Flashback Friday: Graduating Again

That's me in the center. Obviously no one had yet emparted to me the beauty of well-tweezed eyebrows, the thickness of which I unfortunately inherited from my father. And oh yeah - I bought that dress myself at a store hours away from my hometown. It was one of my first fashion decisions without my mother. Maybe horizontal stripes aren't always the most flattering, but otherwise it's okay.

I see it, but maybe the crooked smile fools you. I was so unsure of myself. Junior high, such a rough time for any girl, had put my self-esteem through the ringer. I had a newer group of friends that I wasn't sure would last through the shift to high school. And I was super fearful about being the lowest man on the totem pole again, anticipating more competition in my most confident arenas.

I was relieved to disembark from such a difficult place, but fearful to move on. It felt premature to hope when I just might revert back to the seventh grade me and repeat all of my insecurities and mistakes in the tenth grade.

Austin is my seventh grade all over again.  It's been a threshing floor for all of my deepest wounds and insecurities.  I've waded through deep waters of doubt here, questioning everything I thought was soundly mine before.  I'm a bit more secure now, just like I was in that ninth grade picture.  I've established roles, cultivated hard-won relationships, gained confidence in new areas of ability.
 
And now I find myself graduating from this place.  Happy to leave, fearful to proceed.  I'll be attending seminary for counseling in the fall and as I prepare, I keep facing the same fear written all over my face in this photograph.  Have I really learned the lessons I'll need?  Or will I just repeat the same lessons I fought so hard to learn?  
 
There's no way of knowing - I can't see into my future.  So as I graduate, I have to believe that those hard won faith battles will have driven their stakes deep into my spirit-foundation.  That I will shore up grace and truth.  That I will continue to bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, endure all things. 
 
That I will love.

Pictures!

People call us twins. One time a pastor asked us if we were sisters.

The funny thing is, even if you disregard the obvious difference - that she has bigger feet - you can tell we are opposites by the choice of nail polish.

 

Me: hot pink with detailing that, according to her, looks like lightning and flowers.  She deemed the design April showers bring May flowers.

The Roommate: a subdued "Simply Mauve." Classy yet understated. 

Today, my roommate's mom came with us to the salon and was so surprised by the pounding massage technique used on her calf muscles that she maintained she was being beaten "like a runaway slave."  Not my words...

Obviously.

Links!

What I'm thinking about:
The beautiful implications of "you tore the veil."

Do you suffer from Quiet time guilt?

The characteristics of spiritual abuse.

Enjoy:
Best read of the week - A letter from God.

Skirtathon: You've won me over.

I was forced to wear tights to church as a young girl. I'm pretty sure my generation will be the last to withstand this horrible infraction of justice, but nonetheless, it occurred. (And Umma, I still have beef with you about the few times I recall wearing bonnets). Hideous things, bonnets.

Perhaps you've sensed my opinion on the subject. By the time I was eight, anything I was forced to wear for Sunday morning services became a point of contention for me. This included patent leather mary-janes (black for before Easter, white for after) tights, and dresses (think Laura Ashley except we didn't buy name brand).

As soon as we moved and we attended a church in which quite a few women wore pants (the horror!), I was ecstatic. I pursued the topic with the parental units vigorously.  I didn't fight with them about going to church, but I do remember the why-can't-we-wear-jeans-to-the-Sunday-night-service discussions.

My point? I was born a casual dresser. And I like pants. Occasionally, I do choose to grace people with my pale chicken legs by sporting a dress. But this is an infrequent gift.

Enter: My current roommate, Kristen. Kristen, as we say, likes to come correct. She puts extensive thought into her clothing choices and the appropriate level of dress required for each circumstance. If she were writing this, she would probably say that the difference between our choice of attire has a lot to do with class structure and racial constructs. But she's not here...so I'll just say that sometimes when I come out of my room already dressed, I circle back to change after seeing her outfit.

In 2005, my roommate started Skirtathon. Here's a quick rundown of the Skirtathon lexicon:

• For the month of April, she challenges women to wear skirts (or dresses) each weekday of the month.
• Each time they leave the house on a weekday, they must be wearing a skirt.
• Each time they wear a skirt, it must be a different skirt. (This year that turns out to be 22 skirts or dresses. You'd be surprised at how many women have that many).
• When you run out of skirts, you exit Skirtathon and go back to your normal, every-day wear.

I've participated in Skirtathon three times. You might say I'm a veteran. I say might because I make the same mistake every year and leave all of my formal skirts and dresses to the end. Today my skirt has lace.  But that's beside the point.

Here's the problem. I want to say that I hate Skirtathon, that it complicates my life, that women have been liberated from the necessity of skirts! But instead, here are my conclusions:

1. Jackie O once advised women to dress like a column. Skirts and dresses accomplish this look and give the added column-esque benefit of helping you stand and sit straighter. It's classy people.
2. I've been more confident when meeting new people.
3. Skirts and dresses lend themselves to accessorizing. I love accessorizing.
4. I've noticed it's a lot easier for me to dress-down a skirt then dress-up jeans. Which do you think is more comfortable, an empire wasted cotton dress with sandals or jeans with a nice blouse and heels? 
5. It's easier to choose what to wear. I think this boils down to the fact that restriction in choice makes the choice easier. 
6. I'm better prepared. Twice Skirtathon has saved me: Once when I found out I had an unexpected business meeting for lunch and again when someone gave me a free ticket to a play after work.
7. Dressing up affects your attitude. Especially if you are in the professional realm during the day (as I am).

Conclusion:
When Skirtathon is over (Hallelujah - just three more days), I will gladly wear pants again. But maybe this funky April tradition is finally turning the tide from my decidedly casual accoutrement to a more elegant affair. 

Wind in my earrings

Last fall I was standing with a group of girls outside of the church building.  As we talked, I noticed a persistent whistling noise that no one else seemed to be hearing ( I know right - insert crazy joke here).  I asked for quiet and listened hard.   

One of my friends bent close to my ear and cried, "It's your earrings!"  As my eyes caught hers in surprise, we burst into laughter.  Each person demanded to get close to my ear and listen to the whistling noise.  One by one, laughter rippled through our group.  We had been talking in low, concerned voices about worries and concerns.  But suddenly I found myself giggling.  

Awhile ago, I began to keep count of those moments by joining the Gratitude Community.  Now that I have a blog, I hope to increase my awareness by intentionally adding to the list every Monday.  

32. A finished, 275-page manual of which I'm proud.

33. A late night conversation with my blunt, yet kind sister (the best combination).

34. Silent moments in the car with my roommate listening to gospel music.

35. A funny confession from a friend which proved her honest nature.

36. The physical ability to help a friend move this weekend.  It is still miraculous to me.

37. A place for me to rest during the in-between.

38. A place for me to go that was unforeseen.

39. A perfectly timed, well deserved trip to Ireland for the parental units.

40. Reading books to snugly kids before bedtime.

41. The Texas wildflowers that line my drive to work.

This post is a part of:

Dear Mom

I was so ashamed, so heart-broken. I decided to make the call while sitting in my car, in an empty parking lot, because I knew I would sob when I heard your voice. I had to say it out loud, speak the truth. And you had to hear it; I needed help. So I dialed your number, my number, the only number I know I will always know, and I heard you answer the phone joyfully. Just because it was me calling. I heard the love in your voice even before you heard the hurt in mine.

"Mom," I said, "I need to tell you something."

Oh wise mother, you knew even before I said a word. You had been one of the few to attempt telling me- softly, gracefully, but I had no ears to hear then. I imagine that you sat down on the other end of that line, ready to receive my offering of guilt. As I broke and the flood of sorrow and disappointment overcame me, I heard your voice.

And at the first sound of that first syllable, I felt mercy. For the first time since my awakening to the depth this mistake, this thing that could not be undone, I knew mercy. Trembling in fear, I felt the comfort interlaced in the fabric of your simple words. "It will be okay." "I love you."

In one day, the very next day, you were there. It was expensive grace that brought you to me so quickly, but I was so glad to lean.

The wisdom of your fast response has never been so clear to me. Now I know that had I stayed even one more day, sly manipulation might have crushed my tender shoot. I don't think you knew that. But you knew Love, and you knew me.


I am so grateful Umma. This is your God-gift, and I am so blessed to have it extended to me.  

Added to the Mother's Day Project @ HighCalling Blogs.

Pictures!

 

These girls are members of the Loyal List.  We went to New York recently, and this is 4 out of the 5 of us standing in front of the Broadway play we saw, "In the Heights."  Afterwards, we actually got to meet some of the cast.  It was one of those moments when you know someone is taking care of you.  Hard to explain, but to me this picture will always mean unexpected blessing. 

 That's me on the right.  Look at that attitude!  To say that I never, ever, ever thought I would exercise is an understatement.  So this picture is a reminder when I start to forget that most of my limits are self-imposed.

Links!

What I'm thinking about: 
A lot of society's wars are fought on the college campus.   

That could preach:
Ever wondered how the baby carrot came into existence?  Does it grow that way?  Turns out this smart farmer just got tired of throwing away the crooked ones.   

Enjoy:
Love beautiful travel photography?  This guy is from Austin and he allows use under the Creative Commons license.

Saved by unreturned phone calls

It was not the first revelation I had during the 2-year-long fight with disease and depression, nor was it the last. But it was a game-changer. Full encounters with Grace are always game-changers.

In April of 2008, it was all I could do to shower, drive to work, assume the work facade in order to strain out interactions with customers, and drive home. Once home, I would eat, sleep, and repeat the next morning. Before the years of pain began, it had been my habit to catch up on phone calls on the drive home from work. As the disease progressed, however, this became more and more untenable. It wasn't just that I was physically exhausted.

I had nothing to say. I didn't want to talk about my own pain, and I couldn't fake light topics of conversation to save my life. When it came to that portion of the conversation where my input was expected, I was at a loss.

So it was that I found myself driving home, sitting in traffic, and looking at a long list of unreturned phone calls. At the top of the list were some of my best friends. Friends that did not live in Austin, could not see the change that had engulfed my personality in despair, were not aware of how bad things had become. I felt as though I owed them explanations, and that maybe if I could just get through the description of my present state, encouragement would be on the other side. As I picked up my phone to dial the first number, I knew I couldn't do it. It felt like I was attempting to claw through a brick wall with my fingernails. In sheer despair, I said aloud, "Jesus, I can't."

To be honest with you, I did keep up a running dialogue with God even in the worst of those days. But don't be impressed. The entire context of those discussions might be typified by "Okay, just help me through this shower." And then, "Thanks, now can you just get me through the next hour." This time, though, my anguish fully expressed, I felt Him respond very clearly: "You don't have to."


My external response was religious - "God, if I don't call these people I'm ruining relationships, missing divine appointments, making a bigger mess!" My internal response, the one He knew immediately, was doubt. If I didn't do what I was supposed to do, would God still come through for me? If I didn't toe the line, hold up my end of this nebulous bargain, would He stop helping me?

The answer fell deep in my malnourished, legalistic soul. You cannot make me love you more with righteousness that is as filthy rags, and you cannot lose my love with unreturned phone calls.