Perfect Imperfection

Most Sunday mornings I feel the need to look absolutely perfect in order to go to church. So this morning before I left the bathroom, I grabbed the fingernail polish remover so that I could take the two-week-old nail polish off of my fingers. It didn't quite go with my outfit. It ruined the perfect-ness.

On the way to church, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to take it off. I had a momentary freak out, but then I realized it wasn't that big of a deal. It was an imperfection, but maybe I could deal with it. I have to admit that it bothered me more than it normally would, and it really made me consider some things.

I have a tendency to try and make up for the imperfections on the inside of me by trying to look twice as perfect on the outside. The more screwed up I feel on the inside, the more put-together I insist on looking on the outside. I don't understand this.

My nail polish bothered me this morning, because I was afraid it might give evidence to the fact that my heart is hardly beating. I had everything else together, and I was ready to put on the act. This is so bizarre, because I go to a church full of people who are admittedly imperfect. And yet, when it is really truly coming apart at the seams for me, I feel the need to cover it up with my outward appearance. I don't know how to not hide.

It's now the end of the day, and my nail polish is still there. I give up; I can't hide it. I've found myself screaming out loud to my demons at least twice today, and I can only hope that my constant (purple) reminder will go to show that I definitely don't have it all together. This is something I don't know how to admit without turning people off, but maybe I can learn.

The only perfect part of me are my obvious imperfections. I don't have it together. I don't know what's going on right now. I'm not sure who I am. And I am definitely not ok.

And that's a start.

Paisley!

I came home from babysitting last night, and there was a box of dog bones on the kitchen counter. I thought that was interesting, because Bryan and Jessica had been talking about going to the pound and looking at dogs. When I turned around, there was a bowl of dog food on the floor. Hmmm....

I went upstairs to investigate, and texted Jess and asked her if we got a dog. She came walking out of the bedroom to meet me. And this is the next face I met. World, meet Paisley. She's cute, I suppose. There will be some adjusting, but, we have a dog.


In other news, I went to the liquor store tonight to buy a bottle of wine, and I was not asked to show ID. That makes me nervous, being as I look about 16. It disturbed me. I mean, isn't it illegal to not card people who don't look old enough to purchase alcohol? Even if it is Antioch? Geez.

I hope everyone is having a good weekend! I have slept mine away. And a rainy Sunday will probably continue that pattern. Enjoy yours!

Loving and Leaving

Sometimes it is important for me to remember that it's ok to not have a plan, because God does. He knows what He is doing, and He knows where my life is going to go. There are days that I need to find comfort in that. He is holding me, and He will give me what I need to get to the next step. Good thing.

I have mentioned lately that it seems I have learned to cry. I forgot how for a few years, and I think it might be catching up to me. Most of my crying has occurred either in the car (my poor car has seen my worst moments!) or at work. And today I realized that my new(ish) job has been such a gift, because I have been so well taken care of through this trying time.

I have the honor and privilege of working across a half wall from a wonderful woman who shall remain nameless. She grew up in Iran, and upon first meeting her I wondered if I would ever understand what she talks about. She is a few years younger than my mother would be, and at first that intimidated me. Along the way, however, she has become one of my favorite people ever.

She always tells me that I am good at what I do, and that I am a good girl. When my babies drive me crazy, she takes them and calms them down. She cuts my apples up for me (because apparently I do it wrong), and she fixes my clothes when they need mending. And when I cry, she wants me to talk about why.

Yesterday she wanted to know why I haven't lived with my parents in so many years. For those of you that know me, you know that I typically have no problem talking about what is going on in my life. I have nothing to hide, and I often need someone to care. Rarely, though, will I talk about things that really hurt me in the past. Yesterday I was asked to.

It was a conversation that carried on for around an hour, over the racket of twelve babies. Somewhere in the middle I began to cry. I didn't know that there were things that happened so long ago that still hurt me so deeply inside. I didn't realize that these hurts may be the very things that debilitate me, and make me unable to have healthy relationships and unable to grow up and be independent.

Hi, my name is Joy, and I have abandonment issues. I don't trust anyone to never leave me. It has taken over my life, and I just now noticed.

Thank You, Jesus, for the unexpected wisdom that came flying at me in the form of my coworker yesterday. Thank You for the people I look at everyday that are willing to help me learn how to grow up. I can only wonder why I just now found them.

I am convinced that I will eventually figure out how to grow up. I am convinced that healing is possible, I just wonder why I keep missing it. I am convinced that I serve a God who has a plan, and that He may be the One who will never leave me.

I will be ok. I think...

Another "Relative" Term

For me, the definition of "family" is relative (no pun intended). I have had an unfortunate and awkward family situation develop in the last four-ish years of my life, and I would no longer consider my "family" to be the people I share blood with as much as it is the people that I share my life with. I have my reasons for considering my situation to be unfortunate. In in ideal situation, your blood relatives, the people you grew up around, are supposed to be the ones that you can fall back on. The ones that stand beside you through the storms of life. The ones that love and understand you, unconditionally. Unfortunately, it doesn't always turn out this way. Unfortunately things (or people) get in the way.

On Monday, while I was still in New York, I took it upon myself to randomly pop into the hotel that my step-brother manages. I took him by an extreme amount of surprise by just walking up behind him to say hey. He didn't know I was in town. He was a little bit beyond shocked. Like the last time I was in town and randomly snuck up on him, it was weird. We don't really know what to talk about. We know so little about each other, and our parents are married to each other. Weird. And awkward.

This afternoon, I called my dad to ask him to email something to me, and it occured to me that we are completely incapable of having a normal, just shooting the breeze conversation. It's all business. Last time I checked, being as this is the parent that raised me, it shouldn't be like this. But it is.

I went through a rough time a few months ago, and there were nights that I just wished there was a doorstep I could show up on, where the person on the other side would embrace me and take me in, like parents should do for their hurting children. I didn't have that, and it hurt.

I am grateful that God has given me chosen family to fill that place in my heart. I have had at least four surrogate mothers in the last four years who were willing to hold me when I cried, and listen to my stories of trying to grow up. I have had people try their hardest to fill in for what I no longer have in a real family, and I appreciate their heartfelt efforts.

It still saddens me, though, that I am missing out on so much. Holidays often bring me to tears, because there is no warm house to go back to, no cozy couch to sit on while catching up with family. There is no mother to answer life's greatest questions for me, or to guide me on how to be a good wife and mother. I do the best I can, but sometimes I am still reminded deep inside of what I am missing.

I had no intentions of this turning into such a long post, I have just had lots of thoughts since seeing my step-brother the other day of how family is more about who we share our lives with and who we can fall back on. It is not who we are forced to be related to, or what our parents marry in to. Family is a choice, and mine chose to turn the other way. So I'll take those willing to replace what I no longer have, and I will love them with all that is left in me. My friends are my family, and I think I like it that way.

The Taste of Tears

I firmly believe that God gives us everything we need to get through anything He brings us to. Going along with that, I am beginning to learn that He may not always gives us exactly what we want to get through it, but instead exactly what we need. He does know better than us, I hear.

I have cried more in the last three days than in the last three months. Little things, silly things, have set me off. A song, a facial expression, a word of hope. I have repeatedly dropped all the pieces I have been trying to pick back up, over and over again, all week. I am getting a reputation at work as the crier, which is definitely not who I am (or was?). Things just hurt sometimes, and I need someone to tell me that I'll get through this one, too.

Much to my amazement, and yet not to my asking, God has placed random people in my path to give me a word of hope. They have most definitely not been the people I was expecting, but I'll take it just the same.

And this afternoon, He really brought it home for me. My favorite friend at work came to help in my classroom this afternoon, and I took that time to pour out my heart on her. She looked at me, and told me I was crazy. She told me that I needed to just let it go, and trust that things would work out on their own., just the way they are supposed to. She said that I take things too seriously. Who knew that something so shallow, and so simple, could bring me back to sanity. I made it through the rest of the day.

Later this afternoon, I was holding a sweet baby who is always willing to hold me back when I'm upset. I lifted him to my face just to feel him there, and the tears he had been crying just moments before brushed across my lips. It was at that moment that I remember what tears tasted like.

Tears taste of the feeling of letting go. Tears taste of sadness held inside for a little too long. Tears taste of brokenness and sorrow. Tears taste of grief. But most importantly, tears taste of freedom. The freedom of letting your heart be lighter, and the freedom of letting other people see the pain. I had to be reminded of how tears taste, because it had been so long since I had tasted my own.

Yesterday I asked a friend if she thought that maybe there were some roads that we were meant to travel alone. She thought for a minute, and then replied, "Well, there was a reason Jesus sent them out two-by-two."

Thanks Kelly. And thanks for standing by as I learned that it's very healthy to know the taste of my own tears...

Questions and Answers

I think sometimes that I don't want to ask God the questions because I'm afraid I already know the answers. I'm afraid that they are the answers that I don't want to hear; the answers that will make it hurt deeper. I'm not running from the questions, I'm running from the answers. The sad part is, it doesn't matter how fast I run. It doesn't matter how well I cover my ears. It won't make His answers change, and it won't heal the hole in my heart. He's waiting for me to ask, so that He can tell me things that my heart already knows and refuses to accept.

And that. Hurts.

Behind Dark Glasses

I am convinced that one of the most exhausting things in life is pretending that everything is ok when the world is crashing in around us. There is nothing harder than putting on a happy face when it hurts too badly to even breathe. And yet, we do it anyways. We do it, and we do it well.

It all started with the first of at least seven "How was your trip?"s today. "It was good!", I would reply, not bothering to mention the part about not wanting to come home. The good thing about my job is that it keeps me busy enough that I don't have to think about my own life for a good number of hours, or at least that's what I told the sobbing co-worker whom I held this morning while she cried over the good friend that died yesterday. She made me grateful that I wasn't the only one secretly dying on the inside. And yet, I felt the need to keep the fake smile plastered on.

I knew it was falling apart when I was left in charge of a part of my life that I'm not so sure I want yet this afternoon. When my world falls apart, it does so suddenly, and I often have no warning of when it all might hit the fan. I got in the car to leave, and a song on the cd I was listening to, one that I have heard at least a hundred times, suddenly struck me down.

As you go your own way
Remember do not be afraid
'Cause you're right where you should be
In Capitol City

I lost it. I began to cry the way I cry when I have lost all hope. I cried for the fact that I haven't told anyone why I've been running so fast for a little over a month now. I cried for what happened to me that night, and for where it has now left me standing, in the dark. I cried because I was angry that I've been left all alone, without anyone to turn to or anyone to sit beside me while I cry over it. I cried because I'm lost, even though I know deep down that it's possible to find my way to where I need to be. I cried for all the times that I haven't cried about it.

A few minutes later I pulled into the parking lot to pick up Carson. I knew I looked awful, and I didn't want the questions, so I chose to leave on my sunglasses. I chose to hide the pain a little more, behind the dark lenses. On my way out of the car, I told Jesus that I was going to need Him to hold me through this. I don't have anyone else, and I need someone to hold my hand.

I walked into Carson's classroom, and told him that it was time to go. The little boy who always instantly goes racing down the hallway towards the door when I get there graciously let Jesus inhabit him for a few minutes tonight. He stopped walking, and I stopped beside him. He looked up and met my eyes, and a few seconds later, slipped his little three-year-old hand into mine, without saying a word. And so we walked, hand-in-hand, outside to the car. He's never held my hand before. Good thing I was still wearing my sunglasses, or he may have seen the tiny tears of hope that he brought to my eyes. Thank You, Jesus. I feel You there...