Barcodes and Cymbals

I had a good conversation with one of my close friends today, and I found something interesting in our exchange.

She is very different from me. She likes to bake, organize, and listen to Lady Antebellum. I like to paint, drink wine, and listen to sad chick music. She is a kind person, self-controlled in every sense of the word, gentle and yet so strong. I am giving, but can be very selfish and I am anything but made of steel- I break quite easy.

She puts her foot down and gets respect, and yet people tend to see her as mild or quiet. I never put my foot down, and so people tend to like me- but I am sure they secretly wonder what I really stand for.

When you invest in someone, they let you see themselves. When someone begins to invest in you, you begin to see who you are.

This friend of mine, is someone that I see myself missing down the road. It is so strange to be right next to someone sharing a meal and then to feel the back of your throat tense a little. And you know you will miss this ordinary moment. You will miss this person who shared this part of your life-

For me, having someone sharing this time in my life- one of brutal reality and oft times heartbreaking monotony - is more precious than the times when I was chasing down my dreams and my friends were clapping from their seats.

Friends that remain when the lights go down, and the show is over, well those are the ones you have to cherish. Those are the ones that remind you that there is more to life than the mountain top moments, and they remind you that its o.k. to be in the valley- they are there too.

I wonder if sometimes God just hits pause on the remote, pulls some characters from a different storyline and writes them into your script.

And the more I think about it, it hasn't just been one person he pulled into my life, it has been a city of people. It has been a small village of women that have helped me through these two years.

You know what the crazy thing is? I have never been friends with girls. I still have difficulty with the whole thing. I hate needless judging, whispering, and envy.

It seems that our culture breeds women with barcodes on their wrists. Each one comparing their meaningless dashes and spaces to each other. They stand in the middle of the street clanging cymbals in desperation for attention- and the sad thing is, they get it.

This doesn't just go for women. This goes for all titans of industry, line cooks, bar tenders, investment bankers, musicians, authors, artists, mothers, wives, children, and construction workers.

We are all yelling at the top of our lungs, hoping that someone notices us. Sees how special we are. Promotes our talents. Fast tracks us to the good life.

It nauseates me. It makes me sick, because I use to be that person. I used to think I would be famous.

I know its laughable. I wanted it for all the wrong reasons.

I thought I was different. Maybe I am. I thought I had talent. Maybe I do. I thought I had something special to offer, and maybe I will. But what I have learned, and what I am continuing to learn is that we all are. We all do. We all have slivers of celebrity in our skin.

You know how? God made us that way. We matter. We matter to the God of everything.

And now that I have found out how ordinary I really am I don't envy those who are rising. I don't want to be those who are sacrificing everything for their dreams, their desires, their lusts. I know it will leave them empty.

The people who have been written into my story have revealed to me an amazing lesson of love.

I will miss the people I have come to love here. I will miss those that loved me, encouraged me, and stood by me when I was becoming a humbled girl- steeped in the reality of life. And while the world may not define us as successful, enviable, or influential we are - simply because we have checked our vanity at the door, and have given up the ghost of comparison.

The brass tax of the truth is that I am contemplating moving home. I have been thinking about Seattle since the day I left it. When I am home enveloped in mist and evergreen scented dew, my heart beats- I feel like I can be moody and solemn. I can laugh with those who have known me since primary school. I can use big words, or order a tofu scramble without getting a sideways glance.

In Seattle I don't have to pretend that I like BBQ or fried catfish. I won't have to put deodorant on the back of my knees in the dead of summer.

I will miss the sun. I will miss the happy cloud that hangs over this city. I will miss the people that actually allowed me to build a life here- with them. Side by side. Day after day. Sigh after sigh. Tear after tear. Hollow hope after hollow hope.

I know now that there is so much more to living in the south than deep-fried menu items and weather patterns- I have been healed here through the power of acceptance.

While, it may not be tomorrow I can already feel the heaviness of goodbye in the wind. The decision isn't mine ultimately, only the Orchestrator knows when- but the season is changing.

I can smell the rain.

Concrete Walls and a Bramble of Roses

And my heart goes dark.

It isn't an instant switch. There is no flash of light or circus of combustion, it is just a steady fade. A hand woven basket made of a thousand shades of gray is slowly coming unraveled by the hands of idleness.

My day to day has become a slow flicker to faint. I can't stomach it. I am like a bowling ball rolling down an alley with 10 foot bumpers.

Everything is so safe. Predictable. Silently screaming that I am missing it. I am missing the great call. I am missing the big idea, by way of apathy.

I was curled up in the bed the other day with L'Engle's Circle of Quiet Vol. I, and I have to say I couldn't read it. I couldn't finish the chapter. Her words were so vibrant, her accurate painting of a life lived outside of concrete walls was one that was full of life giving blood- the type that flows from pricking your finger on the brambles that surround the rose.

You risk. You find. You reach out. You hurt. You heal. You live. You feel alive.

These days it is hard for me to listen to really good music. My heart swells within me, and I feel like my imagination may burst out of my body floating alongside the major lifts reminding me that there is more to life than the clicking of keyboards and the smell of stale coffee.

The choice is mine. I do not have to remain in purgatory. I do for a dollar. So what does that make me? Easily sold, I suppose. Much like trading in a birthright for a bowl of soup.

I have prayed for change more than I have prayed for anything in my life, and what I am finding is that things are more the same now than they have ever been. Why does prayer seem to promote the very thing you don't want to go through?

The only conclusion I can come to is to prove that I am not in control.

Prayer isn't a Christmas list, it's a vendetta.

A feud that begins between what I want and what God gives me. Right now I want change. Maybe I should start praying for pain, solitude, surrender, suffocation, and for my soul to be emptied of all of the beauty it wants to create. Perhaps my heart will actually render itself useful.

Maybe I will stumble upon the answer to that echoing sonnet, "what am I doing on this earth"?

It sounds so ridiculous and over dramatic, but that's the ultimate question, isn't it? What did you have in mind for me? When you created me, what was the plan? Was I just a blank canvas to fill space, or was I meant to be a bucket full of paint?

My pastor said something interesting that I haven't been able to get off my mind. He said that in today's world we have all kinds of names for ancient problems. We call envy and coveting, marketing and publicity.

Ouch.

I am a part of the problem. I am promoting the Emperor's Clothes and I know it. I am selling naked emptiness. I am telling people to buy something they don't need. I love books, and the written word, but not everyone's ideas are worth reading.

Not even my own. This shoe doesn't fit. The stage that I find myself on, isn't the role I want. I am going to have to call the curtain. If I don't the thorns will get the best of me and bleed all of my integrity and imagination dry.

The silver lining, is that among the thorns there is hope. Where there is a thorn, there is life waiting to be disturbed. A beauty awaiting the conflict. A warrior waiting to fight. A heart awaiting the break.

Lord, please disturb my life.

If for no other reason than to break this heart into understanding your plan.