Ugly is the New Pretty...or IS it?

Most people have trust issues. The world is not a kind or gentle friend. The world and people in general are not trustworthy. We are caught up in this sick cycle of hurt. Because I've been hurt, I hurt those around me, because I don't want to be hurt and it goes on and on. Some people are born with a tougher disposition. I envy them. Some people are a little bit more independent. Some people have a higher pain tolerance; Whether that's from the scar tissue they've developed over the years of wounds or they were simply born that way I don't know. All I know is that I am not one of them.

What I'm discovering on this deserted and dusty path I've been walking is that I am a very loud and obnoxious person. My mind will NOT SHUT UP! And it's not pleasant talk. I had gotten real good at silencing myself. Don't feel that. Don't think that. You're being unreasonable. You're being dramatic. You're being too sensitive. Toughen up. Be more pleasant. Smile more. Laugh more. Enjoy your life. Others have it worse. You deserved that. Be someone that is DESERVING and then maybe these things wouldn't happen to you.

And then more recently those heavy thoughts of rejection have twisted into thoughts of embarrassing pride. Oh, they don't like me? They don't KNOW me. Oh, they disapprove of my actions? I've never been good enough anyway so that doesn't really matter. Oh, make RIGHT choices? Yeah well I made RIGHT choices before and I got screwed over. I'm too much? That's fine I can take care of myself and I don't NEED anyone.

Those thoughts covered up these ones. The ones that I haven't addressed or acknowledged in a very long time. I want to be loved. My heart aches for it. I want to be accepted. I have been hurt. People are CRUEL. Until those things are felt, until they are actually DEALT with it's just like putting a bandaid over a bandaid over a bandaid. And dang. Have you ever seen your finger after it's been covered my a bandaid for a couple of days? The skin is all withered and deformed. Can you imagine the rot that has been going on in the depths of my heart for such a long time because I have never allowed myself to look at my own ugly wounds?

I'm uncomfortable with ugly things. I'm uncomfortable with being weak but I have to allow myself to feel. I hate those prideful thoughts. They make my heart sick. I have to stop the cycle of hurt now before it affects the people I love even more than it already has. It won't be pretty but I would rather be a broken down ruin with a story to tell  than a closed off, cold fortress.

Lonely. Never Alone.

Spiders are frightening. Especially when they move their creepy little, alien-like bodies across the floor. I don't like them much at all. Bats are also a particular type of creature that I can't look at without shivering. I don't appreciate their existence. I know that without these two disturbing animals the whole ecosystem would be thrown out of whack and the Creator knew what he was doing when he made them. I just don't get it.

But more terrifying than either of these is the Greatest Fear. Yes it is capitalized. Yes it is something every single person on the planet is afraid of whether they would like to admit it or not. The greatest fear of mankind is being alone. I say this confidently because I have an idea of why we were created and I suppose it has a lot to do with relationships. We were created with this intense, almost animal like instinct, to BELONG somewhere. And not just any old where but somewhere with SOMEONE. I also suppose this great fear comes from the society we live in that idolizes this picture of fake, knock-off, imitation love. That is for a different post because this would turn into a book.

I am not an introvert. My life at this point in time would be much more simple if I happened to be created as an introvert. I draw my energy from being around other people. I don't appreciate being by myself. I know that it's a necessity at this point, but like bats and spiders, I just don't get it. To be quite honest and transparent it pisses me off that life circumstances (through NO ONE'S FAULT) has led me down this road of being by myself with my thoughts. It's like, instead of drinking espresso, which gives me an instant rush, I have to exercise because it's good for me. The exercise drains me but is ultimately making me stronger. Being alone is GOOD for ME.

At first, when I was introduced to this new concept of aloneness, I felt like my insides were going to shake right out of me! It's a little embarrassing to admit that the idea of being alone with myself brought on a full panic attack. I must be an incredibly terrible person if I don't even like being alone with me. Through this whole process I have realized something instrumental in the next chapters of my life. I am a very intricately made, perfectly planned, masterly forged, piece of art. When I breathe, my chest rises and falls. My body takes the air that surrounds me and causes it to oxygenate the rest of my parts, my throat vibrates with a specific sound that no one else in the world can make, my fingers carry identification marks that there is no match to. My skin can heal itself and regenerate like some kind of reptile. The way I think, and what I think, affects my mood, which directly affects my health. I have a spirit inside of me, a soul that can be so broken that it can actually kill my body. And then I start thinking about the ridiculous and slightly insane but  true idea that there is a great Creator that is creative enough, all knowing enough, and intelligent enough to create not only my parts but everything on the planet. Add that to the fact that He happens to know everything about me, and he for real authentic Gucci, REAL crab, LOVES me! None of that fake imitation stuff. And just like that I feel okay being alone because even though it may get lonely, I'm never really alone.

Optimism

I am almost positive that if you looked up the word "Optimist" in the dictionary, my face would be right next to the description.
"The tendency to expect the best and see the best in all things."

"Hopefulness, Confidence"

"The doctrine of the ultimate triumph of good over evil."

This is my approach to every day I face. No matter what, there is this stubborn, happy little voice telling me that the things I go through every day are temporary. I remember someone told me once that I live in a world of rainbows and unicorns. I expect things to be okay, because they always have been. Expectation is a dangerous little thing though. If those expectations don't manifest into something real and tangible, it crushes a little bit of my spirit. 

These past few months I've noticed something. I have bags under my eyes. I have never had bags under my eyes before. I've found multiple grey hairs. I look, and I feel old. I've been running as fast as I  possibly can run to catch up to whatever is  just around the next corner. I keep telling myself,  "just another step, one more. Keep going."

 I blame this on my father. In the 6th grade I joined the cross country team because my dad was a long distance runner. I hated it,but I didn't quit. My dad told me that running was nothing but a mental sport. "Your mind will give out before you body does." And I've carried that with me in every aspect of my life. 

Here's the problem; I've lost my hope. It fell out of my pocket while I was running on to the next bigger and better thing. You can only hope for something so many times before the thing you hope for becomes a deep rotten, root of bitterness. 

This is a candid, real subject to approach in blog form I realize. But I feel like there are so many people in this world that have just given up because their hope has been quenched. I suppose I want to reach out to those around me and assure you that I am in the same boat, but I'm making a commitment to hold onto that hope like it was my last breath of life. I will NEVER let go of that optimistic spirit the Lord blessed me with. I will never ALLOW my hope to be stolen. I pray that you don't either.  

A Bit of a Rant

I've been thinking about Peter lately. From the Bible. Here's the deal. Jesus was Peter's best friend, and when Jesus was sent to die a very brutal death, Peter pretended like his didn't even know him. He was afraid that if he admitted he knew this crazy, revolutionary man that he too would suffer what he saw his best friend suffering. He was afraid of what friendship with Jesus would cost him.

I love Peter. I love him because he reminds me so much of myself. When water was being turned to wine, people were healed of crippling diseases, the unloved were being loved, the thoughts of society were being challenged, Peter had no problems admitting he was a friend of Jesus. I can just see him nudging one of the onlookers, "Yeah, you see that guy? I eat dinner with him every night. We go way back." But when things got messy he high tailed out of there like a felon running from the law. I can also see Peter standing by a fire trying to warm himself watching Jesus passing through, this man whom he had been so intimately acquainted with, dripping blood instead of sweat and turning his eyes away from him. I can see him shake his head in disgust as people asked him if he knew that man. "Are you kidding me? He's crazy. I would never associate with such a person." The very things he loved most about Jesus had made him shutter in disgust. He was ashamed.

I've been in this place. Things used to be good. When they were good, Jesus and I were tight. I knew what was UP. But, when things got a little heavy, a little messy, I forgot about who Jesus really is.

UGH! I LOVE THIS PART!!!! When Jesus died, he came back to his disciples and do you know who was top on his priority list? PETER! Peter had gone back to what he had once known. Fishing. He was a fisher after all, before he got caught up in all this Jesus stuff. Let's go back to what feels good, what is comfortable. And Jesus MET HIM IN THAT PLACE. In fact he helped him catch a few fish. I love that. He didn't say "Peter what the heck man? Fishing? Really? After all we've been through, you decide to go back to fishing?" I just so love that. Maybe it's because I am where I'm at right now, feeling so separated from the friendship of Jesus but this resonates so much in my soul. Down to my tippy toes. He asked peter this question. He asked, "Peter do you love me?" And I don't think it's because Jesus was insecure in who he was and needed Peter to love him. I think it was to REMIND Peter of that love he had experienced. To REMIND Peter of the late night conversations, the times they spent together changing the face of the planet. He asked Peter this to REMIND Peter of who he was.

This story, it just amazes me. The faithfulness and the complete LOYALTY Jesus has toward his people. Not just the perfect ones. Not just the ones that are with Jesus every day, but the ones that are broken. And let me tell you people, I am broken. I have never felt so ashamed or alone as I have in the past year. But how powerful is that Jesus wants to be my friend despite all of that? Pretty good stuff my friends. REALLY good stuff.

Thunder.

The sun was a shocking, red ball in a sky full of charcoal clouds as she walked down a familiar dirt road. That’s how she felt walking into the square walls of her childhood church today; a pink cotton ball swimming in white. No one ever left Churchill. Unless they were pregnant with an illegitimate child or running from the Law. They stayed and married a cousin of a cousin. She was always a ruby in the pile of diamonds that surrounded her. She hit the road as soon as soon as she graduated and let the dust settle behind her without looking back. She did things. She saw things. Things that carved her inch by inch like the Colorado River carved the Grand Canyon.  She felt the mist of Niagra Falls on her face, she was drenched in the Amazon River, and she got sick off of authentic Indian food. She knew what it was to live.

Human kind, generally, does not appreciate change or someone that shakes up their ideas like a can of soda pop. Their brains explode with the thought that something could be more than what they experienced day in and day out. This was especially true of the people in her small, childhood hometown. She was met with cold faces that had once looked upon her with such love and warmth. There were no welcome home banners or embraces. She was met with the judgmental glances that a tourist would be the victim of or the looks of pity a stray dog would receive. This was no longer a place she could call home. Her heart twisted at the thought. She was a gypsy. A homeless vagabond.

She knew everyone’s face and the stories that went along with them, so when she saw the tattered and dirty man on the side of the dusty road she walked, her radar went off like a home alarm system. Red, blinking lights surrounded him, warning her that this was an intruder. She knew what that felt like. Maybe that’s why her steps didn’t hesitate as she directed them toward the tree he was sitting under.

His face was cloaked in a fog of cigarette smoke and all she could see were his holey jeans and a bright smoldering tip against his lips. She sat down beside him and stared at his face. It was boney and his green eyes were sad. He didn’t turn his head but let her sit in silence examining him like a work of art.

“I could use a smoke.” She said. His head remained stationary, but he reached his long arms over to her and handed her, what she thought, must have been his last smoke the way he was slowly nursing it. She inhaled the vapor and blew it out slowly as her head swam in a deep sea of nicotine.

“I don’t suppose you have something to drink?” She asked. She couldn’t smoke without a drink. This was a rule she had come to live by. Remaining unaffected, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a flask that was marked with the initials L.A.T. She took it and sniffed the contents. Whiskey. A sad man’s choice of beverage. She sipped it and let the red hot liquid burn through her throat and down to her stomach.

“My name is Ava.” She said matter of factly. It was not polite to drink a man’s drink without introducing one’s self first. The man nodded slowly. Everything he did was slow and purposeful. “I know you’re not from Churchill, so who are you stranger?”

Only then did he turn his face to meet hers. He did not shy away from her gaze but stared intently into her eyes. She had traveled the world and had seen things that people wouldn’t ever want to see and she had never met someone that had looked at her that way. It was unearthly.

“I’m just passing through.”

“I didn’t ask you what you were doing. I asked you who you were.”

“That is a story that could take a day to tell.” He said, still sighted in on her eyes like a skilled marksman.

“I have time.”

“My name’s Tucker.” He said as he extended his long fingered hand toward her. She looked at the rough hand and noticed the dirt under his fingernails. Those were the hands of someone who was intimately acquainted with hard work. Her fingers were adorned with French tipped, pearly white nails. She sat on her hand and blushed with the Crimson of shame. He pulled back his hand unaffected by her rejection like he was used to it. She brushed a strand of sandy hair off her sweaty forehead awkwardly.

“It’s very nice to meet you Tucker.”

“And you, Ava.” He spoke so properly for a bum. “So, what’s your story stranger? Who are you?” He asked as he gently took his cigarette out of her free hand.

“I am a stranger. I was Miss Churchill and homecoming Queen but no one knows who I am anymore” She said sadly, taking the smoke from his hand again and smoking away the loneliness she felt inside.

“Being unknown isn’t so bad.” He said, as he gazed upon her face. “There are no expectations that way.”

This was truth that he spoke. Her heart was touched with the realization. They didn’t speak after that. They watched the sky, pregnant with rain, bring to birth a brilliant thunder storm that shook their souls. Words were insulting in such a holy moment. Ava’s life would be forever rocked by that thunder storm.

Dreams

When I was younger I had so many dreams. I wanted to travel the world and see things. I like things. It broke my heart to think of dying without seeing Niagra Falls or loving an unloved orphan, or helping a hopeless widow in some far away distant land. I couldn't bear it. I wanted adventure and I wanted to do everything I could possibly do. Now, all I want is love. I want to truly love and truly be loved. When all is said and done, when I draw my last breath, I don't want to be known as someone that had such a full life of adventure and travels because that sounds too selfish to me. I want to be known as someone that loved even when it hurt to do it. I want to love in action and not just word. Wasn't that what was so beautiful and intoxicating about Jesus? His love was real. Very rarely do I remember reading that Jesus TOLD people he loved them. He SHOWED them that His love was real. It wasn't convenient for him to be tortured and die a very gruesome death. It was not something so simple as following directions to give away His life for those that hated him.  I think if the heart's cry of every soul were to be heard it would say "Love me. Want me." The lack of love is what drives people to do the things they do. It's the reason we turn to drugs, alcohol, ANYTHING that will just numb that aching desire for a moment's time. Love is the soul's oxygen, its heartbeat, its life giving force.

If I can relieve that ache in someone, if I can give life through my love I will have lived a full and purposeful life. That is my dream. To give life with my love. With the love I receive from Jesus every.single.day.

Humility

Humble people are like an endangered species. They're captivating like the graceful, purposeful movements of a Bengal Tiger. It's so rare you almost want to take a picture when you see it. What's so scary about admitting that you are wrong, broken, confused, hurt, pissed as hell? There is something so appealing about honesty and being okay with your faults and not putting on a mask for the rest of the world. Those are the kind of people I want to be around. Those are the people that give me hope. That's what life is about. It's about falling on your face, getting dirt on your hands, your face. It's about getting hurt, cut, bruised and getting UP anyway. It's not about putting on bandaids, or washing the dirt from under your fingernails. At least I know that's what it's a little about. Being different is trendy. Being humble, however, is not popular. It's ugly and it's offensive and it causes noses to turn up. If I can offend people with my humility, that will be a great milestone for me.