Rain is a blessing in Price Hill. It’s the one thing that makes everyone head indoors instead of sitting stooped on porch steps, with a twist of burning weeds between their fingers with the volume turned up five hundred decibels. It makes the streets slick with perspiration on a summer night, shimmering slick with streetlights. And quiet, blessedly quiet, those few who venture out seem to breath a little deeper with some uncomprehensible reverence.

Such a night is tonight.

Poor Erik. And what a wonder. To deal with all my crazy and still here he sits, hunched over on the edge of my bed, dipping artichoke leaves into peppered butter, somehow content even after my earlier torrent of complaints and stresses and feelings of being overwhelmed. I told him last night when I was acting like a petulant brat and wanted to go to bed while he was still fixing the electric pro bono in the wee hours (I know-I’m a jerk.), that it was no fun dating someone who’s perfect. But I guess it isn’t so bad. He comes through in these moments and still loves with determination even when I know I must be driving him crazy. I can tell because I’m driving myself a little crazy too.

I’m not quite sure why everything seems to be so much right now. Certainly the battles I’m currently in training for are nothing in comparison to what God has brought me through already. But at that time I had armor. I was fortified through God’s great grace to bring me wisdom enough to seek Him, and in joy and humility. But as I am so apt to do, I’ve drifted off to sleep on the battlefeild with the cannons overhead as a lullaby. I’m disappointed in myself, but there it is.

But God is good and merciful and praise to Him that He is. It isn’t so much that the struggles are insurmountable, but I’ve lost my eagles wings. God will provide. And I call Him a liar when I refuse to believe that. And God’s will shall prevail, no matter what I think it should have been or how my perfect end translates. Sometimes it seems the most reckless thing of all to trust Him implicitly. But He is granting me the courage to do so.

I’ve been working on a pseudo-portrait of my mother and Natalie. It’s a piece that I’ve had at the back of my mind for the last year or so. I sketched it first, and was too afraid to go further. Then I cut out the pictures I drew and laid them on a canvas I intended for them. That lasted a couple of months. Finally, I put brush to paint and got about three seconds into the work before I was seized with nerves and an overwhelming failure complex and just gave the swear word up.

I took it out again today and realized the piece I had started is hopeless. It’s muddled and stiff and messy. I wish I could do them justice, but I just can’t with that to work with. So I’ve got to hit it again and reframe it, set about the work of disappointing myself again. Because how can I ever really do them justice? How can I paint the way I love them?

Bridget saw my cast aside canvas and told me she liked my “ballerinas”. I wanted to tell her but it seemed to deep that these ballerinas are supposed to be representations of the spirits of my two lost ones. It seems so melodramatic, probably. Maybe even like a lot of blubbering. Maybe it is a lot of blubbering. But even though time has piled up between us, sometimes it still seems as fresh as ever. And sometimes it aches more it seems because it’s ached like this so many times before. Like a bruise that sprouts when a certain place is forever being touched.

It made me cry a little though, drawing the bandages on my mother’s feet. She suffered so nobly. She comforted me about not having Natalie, even when I’m sure that she would have loved to have spent her last few months with her granddaughter. She told me I saved her. She compared me to a hero.

And Natty. Seeing my sweet baby and all the potential she has last month was such a blessing. Sarah and Tris are the people I would choose most to have her still, excepting of course myself. She walks, she talks, she counts a little, she even spells some. She loves words and her baby doll and washing herself with soap. God, how did I get to be a part of this little miracle? You bless me to overflowing.

And so I guess I wanted to say that the memory of these dear ones made me think of sad ballerinas. Although now that I say it, I don’t suppose that’s as true as I thought. There is joy somewhere in them. Even though I miss them and want them here with me. God is in it. And He will use all things for good. The encouragement and example of my mother, the possibility and potential of my daughter . . . God is gracious, even in grief.

So I will paint my sad ballerinas, and remember how God has brought me through to joy.

Read all about it!!! Here, of course!

So as often as I spend wee hours reading blogs, I haven’t done much in the way of writing blogs of late. I wonder why that is. I think in part it’s because Erik and I are spending so much (enjoyable) time together lately. If I want to ponder the mysteries of the universe or whatever, I can just torture him with a type of spoken word blogging, sometimes referred to as monologuing or even complain-rapping.

Still, that doesn’t seem to encompass it all. I think in part I write better when I’m left alone without distractions, but really, how realistic is that? Maybe part of it is that I’ve become less honest? Well, I should say, perhaps, less brazen in my honesty. Oh when will I ever learn that no one will ever read this anyway?! Not particularly flattering, but in the end, safe.

In Good News, I’ve gotten a job! I start the week after next and will be doing elegibility for daycare vouchers for the city of Covington. Exciting times! One more step in the right direction I suppose. Although as I was telling a few people recently, I’m a little nervous since not having a FULL time job for over a year. But, these things will come together I’m sure.

I sort of feel like I should be taking a little more advantage of these, my last few moments of freedom. But, I haven’t quite convinced myself of what that will entail yet.

I miss smoking indoors.

There are moments in life that are definitive and decisions that can never be revoked, altered, or forgotten. These are the precious seconds in which one life dies and another is born out of that death so that very little can even be salvaged from who you were before. Sometimes this is a blessing, as in a redemption or a realization. And sometimes it is terrible and a devastation that never fully heals. It is the second of these that I would like to address now.

First, an aside which will make more sense in a moment.

I began working on a story this past summer based in part on the experience of a dear friend of mine who found herself struggling with the Road Not Taken. In the case of my friend, the Road was a potential love interest that had never come to fruitition due to a variety of missed opportunities and things left unsaid. Of course, though, truth will out. And when she was confronted with the reality of what might have been possible had it not been missed only by a hair’s breadth, of course it grieved her. But she decided to go forward with her life as it was instead of being caught in eternal longing for what was not.

I emphasize “decided” because it’s imperative in the art of Moving On. In part because you can’t wait for yourself to feel better before you start healing and in part because it seems impossible to heal unless you decide to work determinedly towards it. It doesn’t just happen. Or at least not for me. I assume that’s generalizable, which may or may not be a real word.

At any rate, the reason I wanted to write this story is because . . . no matter what choice you make, you have to live with it. No matter what you would have done differently if you’d only been a little wiser or more aware or less traumatized, your life is what it is. And your choices will be what sleep with you at night, wrapping you up like a blanket, caressing you like a lover. If they were good choices, you’ll be warm and satisfied. If they were bad, you’ll feel that kind of cold and lonely in a way that gets in your bones and won’t be coaxed away.

But you have to live with it.

The ease with which some people seem to sail through life means nothing to me. The ease with which it seems all sorts of Good Things flood into their hands is passe. What do I care about what happens for them? What in the world could it possibly have to do with me?

Are there moments when I feel like whoever was doing the ladling out must have had a weighted spoon? Are there moments when I feel like I must be being treated unfairly? Sure, I guess. It’s unfortunate. But when I come to my senses, worrying about the distribution of whatever kind of wealth you want to measure is pretty useless. Because whatever someone else has or doesn’t have doesn’t make me have more or less. So what good is a comparison?

The truth of the matter is that God watches over me. And He doesn’t give me more temptation than I can withstand or responsibility than I can handle. His plan for and with me is different than his plan for or with anyone else, so the tools I need are different. And he provides for my needs, so much more generously than with the sparrow. He has a plan for me, and it is between he and I. I’m reminded of a passage in John 21.

¹⁸“Truly, truly, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to gird yourself and walk wherever you wished; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands and someone else will gird you, and bring you where you do not wish to go.” ¹⁹Now this He said, signifying by what kind of death [Peter] would glorify God And when He had spoken this, He said to him, “Follow Me!” ²⁰Peter, turning around, saw the disciple whom Jesus loved following them; the one who also had leaned back on His bosom at the supper and said, “Lord, who is the one who betrays You?” 21 So Peter seeing him said to Jesus, “Lord, and what about this man?” ²²Jesus said to him, “If I want him to remain until I come, what is that to you? You follow Me!”

When one envies, one buys into the world’s valuation, and God’s rate of exchange is rarely the same as that. The truth is that whether I have ten dollars to put back at the end of the month, or ten thousand, the one who takes care of me is God. Whether I live in a one room efficiency apartment, or a twenty five bedroom estate, the one who takes care of me is God. Whether I am single, or have a spouse and five beautiful children, the one who takes care of me is God. None of those circumstances limit the work that I can do for my Lord, although the most likely to interfere with my willingness to do so are the things that the world prizes. If I have affluence and social markers that set me up above someone else, I am more apt to believe that I have achieved these things by my own merits instead of God’s grace, just as the more comfortable I am, the more likely I am to be lulled to sleep. There is great value in being uncomfortable.

So at the end of all this, what I recognize is that . . . God can use all things for his glory, and that is what should give me pleasure. Not seeking the things of the world and pouting when I don’t find them. Or worse still, complaining that someone else has them. God works all things together for good for them that love him and are called according to his purpose. And I will be satisfied.

I recieved an email from my ex-fiance today to the effect of how he spent his holidays. Oh, to be sure, loves,  that information was sought and not offered. Regardless, apparently he spent his Christmas and New Year in Uganda on a mission trip. Also he mentioned a few months ago he has plans to shave his head for Bible money.

My first instinct is an eye roll, followed by some pretty lameass bitterness. Because he’s doing it, the mission work, the tough stuff of bringing hope to people he’d have never known otherwise but through this purpose. But moreso, because he’s doing it and telling about it. Because he’s always telling about it and it seems sometime that it’s about the work he’s doing and not the work He’s doing. But I have to check myself, because the point of the matter is that he is doing  it, and God’s work deserves to be done no matter who it is, right?  Genesis 50:20, right? “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good in order to bring about this present result, to preserve many people alive.” (Obviously, I don’t think Simon is intending the gospel as evil, but you get the idea.) (I think.) And so I have to fall on the mercy of God and ask Him to forgive me for being such a jerk (AGAIN) and thank Him for the glory He is using Simon to bring to Himself.

But it brings up an issue that must be guarded against, and something that I must remind myself to be vigilant in. The reason I felt bitter about this mission trip is that . . . I think it can be tempting when working to bring glory to God, to want somehow to share in that glory . . . even to the point of halfsies. One can think to oneself, Look at all this great stuff I’m doing . . . and aren’t I wonderful to do it so selflessly? And for God, to boot!

And though the work done is a blessing to those who are ministered to, I wonder if the person being used as a vessel gets much benefit.Isn’t it my job to be moved by God and blessed in such a way that His work is made visible to all the world? Doesn’t this little light of mine need to be fanned, because God works through me and not because of me? Isn’t it my job to be blessed by growing in faith and by overcoming the obstacles of following my Lord, even if I don’t get credit? Especially when I don’t.

There’s another side to these missions to Far Far Away. It’s also the matter of . . . going to the ends of the Earth to serve people when there are plenty of people to serve wherever one finds themselves. It’s self-gratifying, and it’s the easy way out. My sister was kind enough and just in her admonishing of me about this very thing a couple of years ago. Thank God for her wisdom. Of course we should preach the gospel in all the world, and we should be willing to do it whenever and wherever we are called. We should be willing to go. But we who think it would be so wonderful to travel across the world to do some saving must be even more mindful that we do it in all humility, because the people we tell will try to convince us we are amazing for doing it, and we are not. We are vessels. We may be the ones God chose to send, but He could have sent anyone. And much moreso, the ailing neighbor, the discouraged stranger, the long standing enemy, these are people we are called to minister to as well.

So, Lord, let me not be in such a rush to go to halfway across the globe when I am planted where I am at this moment for a reason, and everywhere is where there’s work to be done.

I suppose a more accurate term is sleepy face, but I’m having no luck in making that a reality. The sleepiness I mean. Or the face too, I guess, really.

Ahh the joy of pointless words.

So I did in fact go to Europe, and I did also in fact return which I’m even more excited about. Or maybe not. How romantic it would be to be stranded somewhere on the Continent for the rest of all time . . . and yet, I think to myself, What would I do without Paintball Blast ice cream? But more on that later.

I can’t sleep. This is probably the worst time in the world to write a blog, but what else am I going to do? Erik’s upstairs sleeping it off in my room so there’s no way I can dance party myself out of my insomnia in there. I tried to be responsible and go to bed on time, especially considerate of the fact that I have to work all day tomorrow. But to no avail. I laid in the dark for a while, came down and talked to Bridget and Kris till even they gave up and went to bed, laid in the dark some more, accidentally woke up the previously mentioned sleepover friend, then came downstairs to try to occupy myself with computing. I checked out Facebook at three in the morning. Yes, this is what my life has become.

. . .

I’m sorry you wasted your time reading this.

I am surfing the web to surf some foreign couch via the freeloader’s delight website known as www.couchsurfing.com. A pretty cool gig actually, and the people that my roommie Bridget has had usurping her couch space have always been groovy to the max. Here’s the real problem, and it’s a mathmatical one so get your thinking caps on (you can also feel free to use a graphing calculator for those who are trying to get their money’s worth from Geometry class).  Here goes: I leave the first of October. It is now the twenty fifth of September.  I don’t at present have any confirmations for sleepovers in foreign cities. Therefore, I am .  . . ???

Yes, it’s a word problem but I will use the numerical equivalents if that will help.

1 Oct – 25 Sept = 5 days

5 days + 0 leads for accomodation = :(

I’ve sent out two emails.

I know it’s easy to get discouraged when nothing seems to be happening, and even moreso when you really haven’t put forth enough effort to deserve things going your way. I am a procrastinator, I won’t lie. But, in my (weak) defense, I will say that part of the reason that it’s taken me so long to get on the ball is that I’m pretty sure the people that I would want to stay with (i.e. quadroplegic investment bankers with locks on the door who have no reason to or ability to follow through with stabbing me in the middle of the night) are totally not the people that Kristen wants to stay with (as in, hip young cool kids that like to listen to live music and raise a few).  What to do, what to do . . .

At this point, the answer has become: get in wherever you can. Wish me luck. And perhaps if I’m fortunate on a more grand scale, all this impassioned desperation will make me more prolific in the future. (Sorry for being somewhat AWOL of late . . . )

Apparently Billy Childish is actually a somewhat famous-ish singer/poet or something like that. At least, I guess, famous enough to be on YouTube although I guess that doesn’t really leave out anyone with a digital cameral of some sort. I digress. At any rate, I didn’t know  who he was when I went to see him in Belfast in 2001. I’m pretty sure one of my friends got the idea. I wish I could remember where it was exactly, the name of the venue or street or something, but I do remember it was in this sort of dingy intimate little room that was somehow part of a cafe? Maybe? He had this intense British accent and said all his “th”s as “f”s. As in, “It skehed me neawly dah deaf,” when he introduced a song.

At some point in the night, he recited this poem that I thought was truly mantra worthy. Something about being Billy Childish, the doer of something, the doer of other things. As you can tell, I’ve committed it impecably to memory. I did however write my own version of it: “I am Marianne, Writer of Prose, Drinker of Vodka, Kisser of Boys.” (It was . . . sort of true at the time.) But all this blathering on is really just a thinly veiled procrastination because what I really would like to say, which is: I still feel pretty childish.

I’m twenty nine years old, and I can barely make myself believe it. And it isn’t as though nothing has been happening in those years. There have been great joys and losses, hopes and acheivements-I mean, there have been acheivements, I’m almost certain. And yet . . . I wear a blonde wigs around for kicks sometimes. I collect glittery stickers, have lamps in the shapes of butterflies and daisies, and, I must admit, sometimes I can’t help but laugh at grown ups. I enjoy blazingly bright colors and purposefully refuse to get ones that match, expecially when it comes to home decor. Am I stunted or something? Is this how everyone feels in the days before they get married, start inching up the corporate ladder, produce offspring?

Is that what separates us from the adults? Is age something that you can measure by looking around and taking stock of the number of children you have or people you supervise? Is it something else?

I’ve embarrassed myself. And the worst part of it is that no one else agrees. It’s bad enough to do something stupid, or shameful, or stupidly shameful, without having to defend your idiotic and/or reprehensible action to everyone who finds out about it. Because then you feel crazy as well as disappointed in yourself.

Sigh.

I made a choice. I made a choice and it was a bad one but the reality is that it was a choice. This wasn’t the old Compulsion coming out again. Praise the Lord that He’s healed me from that.  And yet, apparently my flesh is enough of a salesman that it can get its way without it. I did it because I wanted to.

The Bible says to resist the devil and he will flee from you. But I haven’t been resisting him. I’ve been writing him love notes and keeping him steadily supplied with homebaked cookies. Uck.

I need to get my flesh in order. I will do it. I will, Lord help me.