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 :)