I'm breathing in, breathing out Your grace

    People tell me I'm an open book, and I see where they're coming from- I'm honest and affectionate and my heart is eternally on my sleeve, whether I like it or not. And yet for all the talking I do, for all the Something my words are able to create out of Nothing, I am somewhat hidden away. 
    I love words. I am fascinated by their ability to build stories in the same way a musician puts notes together to create a song. Writing is my instrument. Words are the music I make. Words can create beauty in one sentence and tear down someone's castles in the air in the next. Words set me free- I process my emotions by writing them down or talking them out. 
    At the same time, however, words hold me back. I spend more time talking about what I should do then actually doing it. I write whole to-do lists that never get crossed off. I am the talker, the motivator of others who sits tentatively in the corner, writing furiously about a life she is too scared to try living because she can't let herself make mistakes.
    I guess you could say I'm a terrified perfectionist with a desperate craving for love. I aim so entirely for the approval of others that I don't quite know what it means to live. My life is centered around how I look to other people, and I've spent so damn long trying so damn hard- to be the good role model, the perfect daughter, the best friend, the Christlike young woman. I wanted to be perfect, and when I made mistakes I let them haunt me, lurking perpetually at the corners of my memory like monsters that only come out at the most inconvenient times. I expected other people to be perfect as well, and when they inevitably messed up I subconsciously held it against them, festering all the deeper my stubborn pride and self-righteousness behind a facade of calm naivety. 
    I'm a pretty crappy Christian. I expected perfection -from myself, from those around me, from the world- because I thought God couldn't love what wasn't perfect. I completely ignored the presence of the grace which is so central to the faith I profess.
    My middle name is Grace. My full name literally means "victory in grace." I think God had a hand in my parents' picking of my name. He foreknew my struggle, just as He foreknows what tomorrow will bring and when the first snow of this winter will come and who I will marry. He knew I'd suffer from not comprehending the depth of His grace, and that as soon as I began to feebly grasp its concept I would be set free, unbridled and blameless to share in His victory. I have lived nearly nineteen years with the answer to my anxious battle right under my nose- typed neatly on my birth certificate, scrawled on the inside cover of my beloved Jane Austen novels, printed boldly on the abundance of mail I received from the college of my dreams. There is power in this mess of grace, and that power is the ability to bravely live, unafraid of making mistakes because God's forgiveness is incomprehensibly vast.
    I need to let go. I have to love other people, especially when they mess up. Sometimes all you can do is watch as the glass rolls off the countertop and shatters into a million pieces, trusting that the mess will get cleaned up eventually. I cannot save people, only Jesus can.
    I have to be brave enough to admit that I am not alright. I am very tired and broken and far from good. I have had my innocence completely stripped away and that's okay. This world isn't perfect, and what happened to me was inevitable- I need to stop running from my past, because the longer I run the longer I let it dog me. I am not the perfect daughter. I set a crappy example. I can be a terrible friend. I misrepresent Jesus on a daily basis. And, you know what? Thank God. His intention was for me to be imperfect- if I was blameless, I wouldn't need Him. And I need to need Him as much as I need to breathe.
    I can make a few mistakes, and that's okay. I am allowed to be wrong. To be wrong is to be alive, and I anticipate the start of my living as I anticipate my ability to look back one day and say I lived, and I loved well, and the grace of God was my safety net that caught me every time I fell on my face.

Nights Like These

    I swear I'm an extrovert. I just occasionally need a night like this- one where I can be alone and recharge and work through things. I love being out and about on campus, getting overly involved and meeting new people and making memories. It's just that life gets me down sometimes, and I used to think having a night like this was a sign of weakness or laziness. Only now do I realize that this is crucial for my good health.
    Nights like this- ones when I do not speak a word for hours yet sing Mumford and Sons lyrics at the top of my lungs whenever I need to hear a voice. When I can waste away time blasting nostalgic music and scrolling down Tumblr. When I write or cry or do sit-ups to work through my aggression.
    These nights are dimly lit by Christmas lights and laptop screens, accompanied by dark cups of tea and oversized sweaters that hide the body I am so intricately insecure about. I stare at my face in the mirror until it no longer looks like a face, going over my features and changing my expressions until I tire myself out with my critical vanity.
    I spend these nights curled up in my cozy nest of a bed, my hair either in waves all around my shoulders or messily pulled up atop my head. Sometimes I get up and pace, either to work through an issue or get past some writer's block. Sometimes I lie on the floor, and sometimes I swear and yell. Sometimes there just aren't enough words in the world to describe how you feel.
    A night like this is essential, because it is in these seemingly inconsequential hours that I remember who I am. I am able to think and pray and process my day, my issues, my calling- what God has put me here and now to accomplish. I recharge on nights like this, and then next day I awaken stronger, able and eager to deal with the world because I stepped back and took things in stride.
    It's okay to be an introverted extrovert. It's okay to have problems that deserve a great deal of thought. It's okay to spend time alone- in fact, I would venture to say it is essential.

    And since Tumblr is my best friend at the moment, I thought I would finish off this post with the best of my majestic Dashboard:

I haven't been able to take a bath since I came to school and it really bugs me.

I find something alluring in the water droplets on autumn leaves

all at once, everything is different...

<33

I deserve this.

This makes me think of my family.

Ferris Bueller knows his stuff.

my favorite male :)

and, finally, where I want to be. :)

--Laura :)

Butterflies and faith

    It was cold this morning. I left my dorm at quarter to eight, the unpleasant chill of the early autumn wind whipping my skirt and making me long for my warm, unkempt bed more than ever. I knew I looked nice today but I hate looking nice. I don't like the attention I get when I dress up, when I dare to show off the curves of my body, which have been hidden modestly away under baggy sweatshirts since my awkward pubescence. Yes, I'm insecure. When I was younger, my body was given the wrong sort of attention, and that was that. I only dressed up today because I am trying to get over my body image issues and the situations that made me the way I am.
    The sky was a pale blue, etched with wispy clouds that provided the perfect backdrop for the rusting trees on campus. I walked under the oaks on the way to the library, their leaves cascading down in autumnal rhythm, and I saw a butterfly flitting out over the still-green grass. I took it as a good sign.
    I tend to look for signs. I have an unquenchable level of anxiety, a need for control, a desperate desire to know that everything is going to be okay. And so I ask God to show me, and I hear and see things and call them signs- song lyrics, sermons, colors and everyday happenings. Maybe they are signs, maybe I'm just being a hopeless romantic- God only knows. All I want is His knowledge, His foresight, in order that I may lay my worries for the future to rest and put my time and energy into the here and now.
    And yet...I am coming to realize that faith is not a God-given understanding. Faith is trusting in God's plan, especially when you don't know what He's doing. Faith is being so hopelessly in love with your Heavenly Father that nothing else you've tasted here on earth even remotely compares to the divine romance you have experienced with your Redeemer. Faith may not be screaming in your ears or flamboyantly parading in front of your face- rather, it's something you have to listen for. It requires patience, and it requires trust. And as soon as you acquire those two things you gain the most invaluable asset the universe has to offer- what it was created for.
    I have seen and I have tasted this world, and I regret to inform you that I am quite falling out of love with it. I am slipping into the embrace of my Father in heaven, and I am never turning back. And so, as I await His final redemption and healing here in this broken world, I look for signs of His presence. And maybe that's what that butterfly was today- a little bit of light to turn my swirling thoughts onto Him.
    I have no idea, but God does, and at the end of the day that is all that matters.
--Laura :)
   

Call me a lunatic, then.

   

the chapel at Sacred Heart University, everybody.

    Life is beginning here on my campus, going by quickly yet slower than anything at the same time. Three weeks into my freshman year and my classmates and I are settling into our routines. I know my way around school now. I know when I have to leave my dorm in order to get to my first class on time. I know I have to drink at least two coffees on Mondays in order to survive my 3-hour lab after dinner.
    I'm falling in love with my new home like the leaves that are now cascading off the trees outside of Merton Hall. I love the atmosphere of every home football game that we, the Pioneers, host. I love walking back from the gym after a good, long run on the treadmill. I love flopping onto the grassy quad after choir practice with my roommate. I love the way the brightly colored, fallen leaves contrast with the vivid green grass outside of the library, where the ladies at the Starbucks inside are so chatty and my nursing major friends and I meet to study.
    I'm trying new things. Not just the chef's special at 63's- I began a ballroom dance class and surprisingly I do not suck at it. Dancing is fun- hard and confusing at first, but after much stumbling and tripping over my partner's feet I am able to glide almost gracefully across the floor with minimal glancing at my ever-clumsy, sock-clad feet. I joined an improv acting troupe, and let me tell you that I hadn't laughed long and hard since I got here, until our Tuesday night meeting in the little theater.        Stepping outside of my comfort zone has surprisingly boosted my confidence level. I had no idea I was this social. I've interacted with so many new people since I arrived, and it's nice that I am now able to walk past people I know in the halls and say hi. 
    I don't feel so alone anymore. I have a core group of friends that I'm starting to love, and having people I can connect with in classes and clubs is new and wonderful. I'm not used to seeing my friends every day -homeschooler problems- and I love how I can now simply run into my friends, in the cafeteria or at the chapel, and just hang out with them in between classes. I spend less time texting my friends here because I can merely walk across campus to see them face-to-face.
    Who knows if these friendships will last? If what I'm doing here will impact me for better or worse? I'm leaving that up to God- I know this is where He wants me, and I have never felt His presence as strongly in my life since I came here. Being in a non-church environment has made my faith stronger- is that crazy?
    I think it's crazy. But so is adhering to faith in our postmodern society. Call me a lunatic, then.
--Laura

Life begins.

    College. That's where I have been a resident for exactly two weeks. I'm almost through with my first week of classes, have registered for an appropriate number of clubs and events, and racked up a small hoard of free t-shirts from all the freshman socials. Yesterday all I ate besides dinner was a muffin and two free iced coffees from the Starbucks in my campus library (yes, we have a Starbucks in the library, and yes, you should be very jealous). I'm still getting lost in the halls -need I remind you, I am a former homeschooler, so this whole "leaving the living room and putting on real pants to get an education" thing is utterly baffling- and I haven't showed up to class in my pajamas just yet. I've made a few friends, but sometimes I feel a little lonely and homesick, because for the first time in my entire life I'm in an entirely new place, surrounded by people I have not known since infancy, doing something I have never done before.

    I guess what I'm trying to prove is that my freshman year has been pretty typical so far. Although, I don't think I'm as bad off as some of my classmates- I've had a few people mistake me for an RA, and last night a couple of my fellow freshman told me they thought I was a junior because I look "so sophisticated."

    If only they knew how lost I feel sometimes. How I've cried exactly twice since I've been here, due to insecurity and my inner feelings of inadequacy. How the strangest things remind me of my mom: the garlic mashed potatoes in the cafeteria, how the librarians cut their scrap paper, even the way I've become suddenly very social and welcoming- like mother, like daughter. I am more akin to her than I thought, and it took two weeks of soaring out from under her protective wing for me to understand that.

   And I know I'm paying an inordinately large sum of money to attend Sacred Heart, yet ironically enough the most profound, influential things that I have learned have come from outside of the classrooms. This goes beyond how many anatomical terms I can memorize when I study by myself. This has to do with how much I have learned about life since I came here.

    Life is precious. I used to imagine what it would be like to get hit by a car, but it took the death of an upperclassmen and a very emotional vigil, in which I sang with the choir, for me to realize how serious and sacred our limited years on earth can be. After the vigil, after some of the upperclassmen helped us process our grief, I told my mother I loved her. I realized how much I had to lose. All of this on my second day on campus.

    The phrase "Life begins at the end of your comfort zone" is true. I can't count how many times I've had to drag myself outside of myself in order to meet new people, try new things, and be open and vulnerable. Some of my best memories from these past two weeks involve situations in which I went completely against my inner, anxious self- when I asked a classmate if she was okay and ended up becoming her friend, when my friends and I waited in line for ice cream for an hour and a half and met some cool people, when I brought brownies around to the girls on my floor and ended up watching a movie with and getting to know a few of them, when I signed up for a ballroom dance class, when I shared my faith. All things weird, for me, but all things worth it in the long run.

    Loving hurts. This has less to do with what I've learned on campus, but somethings from my outside life have leaked in here, and made me understand the essential pain that comes with love. Love hurts because it's worth it, just like stepping outside of your comfort zone. It's okay to be sad when you are wounded by love, but you cannot let the sadness overwhelm you. You have to let it produce growth, and make you stronger. Keeping yourself abstained from love will only make you cold and harsh. Fear not the bleeding heart- my heart overflows with love, for my family and friends and now my campus, which is suddenly, startlingly, becoming my home. God meant for pain and love to coexist. We could not have one without the other.

    Here I have processed all I have seen and done over these past few weeks. Fall is fast approaching- the leaves are already falling from the trees outside of my dorm, and I'm itching to pull out my sweaters and boots even though the temperature is in the 70's. It will come with time, just like everything else. And I can't wait to see what God brings with the colors of autumn and the chill of the early-morning, New England air.

--Laura :)

Happy birthday to a friend

    We all have our people. Call them what you will- the Tribe. Squad. Harem. Beloved And Highly Exclusive Throng Of Favorites. One of my tribe, she's a gem, a tiny nugget of wisdom with a name that is an adjective that only God could have planned would describe her perfectly.

    They call her Grace.

    In the same way that the grace of God has shaped my life in a million little ways, so has Grace changed me in ways that can only be from God. She walks in the light, following Jesus and glorifying Him, all the while having fun and occasionally making mistakes, like you or I or any other of our fellow human beings.

    But Gracie, she's different. She does not need people. She is one of a handful of teenage girls who doesn't have to ask if she looks beautiful, because she listens to God. God, who tells her she is, of course, more radiant than the sun, and that her beauty goes deeper than her golden hair and the light in her *Asian* eyes.

    Grace is secretly good with people. She says she has an aversion to them, making regurgitating noises in her throat when we talk about boybands and the moral decadence of our fellow young women. But, I have seen her reach out in compassion- quietly, rightly, just how she does everything else. I have been soothed by her while I cry, overwhelmed by my own existence and the cruel edges that have cut me in this fallen world. I have witnessed her makes small talk and give children the giggles and diffuse her seemingly endless supply of patience. She can avoid leaving the house, introverting as much as she pleases, but I know her capacity for idiots, and it's very high.

    One of my favorite things about Grace is her sense of humor. When you know someone for more than your whole life, your mothers having met in a church nursery when they were simultaneously pregnant with children who were neither of you, your brains seem to grow together. And it is both the most wonderful, yet freakiest thing that has ever happened. It has reached the point where I can say one word, look at Grace, and share a dark bout of laughter, because our minds have fused together so seamlessly that the same things remind us of the same things- a private joke, a childhood memory, an obscure fandom reference. She is my mental Siamese twin, for which I am eternally grateful.

    Gracie is a conundrum, a lovable bundle of contradictions. She is both sunshine and the silver moon, a beautiful piano concerto and the silence at dawn before the world wakes up, a productive young woman and a surly teenager who has to be dragged out of bed for school. And I know in my heart of hearts that she will go places. God could not have created this much talent in one person to not have her go out and impact the world.

    She turns seventeen today, but when I look at her I see all of her past ages- 6 years old, make-believing Robin Hood's Children at Lyman Orchards, pretending to be the oldest son who dies taking care of everyone else while we contract scarlet fever. Aged 11, hair parted down the middle, her hands shoved in the pockets of a hand-me-down hoodie. 14, suddenly a very bright, budding pianist. Where has the time gone? It's still there. Our past selves live on inside of us, and as Grace enters her senior year of high school she goes with her name- grace. Dignity. An everchanging person with imprints from her former selves forever etched into the essence of her being.

    So, happy birthday to one of my favorite people of all time. Here are a few things to make you laugh, cry, and maybe have a fantastic year. I love you, Grace-with-the-beautiful-face. DFTBA.

Throwback to our jean jumper, bad haircut, chubby-kid-with-the-inhaler days.

for your feelings.

I couldn't not add this :)

The best GIF to ever GIF

because you do :)

Because God is changing my life through this guy^^

You know that's right.

our boys!

--Laura :)

Ebbing and flowing.

    The sea came to me today. I love how the ocean does its thing- it stays just where it is but it also does not, ebbing and flowing upon the sand in a fashion that is consistent, yet so capricious, at the same time. It makes a calming, soothing noise, seemingly harmless in its tone yet alluring like a Siren's call to a weary sailor like me (except I am a sailor of the high seas of life, not the Atlantic).

    

    The ocean was calling, and so I answered, kicking my shoes off in the car and stepping barefoot into nature, the way God must have intended for us to experience His creation, for were not Adam and Eve unshod? I left the deep gray skies of the seaside town behind, turning my back upon the weather-beaten cottages and corner shops to embrace the neverending blues of sky and surf.

    The wind battered my face and hair and clothes with a wildly intriguing harshness. Already considered a small person by physical standards, I felt infinitely more minuscule as I stood against this turbulent breeze amid the howling storm. But I stood my petite, five-foot-three ground, tipping my toes into the coming waves and soaking up the beauty of the world that no camera filter could have rectified.

    

 And as I stood firmly planted on that beach I realized: oceans are symbolic of life, its ups and  downs and all of its in between happenings in general. The sea is constant, always there but everchanging, as full of light and depth and mystery as a handsome stranger. The ocean is life- sometimes habitual, sometimes unpredictable, but always there, repeating itself in cyclic fashion, over and over and over again.

    The rain began to fall in big, fat raindrops, rippling into the tide but never deterring its purpose. And I had a minor epiphany: even the sea gets rained on. In all its majesty and playful dauntlessness, even the sea has storms. And the sea stands its ground. It does not cripple under the pressure of the falling skies above; it keeps doing its thing. It gets a bit bigger. It gets a bit rougher. But ultimately it thrives, even when the hurricane comes and leaves destruction in its path.

   And, if the ocean can do it, why can't I?

    --Laura :)

Don't call me cute.

    Hey, you.
    Yes, you. This is for you. And by you, I mean anyone reading this post.
    I have something to tell you.
    Don't call people cute.
    Or rather, call them cute with the best and purest of intentions, because some people -myself included- could take it personally.
   
     I get it, guys, I'm adorable. I'm built little and my eyes are big and puppy-dog-like and I have a high-pitched voice and a cute smile. I do cute things like knit hats and giggle and wear skirts.
   
     But I, much like many girls and guys my age, have the audacity to believe that there is so much more to me than my own cuteness.
    
    Synonyms for cute include "darling, dear, delightful, sweet, adorable, good-looking, handsome"- and not that there's anything wrong with being any or all of those adjectives, but what about being praised for something more, something deeper than my harmless sweetness?
    
    Because believe me, I am not cute all the time.

    My best friends can and will describe me as a sarcastic, mama-bear-know-it-all with an extreme coffee dependency and zero tolerance for people who don't have their lives together. I get frustrated when it rains and I can't run, when I don't know how to spell a word, when I use the wrong "your" or "you're." Sometimes, I don't shower for three days. I can make myself burp and any or all jokes about poop the human digestive system are right up my alley. 

    So, first of all, I'm not cute.

    I'm short-tempered, competitive, and stubbornly independent. I value harmony within myself and ignore people when they get on my nerves. I'm brave in any situation that doesn't involve the presence of earthworms. I'm confrontational, responsible, tough. And I'm not afraid to say that I really hate it when unsuspecting acquaintances think I'm "cute."

    What's so wrong with being called "cute?"

    Nothing is wrong with being called cute. It just depends on how you say it, who you say it about, and why you say it.

    How you say it: if one more person tells me "aww, you're so cute!" in that annoying voice that my sister uses when she talks to dogs and babies, I will throw up on them. I know I'm short, but I also know I'm not ten anymore. I'm a college-bound woman who occasionally says "dammit," so leave me alone or call me by a less condescending, demeaning adjective, please and thank you. Call me cute for my good looks and vast knowledge of Jane Austen novels, but never because I'm vertically challenged.

    Who you say it about: why is it when we say guys are cute, we mean they're physically appealing, whereas when a girl is called cute it almost always has to do with her being little, childlike, innocent? I'm not a feminist. I'm just a person who thinks that men and women are equal citizens and deserve to be treated that way. Jesus thought the same thing too, you know. He used so many women in the Bible to do things for His glory, and while He used a few in their beauty and innocence, in that they were powerful. So be careful who you call cute, because me and my fellow cuties know how to manipulate you because of your distorted paradigm.

    Why you say it: Are you calling me cute because my hair looks nice, or because you need to treat me like a child in order to feel better about yourself? There, I said it. Sometimes my elders can be like that, and with all due respect, how am I supposed to learn how to function as a grownup if you keep treating me like a child? I don't understand.

    I get it, guys, I'm cute. But I'm so much more than that. I am as much delightful as I am unlovable, just as sweet as I am snarky. And this applies to me as much as it does to countless other people. I am not playing the victim. I am merely standing up for myself and finally developing my nearly nonexistent backbone, stating that yes, I am adorable, and yes, I would like to think I deserve to be treated as something more than that.

    Then again, these are only the thoughts swimming around in the overcrowded head of a tragically typical teenage girl, so what right do I have to say this anyway?

    Enough. I have had enough and I have enough of a right to say so.

    --Laura :)

One cold Sunday afternoon in late June

    It was in the cold June of the summer between my high school and college years, the end of all things familiar and the beginning of everything unknown, when I sat contemplating the next few weeks, and I saw them all spread out long in front of me, yet I felt they were so fleeting that I could gather the days in my cold little hand with minimal effort. Eight weeks between all I've ever known and the wild blue yonder called The Future. Eight weeks- sometimes I felt bored with so much time on my hands, yet at the same time the brevity of those weeks ate me up with angry sadness. I knew I was ready to leave. Mom told me she thought I was ready the night before, as she sat in the golden sunset light eating a makeshift Saturday supper, watching me ready some University health forms for the mail. "I'm not worried about you," she said, plainly and without tears, in the strong, resilient way she has mothered me for these past eighteen years and five months, "I can't wait for you to go to college."
Me either, Mommy. I still get to call you Mommy, right? I know I'm practically a college student, an adult, in the prime of my vitality and intelligence, but the scared little girl without any friends still dwells within me, warring against my present self with devilish revulsion. I still need my Mommy. I still need to cry in the shower. Along with all of that, I need to leave. I need to fly. I crave the overwhelming growth that can only come from leaving this comfortable nest I have burrowed down deep in for nearly nineteen years.
But I'm still scared. Being a grown-up means being scared. A lot. More than anyone ever lets on.
But I'm ready, so ready to be scared and challenged and do hard things.
All Things Familiar were nice, but Everything Unknown will be the best years of my life. I'm glad whoever said that high school is the time of your life was lying- if that were true, I wouldn't be ready to move on. But I am, and that is what it realized on a cold Sunday afternoon in June.

--Laura

(P.S, I love this song. Even it helps me sometimes:)

Also, Hank Green is my favorite adult who looks like a 12-year-old

Nobody told me.

    The older I get, the more time I spend growing up, the more I realize how much I just don't know. I'm told I'm very smart. Someone somewhere gave me that label and sometimes it goes to my head. But the more experiences I have in the Real World, the more I wish that label would go the heck away. I don't want people to think I'm the Smart One. Firstly, I hate stereotypes and every sub-label associated with them. Secondly, I know nothing.
    Absolutely nothing.
    Is my stupidity my own fault? Yes and no. I am very young and sheltered and give people a lot more room than I should. That's just me. I'm like that, and I'm only now starting to be okay with who I am.
    I could play the Blame Game. I could say that although I have an innately high level of respect for my elders, adults are full of contradictions. They tell you to grow up and act mature, but they don't tell you how. They hide all the secrets and uncertainty of Adulthood. Nobody tells you about the different kind of hard you experience when you start making your way on your own. Nobody tells you how often you have to compromise, and the heartbreak that comes along with difficult choices. Nobody tells you how much of a mess everything will be, how sometimes you feel like you are juggling flaming tennis balls while riding a unicycle, and just when things can't seem to be any more stressful, you can't run to your mommy with every issue. You have to just deal. You have actual responsibilities, accompanied by serious consequences and lots of grueling paperwork. Your parents aren't always going to be there to kiss it better, and you don't realize how much you loved their smothering until they can't smother you anymore and you have to miss it.
    Maybe the grown-ups told me. I probably didn't listen. Pubescence hits and you stop listening to adults until the adults no one listens to are your colleagues, your bosses, your aging relatives.
    You could say I'm complaining, but I am not. I am confessing. Confessing that I was wrong, that adulthood is not happily-ever-after and crimson sunsets and family dinners every night. It may look like that, but under the surface it's a mess of oxymorons, a gray place where people fall in and out of love and the monsters you thought lived in the dark of your childhood bedroom relocate to your head. It's plain hard. It's rough and mean, and the more you know the more you wish you didn't.
    "In much wisdom there is much grief, and increasing knowledge results in increasing pain." -Ecclesiastes 1:18. I like how even the Bible has something to say about the grief that comes with knowing. God knows. He's the only one who really understands everything. And if it pains me to know what little I know, then I cannot even fathom the heartbreak our Creator must experience. I want to be like God, to follow His example, but I do not want to be Him. Thankfully He sent His son to die for our sins, that I may not feel the unbearable weight of knowing, basking in the glory of Him and His extravagant love and grace instead.
    These are my thoughts. I am still growing, forever changing and learning. I have to be strong, able to learn the ugly alongside the beautiful. And if I am weak, if I crumble under the weight of evil in the world, then am I not like everyone else? Am I not just a confused young woman, both grateful and furious because nobody told me?
    I don't know. I really don't know. And I have to radically trust my heavenly Father to carry out His plans and continue to deliver me, even when what was black and white smudges gray.
--Laura :)
   

Love and madness.

    Growing up is a scary thing. One minute I'm a mess, the next I'm able to look back with a bittersweet smile and see how far I've come. I've been in the looking-back phase lately, and it has come to my attention that I have quite fallen out of love with the idea of being in love.
    When I was younger, I felt like I always had to like some boy- whether he was my friend's older brother or a character from a book or movie. It was a cycle that ended very messily a couple of years ago, when I woke up to the fact that 1) my behavior was destructive to me mentally and emotionally, and 2) it was seriously getting in the way of my relationship with God. So I stopped. Not right away- I ripped the metaphorical Band-Aid off all at once and boy, did it hurt like Hell. It took me a long time to heal, to find something else to focus on, to fill the void in my mind that had once been captivated with thoughts about boys and love and relationships. Thank God He brought me out of that dark place, that I might be more in love with Him than the idea of some boy or another that I barely knew outside of my head. "But by the grace of God I am what I am, and His grace\to me was not without effect." -1st Corinthians 15:10 is a verse that I seriously love, and feel practically applies to how gracious God has been to me, and how little I deserve His grace, throughout this messy process.

another translation of this verse that offers somewhat of a different perspective and I kind of love it :)

   I used to be in love with being in love. Actually, let me rephrase that- I was in love with my idea of love. A flimsy idea involving an emotional Prince Charming riding in on a white horse to rescue me from every insecurity and meet my needs with perfect words and kisses on my forehead. I seriously expected every boy I had a crush on to be like that, and because of that I did a lot of damage to myself, as well as to whatever poor boy I liked who didn't kiss my hand or tell me I was lovely. My expectations were so high, and I was so naive, and because of that I ruined too many chances and cried too many tears.
    Looking back I am sometimes ashamed and full of regrets, but I am learning to forgive myself. I really didn't know any better, I was a selfish young teenage girl with her head in the clouds and her heart pledged to a boy who never existed. Now I know that real love isn't waiting for some perfect person to come around and make you happy. True romance isn't needing someone more than you need air, it isn't lovestruck poetry or a wedding band on your finger. Real love is practical; it's putting someone before yourself and working hard because God gave you this one person to love, maybe for forever, and He doesn't play around when He puts people in your life. Love is helping, sacrificing until it hurts because your soul and the soul of your significant other just seem to get each other. There is a certain degree of waiting involved, but not the passively-staring-out-your-window, looking-for-your-prince-to-take-you-off-to-Narnia type of waiting. I think it's a calm sort of waiting, the kind of patience which requires a lot of self-respect and self-control, as well as the motivation to live your life to the fullest, knowing that every day might bring you one step closer to meeting your person halfway but not focusing all of your energy on that hope. It may sound cliche, but true love is a verb.
    At least, these are all my thoughts on love, and I have never really been in love with a guy. These words of mine have come from some years of hard learning- learning from my mistakes as well as the mistakes of others, from taking advice on relationships as well as occasionally giving it. This is my view of love at the moment, and that might change, next week or next year or maybe never. God only knows how right or how wrong I am.
    Am I still a hopeless romantic? Yes and no, because my definition of Romantic is different now. I am no longer in love with being in love, because now I am starting to see love as a serious commitment, and I am not exactly ready for that at all. Maybe it's part of becoming an adult, or maybe my hormones are finally calming down, but when I think about love now it is not in daydreams about my first kiss or my wedding day. It's in touch with reality, in practical thoughts and prayers on how I can guard my heart for now and work towards being a tolerable spouse someday. Maybe everything will change when I find my Person, maybe then it will be easier to think about marriage and everything before and after. But, for now? I'm young and unattached and single as a Pringle. And thank God for that.
--Laura :)

some imperfect thoughts on empathy

    I'm listening to some very poignant piano music I only just stumbled upon somewhere deep within the reaches if the Internet, and it has inspired me to abandon my responsibilities to schoolwork and friends by writing on this blog.
    Truth be told, Paul Cardall (the fantastic pianist I mentioned in the above paragraph) was not the sole reason behind what my conscientious self calls a rebellion. My heart has been heavy lately, and for once it is not because of my own insecurities. I've been chalking all of my recent growth up to entering adulthood- empathy is something you learn as you get older, right? I think I have always been an empathetic person, and it is only now as I become a *shudders uncertainly* woman that I realize what it really meant all along.
    I'm used to the weight of my own issues being heavy. But when bad things happen to other people, in my selfishness I bear their burden, usually without being asked. This is just how God made me, and I am starting to understand that it's okay to be this way, and I should not be ashamed when someone else's demons bring me to tears.
    I am also starting to understand that everyone processes their grief differently. I for one am a talker. I have to talk about things in order to process them; I usually cry while I talk about whatever it is too. My dad, on the other hand, is not like that at all. It's almost painful to watch him make a conscious effort not to talk about his feelings when he's upset. Today, for example, he had to drive me halfway across the state to take care of some college-y business in his hometown. Since it's my grandmother's birthday I suggested that we visit her grave while we were in the area. And so we entered the cemetery under the deepening blue of the April sky, and we hunted for my grandparent's dual headstone, finally finding it nestled as always between the little prickly bushes my dad planted himself after my grandfather died. We stood before their graves, no flowers or gifts to leave as a token of our visit. Dad kind of started to cry, and I started crying because I'm a sympathetic crier, and when one of your parents cries it's really hard not to start crying too, because you know something is really wrong or sad when even your biggest sources of comfort cannot keep it together. But Dad said nothing and started walking around, finding graves of old family friends and neighbors. All I wanted was for my daddy to explain his grief or hug me or something, but like I said, Dad is not a talker. And in that small moment in the cemetery I realized: sometimes you just need to let sad people be. Not everyone expresses their emotions, and sometimes the best you can do is just be a shoulder, a silent presence while they cry it out.
    But you can be there for someone too, if they let you. Even if you are incapable of offering a physical shoulder for them to cry on, you can still send them a note or a text that simply says "listen, I don't totally understand what you're going through, but I still love you and I'm praying for you and if you need anything, I'm here." Sometimes, that is just enough.
    For me, sharing the grievances of others is a humbling experience. It makes me realize time and time again how sheltered I am, and how grateful I am to God and my parents for sheltering me, preserving my innocence for as long as possible so that I may be ever more sensitive to the issues of others when I learn of them. It has also come to my attention that I do not, in fact, know everything- I know next to nothing, tragically. And most of the nothing that I think I know has to do with my prejudices against other people. I judge people too readily, which is probably why I am so often brought to my knees when I learn of the struggles of those around me. Empathy makes me realize how little of a person I am, yet reassures me of the greatness of the God whom I hope to emulate with my whole life.
    So, the moral of this post? Firstly, piano music makes me want to change the world, pursue my passions, and fall in love. And also, it's okay to get emotional for other people, to be happy for them when they are happy and sad for them when they are sad. Some people need to know when you feel for them, and others would rather not. But don't be afraid to shed a tear or say a prayer when someone else's problems become too much for your heart to bear.
--Laura :)

thank God He has a sense of humor.

    The Bible says in Ecclesiastes 3 that there is a time to laugh. And who am I, as a young Christian with an honestly inconsistent fire for her faith, to ignore that profound truth?
    I love to laugh. There are so many funny things in life, and happy things, and things that are so perfect that I cannot help but giggle with joy. There are funny cat videos on Tumblr. And conversations I have with my little sister as we lie half-asleep on our bunks in the midnight darkness- if anyone overheard us they would instantly think us insane (and be mostly correct). And endings to my favorite movies, when the good guys win, or the boy kisses the girl as the music swells, or everyone dances and parties at the wedding, and I hug a pillow on my couch, my eyes shining like the utterly ridiculous romantic I truly am underneath my mask of cynicism and lame science puns. And laughter bounds out of me- sometimes high and girlish, other times without a sound as I breathlessly bend over, reveling in honest mirth.
    I firmly believe people tend to take themselves too seriously. I can say this with conviction, because as a tragically typical teenage girl I know what it is to make my so-called issues a stubborn part of my identity. Not to say that there aren't people whose lives are actually riddled with problems, but regardless of how sad things may be, we get beautiful sunrises and sunsets every single day- isn't that amazing? And parents have adorable toddlers who say the darndest things, and don't we all laugh at their innocence? And lovers get proposed to and married all the time- do we not laugh with them in their joy?
    There is so much humor and happiness to be found in everyday life. Like when I hear a new song and listen to it on repeat until it becomes my own. Or when I hear my little brother singing along to his iPod, alone in his room. Or when my mom's family gets together (enough said; they are more entertaining than cable).
    When I watched Les Miserables for the first time, the message I got out of it was: life sucks, but there's always tomorrow. And that's true. Whatever you may be going through could be enough to make you crawl into the fetal position and sob loud. But, darling, there is always hope for tomorrow- better yet, there's a little hope in the here and now. Hope for the present is everywhere- in the sarcastic banter between old friends, and hugs that lift you off your feet, and family drama you can reminisce over for years to come. So don't be afraid to laugh. It makes everything easier to bear and usually sets people at ease. Develop a uniquely hysterical sense of humor and don't be reserved with it. It's okay to be inappropriate and immature every now and again- you'd be surprised how many people's days can be made with a bit of middle school bathroom humor. There. I said it. And you should say it too.
--Laura :)

I'm a bad writer.

Hey.

    I'm a bad writer. I'm inconsistent and shabby at best. I keep my thoughts bottled up inside until they boil over into some confusing mess. Writing has always been very cathartic to me, soothing to my soul like cool water on a fresh burn. So, why do I put off posting on my blog, and writing down my prayers before bed, and jotting down the things I find inspirational in my everyday life?

    Essentially, I am a tragically typical teenage girl (young woman? I've reached that awkwardly vague part of my life when my age ends in -teen but I'm legally an adult). My priorities are spending time with people who make me feel good about myself and thinking too much about things that will never happen. I like to think I'm much deeper than most my age, that because I like to read books sometimes and have a bit of natural beauty, I must be complicated and wise beyond my years. I think my thoughts are startlingly brilliant, like I am the only one who sees the world the way I do. Then I go on the Internet and discover that I am just like every other Christian white girl in the world- awkward, emotional, and in love with being in love.

    So I put off my writing. I say, "after I take this exam," or "after I get home from this or that trip." Telling myself I'll get around to it feels almost as good as actually getting around to it. And then, I actually do it, and I ask myself why I let myself avoid it for so long.

    I've realized we tend to survive by hoping for the things we want and avoiding the things we need to do. Thinking about future events, the excitement and even the worry, keep people going. I'm looking forward to graduating. After that I'll look forward to going away to school in the fall. And after that I'll look forward to figuring out what God wants me to do with my life. It's a frenzied, but sadly pointless, cycle. And while we are hoping we are avoiding doing the right things in life- the hard things. Things like saying what needs to be said, even when we cannot anticipate the reactions of the people who hear our words. Or being really, selflessly humble, or trying something new. And while there is nothing wrong with hoping for the future for the right reasons, avoiding what we as people are called to do can have a dangerously lasting effect, on our own lives as well as the lives of those around us.

    So, don't put off doing what may seem hard, or boring, or controversial. Don't wait until the last possible moment to accomplish what God may be calling you to do. I'm not saying you shouldn't ever do what you love, only that what you're afraid of doing might be what you love. Don't be like me. Don't be a bad writer who thinks what she loves is a chore, only to finally get around to it and end up being pleasantly surprised by the burst of joy she feels when her words transcend every inexplicable thought jumbled up in her mind.

--Laura :)

New Year's Lists

Happy New Year!
    Does the fact that it's actually 2014 seem surreal to anyone else, or is it just me? I keep thinking, "Wow, this means 2004 was ten years ago, and a hundred years ago the world was on the brink of the Great War (the latter according to Downton Abbey, my most trusted source of historical facts next to my brother Ben, and Wikipedia)."
    As 2013 brings itself to its hectic, too-fast close, and we open to the fresh, blank page of the New Year, I have been thinking over the past 365 or so days, and how I have changed. It makes me feel victorious yet sad. Just last night I looked through my college folder (I am also a very accomplished nerd with an overstuffed folder of everything related to higher education) and realized how old I am, how who I am right now is pretty close to who I will be for the rest of my life. I'll probably never get any taller, and unless I become a pack-a-day smoker my voice will most likely stay the same until I REALLY grow old. Who I am at seventeen could be little different than at seventy-seven.
    So I made some lists. Lists I created to hopefully help me grow, or look at myself in a more positive light, or get out of my comfort zone. And here they are, for the whole world to see, on the blog which I created, ironically, for the very same reasons as my  New Year's Lists:

Things I accomplished in 2014:
-traveled a bit (pretty much Boston, Pennsylvania, and Cape Cod. Yeah, my life is that boring)
-met some pretty awesome new friends, strengthened relationships with old ones, and stopped chasing ones that were just not good for me 
-got taller (I'm officially five foot three! Just one inch below the average American woman baby;)
-drove a car
-stood where the river meets the sea
-went cliff-diving (which was not as impressive as you think but just as exhilarating)
-went on a missions trip <3
-went on a roller coaster for the FIRST TIME EVER!!

 Things I hope to accomplish in 2014:
-my first semester of college (hopefully without gaining the Freshmen Fifteen)
-travel a bit more, hopefully off the East Coast for the first time
-make new friends (but keep the old, one is silver, one is gold;)
-sing and dance and laugh a lot more
-grow (this has to do with my spirituality, as well as my underaverage height)
-cut and donate my hair (for those of you who are tired of me and my very long locks, its for a good cause I swear! As for the cut, I hope to go for something like Anne Hathaway's in the movie Valentine's Day [knowing full well that cutting my hair like her will not make me look like her])
-run more, perhaps in a 5k (I figure by writing about running for all the world to see that I'll actually motivate myself to do so)

And I was going to make a list of Reasons why 2014 is going to be the best year yet, but then I found this John Green video which pretty much sums up what I have to say on that subject:

    Today is January 6th. We are almost a week into a new year, one that hasn't been experienced yet- isn't that phenomenal? I have been thinking that perhaps a new year is a good beginning, a time to put things right, a time to forgive. Of course, there will be things I won't be able to change from last year, but there are plenty of things I can hit the Reset button on at midnight on the last night of the year. So why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I put myself out there, and banish bad habits, and strengthen my relationship with God? I am so excited to see what the future holds, which goes to show how far I've come in twelve months. 
    Can a year make a difference? I think so. Anything can happen if you make it happen.
--Laura :)