Different

Have you ever felt yourself being changed? Not so much by any specific event but just as you're driving down a highway you feel that... differentness in your heart. Sometimes it's a good feeling but often it's this ache inside you that says "You're never going to be the same".

I'm on a road trip with my parents, little sister and her husband and son. We just left my father's mother's house. As we're driving, I look at the Texas city-scape and the run-down buildings, all the differentness from my Kansas home.

I look back and see that because I visited my grandmother today, this visit has changed, has affected my view of her. As has every encounter we've ever had and every encounter we will have in the future. I don't think any less of her or anything but... because I visited her today, as my 19 year old self, I will never look at her or remember her the way I saw her when I was say 7 years old. She's not the same Grandma and I'm not the same Erika.

Sometimes I love the new, the changing, the freedom to transform and experience variety. But today I ache of loss. Today I wish I could feel the same I had back then. But I can't. And such is life.

Tapestry

As my count down to last days in Lawrence begins, I look back at the incredible adventure these 3 years have been and my heart... sinks. I'm sickened with this feeling of not-quite-sadness, a feeling like "I miss that feeling" I still have happiness everyday, But it's different, and it always will be.

What does that say about me and my life? What are good times worth if you can't remember them with a smile and warm heart?
Although I'm no longer getting lost driving in circles in between Baldwin City and Eudora, a pizza in my best friend's lap, and the Beatles cranked up on the stereo of my '91 GMC sonoma, I still have adventures like finding an abandoned campsite in the woods by the river and going to Hawaii. Although I'm not back stage wearing an old-lady costume hushing giggles from my cast mates while biting my tongue to hush myself, I still have fun walking down town with the same people, no destination in mind and planning the most adventurous lives we could live together.

The sad feeling of remembering the happy that's no longer there should never keep us from looking back at those times. Because if we don't draw out those memories, we'll forget what a wonderfully tangled life we've lived. Good and bad, hard and flippant, we are given the ability to remember and we should use it wisely.

Even though it hurts to look at what times have passed, look and look hard. Draw out the good and dwell on it. Build on it using moments from today. You should never get so caught up in todays pains that you forget yesterdays faundest memories.

The Lord is good always, always, always. Try to find out how good by looking back. God is amazing. What looks like a tangled mess of events to us, is a beautifully woven pattern to him... and He's just getting started.

No Return

I have a story to share. It’s about a young girl of seventeen. She had been around the world twice, finally fulfilled her dream of being an actress by joining the home-school drama group and was on track with what God had for her… or so she thought. Until every plan, every little anticipated next step was one day completely shattered. She swore to never enter a relationship in high school. She was completely and joyfully content with the idea of being single for many years to come. But then he came along.

It was really nothing. I should have over looked it entirely. But when a chronic introvert deems you an acceptable friend, how do you not feel special? Friends. That’s all we were. We had a few things in common, knew a lot of the same people, but I so often had that little sparkle in my heart when we were together. He seemed so … godly and super smart and he makes the most epic sound effects for his stories. It wasn't long before I started imagining myself with him as a couple, man and wife.

“No, no, no! Silly me,” I’d say to myself so often, “it won’t ever happen because you’re you.” But after a semester of getting to know each other he asked me if I liked him. Honestly, a cow in a book store would be stealthier than I was about my feelings for him. None-the-less he asked and I answered and so began our journey towards togetherness. Almost exactly a year and a half after our first date, he proposed. It was the most beautiful, spontaneous, personal proposal I could have ever imagined. It was perfect.

Three months later I left his apartment in tears. The ring sitting on his dining table, my heart in shreds. It was the second hardest thing I've ever done. A week later we met with our premarital counselors and told them what had happened. They deemed it wise and felt at peace with our decision to call off the wedding. They advised a separation period, no communication, no interaction. “Two months, I don’t know why but the Lord is telling me, two months,” the husband said over and over. So two months we did. As we walked to the car I turned to the man I almost married and said “Two months from today is…was our wedding day.”

And on my wedding day, after two months of nearly nothing, I met again with the man I almost married. He seemed so foreign to me, so different and distant. He and I spoke and … our love for each other never existed. He had never loved me. He said we could be friends, that he’d kind of like to but as tears soaked my face I shook my head. I love him. All I ever wanted was to be everything for him. That wouldn't go away if we were friends. It would just be pathetic because I’d drop everything in an instant to help him in any way I could. No, that day our connections, now burnt and frayed, were cut.

The day that was supposed to be the happiest of my life was then flooded with tears and a desire to be… extinct. How I wished myself not dead but gone: a wisp of air, a rock in the ocean. Just anything that meant I didn't have to feel all of this … the strings of life being severed in so many places. I wanted to run, disappear, never talk to anyone I knew ever again. But I recovered, quicker than I would have imagined.

 I didn't realize how much I truly loved this man until last night. I wondered around my apartment which was originally supposed to be ours and I felt a tug in my chest. Something telling me “you weren't supposed to be living alone here by now”. And I froze. It was the first bit of feeling I’d had in days. I wanted it to sink in, burn like a dagger of ice in my heart so that I could weep and feel the loss. But the more I tried to dwell on it the less it hurt. I even tried imagining the man I loved with a wedding band from another woman. The ring announcing the exact opposite of what I had imagined so many times over. And I smiled! My heart grew warm as I imagined the woman he would marry. I loved her for loving him. I appreciated her for being the woman he could love, the woman I could never be for him.

I miss him sometimes thinking to myself how it felt to be loved and then I’m reminded that he didn't love me. I have nothing to miss. I love him enough, though, that I will adore his future wife. If I could go back in time to that moment when we first connected, I would do it over again if only for me but for him… that moment on the bus I’d lean over, kiss him on the cheek, and never speak to him again. So he could forgo the guilt and heartache of the nearly 2 years. So he could have back the time we spent together. 

I loved without love in return. Funny how much I see God in it all. How much he loves with none in return. God as my lover, that's a new concept for me but I'm excited about it. Pain and lessons go hand in hand. But, that's just how life is. Thank you, God.

Hooked

Today I stumbled upon the perfect phrase to describe the way people can make me feel sometimes.
Grass on a fish hook.
There's a man fishing in the big blue. He's more than ready to catch him the biggest, prettiest fish he's ever seen. He'll be glowing when he brings her home. So he's out there with his line in the water and he gives it a routine little flick of the wrist. There's a tension on the line! Something has bit! He's more than excited as he quickly winds up the line, closing the deal. He pulls it out of the water with a huge smile on his face.
And in an instant, it fades. It is just a clump of grass that grabbed hold of his hook. He spends the following 2 minutes pulling off the grass and throwing it back in the water. Angry because of the wasted excitement and time. Once he cleans the hook, he casts it back into the blue. More attentive to the slack in the line as to avoid another run-in with the grass.
Grass isn't useless. You can easily list at least a dozen different ways grass is wonderful! Some people love it and think its beautiful, others like it but don't care. Nobody hates grass, though. But some how, even the most useful, nice, commonplace thing can be regarded as nothing but a burden. Nothing but trash. It just takes that one person.
Even if you're not a beautiful fish that everyone seems to be fishing for, don't let anyone let you think that you're worthless because you're a clump of grass.
You'll find someone who looks at you and appreciates what you are. Weather it be a friend, a family member, or a future spouse. They will see the beauty in the common place.
Stand tall little grass clump.

The First

I had to share this because it is probably the best written, most humorous bit of liturature I've ever written. This is an un-dramitized re-telling, believe it or not, of my actual first day of public school. Sophomore year. Lol. Enjoy!
I have to say I'm relatively confident, but every ounce of me was nervous and self-conscious that day. I was shaking and having troubles swallowing as I walked into the office and muttered in a half-dead voice, "There's a blue Ford pick-up with their lights on." The office lady was so kind, "What was that, dear? Oh! A car! Write it down here and we'll announce it later." I nodded, assuming trying to use my vocal chords was more trouble than a "yes, ma'am" is worth. I ducked my head as I entered the hallway.
If you ask me today, what my experience was then, I'll use the phrase "like a Disney movie". One thing they always show in Disney movies is the girl getting books knocked out of her hands by the love of her life in the hallways. One thing they fail to portray is the rules of the road, high school hallway edition. You'd think I would pick up on the rules pretty quick; they're basically the same as a highway. But within 2 minutes I seemed to have broken every untold law of the infamous senior hallway.
People were begining to stare. I was flustered and forgot where I was going so I shuffled to the side of the hallway and pulled out my schedule. A teacher noticed my struggles and helped me out. Turns out he was my art teacher! Easy enough. He hooked a thumb to the door and I walked in. High school students are a very different breed. All the girls look different in the same ways. As though there were only 3-5 hairstyles and colors that were acceptable and you could wear whatever clothes you wanted as long as they looked a certain way. The boys are easy to group too. One thing I can say high-schoolers are good at is following stereotypes. The categories were sporty, overdressed, dorky (normal), artsy, and I-don't-give-a-sh** the last of which normally involved a lot of black and skulls and/or cowboy boots.
In my first hour there were mostly sporty and dorky kids. I actually knew a couple of them from soccer and swim team. All I could think was I had to make a good imppression. I officially represented every homeschooler and christian in the entire metro area. The teacher, Mr. Harvey, came in and introdused himself. He was not only the art teacher but also the boys' varsity basketball coach and a darn good one at that. I made it through most of class without talking. But by the time class was over, I hated my teacher. He had rules like "You can only use wood, #2 pencils". I had been drawing with the same mechanical pencil for the past 5 years. There ain't no way some art teacher was gunna make me change that.
I left, worried and stressed as I tried to get to my next class. Geometry extended. I didn't do very well in my algebra 1 class so the counseler placed me in a 'slower paced' class. Oh how little he knew...
I was the first in class. The teacher was a young, kind of round man. Welcoming smile. He knew my name and shook my hand and returned to typing on his computer. I sat down at what has become my signature seat: second isle from the middle, second row from the front. I pulled out my notebook pretending to doodle. In all honesty I was shaking and trying not to show how nervous I was.
The first boy came in. He was tall but you couldn't tell because he was hunched over and wringing his hands. He looked around the room and seemed to be muttering to himself. "How you doin' John!" The teacher, Mr. Worthington, called out. John looked around, "I-I-I don't know..." John sat down two seats away from me and started scratching his desk. In that moment he was dubbed "Creepy John" in my head and I referred to him as such in all my stories.
Next came a girl in a wheel chair and her friend pushing it. The girl in the wheel chair you could hear from the other end of school. Her voice was the kind that made your ears bleed. Her friend was quiet and just laughed politely. They both had more piercings than I've ever seen on anyone in person, straitened gothic style hair and a whole stick of eyeliner. John suddenly growled and stood hunched in his seat as he screamed at the top of his lungs ( and please excuse the language), "CHLOE STORM, YOU BITCH! What are you doing here!?" I shook in my seat. Just then John charged for Chloe and she laughed! "Oh, John, it's good to see you too." He growled again and went for her throat till Mr. Worthington called him off. John dropped his arms and darkly slunk back to his seat. The others came one by one. Chris, a tall, ugly kid with a mole the size of a dinner plate on his neck. Becky, the druggy gone christian-ish. Lexi, bleach blond, cute as a button, brainless sweetheart. And two others, one dropped out of school and the other changed schools because she broke her hand on someone's face.
Then there was me...

The Open Door

As I finish the book "Paper Towns" by John Green, I've come to realize I don't much like reading because... I love it so much.
I thought the only reason I stopped reading for fun was because I started college, but no. That's not it at all. I stopped reading books because I can't stand the feeling once I've finished it. It's too similar to the daily aches and pains of growing older. The sense of "I can never go back." It's the feeling of "it's over." But worst of all it feels like saying Good-bye.

Over the years this has been my bigest fear and heart ache; saying good bye. I can't quite put it to words. You'll never be the same after this good bye. There's the possibility of never seeing that person again or sitting in your favorite spot in that house again. It's leaving the things you've learned to love hoping you'll learn to love like that again.

Good-bye opens the door to never-again. Never have I been so afraid of an open door.

I Have a Dream

I have this crazy dream of being a woman people respect because she respects people. Some one whom everyone knows because she's gotten to know everyone. A woman who takes time for the important things but always makes time for the little things. A woman that invests in dreams and the people chasing after them. Someone whose happiness rings through the streets and echos off hearts like the sound of a street player's saxophone.

Can I be who I want to be without having to prove it to everyone?

I just recently returned to Facebook after deleting my account over a year ago. My purpose for returning was to simply reconnect with friends in other states and countries but also to hopefully get plugged in more with the people I'm around on a regular basis. You'd be amazed at how left out one can be if you're the only one out of 50 people that requires a text invitation to a party.

But, as I just spent the last hour doing, all I desire is for people to see me the way I want to be seen. The girl who reads Sherlock Holmes and has a dog she loves. I literally think to myself, "How much of myself can I convey without making a list"? I sit here even now thinking of how I could re-post all my old pictures with my 4-h projects and friends and all the animals I worked with. All my favorite quotes but only the ones that are legitimately funny or from a book that I take pride in reading.

What kind of person does that make me?
Repeatedly checking for a 'like' or a re-pin or a comment. It makes me a busy-body and not the good kind. It's hovering all over everything with the intent for the best out come for me. Everyone has to see me for who I want to be, not who I am. Or maybe who I am but only the entertaining parts. What is with that?! That's no life! That's self-centered-ness topped with a huge dollop of people-pleaser! If you're living a life worth much, your Facebook status won't be the first thing to show it in all its splendor. Your LIFE will speak for itself, don't you think?

On a very small scale, say you have on your profile that you love dogs. Well, if you honestly love dogs, it won't be news to anyone. People who know you would be able to say, "Oh, Erika LOVES dogs! She plays with Rover every time she comes over." To my knowledge, most people wouldn't refer to your "interests" tab as a character reference.

I have big dreams of being a woman. A real woman. One who doesn't need to tweet to show her humor and wit.

I'm a Monster

When I think of him my heart aches. Not because of what was or wasn't said.

No, But because I let my habits and opinions go to my head.

I wish our fights were just a mere matter of words!

Because at least then we’d have something to work towards.

But no, it’s me, with my pride parading through our lives like angry King Kong.

I climb to the top of my voice and refuse to let him say I’m wrong.

Why, when he gets closer, do I give him a shove?

 Real monsters only hurt the ones they truly love.

Obadiah 1:3

The pride of your heart has deceived you, you who live in the clefts of the rocks and make your home on the heights, you who say to yourself, 'Who can bring me down to the ground?'

Past

The scariest thing about moving forward in life is all that you have ever known will become set. The past is beyond the reach of any man or machine. Nothing is more permanent than what has already been done. So many times you wish you could un-say or re-do but once done, you can never go back. You can go back to being single, or go back to your old job, but the past stays the same.

Staying the same means it affects us, even when we forget, we still had those hard times we still feel connected to that dear friend. But the best part about moving forward, is that you get a chance to make more pasts, more experiences that can form you into the being that God intended you to be.

One of my favorite words of God is "Go." Go out into the world and create more disciples, more experiences, go and make more examples of who God is and more examples of what the world he made can look like.

If you hold on too long to your past, or even your current situation, you'll grow tired and weak and soon fall. You don't do the monkey bars by hanging on the first bar as long as possible! You swing for the next! If you miss, you try again.

Don't be so focused on the past, on where you are today that you forget that

.we are made to go.

The Murder of Media

How many times a week do you watch someone get killed? Most of you will say "I've never seen someone get murdered! That's awful!" but here's another question: how many times a week do you watch a murder as entertainment? Your initial response is probably something like "That's sick! Who could watch a murder for FUN?!" But the truth is, we do it all the time.

 NCIS, CSI, Cold Case Files, SVU, Bones, the list goes on. These tv shows are what? You tell me! They're fascinating, right? But what are the consequences to watching these TV shows? You do realize they are specifically based on death. There would be no Special Agent Gibbs if there weren’t any dead Naval Officers. There’d be no Horatio if there weren’t raped, stabbed, dead women in a ditch somewhere. There’d be no “king of the lab” or Sealy Booth if there weren’t some defaced man whose identity was taken from him, down to erasing his fingerprints and attempting to burn his body.

Is that fun? Is it entertaining to watch people get killed? Is it interesting to seeing a body chopped up into an innumerable amount of tiny bits? Sounds sick when I put like that, doesn’t it? But Erika, I mean really, I watch because they solve the murders and serve justice! Oh really? What if they didn’t tell you who the victim was, or how the person was killed? Would you still be interested in finishing the show? No, because everything about the show rides on that single moment when a life is taken. The more details in the murder the better the plot, right? Sick. Horrific. Ghastly. Awful. Putrid. Disgusting. How can we sit by and not only watch, but enjoy watching MURDER! But it’s just a TV show. No. These types of things happen every day and watching these shows is numbing us against the horrifying horrendousness of a life being ripped out of the earth.

Do you still ache inside when you hear someone’s been killed? I don’t. I’ve become numb to death. When you read the story of Cain and Able in Genesis, do you see the wickedness of Cain? Do you see him murdering his own brother? My pastor showed a video of the comedian Tim Hawkins talking about The Flood and other huge, horrible events in the bible that “Aren’t in the Precious Moments Bible.” When you think of the flood you think of water and a boat with giraffes sticking their heads out and birds flying around. You don’t think of screaming, drowning, dying people and animals all over the earth.

What’s this say about how we view Christ’s sacrifice? How often do you say “Jesus died for me”? He D.I.E.D!!! Hello!!!!
 No more life,

 he stopped breathing,

his blood was flowing no more,

 his brain was not processing,

 he was dead.

A corps on a stick.

 But he didn’t just die. He was killed. If we become numb to death, to murder, we become numb to the great sacrifice God made. We become numb to how precious God sees a life. We become numb to the consequences of sin: “For the wages of sin is death”. If we undermine the horribleness of death, we undermine God’s power and the grace he’s given us. The life he gives to us.

As you watch your stories, think of what death means to you. Is it how you get your kicks? Or is it a beacon for the greatness of sin in our fallen world? 

Treading Water

I'm treading water.
I have someone with me but when I hold on to him, in hopes he'll hold me up out of the water, we both end up going under. 

The feeling of unwanted water in my belly and the need to cough it out of my lungs goes unsatisfied as I can't find a footing to bring my head above water. The sense of weakness and hopeless-exhaustion overwhelms me. My tears mingle with the water that is killing me.

I can hardly breath but I can't go looking for The Rock because of him who's with me. He talks about land, he knows we both need The Rock but he continues to tread aimlessly. 

I'm so scared that if I leave, he won't follow. Instead he will give up and drown, convinced that The Rock can only be found in the depths of the sea. 

If I could only bring The Rock to him! Moving him is impossible because we'll both drown. He has to go on his own and I do too but... if I leave, he'll die. I could never forgive myself. 

So I guess I'll swallow the waves as they come and continue treading water.


"God, you can move entire mountains but all I'm asking for is one rock, one rock big enough for both of us to stand on."

Holding On

Sometimes the things we hold on to are comparable to holding a rabid squirrel by the tail.

 It is painfully obvious that letting go of that squirrel is the best thing for you and yet instead of dropping it, you squeeze tighter involving both hands in the escapade. Your dad, who's on the porch, told you to never pick up a squirrel! and is now telling you to give it to him. If you just let go and don't give it to him, the squirrel will attack you. The only way out is to trust your dad to take the squirrel away from you and to nurse the wounds you attained from your direct disobedience.

 God is your father and sin is a rabid squirrel. We cling to our sins even when it couldn't be much more obvious that they are tearing us apart, even when we know this is what keeps us from communion with God. You have to surrender but you're scared because you think your grip is all that is keeping you from pain but truly, only God's grace and self-sacrifice can save you from that pain.

Let go of the squirrel. 

Let go of that sin.

God is faithful. God is just. God is forgiving.