feel butterflies, but I'll feel safety and comfort and belonging and... home.

Jesus is my home. He's all those things. He's safety and belonging and unconditional love and utter knowledge and understanding of my inner being. I long to be understood, sought-after, and cared for, and He perfectly fulfills all those desires like the true Prince He is.

Which is probably why, when this song by Bethel Music comes on in my car, I instinctively blast the volume, belt the bridge with all of my vocal strength, and get shivers down my spine (and occasionally cry) when I remember how perfect and complete my Home already is.

It will not, it will never be enough

 just to know about You Jesus, and never call You my own

For my heart was made for love, I can't live without You Jesus

The Latest in Warm Weather Woes

To the chivalrous and pure-hearted gentlemen out there who constantly strive to make women feel valued and beautiful no matter what they look like, let me just let you off the hook for the minute.
It's not always you.
When I spend hours upon hours scanning every website imaginable for the bathing suit that will magically form to every unique curve of my body, transforming me into a feminine beauty that's demure and sexy all at once only to come to the conclusion that I'm just a freak of nature who can't wear anything, reducing me to a teary, wilted mess in the corner of my bedroom....

it's not for you.

It's for other girls.

It's for my perfect and beautiful cousins, with California-tanned skin and volleyball-toned bodies and 57 different perfect bikinis. It's for the girls I go to school with, who like me are all trying and failing to discover the Holy Grail of attractive one-pieces and need a shining beacon of hope (aka me) to prove that yes, it exists. It's for the girls I went to high school with, who decided to choose between being hottest and being modest, who I always wanted to inspire into thinking that you can, in fact have both.

Sometimes I wonder if girls really are all that mean to each other, or if the cruelest things we hear are just our own voices, imagining what they're saying about us in their heads. I have no idea if any girl has ever judged me for wearing more modest swimwear. I just assume they do. Because somehow, some way, no matter how confident I am in how I've been created... I will always find a reason to convince myself that I am not beautiful.

So gentlemen, thank you for being kind, and please continue to do so. The battle for outer beauty seems so petty and ridiculous, I know. But let me tell you. It's hard. And cruel. Because it turns out... you were the enemy the whole time.

Bedridden

There was a storm tonight. I skittered across the street in the fading light, dripping wet from the neighbor's pool, as the first drops spattered. By the time I emerged from the hot shower the night was booming and thrashing and rushing outside my window. By all accounts, the torrential rain and purple blinks of lightning should have thrilled me. I live for those reckless summer storms. But something about the erratic winds and the unpredictable sounds they gave the rain unsettled me, and I jumped at every crash of thunder as I folded laundry. I wanted to run into my parents' room and jump under their covers like I was six again.

And for reasons I couldn't give voice to, all I could think about was the people whose names I don't know. Who didn't have a room full of blankets, or the warm glow of lamps, or a roof and four walls to keep them dry. And I thought about the people who didn't have a place to spend the night, and I swallowed a lump in my throat and begged the Lord to protect them and just couldn't stand it that I didn't know where they were so I could pick them up and take them home.

By the time I went downstairs to watch Field of Dreams with my dad, the wind had stopped and the rain silently poured on, and my restless yearning faded. But now here I sit, tears in my eyes and the wildest unsettled feeling in my chest that I don't know what to do with. Geographically, I am surrounded by people who don't have a bed, and I travel through my life blindly and numbly, pushing away the twinge in my chest when one of them paces the intersection in front of the mall with their cardboard sign. And nothing is right about that.
Lord, there are so many injustices in this world and I feel so small because I can do little about many of them. But I just know that everyone should have a bed.

And I have one, and maybe that's the reason I can't fall asleep.

Contagious Storytelling

About a month ago, I got a text from my former small group leader at church asking if I could be a storyteller this week for the elementary school ministry. I knew, even then, that I'd be doing absolutely nothing, so I casually accepted. I didn't think much of it until I got home and was sent the script. After a week or two of being lulled into numbness and apathy from the hours I'd chained myself to the bed and couch watching TV, I was horrified as I scrolled through the lines and lines of narrative I'd have to memorize.

In the weeks leading up to the service, I sighed and repeatedly regretted letting myself get "roped into doing this" every time I glanced at the script. This week, I worked more than usual and was tired almost every afternoon and of course, didn't want to spend any time memorizing the thing. When I got up at 6am this morning (earlier than I'd woken voluntarily in probably a year), I regretted it once more. Never again, I told myself as I dragged myself bleary-eyed out of bed. I'll make up an excuse next time they ask me, I repeated in my head as I rifled through my mom's closet for a silk blouse. This is the only time I'm doing this, I thought as I drove to church in the bright morning sunlight. I got to church, smiled at everyone. Was given my microphone. Went to pace around lazily backstage. Stumbled through the first service and collapsed in a backstage lawn chair to doze between sermons, silently lamenting my inconvenience and the frigid temperatures backstage preventing me from restful sleep. Just this one time, I grumbled as I got the microphone tangled in my hair.

But when I got onstage for the 9:30 service, amidst the (much larger) crowd of energetic little ones, something mysterious happened. Despite my best attempts, I enjoyed myself. Those darn theater major instincts kicked in and that familiar high of performing rushed into my system, and suddenly, I delighted in making those fidgety, hand-raising little bodies be still and silent with my memorized lines about Daniel and King Nebuchadnezzar's mysterious dream. I loved how eagerly they shot their small hands in the air to answer my questions. I was swept into the captivating power of Scripture; I could feel God's overwhelming love for these little people and suddenly it was of the utmost importance that they realized what the message of selflessness and conviction meant for them.
Against all reason, I cared.

By the end of the last service, I had found my performance groove, once again swept into the story by my love of being onstage. My small group leader hugged me afterwards and asked if she could count on me to be the storyteller more this summer. I hesitated. Still, my selfish heart grumbled something about boring memorization and early mornings.

I can't say I had this beautiful moment of realization and suddenly, I loved the service of storytelling. I don't even know if I'll do it again. Honestly, a big part of me still doesn't want to. But that darn performance high was real, and the spontaneous urgency to be Jesus' vehicle into those kids' hearts was so strong.

How beautiful and stealthy of God to go, "Hey, that thing you're super not excited about? I'm gonna show you how I feel about it. I'm betting you'll like it."
God's love is no joke. It's contagious.

Neutral Gear

I like to think it's hard to surprise me. Part of this is because I've become so accustomed to things differing from my expectations in various ways. Whenever I'm about to experience a new place or situation and I catch myself dreaming up an idea of what it must be like in my head, I tell myself,
"Well, whatever it is, it's not like you think."
Then I show up and somehow, I was right. It was nothing like I expected, but the small acknowledgment beforehand adds some comfort to the uncertainty, turning it into an adventure of sorts.

Except what about when my worst fears come true, after all?

In the weeks leading up to summer break I pictured myself spending a lot of time alone in my room, isolated and bored from the utter friendlessness and mind-numbing suburbia of Stafford. And no matter how many lists of creative things to do alone I made, guess what? That's exactly what happened. I wasn't prepared for that reality.

I of all people can tell you that solitude does not mean loneliness. I thrive off of quiet walks, a good book, a noiseless night of Netflix and nail polish, some undisturbed ukulele (all of which apparently causes aimless alliteration), and some good old fashioned alone time. But willful solitude is one thing, and my current state of affairs is another entirely.

Make no mistake. I love my family. I love my new car. I love the people in my life that I have the ability to see in person right now.

But can I be honest?

Few times in my life have I felt this kind of lonely.

It's reminding me of the difference between like-minded and like-hearted people. If I looked hard enough, I'm sure I would have no shortage of like-minded people with which to spend my days. But I'm aching for someone who's like-hearted to just... even spend a few hours of conversation with, and the emptiness is filling me to the brim and draining the rest of me out, and I end my days tired even though I didn't do anything.
Every day is like trying to swim through syrup: I could exhaust myself and travel two inches, or I could just float numbly in the warmth and hope someone eventually pulls me out.

I....

I'm okay. But that's it. Every day is just okay. It terrifies me.