Hard

It had been a long day.  The car said I'd been on the road for 31 minutes but it felt like considerably longer.  I'd left my house fourteen hours earlier and hadn't been home since.

I'll be honest, I was starting to feel sorry for myself and my long day.  While parts of it (like dinner!) were really nice, but other parts (like repeatedly trying to convince a 5 year old to share) weren't so nice.  I was exhausted and on the brink of tears for no apparent reason.

I needed to make a phone call to some friends.  Since I knew they go to bed early (and were an hour ahead) I contemplated calling them while driving, something I rarely (one might say "never") do.  Even though it meant missing them tonight, I'm so glad I waited.

Instead, as I pulled into my subdivision, my phone lit up.  On the other end, I found my friend Kevin.

He himself on his way home after a very long day... except after work he joined a friend at a hospital bedside where he stayed until he called me.  Tomorrow, he's getting up to do it all over again. 

"They haven't gotten any good news lately, and don't except to," he said.

Instantly my self-pity washed away.  I felt so convicted that I was upset over my fourteen-hour day that I planned myself when he was dealing with a longer, unplanned day.

We spoke for forty minutes.  There were no tears.  But there was a lot of honest confession and sympathizing with each other.  "This is hard," we must have each said fifteen times.  But almost as many times we said how God has worked and is working through hard.

In the words of the five year old who refuses to share, "Don't do easy things.  Do hard things."

Let's do hard.  Let's do it for His glory.  And let's not feel sorry for ourselves in it.

I don't know about you, but I needed that reminder today and every day.

<>< Katie

PS: Check out my friend Hannah's blog about a Bulgarian Sunrise.  It was another reminder I needed.  Hannah's on the World Race right now so they're ministering in eleven different countries in the next eleven months.  Wow!

"Two in the Bed and the Little One Said..."

Everyone was still over watching Glee one Thursday night last year, but I had a different agenda: avoid the sixteen people in the living room and get to bed.

I accomplished my mission and was ready to head into dream-world when the bedroom door opened, shining light into my dark room.  I thought it was my roommate.  Until I saw a head pop up at the foot of my bed.  I slept in a loft last year, just far enough away from the ceiling that I could sit straight up.  The only people that climbed up there were me and whoever was attached to the head at the foot of my bed.

The head became shoulders and she army crawled towards me.

"Katie," she hissed.  "Are you asleep?"

I considered faking it, but I could not stifle my laughter.

"I didn't get a good night hug."

Melia crawled all of the way up to the head of my bed, gave me a hug, crawled backwards, and tried to climb down the ladder.  The ladder was built for me, and I am literally eight inches taller than she is.

This started a long-standing joke about how Melia was going to sleepover one night and sleep in my bed.

"I get the wall," she always called.  If someone was falling six feet out of bed, it was going to have to be me.

Over the summer, we shared a double bed one night.  But there was no wall side.

Last weekend, we had three friends visit us, all of whom needed places to sleep.  Our futon folds down to sleep two, but the third was out of luck.

Katie: Melia can sleep with me.
Melia: Seriously?
Katie: As long as I get the wall.

My bed is only four feet off of the ground this year, but that's still not a fall I want to make.

On Sunday night, Melia and I jumped into my bed and were pleasantly surprised to discover we both fit.  We had an agreement.  If either one of us couldn't sleep, we were going to take a spare blanket and sleep on the loveseat.  No hurt feelings.

Jennifer: If you guys can't sleep, wake me up.  One of you can sleep in my bed, and I'll sleep on the floor."

Jennifer seriously can sleep anytime, anywhere.  There are nights I'm up working on homework with the light on, music playing, and paper shuffling when I look over and notice she is asleep.

Melia: Do you have enough space?
Katie: Yup.  Do you have enough pillow?
Melia: Yes.  If I get too hot, I'm just going to do what I did this summer and throw all of the covers on you.
Katie: Perfect!

In the morning, Melia and I compared notes.  We both slept well.  I wasn't cold, first time ever.  The only real challenge was rolling over, but I only got poked in the eye once.

Jennifer had different notes.  She got a horrible night's sleep.  Quite possibly because she was afraid she would wake one of us up if she rolled over.  Now that's selflessness!  To be afraid to roll over at night because one of the girls in the other bed might wake up.

<>< Katie

Significant First

It came today. The first of many, I’m sure. I might even accumulate enough to write an obscenity on the wall. Except while this was a surprise to me, it was not a surprise to God. He saw it coming. He let it come and during this hard week. He was sitting next to me when my first rejection letter made its way into my inbox. I realize I’m a writer. I realize I’m going to face a lot of these in my life. There’s no way to avoid them except by not sharing. That’s what hurts the most. I was confident with this one. Yes, apparently over confident. The people that rejected these pieces are the same people that keep urging me to share. Here I have and it’s shot down. Reject my work. That’s fine. I can’t win them all. However, please tell me why. What makes my pieces different from the other pieces that made it? I’m not saying my piece was perfect. There is no such thing as a perfect piece; I want to know where I can improve. I won’t take it personally. I won’t give them evil stares across the classroom tomorrow, but that doesn’t stop the waterfall that’s running down my face.

Rejection letter = upset = tears = runny nose = blow nose = (fear of) bloody nose

It’s been a long time since I’ve taken math but Chris tells me that means I could just say:

rejection letter = bloody nose.

Translation? Rejection letters punch me in the face.

The next step is my decision. Am I going to punch someone else in the face or am I going to move on? Am I going to let the pen dry out, pick a new major, and find a new career goal or am I going to accept this and realize it’ll happen again but some day it’ll change? Am I going to stay here hiding in my bedroom, ignoring text messages or am I going to go out in the living room and laugh at the formerly-constipated, now-possessed plastic mooing love cow? The choice is mine.

I did venture out.  I opted against going to my writers' group where I could wallow in pity with other rejects, if there were any.  Instead, I went to sign choir and kicked tables.  A classroom magically turns into a practice studio on Wednesday nights and that means all of the tables and chairs need to be collapsed and disposed of into the closet.    It's incredibly theraputic to kick in the hinges of class tables.

I tried to laugh and brush off the sasses but they hurt more than they do on an average day.  Especially the, "Katie, are you even literate?" when I misread the Wii directions.  It was a joke on my direction-following ability not my writing.

I remembered it's not Lent anymore, so I took my own cliche advice and wrote about it.  I guess the events of Wednesday weren't better than Tuesday.  In fact, the tears flowed instead of just threatening to do so, but my mood over all was better.  Even just a little.  I really appreciate your prayers today, and I could use a double dose tomorrow, please.

What really helped was Andy willingly playing "For the Moments I Feel Faint" by Relient K.  If you don't want to take a second to listen to the song, at least read the lyrics and sing them back to me when I forget them.

Am I at the point of no improvement?
What of the death I still dwell in?
I try to excel, but I feel no movement.
Can I be free of this unreleasable sin?

[Chorus:]
Never underestimate my Jesus.
You're telling me that there's no hope.
I'm telling you you're wrong.
Never underestimate my Jesus
When the world around you crumbles
He will be strong, He will be strong

I throw up my hands
"Oh, the impossibilities"
Frustrated and tired
Where do I go from here?
Now I'm searching for the confidence I've lost so willingly
Overcoming these obstacles is overcoming my fear

[Chorus]

I think I can't, I think I can't
But I think You can, I think You can
I think I can't, I think I can't
But I think You can, I think You can

Gather my insufficiencies and
place them in Your hands, place them in Your hands, place them in Your hands

Much love,
<>< Katie

Fear

Today was my least favorite day of the semester: Syllabus Day because it means I'm stressed. Yesterday was my favorite day of the semester: Spring Retreat. Of course, why not save the best day for the worst day and blog about them in reverse?

Yesterday we did a lot of introspective stuff and spend a lot of time talking about being transparent and revealing ourselves to each other.

One question we had to answer: What keeps you from sharing?

The most common responses was fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of failure. Fear of humiliation. Fear of vulnerability. And on and on. Fear.

Do we run our lives based off of fear? Why do let fear control us when the only One whose opinion matters has already made up His mind? I've blogged about this before. Just once or twice. :-)

God loves you. Never forget that!

I love you, too,

<><>

Beautiful Scars

I feel like I've blogged about this before, but God put it on my heart again today, so I figured I'd write about it again. A reminder can't hurt, right?

There are two kinds of people in this world: people who hate their scars and people who love them. I'm one of the hate kind. I'm among the ones who try and hide their physical scars with make-up, clothing, and jewelry. They try and do anything to not have their scars be seen.

Jesus is part of the other kind. He loves to sit in the middle of a crowd and tell the story about why His hands having gaping holes. Explain why He's got a gash in His side. He'll tell anyone who will listen about the dents in His head. He'll tell them about His tragic death.

But was it tragic? What He loves to tell is how those gaping holes saved us from sin. That gash fulfilled prophesies helping to prove He is the Messiah. Those dents are of shame and ridicule. Shame, ridicule, and death that we deserved.

Sure, you've heard it a million times. You've read the book and seen the movie. But sit down and let Him tell you the story one-on-one. Listen to Him tell you what He did for you. It's an amazing story of love that needs to be told over, and over, and over again.

Don't forget about Jesus' beautiful scars. How and why they got there.

<>< Katie