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.

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.

Today I went to meet you but you were not to be found. I confess I’ve only gone twice, but even that seems like too much. It’s the place I think I will always least like to go. And it isn’t that I don’t miss you, or that I don’t think you’re owed such respect. Because, of course, I do miss you, and love you and it’s because of missing and loving you that when I show up and you don’t, I’m reminded again of just how far away you are. Maybe the fault is mine, because it seems like lot of people find some sort of final connection tied to that place. But it doesn’t seem to connect me to you; it just reminds me that you’re gone.

But I still trudged with Steph and Dad through the snow to gather with them around your name. Dad brought green carnations, and I pulled out the vase while he dusted off the stone, revealing the words, “Beloved Mother.” You are, you know. Beloved, yes, of course, completely. And one of the mommiest moms I’ve ever known.  It seemed the thing that brought you the most pleasure: spending time with us, running an eternity’s worth of errands with us, advising us, picking us up from college five hours away so that we could spend the weekend together at home, encouraging us, calming us, convincing us that whatever it was would not be the end of the world. That you could handle it, that whatever it was, that you could handle it. And even in those last few days, while your daughter grieved at your bedside, you somehow gathered the strength to wake up to ask her, “What’s the matter, honey?” I am still overwhelmed by that.

The trouble is that time just keeps going by. And it’s hard enough when I drive down 71 to Pfieffer Road and I go on autopilot to your old house or when I want to call you and tell you something wonderful or ridiculous or  . . . , and I realize I can’t. It’s hard enough to miss out on those things in the one day at a time, but it’s so much worse thinking about how you’re never going to be with me, here, again, ever. That you won’t see me get married. I remember you saying, when you’d tease me about being wild and coming home without warning with a husband, “I don’t care what else you do. If you get married? I’d better be there.” And that you won’t have a chance to enjoy really being a grandmother. I think of you cradling Natalie, in your lap, in the wheelchair and it’s so lovely and awful for so many reasons. You seemed so pleased to see her, you came every day to hold her. And you asked me to come  and stay with you after I got out of the hospital-you could couldn’t even take care of yourself by then, and you were still trying to take care of me.

The truth is that you’re in a place of perfect love and perfect peace. That makes me joyful and grateful. And we will not be seperated forever; our Lord will reunite us. I love and miss your humor, your “trump cards”, your crazy dog farm, your simplicity, your capability, and most importantly, your blessed company. I love you and will see you someday. Happy birthday to you.

Love-

Marianne

And that’s not the worst of it: I’m a dirty rotten smoker as well.

So I was talking to Trasy at work today while she was exposing the evils of diet soda, the medical model, and the flesh tearing consumption of meat and I decided . . . At least I’m almost certain I have? Yes, I’ve decided to take it to heart.

But I brought six cans with me to work to refresh myself throughout the day so I said I would give it up tomorrow when all this delicious fizzy wonderment had met it’s digestive fate.  I mentioned this to Trasy, yet she remained unmoved. And the question came up, Why would you want to continue doing something that you know is bad for you? Even for a little while?

This has a much broader scope, probably. And it seems all the more pertinent that this conversation took place at the DV shelter. These women here could recite pages of well founded accusations against they’re abusers by the time they arrive. They know what’s wrong; That’s why they come here. And yet, two months later, the guy wasn’t really so bad, or he’s sorry, or there’s a new someone who seems too good to be true and probably is who just wants to take care of them by treating them like his own personal property or punching bag.  Why do people  keep doing what they know is bad for them? Even for a little while?

It’s like that long term crazy spell I went through with Mark. It was obvious to everyone-it was obvious to me!-and yet I bent to his apologies, I made him up in my mind to be much more that he was, and I decided to believe that he was what he said and not what he did. Did I think it wouldn’t catch up to me? Did I think if I designed a pretty picture behind my squeezed eyelids, that it would remain when they opened?

Maybe so. Or maybe it’s just easier to go along, even if you don’t like what you get.

I want to make the brave choice, not the easy one. I want to make the brave choice, not the flashy one. I want to make the brave choice in all things, and maybe these are all pieces of the same puzzle of dissatisfaction.

I think of Erik, who is so disciplined, who stretches to exceed expectations all day after getting barely any sleep. Who works hard and gives of himself in such kind and generous ways, without exception. Who is made up entirely of lean muscle and sleeps easily and is selfless with his time and energy. And I think, That’s beautiful. I think, There but by the disappointment of God go I.

So I need to suck it up.

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.

UPDATE:  Upon further reflection, I realized it was pretty lousy trick to try and get away with letting a Voki stand in my stead in bringing birthday salutations. So I’ll try this again. And this time, I’ll tell you how great Ron is!

Ron is a most delightful fake brother, and one who practically saved my life last year and at the very least my sanity. I treasure to the depth of my soul those walks we took downtown and doing the homeless ministry with him last summer.  He spent hours with me, night after night after Natalie was gone,  just listening and listening and listening to me trying to get myself straight with all the thoughts in my head. He witnessed my apologies, soothed my wounds, and gave me great godly counsel. I love that he’s allowed himself to be grafted into my family and consider it one of the best decisions I’ve ever made for him. I couldn’t ask for a better brother in Christ.  SO . . . Happy freaking Birthday! :)