Unknown

I realized the other day that my four year plan has been whittled down into a two more semester plan. What once seemed like an eternity is now a list of 10 little classes. And before I know it, it will be 5, and then it will be none. When you’re facing senior year of high school, things seem so much more sure and planned. You’re headed to college somewhere, what you’re studying isn’t necessarily a huge factor quite yet… there’s always time to re-plan. You’ll be there for 4 years. But when you’re facing college graduation, things feel a lot scarier. I’m realizing that my plan has 1 more year on it… and after that, I don’t know what will happen. Yes, I have to go to grad school. But where? And how will I pay for it? What if I don’t know anyone? I came to college with some of my best friends. Where will my friends come from? What if I don’t get into grad school? I’m not good with the unknown, and it felt good having a 4 year plan. It felt safe. But I guess that’s life… you can plan all you want, but in reality, you’re not the one writing the story. And maybe that’s a good thing, because I often don’t know what I need. It’s hard trusting that He knows the plans He has for you. But that truth is true, whether I can make myself believe it or not. That's something I'm thankful for. 

Rereading Stories

My fingers trace over the gold-embossed spines of the books’ leather cases, catching bits of dust as they go. Title after title, lined up in rows on the shelves of the ivory-painted bookcase that’s stood against the celery green wall of my bedroom since my childhood. My eyes catch the title that spawned my affection for collecting beautiful books: Black Beauty. I remember when I found it in the collectable classics section of Barnes and Noble, its big gold lettering catching my eye, and its watercolor painted cover drawing me in. I bought that book, and since that day I’ve made it a lifelong goal to collect beautiful books so that one day I can have my very own library, with a ladder that spins around the room like in Beauty and the Beast. I try to pick one, a new story into which to delve, but it’s proving to be much harder than anticipated. I love these stories before me, yet none of them are exciting me. I suddenly realize that rereading a book never brings me as much thrill as reading a new story, one that I haven’t discovered the ending to yet. It takes me three times as long to read the book, because nothing is keeping me motivated. Then it strikes me. How much more dull and uninspiring would my own life story be if I knew how it was going to end? I spend so many of my days frustrated that I don’t understand what’s being done in my life… angry that I am a character, and not the author. But, isn’t there something exciting about a story whose end you don’t know? I mean, if I really think about it, would I even want to know how my life was going to go if I could? I think something intrinsic to the enjoyment of life would be lost if I knew why things are going the way they are. Sure, it’s scary not knowing. Yes, there are days when I yell at God for the way things are turning out. But if I can trust the Author, I can trust the story. And if I can trust the story, why not enjoy reading it for the first time… after all, rereading never has quite the same effect. 

Straight Hair is a Struggle, Too

Okay, I have to take a moment to establish the fact that having straight hair is a struggle. I live with three people that have some naturally very curly hair, and the vast majority of my other friends do as well. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told that I have it easy because I don’t have their hair. Well I’ve heard it long enough, and I just need to vent. While straight hair doesn’t have the same struggles that curly hair does, it is a whole set of problems just its own. I’ll list my top 3 grievances:

1. Straight hair is a needy jerk. You roll out of bed late for class ONE morning, and it just becomes a huge cry baby, broadcasting its greasy sheen to the whole world, blabbing the lie that you never bathe. I bathed 24 hours ago, and my hair is the biggest drama queen in the world. It’s like on overly-attached significant other.

… yes, hair. We talked 3 hours ago. Calm down. No, it doesn’t frizz when it rains, but if I don’t wash it every day, I look like I’ve gone European. Ladies, I envy the ability to wear those curls for 3+ days and still look hygienic.

2. Messy buns end up looking like one of those horrible, spikey 90’s updos. You know what I’m talking about:

… not cute hair. Not cute. When you have curls, this alfalfa sprout thing doesn’t happen. Trust me, I’ve curled my hair before, and it goes up in a bun way better than when it’s straight. This triceratops action doesn’t happen.

3. The static is real. All you curly haired girls talk about how brushing your hair is torture, if even a reality. Well. Brushing my hair looks a lot like this:

Winter ultimately means that brushing my hair harnesses at least enough electricity to thaw at least one Lean Cuisine. Maybe two. But I don’t want to be dramatic. I mean I can straight up hear the popping of the static when I pull the brush off my head.

So next time one of you beautiful curly-haired women thinks your life would be way easier if you had different hair, guess again. Yes, straight hair is overrated in the media, and yes I understand you have it rough. But, you’ve been tricked into believing that naturally straight hair is the easiest variety. So stop wishing it away. The grass on the other side might be different, but it’s full of grease balls and dinosaur-reminiscent updos. Okay, rant done. 

Eleven

One of my favorite short stories is “Eleven,” by Sandra Cisneros. If you haven’t read it, you really need to. It perfectly personifies how I feel about growing up. The story is written from the perspective of a girl named Rachel on her eleventh birthday, and how she wakes up feeling no different. Rachel explains that even though she’s eleven, she stills feels one, and two, and three, and four, and all the ages leading up to that. She says all of her ages rattle around inside of her, “like pennies in a tin Band-Aid.” She has days when she feels three, and wants to crawl in her mother’s lap and cry. Days when she feels ten and wants to do things her own way. In essence, Rachel hits on the universal truth that we never really lose an age, we just add a new one to our collection. Well today I felt eleven. And that eleven year old inside of me needed some attention. My roommates and I wandered into the toy aisle of Wal-Mart the other day, and shamelessly bought four Nerf guns on a whim. Before we knew it, all the lights in our apartment had been turned off, all our furniture rearranged into bunkers, and we spent an entire hour shooting each other with foam darts. And it was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I don’t care how foolish I looked… the eight year old inside of me needed it too much to care. So if you haven’t shot a Nerf gun in a decade or so… do your eleven year old a favor, and give it a try. 

Reading for Snacks

Books. I miss them. No, the plethora of obscenely heavy, diagram-ridden, theory-discussing stack of paper that smells like an empty bag of Cheetos on my desk doesn’t count. I want to read books that I don’t remind me that I haven’t been to the weight room in a substantial amount of time, mostly because I can’t lift my left arm over my head. I want to read books without being aware of how many pages I’ve turned. I want to read something because there’s a story to be told, not because there’s a quiz on it the next day. You know, the other day I realized that I don’t remember the last time I read without a highlighter in hand. I want that sorrowful feeling that comes with finishing a book, almost akin to parting with a dear friend, rather than the triumphant walk of survival as I return yet another Cheeto-smelling stack of cardboard and paper to the university bookstore. I want to feel sad that the story is over. Yet, here I am in a world of textbooks and systematic reviews, a place where reading makes you lay gummy bears on every paragraph, because you have poor time management skills and will only read for snacks. Maybe one day soon reading won’t increase my calorie intake by 50 million gummy bears. Meanwhile, the orange ones are the best. 

Not My Day

Yesterday morning I woke up with the most terrible, horrible, crick in my neck. You know, I never really appreciated the amazing things that necks do until mine didn’t work so well anymore. To make it even worse… I did it to myself… in my sleep. It was 6:27 am, and I was having some traumatic dream that I can no longer recall. But nonetheless, I jolted in my sleep, and was woken up by intense pain. I had no idea why it hurt so much, all I can remember thinking is “this is how it all ends… and I’m wearing frog pajamas.” Who gives themselves whiplash in their sleep? Apparently me. Figures.

To top it all off, I had to go to the doctor. And going to the doctor is literally my least favorite thing. I grabbed the wrong jacket, and got soaked walking to class this morning. I slipped on snowy slush. My windshield wipers decided not to work. I had a mountain of homework staring at me. And all this while literally not being able to turn my head to the side. Like if someone attacked me from any direction other than the front right now, I’d be toast.

In the midst of fighting my way through the sleet yesterday afternoon, I thought to myself “this really is NOT my day.” And suddenly, it hit me. None of my days are mine. My days are not intended to bring me glory, success, and everything my heart desires. No. My days are meant to bring Him glory. And He gives me trails so that I lean hard on Him, and learn to get what I need from Him, and Him alone. My days are hard, because through trials He grows me… and as I grow, I grow to Him, and that brings Him glory. I become less, and He becomes more. No, never once has it been my day.  

Me.

It seems funny to be blogging about a life that no one really knows anything about. So I thought before we get any deeper into this process, I should introduce myself a little. Maybe through this endeavor of sharing our lives, we can all find a little bit in common… the realization that we’re all human, and maybe we’re not that different after all.

I was raised in North Carolina, but my entire family lives in Iowa. Because of that, I consider myself more of a Midwesterner, although I can’t deny the fact that I love this “Southern” state and the people here. I’m a home body. I wouldn’t mind living in the same place for my entire life. Yes, I love traveling and exploring new places… but unless you have a place to leave and come home to, did you ever really venture anywhere? I love my family. I’m a cat person. And a dog person. I love Earl Grey tea, and sweaters. I think Anne of Green Gables is the most important book a girl can read, and I’ll fight anyone on that. I was a ballerina for 10 years, but had to give it up in high school for time and health reasons. But that tutu-clad girl is still lives inside of me, and I sincerely miss her and her dancing. I love cooking. I’ve been fascinated by languages and speech my entire life, and I’m truly excited to be an SLP. But if I’m being entirely honest, my heart’s biggest desire is to be a wife and a mother. I would love to homeschool my children, because nothing inspires me more than the chance to be the primary person raising little humans to thrive in this world. It’s a chance to leave a mark that will last longer than any personal accomplishment. I love being outside at night when it’s snowing. It never really gets dark, but everything just turns into a gentle bluish glow. I want to publish a book, and I want to adopt several children. I’m often an anxious and worried person. I love Jesus, and His unfailing love is what gets me out of bed every day. He’s works all things for my good.

So that’s me. It’s by no means perfect, and nowhere near complete. But nevertheless, I’m here in this life, and I’m going to do something with it.