Weddings

Weddings. They're so beautiful. Things are just beginning -- a new flower just budding, filled with hope, potential, dreams, joy. There are new memories to be woven, new joys to be found. And that joy is so catching. Have you ever noticed how people cry at weddings though? Tears to show teh hurt that this change will have to bring.

I want a wedding. I want a simple, flowing white dress that's half-way decent, unlike lots of dresses now. I want to walk down a flower strewn pathway with shadowed with graceful, bending trees, maybe weeping willows. I want all the friends and family I love to be there, to share my joy. And I want to have that special friend to share my life with, to build a home with, to encourage, to be encouraged, to laugh with, to read and study with, to be with, to hold hands with. In some ways I can't wait.

And in some ways, I don't want any of it for a long, long time. Maybe I'll go back to that "boys are icky" philosophy like I had back in kindergarten. . .

Dreams

So I had two really weird dreams last night.

One was about Dustin (boy at school) and I had been chosen as top students or something to enter this contest. And I won. The entire thing (nationally and all). And there was this huge encyclopedia on my desk open to this 3 page article. . . all about me. Except there wasn't really a lot of truth to it, which was rather disappointing. It was entitled something like Mid-Century American or something. And then I was called to the office. and everything in the dream was in browns and khakis (sort of like a brown black and white).

And then there was another really weird dream. I dreamed that Robert Elliot and I were going out, which was really strange. Of course, he's a little strange. We were walking around talking about some weird African custom he had been reading about when he suddenly reached out and grabbed my hand. And he just went on talking, as if nothing had happened (which would be very much Robert). And then randomly he began to tickle me. Maybe he'd been talking to Chris. Who knows. Anyway, he met up with me at the front office of the second dream (this dream came first and then the encyclopedia dream).

Ostriches and Fruit Cake

Sometimes I hate communication. I want to avoid some things, some problems like last year's fruit cake. I want to be an ostrich. Sticking my head in the sand could work, at least for a little while. . .

ok maybe, not. But it was a thought

Change

Change.
It's hurtful.
Happy.
Good.
Strange.
New.
Exciting.
Frightening.
Exhausting.
Trecherous.

Inevitable.

And I'm just going to have to accept that fact.

Sometimes I wonder if I've done the right thing. I wonder if my heart can ache so badly if what I've done is for the best. I did not know I had so many tears inside of me. Even after I thought I'd stopped, more still came. From where? Where does my body store them? How? It's not as if I have a lot of excess fat in which to keep extra tears. . . My head says I've done the right thing. My heart still questions. My heart still doubts. But since when have feelings been reliable?

never never land

sometimes i get so confused. why does my life have to be this complicated? i want to go back to being a kid -- playing at recess and having 20 minutes of homework. wasn't life easier then? wasn't it more fun? i don't htink i even knew the meaning of the word stress! sometimes i really do wish for that. but then i also realize that i can enjoy life on a deeper level now, i can develop richer, more meaningful friendships and learn so much more with my more complicated life. but sometimes, sometimes, i'd like to visit never never land again.

Elation

I am elated. I am on top of the world. . . or at least I'm on the top of my world. My schedule is falling into place, I've done my homework and my studying. I no longer feel the weight of pressing assignments on my chest. I can breathe -- free and easy once again. How wonderful life is some nights!

Stand Still

There are some days when I just want time to stand still.
I want to savor the moment,
Drinking in the sweetness of laughter,
Talking,
Friendship.
Enjoy life.
Not have to worry about writing an essay over The Scarlet Letter
or what theme "The Crucible" has.
Wouldn't it be splendid to be able to come home
and not have to worry about what's due tomorrow?
Or that test I should study for?
Wouldn't it be splendid to think
"why don't I just make supper?"
"visit htat little kid from church?"
"write my gran a letter?"
and yet, I do this work instead.
And I try to do the other as well.
Which sometimes works,
And sometimes just makes me very tired.

Counting Good Deeds

It seems really annoying, almost, to me that we have this numbering/counting of whatever people have done during the week or whatever on Sunday nights -- the little sheets filled out and turned in in the little box so that we can tally the phonecalls made, cards written, etc. Let's count and see how wonderful we all are, why don't we? There just seems to be something wrong with that. Does God only count our good deeds if we write them down to turn them in to be tallied like good little boys and girls? Isn't this going against everything they taught us in Sunday school?

sleepless for you

Sleepless.
Nothing at all to hear except the occasional dull roar of the highway.
The house is dark.
The moon sheds her sweet silver light into the bedroom,
illuminating only shadows and imagination.
My thoughts swarm,
swim,
tangle,
explode.

Why must I think of you?

Everything and Nothing

There are some days when I want to do everything. I want to be everywhere. I am strong, out-going, intelligent, funny. I could skip to the moon and be back in time for dinner and then wash the dishes afterwards.

And there are some days when all I want to do is sit. Soak in the world around and sit motionless, dreaming, thinking my own private thoughts in my own private world. I want nothing to do with people, school, work. I want only to gaze off in the distance, wondering what God has in store for me.

I love Simon and Garfunkel. . .

KATHY'S SONG
Paul Simon - 1965

I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls

And from the shelter of my mind
Through the window of my eyes
I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets
To England where my heart lies

My mind's distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you're asleep
And kiss you when you start your day

And a song I was writing is left undone
I don't know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can't believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme

And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you

And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I

guide me

There are so many opportunities around me.
So many doors opened
And windows cracked.
Sometimes it's hard to know where to turn,
When to jump,
How to land.
What's wrong?
What's right?
Is there an in-between?
Can I have everything?
Or close?
Guide me,
O Thou Great Jehovah.

why

It's so hard sometimes to want things
And have to wait.
To see others with that very thing.
Why does everything come easily?
Why do they take everything for granted?
Why can I not have that?
Why?
I don't have a car. . .
Not enough money
I can't play soccer or run this weekend. . .
I hurt my knee
I don't have a boyfriend. . .
The one I want hasn't asked. . .
And I'm half-scared he will. . .

But don't I have a house?
Food? Clothes?
Don't I have a healthy body?
Can't I walk? See? Hear? Breathe?
Don't I have so many friends?

Patience, child, patience.

Generation Gap

There is an enormous generation gap at church. We have plenty of old grannies, the kind who pat your hand for ten minutes, shaking, and tell you what a beautiful little girl you are. And you have given up long ago trying to argue with them . . . about being a little girl . . . about being beautiful . . . about being sweet. . . they always win
Then there are suddenly lots of young married couples, fresh out of college.
And of course there are the college kids themselves.
But there are no "baby-boomers" per-say. None of the middle-aged people, who would have children my age. There's one -- possibly two -- couples with children five or so years younger than I. But there's only so much conversation one can have with a seventh grader.
And so I'm faced with
a. not having any friends
b. not having any friends my age
And of course, any sane person would pick the latter. But there's only so much that I can relate to with those grannies.
And I wonder. With those college kids. If I were in their place, would I want to be friends with some silly sixteen-year-old?

groggy blahness

some mornings i wake up and i just can't get going. is there a way to jumpstart a person? i can't stand coffee so that won't work. and i'm not allowed carbonated beverages so i can't even drink a coke for the caffeine. and so i just drag throughout the day, never quite waking up to be myself. To function. To carry out daily tasks. To laugh and think and talk. all i feel is groggy blahness.

changing friends

Friends
stretch out
in all directions
new and old
the minor acquaintance, lab partners in chemistry kind
and the kind that i run next to, both of us with lungs bursting
and then those that
i can actually have a real conversation with
there is some sort of connection
communication
a sense of humor
some glimmer of intelligence
not often found in a high school
and sometimes they are a wonderful cushion
all comfort and safety and giggles --
at least for the girls
but then there are moments
moments
when they drift
even the closest
and move towards others
am i losing you?
how did i miss you?
why?
why this expanse of
emptiness
between us?
why the awkward pauses?
how could silence once have been rich
with the warmth of our friendship
and now
only uncomfortable?
what happened?
have you changed?
or is it me?
have i been the one
to change
to grow
to stretch

towards another horizon?

discoveries of the day

At work today someone told me I should work at DisneyWorld and give people tours -- something about my being very friendly and gift-of-gabbish. Weird. . .

One of my friends (an older friend -- who has two kids, one of them fairly close to me in age) talked to me today -- for a really long time. She unloaded all her feelings of uncertainty and betrayal and worry for her kids. She told me of her hopes and fears. It was surprising to me, in a way. For some reason, I sort of assumed that "adults" didn't get problems -- that once past school, things just didn't worry one, that if there was no term paper to stress out about, everything else would be hunky dory. For some reason, I never realized that problems just get deeper, more personal, more important -- because they deal more and more with taking care of the people you love the most.

Tired

Tired
So much that every muscle hurts
And every bone creaks
And each breath brings a renewed onslaught
of exhaustion
And I can't think
My every thought is chained and burdened
Unable to escape from this mire
of nothingness
And there is nothing that can be done
Until everything is finished
And at long, long last,
I can go

to sleep

Chris

You know, it's kind of funny how many times people have mistakenly assumed that Chris and I are going out. Maybe if we looked more alike, people would be less confused. But I don't really think I would change anything about him or about me because I'm quite happy with the way things are. He is a really wonderful cousin -- but what's more, he's a good friend, not to mention the teasing, affectionate, protective older brother I never had.
I'm good friends with most of my cousins, but there's something special about Chris. I just feel so comfortable around him. We work really well together, although we do sometimes act very much like brother and sister. He has this awful habit of tickling me . . .
And Chris is such a good listener. He's like the "psychologist" or something. Sometimes, it seems as if everyone on campus has a problem, and they absolutely have to talk it out with him. Because he really does care about people and take the time to listen and be patient. And his advice is actually useful.
But what I admire most about him is his incredible ability to sacrifice unspeakingly. He will do almost anything for the people he loves, no matter how it hurts him -- financially, time-wise, whatever. And he doesn't brag about his great deeds. And he doesn't tell everyone that really he is extremely smart -- and knows Greek and is great at sports and preaching. And part of that is just because
he doesn't realize he's this great.
And that's part of the reason that makes him so incredible.

Blisters hurt . . . especially when one is taking a shower . . .

Soccer Practice

The temperature is 98F, technically, but with the humidity factored in, it's well over 100F. The sun, a gentle playmate in spring, suddenly turns and glares. I can feel my skin soaking it in, growing warmer, redder. I can almost feel freckles growing.

My feet pound, cleats biting the surface of the field, the scent of fresh mown grass, sweat, and dust mingling in the air. The warm up laps are wonderful. I still have energy and lope easily across the ground. But when we start the long haul, my body protests what my mind tells it and what the coach is yelling. My hamstrings stretch and pull and calves scream and then go numb. My legs, once fresh and active, have turned to mere dead weights. But this is nothing compared with my lungs, parched and gasping, contracting more when I reach up to brush trickles of sweat from my face. And I look up, at the long, green field stretching out in front of me. And I smile. I love it.

Independence

I want a little apartment. I want a little, white, cheery kitchen, with a bright window with a little sill with happy flowers. I want a cosy little hallway with a bright light at the end and a crowded, but comfy living room, with my beautiful piano somehow there as well.

I want my own little niche in the world.

racquetball

Racquetball. It's a very deceptive sport. One thinks, "oh, I think I'll go play racquetball tonight," as if it were something light and relatively painless, a mere cup of tea to drink. But once one steps inside the white walled room, with its hideous echoes and screaming ball and pounding footsteps, reality rings its ugly little bell. And somehow an hour passes, and, sweat dripping from one's nose, one steps outside to drink from the water fountain, only to find it spazmatic. And once back inside, one's body saturated in frustrated water fountain water, the groove is gone. The muscles groan in exertion and cold sweat and lungs contract to find no oxygen. And now there is only

exhaustion

In the Future Work Force . . .

I've never really known what I wanted to do with my life after college. And I've always been a very indecisive person anyway. I'm the type of person who will stand at Baskin Robin's and stare at the ice cream, as if willing one of them to call out "pick me! pick me!" so I won't have to decide.

I don't really want to live in the States. I want to go someplace different. Someplace exotic or saturated in history. Just someplace other than . . . here.

Mission work -- vocational, I think -- has been the one thing I've been fairly certain about. I played around with the idea of becoming a general physician and setting up a clinic in the steamy jungles of South America. Or maybe I could get a degree in education and set up a school in some African country starved for learning. In either scenario, I can see myself working with the church in that area, "plugging myself in," as my dad says.

But lately something different has crept into my mind: journalism. I love to scribble and I love exploring. My mind even thinks in questions. . . And I could go abroad to cover stories. I could go to foreign countries and immerse myself in the culture to write. And I would never grow bored. . .

But the only thing -- how would I integrate my Christianity into a journalism career?

Entry in my journal
February 10, 2006

I want a husband.
I want a man I can sit next to at night
And open our Bibles
And study God's Word together.
I want a man to hold my hand
And pray with me.
I want a man to sing praises to God with.
I yearn,
I ache for a good, long life with a good, Christian man
who will love me and hold me forever.
I want someone to love me
And be at home waiting
And always ready to listen
And then to tell me to just
shut up and just hold me tightly when I cry.
I want a companion,
a best friend,
a lover.
I want this.
But I can't have it yet.
Not for a long, long time.

And I'm afraid sometimes that he'll never come.
I'm fearful that my prince won't find me.
and sometimes it seems to be too hard to see
Everyone else holding hands and happy
And not having that for myself.
Sometimes it's hard, God, for me to be patient
And wait for Your plans.
My mind tells me it will be better,
But my heart is weak
And drifts often.
Forgive me and make me stronger.
Help me to the kind of woman that a good, Christian man would want.
Help me to persevere.
Help me to notice all those around me --
to brighten everyone's day in a way that I can.
Help me to be ready to listen. Give me patience, dear Lord. Give me patience to wait for you,
to wait for my man,
to wait for something purer, stronger, and sweeter
than my own petty desires.

Pensive

My pensive mood continues. I have been thinking about anything and everything over the past few days. Is that a "girl" thing? Do only girls do this/ Are we the only ones who pause and reminisce and contemplate and ponder about everything we do and what is going on around us? Surely the male species do as well. Surely they have days when all tehy do is think.

Dating. What does it mean? What does a date consist of? Is it hte proverbial "dinner-and-a-movie" or is it anything done alone with a memeber of the opposite sex? Does a date mean anything? Does it mean the guy wants to go out with the girl or does it mean that the girl wants to go out with the guy after one date? Does it mean marriage? No, I don't think so. But so many people seem to view it this way.

And like one of my good friends says, dating isn't like buying shampoo -- one is dealing with people and their precious hearts. One doesn't go through guys like the shampoos on the clearance rack and if one doesn't like a certain brand, tossing it out. Dating shouldn't be like that. But there also should not be all this pressure on dating. There shouldn't be teh pressure of pairing those two individuals together after one date and already talking about marriage. That's ridiculous.

But what about me? I think I view dating as I view driving a stick shift car. I would really love to do it. It seems a really neat, fun thing to do. But I'm so scared of putting myself at risk. I don't want to make myself vulnerable. And everytime I get up the nerve to try, I kill the engine or the opportunity.

Another friend of mine was talking to me about this. She told me that teh way I carried myself seemed to say "I'm too good foryou." Not in so many words, but that seemed to be my attitude. That I was smarter than everyone else and more talented. And she said sometimes she wondered if I would ever find anyone good enough.

And I don't want to come across like that. I'm not sure if that was just her view or everyone else's as well. And it hurt. But do I? Is that the way I am?

But I don't want to lower my standards. I don't want to accept anything. I don't want to date trash. I want a good boyfriend and a good marriage and a good life. I have seen so many people make mistakes in their marriages and come to such awful grief over it. And I don't want to end up like that. I want to be happy.

So what's the solution? What do I do? How do I banish my "smarter-and-more-talented-than-thou" aroma I give off? How can I just have fun?

Daddy

I love my daddy. I can say that he's my best friend, which is something not a lot (ok probably hardly any) people, let alone teenagers can say. He's always ready to listen and we can talk about anything together. And we hang out. Isn't that crazy? And that's how I want my husband to be. I want him to be my best friend. I want us to hang out and talk and be silent together. Maybe someday. Maybe someday.

Drizzle

There are days when the sun shines in everything that I do. Random spare change appears wherever I step and friends pop up around every corner. But then there are some days when it drizzles -- don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like rain -- because I do. I love the sweet music and the rhythm and the flow and the growth it gives to God's green earth. But when it drizzles, it's just depressing. THe weather can't decide what to do. It's muggy and foggy and spitting randomly. It's just blah. And today's a day like that. A day to think twice and overanalyze and wish that things had gone the other way. A day to stay at home and brood. But unfortunately I can't do that. I have to get up and go throught eh steps of my life. Blah.

Ballerina

When I was little, I wanted to grow up to be a ballerina. I wanted to soar and twirl across the ground -- to have the physical eloquence of a nightingale. Some days I still want that. I want to be beautiful, graceful. I want to dance, to express with my entire body the emotions that music stirs in my soul. Some days.