Love is a four-letter word spelled T-I-M-E.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a remote inland village. One day, he handed his teacher a jar full of white sand, salt water, and seashells. Confused, the teacher asked the boy where he had gotten it, knowing that the nearest ocean was very far. He explained that he had walked many miles over several days to the coast to get it for her. The teacher was touched, but she told the boy he shouldn't have traveled so far just to get her a gift. He said, "But teacher, the journey is part of the gift."

Time is a scarce resource. It is constantly depleting, and we're not guaranteed anything more than this moment. That is why, even though people say there are five "love languages," I think there's really only one. The others are "words of affirmation," "physical touch," "gifts," and "acts of service." The thing about all of those others is that you need time for them to mean anything. You need to know someone to know what words to say that would make them feel affirmed. Getting to know someone takes time. You can't touch someone you're not spending time with. You can't buy someone something without taking time to think about what they like, what would make them happy, and then spending the time going to get it. And acts of service necessitate the time spent doing them. Time is the best way to show someone you love them because everyone has the same amount, so everyone realizes how precious each second is.

In my family, we make the time. We go to the game. We stay up late to talk, even knowing we have to get up early. We drive to the other side of town. Because the journey, the time, is part of the gift. The time shows we care.

Which is why I feel so offended, so affronted, so incensed when someone tells someone else that they "don't have time for them." It screams "you're not important." Because people find time for the things they think are important. They make it a priority to spend time with the things they value. The Bible says "where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." Don't get me wrong, I'm not correcting the Bible or anything, but I think even more than your treasure, your time is an indicator of where your heart is. Don't tell me you really love something that you spend no time doing. Don't tell me you love a person you never see, you never call, never text. And don't tell another person that you don't have time for them. Because at the end of the day, the homework, the job, the dishes, the trashy TV, the sleep, none of that matters if there isn't a person there.

So, I know this doesn't make a lot of sense. It's a little circular. But someone I love was told that a person they love doesn't have time for them. And it hit a nerve, because I know how much it hurts to be told that the person you love doesn't have time for you. It hurts really badly. It makes you feel small. It makes you feel insignificant and unimportant and kinda worthless.

So here is my vow. I'm never going to tell someone I don't have time for them. I vow to make the time. I vow to forgo the sleep or the trashy TV or the work or the homework. I vow to figure it out. Because people are important. And the best way to show them that is by giving them my time.

Here's to saying something.

Hello, dear readers. It's been a while since I've posted, but not for lack of trying. I've started a few posts that I've since discarded because I'm caught in the tension between not wanting to be all bright and shiny and not wanting to air my dirty laundry/every stupid thought/not the nicest things to ever enter my mind in a public forum.

I've made a decision about grad school--I'm getting my MA at a school that is 2,200 miles from home. I will be an RA on a super awesome project that I'm terribly excited about. The spot that I was up for at Geographically Desirable U ultimately went to a man who is graduating from this program who has been working on this terribly exciting project. I took that as a sign that this program develops the kinds of scientists that I want to become, so I'm headed there. As my friends have all told me, I'm going to work super hard and get at least 1 JPSP and then "programs will be throwing money" at me to come there. Plus, I have a dastardly plan to apply for the NSFGRFP next year and win it and then defer and have my own sweet funding which pretty much guarantees me a spot anywhere I wanna go because schools wouldn't have to pay for me. It's genius. The place I'm moving to is very... historical. And here's the kicker--I might end up living in a house with a real white picket fence. I know. I feel so traditional =)

In other news, I've been chewing on something for a while. You see, readers, I'm not really one to hold a grudge. I know what you're going to say, best friend, and you're wrong. In most cases, most of the time, I don't hold grudges. I'm notoriously bad at the silent treatment. I cannot tell you how many times as a child that I promised myself I would NEVER speak to my parents again, only to forget my vows within the hour and return to my previously amicable self. I am still friendly with all most of my exes. I think it's because I'm socially lazy. Making friends is difficult. Making new friends while simultaneously maintaining your vitriol against old friends is especially difficult. Let's face it, maintaining vitriol against anyone is especially difficult. Being upset takes a lot of energy. Wanting to share something funny or interesting or exciting or sad or lame with someone who has been your go-to person for days or months or years and then remembering that you can't is... draining. When I was fighting with best friend last year, there were so many times when I picked up the phone to call or text her something meaningless only to remember that I couldn't. Because we were mad. And being mad precluded the 4 1/2 years of good friendship that we had. So I would tell other people about my best friend... who I wasn't speaking to. She did the same thing. It was absurd. When we finally made up, we spent about 6 weeks saying "I'm so glad we're not fighting anymore." It was such a relief. It was a weight lifted. It was like I could breathe again.

I recently read this article about how our generation has taken the stance that "if you can scream something without saying anything, the most disrespectful thing you can do is to not say anything. By saying nothing, we deprive you of the most basic thing we’ve come to hold dear: information." This is why I'm always astounded when someone I know can and does hold a grudge. For months. And I have to say, this silent treatment thing, it kills me. I can deal with screaming. I can handle cursing and crazy gestures. I can even handle things being thrown at me. But silence, silence screams something far worse than hatred. At least if someone is fighting, it means they care enough TO fight.

Love Wins

There is an author, readers, who I simply love. His name is Rob Bell. He writes about God and Christ and Love and Faith in the way I have thought of them for years but am unable to articulate. He has a new book out that has the majority of the American Christian Church up in arms. I have yet to finish it, but so far, I don't think it's quite the blasphemy everyone is claiming it is. I say this as someone with a better than average grasp of the Bible and what it says (I am by no means an expert, but I've read a lot of it and I know a lot of scriptures and I try to remember to keep things in the context they were intended).

That being said, he makes interesting points about what Heaven and Hell are, and how they are very much a part of our every day lives. His interpretation is that we bring the eternal into the present. Our actions, the way we treat people and perceive the world and the things we do--that all has an effect of creating more Heaven (a place where God's Will is done) or more Hell (a place where the opposite of God's Will is done) on Earth (a place where many wills are done).

He mentions the story of the Prodigal Son. For those of you unaware, the parable of the Prodigal Son is about a young man who goes to his father one day and asks for his inheritance before his father has died. Being gracious, the father grants him his wish and the son sets off. He quickly squanders all of his money drinking, partying, sleeping with prostitutes, and gambling and is forced to take a job as a pig feeder, where he is only able to eat the slops that the pigs leave behind. He realizes that his father is far kinder to his servants, so he sets off towards his home, hoping to beg for the lowest position, certain of his unworthiness. To his great surprise, his father welcomed him with open arms. He killed the fatted calf and threw a party for the son, much to the dismay of the boy's older brother. The older brother is outraged that his father would throw this huge party for his degenerate, low-life, inheritance-squandering brother, when he has "slaved for years" and never been given a measly little goat for a small party with his friends. In fact, he's so upset that he can't even say his name or call him his brother--he refers to him as "your son." The father replies, "We must celebrate." In his eyes, he has gotten his younger son back from the dead. Since I recently saw the after-effects of a parent who loses a child, I can say that a huge party would probably be the least of what Deana did if Kiefer came back from the dead. Bell then goes on to say "This makes what Jesus does in his story about the man with two sons particularly compelling. Jesus puts the older brother right there at the party, but...refusing to join in the celebration.
Hell is being at the party.
That's what makes it so hellish."

This resonated with me. I've been the older brother at the party. Most of high school was that for me. I was tired of being passed over for parts or stupid, meaningless awards at Thespian Banquet after slaving away, staying late, and generally being the un-sung peon of the drama club. I resented all of it, and the self-induced exclusion in the midst of the party, in the midst of the unity and the "heaven" of it all, I was in my own hell. I sentenced myself to the exclusion. This, I think, is key, and Bell goes on to say it later in the book: "His rule keeping and his law-abiding confidence in his own works has actually served to distance him from his father." This belief in our "goodness" as "Christians" separates us from other people and our Father. Some deep resentment blossoms in our hearts as we see people who have done nothing good ever in their lives welcomed into the arms of God with great celebration, even though we've been "slaving away" for years. The problem with that is this: resentment has no place in the heart of God. Resentment does not lead to unity with the Father. Resentment is being at the party, but refusing to participate. Resentment is staring at the delicious food, but being too angry to eat. Resentment is hearing joyous music but shaking too hard to be able to dance. Resentment is a scowl in the face of a smile. Resentment is separation from the perfect Love that keeps no record of wrongs.

So no, I don't think this book is blasphemy. I don't think it's a universalist manifesto. I don't think it's something produced by a false teacher. I think maybe, it's something that should have been written a long time ago.

Bright and Shiny

So, readers, I should tell you something about myself. I don't have a lot of interesting, independent ideas. What I do is listen to other people talk about their ideas and that gives me ideas. I'm codependent that way. Sometimes, these ideas are a little bit off the wall, and as my advisor told me recently, he's never sure if I'm a genius or just crazy. I say I'm a little bit of both, only time will tell which wins out as my defining characteristic.

Anyway, the point of telling you that was because I was reading my bestie's blog and she was talking about how everyone else in the world is all "My life is so wonderful and my husband is so handsome and does the dishes and we NEVER fight and my baby is just the cutest baby EVER and s/he never screams all night long or says embarrassing things in public!" And it's a little... shall we say... annoying. It's annoying because, yeah, your life is wonderful and your husband is a supermodel who does the dishes and your babies are adorable, but you know what? Your husband, he's got some deadly farts. And he picks his nose while he's driving and he's got this habit of tossing his socks in the general direction of the hamper but never actually gets them in and this has lead to giant, screaming WWIII fights in your house where he tells you you're just like your mother and you say better yours than his and he storms out and you make him sleep on the couch. And your precious bundle of joy? She's asking, loudly, "Why is that man so FAT?" (true story. I was 3. My mom was mortified. My grandfather found it hilarious). He refuses to eat anything of nutritional value and when you finally draw the line in the sand and say he has to eat the freaking apple, and he's not getting up from the table until he does, and he's not eating anything else until the apple is gone, it is an 8-hour hysterical drama-fest as you try to assert your will over his.

 

Of course, it looks nothing like that.

But that's not the stuff you share on your blog. No, blogs are all bright and shiny.

I am not interested in bright and shiny, blogosphere. I know it sounds strange, coming from a self-professed lover of happy endings, but here's the thing: I like my happy endings in books in movies, because real life rarely has happy endings. In real life, I like, well, real life. I don't want to feel like you're lying to me about everything. I like hearing about days like this because it makes me feel like less of a failure, because if I had a dog, I could totally see that happening to me. In fact, during the dogsitting week from hell, they ate some down pillows and barfed up feathers all over the house. It's the same, right?

So, blogosphere, let's all dispense with the facade. Let's be honest with each other. But be funny about it. Or at least darkly witty. No one wants to read whiny posts by angsty teenagers.

I used to believe there was a reason for everything

But now I'm not so sure. Yes, good things can come out of bad circumstances. And if I'm going to be consistent in my beliefs, I have to say that I think that "all things work together for good to those who love God." But that doesn't mean that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes things are senselessly horrible. Sometimes terrible, awful things happen and there is nothing that anyone can say to make it make sense. You can feed me platitudes, and you can repeat words of meaningless comfort and stroke my hair and hand me tissues, but you can't make things make sense.

Yesterday, I had my first real brush with an unexpected death. When my Poppy died, it wasn't a surprise. Even my not-quite-ten-year-old brain and heart saw it coming and was prepared. He had been ill, it was logical. When Papa died, it was shocking, but in retrospect, not that surprising--he was a cowardly man and suicide is often the route taken by weak men when confronted with serious failings. When Great Grammy died, it was a relief--she had been so absent for so long, her mind so ruined by Alzheimer's that she didn't know who we were anymore. But this death was unexpected. This death was a surprise. This death was a sucker punch. My brother's best friend from elementary school was found dead yesterday morning. The details are still foggy, and the rumors abound (unfortunately too easily believable). Yes, kids died when I was in high school. In fact, I had even met one of them. But I didn't KNOW any of them. It was more abstractly sad for me. I hadn't sat next to their mothers at games. I hadn't driven them home after school. They weren't in my kitchen when I woke up most Saturday mornings from 2003-2006. It was sad, and I did cry. But it wasn't really "real." This boy, this death, it's real. It hit far too close to home.

We got the news in the middle of the Apple store. I was literally explaining to my brother the amazingness of the Grocery IQ app when he got a call from his current best friend, asking if he had heard the news. As his eyes widened and his jaw dropped, I could tell that something wasn't right, but I didn't imagine anything that wrong could have happened. He ended the call, sat down on a stool, and said simply, "Kiefer died." Astonished, I asked if he was sure. It couldn't be true--his friend was a healthy 17-year-old. Healthy 17-year-olds don't just drop dead. We left the store to tell our parents and immediately tears sprang to my mother's eyes. My generally upbeat, stoic, macho brother then began to cry. My family was in shock, so I suggested that we leave the middle of the mall. Somehow the view of New York and Co. was just not what I wanted to be looking at while I processed my grief as people and shopping bags jostled me around. And as I walked out, making calls to people at church, people who could comfort the family, it struck me. The world was still turning. People were driving, people were shopping, people were working. A family's world was shattered, and the world kept turning. I just wanted everyone to STOP for just a moment, and appreciate the fact that nothing would ever be the same again. As I considered the way the family felt--the mother who lost her child, the boy who lost his older brother, my heart stopped beating. I couldn't imagine the way it would feel to lose my brother. Sure, we fight. And I tell him I hate him and want to kill him all the time, but that's simply not true. I love him. I can't imagine a life without him--and I even knew a life without him. Kiefer's brother was younger--he had never known a world without Kiefer in it.

And I guess that's part of why I'm having such a hard time. Because I would never want to know that feeling, to know a world with my brother no longer in it. I tell him he's not allowed to "bat out of order" all of the time--usually I mean he's not allowed to get married or have kids before I do. My five extra years of life should give me some sort of batting order bump. But it also goes for dying--he's not allowed to die first. I'm older, it should be my turn first. It's selfish, I know, but I don't want to experience that grief.

The other part of the difficulty is the fact that he was just a boy. If the rumors are true, and he did cause his own death (whether by accident or intent), it still isn't fair. He was just a boy. Mistakes made as a child shouldn't be that bad. Children should get a chance to try again. Children should get a Mulligan. Children shouldn't know what it's like to bury one of their own. Children aren't cognitively able to handle themselves--if he did have an accidental hand in it, he probably didn't realize the gravity of what he was getting himself into. If he had an intentional hand in it, he certainly didn't realize the fact that it gets better. Life isn't the same as it was at 17, I promise. His friends, they aren't ready to deal with this grief. The parts of our brains that process these decisions and these consequences, they aren't even done developing until we're in our mid-20s. He was just a boy, and I would do anything to be able to give him a second chance at becoming a man.

So, no, I no longer believe that there's a reason for everything. Sometimes, these things just happen. All we can do is hope that God keeps His promise, and that somehow, he can make it all turn out ok, even if I can't see how it's possible.

Figuring out life

So, dear readers, it has recently come to my attention that I am now a grownup. I know. It's ridiculous, right? Supposedly, my advanced age and the fact that I've now graduated from college and own a car and a smart phone and stuff qualifies me as a grownup. I have also been made aware that grownups do things like have their own cell phone plans and own insurance plans and will summarily be booted from their parents' plans as soon as they expire. Unfortunately, I have no grownup feelings. I don't know how to be one. But that is not important. What is important is that I don't have a choice in the matter. Sucks, right?


And all of this piles on at a time when I feel most adrift. My parents say it's because I'm in between the types of goals that I've been striving for my whole life. I say it's because I have nothing significant going on in my life at the moment. So I'm going to steal Pants' idea and do some adventuring. Because I am a very adventuresome person (ish). Ideas to include:

-Paintballing with the little brother (because you gotta try it once in your life, right?)

-Road trip (or, yanno, flight) to the beach (especially likely if I get pulled off the waitlist and accepted into GeographicallyDesirableU)

 (Again, who can blame the family and friends for wanting me to end up here? I can't.)

-Figuring out the finer points of my new camera 
-Learning how to cook yummy things that are easy and will make good leftovers so I can not eat out for every meal in grad school (ideas and recipes are requested.)
-Other ideas as they arise. I think I may adopt the Yes Man approach to life and start saying yes to everything I'm invited to. Throw caution to the wind, right?

Imposter Syndrome

Psychologists have identified this thing where people (usually capable ones) get this feeling like they’re fooling everyone else into thinking they’re actually capable of what they’re doing, even though they don’t actually think they are. They live in constant fear that someone will discover their “secret” and expose them for the “fraud” that they are. If I have learned anything from this weekend it’s that I definitely feel that way. Sure, I can talk about a dozen different articles, and I can relate everything back to something else, but that doesn’t mean that I actually feel like I know enough of anything to be… considered competent. And everyone is always telling me how much it stands out that I have conference presentations and that I’ve read these articles and that I seem to understand stuff and can talk about things intelligently, but I dunno, I don’t feel that way. I feel like words just sort of spill out of my mouth and I don’t really know what I’m saying. I mean, in the seminar I sat in on, we were discussing tragic and taboo tradeoffs (sacrificing one moral value for another and sacrificing a moral value for a monetary or other secular incentive, respectively) and how in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, it’s been shown that both sides would be willing to make sacrifices, if the other one would, too, and all that was running through my head was the words to a Taylor Swift song (because in my mind, it said it in a much simpler way than the GRE vocab that everyone was using): And I would lay my armor down/if you say you would rather love than fight. It’s not necessarily that they want to keep fighting, or that they hate each other as much as it seems. I think both sides want peace. I think it’s exhausting to have that much hate and fear and violence and extremism in your beliefs all of the time; but I also think that both sides will be damned if they’re the first ones to call truce. And they sure as hell won’t go without sacrifices from the other side. And I know that grad students and professors are supposed to use big words and have these huge existential conversations about stuff, but it’s just so much simpler to quote Taylor Swift. And I feel like until I’m more inclined to use big words and have huge existential conversations instead of quoting Taylor Swift, I have no business trying to be someone who claims to know their stuff. But I love this. I had a great time in that seminar. I want to go again next week. Here’s to hoping they don’t figure out my secret.

P.S. They took us to this great restaurant that had great pear cider. Seriously delicious. Like new drink of choice delicious, even though it was $6.50 for a pint on tap. ON TAP!