Forgive and Let Live

Hello, friends. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? The past few months have been full of challenges and changes, both good and painful. I’ll only update you on the good ones:

• I’m starting grad school in January! I’ll be working towards my Master’s in Library Science via the online program at the University of Kentucky. Over the past year I’ve been getting really excited about libraries and the work they do for the people of their communities. I also might have the opportunity to do a study abroad intensive, which would be endlessly cool.

• I got a new car in early September. His name is Major Tom, from the David Bowie song “Space Oddity” (because I’m sitting in a tin can . . . get it?). That was one of my goals for this year, and it was really nice to check that off my adulthood list.

• I’ve started writing again in full force, and boy, does it feel good. In the past month I’ve added a new 40 pages to the novel I’ve been working on since I was in 8th grade. I’m hoping to finish it by the end of 2019.

With all of these changes come adjustments, growing pains. One of those adjustments will be happening to this blog. I have no idea what my workload with grad school and working a job (or two) is going to look like, but I still want to commit to writing on here. My goal for 2020 is twelve new blog posts, one every month. We’ll see how that goes.

There is one observation I want to make about the hard things that have happened in my life lately, and it is this: I am amazed at the resilience of people. Now more than ever, I feel more aware of the fact that every morning, thousands of people are waking up with the feeling that a chunk of their heart is missing. There is something to grieve, some loss that catches them around the ankle and drags them down into an ocean that burns cold with pain. And the fact that we all go on, day after day, driving to work and taking care of our families and ourselves and somehow scrounging joy out of it all, even while it feels like we’re drowning, is crazy to me.

There’s a short poem from Rupi Kaur that has been cycling through my mind over the past few weeks:

“what is stronger

than the human heart

which shatters over and over

and still lives”

Say what you will about Rupi Kaur and her poetry, but this short statement she makes is powerful. It sends a sucker-punch of truth straight to my heart. The unthinkable happens. Grief strikes, and it’s like a hurricane, an unexpected storm that is impossible to prepare for or avoid. We can’t go over it, and we can’t go under it, but we go through it, and we make it out. That’s incredible. People are stronger than they give themselves credit for. And that includes you, friend.

I have to remind myself to let myself feel everything, because people are like bones-- you have to feel everything, otherwise you grow back crooked. It’s uncomfortable at first, but the transformation is already happening. It will suck for a long, long time, and people might get tired of talking to me about my pain. But I still journal and pray and process, for as long as I need to. It’s nice to know that God is never rolling his eyes or thinking, “There she goes again, harping on this same issue. If only she could see the greater plan!” He knows me and, to paraphrase Psalm 103:14, “he remembers that [I am] dust.”

Sometimes I go to the mirror and look myself square in the eyes, and you’d better believe that I’m as dramatic as humanly possible about it. I look myself in the face and let the tears well up. And then I think to myself, I’m gonna be okay, and I’m gonna kick this day’s butt. And then the fire comes back into my eyes, the determination to fight for myself when no one else wants to. And then I remember all the people who do want to fight for me. I remember the promises that God has made me. I remember that waiting is not a passive thing. And those things are true, even when my heart feels straightjacketed by reality and my days are spent in pajamas, sitting at the piano and making up sad songs. Some days are full of hope, and some days are bereft. God does not change. His promises do not change. He makes me brave. He makes me resilient.

One of my favorite quotes at the moment comes from the novel Lila by Marilynne Robinson. I don’t really have a lot to say about it, but I hope you let it sink in. I hope it settles its wings over your heart and lends you some of the courage in it:

"Pity us, yes, but we are brave, she thought, and wild, more life in us than we can bear, the fire infolding itself in us."

It feels like there’s a mountain of feelings and hurdles and impossiblities in front of me. I can’t see how I’m ever going to get past it. But in my mind’s eye, I see myself lace up my hiking boots, cinch the straps on my backpack, and walk forward with fire in my eyes. Sometimes that’s all I can do-- just take one more step.

We’re gonna be okay. We aren’t alone. I’ll see you in January.

Photo by me

Works Cited

Kaur, Rupi. Milk and Honey. Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2018.

The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. Crossway, 2001.

Robinson, Marilynne. Lila. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014.