Recollectin': Cruising Through Old Memories

I have been thinking about childhood memories recently. I have thought about their importance and their feel of purity and utter realness to life. As a child, you run around feeling invincible and completely unaware of all the bad in the world. As a child, you can have fun with a patch of grass or a riding a slide a million times without the thought of it getting boring. Everything is fresh and new and unexplored in the mind of a child. So, I just decided to dive head first into nostalgia and reminisce on the memories that my mind still holds onto.

- I started with my days in Kindergarten and I specifically remember my first day. Walking into the fluorescent lit room and Mrs. Pennington introducing herself. The intimidation of peers stares and the realization that my mom dressed me, head to toe, in this matching jean outfit. I think this is where I learned what embarrassment was.
- I remember playing Red Rover, Red Rover when I was a Brownie in Girl Scouts.
- I remember my babysitter in fourth grade. Her name was Mrs. Lisa and she had freckles like stars and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean Sea. Her candy giving was rare, but I think I thought that was okay. She was sweet as it was. She used to frenchbraid my hair before school and marinate my hair in water instead of hairspray. We used to play dress up and I would hang out with her sons, as her daughter was still a baby. This is probably where I became a tomboy.
- I remember in fifth grade when a girl named Marci was my best friend, and we had carefree days at the park. We would swing on the tire swing and climb across the monkey bars. I think a cute boy was involved. That is a foggy memory.
- I remember attempting to build a treehouse with my step-sisters. We did a fine job and spent most of our days up in the tree that held the piece of plywood with such gentleness. Kristen and Karmin were my step-sisters and my best friends... but that's all changed. I haven't spoken to them in years since our parents divorced.
- I recall when Graham Costa and Mark Derkas proclaimed they would have a soccer match to figure out who would be my boyfriend. This was elementary school and I later was given a talkin' to by Graham's mom over the drama. I still keep in touch with Mark.
- I like the memory of my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Skeeter. I hold a soft spot in my heart for her. She was an amazing teacher who even got me into reading Anne Frank. Mainly because she said I looked like her. Mrs. Skeeter used to offer candy and Moonpies like it we forever stood in the cashier's line. I am officially friends with her on Facebook and we just talked this year. She's still as wonderful as I remembered.
- I remember meeting my biological father for the first time since practically birth and it being the most awkward encounter ever. I was about 8 and he wanted me to call him "dad", but I had already been calling someone else "dad" for the past 8 years. It didn't go over so well with my conscience. He did buy me Selena stuff, though.

My memories do stretch further, but those are the most memorable thus far. Do you have any interesting ones that you can recollect?

Actions. Beliefs. Relationship.

Quite recently, I have been having these heavy thoughts of what it really means to be a Christian; a Jesus follower; one who will deny himself and takes up his cross to follow Him (Luke 9:23). I have not been questioning my thought of walking with Him, so do not get me wrong. I am merely asking what does it mean to be a real Christian - one who doesn't falter in their thinking when it comes to deciphering the right and the wrong, and one who really wants to have the genuine relationship that God longs for.

Just last week I had started "Searching for God Knows What" by Donald Miller and he makes incredible remarks, some of which I have already known and serve as reminders, but some come as an arrow. For example, in one chapter Miller says this:

"This God, and this spirituality, was very different from the self-help version of Christianity. The God of the Bible seemed to be brokenhearted over the separation in our relationship and downright obsessed with mending the tear."

This came as a reminder/arrow to the heart. I completely understand the relational aspect that God longs for, but the words that Miller chose - "downright obsessed" - in order to describe the longing, made my eyes open up. While I won't go into too much of the book - except to highly recommend it - I, thereafter, kept thinking about God's obsession over our relationship with Him. In the Old Testament it is found in Jeremiah where God's wrath is like a wavering tidal wave over Judah, and poor Jeremiah is sent in to tell people about this wave and the power of its crash if they don't clean up their act. So then I got to thinkin'...

Our actions are our beliefs.

Now, don't quote me on that, only because that actually comes from Miller's other book "Blue Like Jazz", but the truth of the matter is... our actions are our beliefs. As Christian's, we cannot and should not become stale to what the Bible, and ultimately, to what God says. If He truly is, and He is, obsessed with mending this broken relationship that happened at The Fall, then why do we insist on going on our way with a mere Jesus tagged onto our clothes. Why should we let our Christianity become a sweater that can be worn one day to fit in here or there and the next day, we can remove it because we are around a different group of people. That does not describe the character of Jesus. It does not give truth to who God is.

Honestly, the biggest thing that gets me is that, because we as Christian's can be labeled to be "Holier than thou", those who do not know God, nor want to know God, become immediate watchers. Christian's are on the field, while we have a crowd of spectators seeing the next time we mess up in order to chalk up another excuse on why not to believe in God. I think the worst of the matter is is that we Christian's do mess up, and will mess up because we are nothing more than humans. So the onlookers see that and will not realize that our failures, most of the time, shape us. I guess that's where the humility comes into play. Not pride. We admit that we do not have it all together, it's a daily process, and it's trial and error sometimes, but at least we know God is hand-in-hand with us.

So while that is the worst of the matter, I speak more to those of who become the fence riders. The ones who get it, but don't care enough to get it more. The ones who don't see the obsession that God has with that relationship and in return, become stale to it. The ones that give off a bad reputation of God. That is what gets me. I wish we as Christian's would all wake up to the fact that we are representatives of the Lord. It should serve as a reminder each and every day. I know some days I am clicked back onto it - I mean, really, I work at a law firm... I should just have it tattooed on my arm for a reminder.

I am not sure if this all made sense. I think I just wanted those of you who do read this and see my blurbs about God, to know that I'm sorry if you have ever received a bad taste in your mouth towards church and towards Christianity. I think you should know that God is bigger than us and we try, we really do. There are Christian's out there who will love you through and through as we are told. You are not judged and should never be; we all would have to take the plank out of our own eyes before that could ever happen. There is a longing for a relationship between you and God and it's real. It is the realist thing that you could ever encounter. Sometimes it takes years to realize it.

It took me 18 years to finally get it, but 19 years for me to stop being a fence rider and to wake up to this relationship, and to finally take up my cross and follow Him. Daily, my actions are becoming my beliefs.

Ball-kick

Have I ever expressed how much of a blessing it is to be involved as a leader in a high school ministry? Not only a blessing in a way that God turned my story around to glorify Him and to help other struggling teens, but... because we can play Leaders vs. Youth Redneck Ball-kick (or Kickball for the one who isn't redneck).

I give you, Reformation Redneck Ball-Kick 2010:

Leaders

Youth

Leaders won :)

Film Dabbles

I have been dabbling in film photography lately, and finding out that it can be extremely tough. Although, slightly exciting and mysterious at the same time.

I yam.

If you've ever visited the dentist, you can probably attest to the fact that it is incredibly difficult to have a full-out conversation with the person working on your mouth. I, however, have to say that I have just experienced a dentist appointment in which a full-out conversation did in fact happen, and not only did we converse in a manner in which the drool sucker (I attempted in Google search of what a drool sucker is called, but no such luck) was taken out for immediate answers from my mouth that was being cleaned, it was meaningful. I mean, I think I helped my dentist out with family problems. Who knows why he chose me to spill his family life on; I just hope I helped him.

Most of the conversation had begun its march after I talked about my dad and his absence in my little life - I told you it was deep - and then he kept saying I liked the subject of Psychology. This, I do not know where he got, but his assumptions were because I "analyze", which, to some extent, is true. I do know that I did leave the appointment with that feeling of Information Overload and decided to file it in my "That was strange..." file. But as I am drawing it back out, I have been analyzing why I am the way I am. I'd like to label this file "I yam."

Just this morning I texted my mom asking her what elementary schools I had attended. Unfortunately, with the moving every two years of my life, I attended approximately three or four elementary schools. I can only name a few - Oak Forest Elementary (TN), Fernandez Elementary (TX), Sanford Elementary (VA) - and I still believe I am missing one. I specifically remember a school where we had a greenhouse where we would do little hands-on projects. That was the first time I learned that these specific butterflies were only alive for about 11 days. This was after raising my little caterpillar, watching he/she turn into a beautiful butterfly, and setting it free in our greenhouse. You can imagine my surprise and my sadness as a third grader. I think I wanted to rescue it and have it beat the odds. I also remember attending a school where they beat kids with a paddle; I swear I can still hear a little boy scream as I walked past the office.

All of these little memories that my mind so vaguely stored has made me nostalgic. Not in a "wish I could do it all over again" way, but more in a sit-down-take-out-the-photo-album-and-spread-every-picture-on-the-floor type of way. It almost seems surreal to think about how I so vaguely remember my first day of Kindergarten or how I remember reading Anne Frank in 5th grade because her story inspired me... plus someone said I looked like her, so I had to find out who this girl was. It's these little moment of innocence that seem so precious to hold onto, because as we get older their distance becomes greater between each memory.


These memories, that were once reality but now enigmatic, have become my chemical makeup. I have taken something from each happening and my memories serve a purpose as to who I have become... or who I yam. It isn't an indepth analyzation of who I "yam" or who I am becoming, it is more of a skim of my little life and all the innocence that had surrounded it. My memories attest to just that.


I did leave with one comment that lightened the mood. Doused in a heavy accent, my dentist said: "You may look 15, but you act and talk like a 25 year old."

"...only diamonds remain."

I get in this specific mood when I am listening to John Mayer. In one of my favorite novels, The Special Topics in Calamity Physics (hint: it's not about the subject of physics), the main character, Blue, describes these certain moods as "Bourbon Moods" in reference to her father. Although my veins are not pumping bourbon - it's usually water - I do, however, feel that I am pumping with some kind of liquid. One that leaks nothing but words full of prose - sometimes poetry - and can only be shut off when I am brought back to the reality of what John Mayer is singing through my speakers. I am typically hooked to the beat; typing in furiosity with it, attempting not to lack in rhythm. It is only when that specific mood peaks and tips, I can get out what I feel or am aiming to feel.

My aim on this specific night, in this specific mood with John Mayer playing, is one that creaks like a footstep in an old house. That type of house that creaks only at the top of the stairs, and somehow every other step, so when you're trying to make your escape, you are given away before you hit the front door. Most of the time, someone in the household will flip on the lightswitch, ask what the heck you are doing and tell you to go back to your room. Then you will either:

A. Methodically think of another way to escape.
B. Try again in two weeks when it is no longer fresh in your mother or fathers mind.
C. Probably not attempt that again.

Granted, maybe you're an option "D." and you may conjure something beyond belief to escape. I do not know. I think I was more of an option "A." person back in high school. You know, that time before Jesus. That time where a moral compass was non-existent and logic was always emptied somewhere between my tripping in high heels that I was crazy for wearing or when I was covered in makeup too heavy for my face. It is this "beautiful" time in high school that I learned that I never was defined by anything. I instead put my definition into such things as alcohol and boys who would never remember my name unless they were bored and/or heartbroken by some other girl (I believe that is what one calls a "Rebound Girl").

To put it plainly, I was a messed up, trainwreck, lame excuse for a 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 year old.

I did not care about my image... or maybe I did. I think I cared in a way that Hollywood or Sunset Boulevard or "Who's who" cares. I honestly believed that my self worth was set into my group of friends who did the "cool" thing by getting a phone call of a local party or being able to get into a club VIP - when I wasn't even of age. These "friends", however much they listened to my venting, provided a good laugh, had great style, were not "friends". And I mean, honestly, who did I think I was? Given my body type even at the age of 21, I was even smaller then. I know I looked like a seven-year-old walking in high heels with poorly applied makeup speared upon my face. I was the Dollar Tree princess, trying desperately to be the one, with enough conformity, would become one of those who fit right into the Sunset Boulevard of the high school hallways.

I never did and crap... it was hard. It was hard to make these futile attempts and to never see the path I was following; the hole I was digging for myself. I was becoming the dead that would bury the dead. I was the epitome of everything I never wanted to be... it went so unrecognized. The incredible part in it all was that God was getting my attention through a lot of it. Of course, I did not see this through the blurred vision or through the blaring music of a party or through a stupid boy's pretty, petty, meaningless little words. I'll give you examples:

Getting caught sneaking out, wrecking my car, nearly losing a toe (not kidding), lies the smell of sulfur floating to the surface (my poor mother).

That is only to name of a few. I guess those are the more intense ones, and honestly, I do not know why I never picked up on them then. He was constantly trying to stop my footsteps (literally... that whole toe thing was terrible), and I never once considered that fact when I'd be sitting there every Sunday morning in church. Not once in the two years I had been there. It wasn't until graduation rolled around and my "friends" failed at making phone calls in my direction and my weekends were spent holed up in my room. I was alone. Utterly alone.

The Sunday morning it all finally hit can be described as that feeling you get during a Math problem or putting together some furniture with one too many bolts and screws - you ignored the instructions the entire time. I literally was like, "Oh, yeah... this is it." I finally received Jesus into my heart, but not only that, I literally wanted him to transform me. I wanted this to be real, and He did, too. Sure, I still messed up along the way. Being part of the world for those past 18 years was extremely hard to break away from. I had to cut ties that suddenly wanted back into my life and God really had to continue to work on me. I just had to be willing, and majority of the time I was. I started to feel real conviction. I started to understand what a moral compass is and God being the one direction, it was fantastic. It was a relief. I was so tired of doing it my own way. I was worn out from digging and never finding anything.

I think the worst part and the longest thing that had to work itself through was learning how to forgive myself. First, I had to have God work on that, then I had to cut out the people that kept wanting to remind me of the wretch I was. It took a long time... a very long time to forgive myself. But now, now it feels so amazing to not do this on my own.I know now the mistakes in my story have now turned around to glorify my God. He truly works everything out for my good.

As for the creaks in my house and constantly trying to escape, my repetitive and failed attempts in escaping were supposed to happen. God will be your creak when you're trying to get away, and He will always be the one to turn on the light and to tell you to go back. Don't resist. It is a beautiful thing. Even if you don't recognize it now.

One of the best ways to describe it is as John Mayer sings: "But this morning, there's a calm I can't explain. The rock candy's melted, only diamonds now remain."

Your orchestra.

And it gets to a point
when you're trying so hard
to latch onto
every positive note left.
Because.
Because every negative note
wants to be in your orchestra.

When the symphony gets louder
the notes become enraged,
and all you want to do
is play a love song;
a child to sleep;
a slow dance.
And the negatives, they
push and they pull.
They want their way.

But you,
you keep playing;
holding close to these positive notes.
Knowing they will rise higher;
they will play louder;
they will be heard.

Ride these notes to their highest.
To the peak
in which none can reach.
Your negatives will slow
and the defeat will stop.

This orchestra is yours.