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 :)