Why I hate when you smoke, a poem

How I hate when you smoke

Revised with a new title and everything. A special thanks to Mary Brown.

On the rare occasion I want to
stand outside with you
while you hold and light, inhale and exhale in puffs    puffs     puffs,
I stand close to you.
I breathe out slow, like you do.
I pretend the cold air’s my secondhand smoke,
while I inhale yours.

I’d never smoke.
D.A.R.E. taught me a thing or two about the tar, the nicotine
that addicts you,          traps you.           I wouldn’t even
dare try to light one. (You’ve seen me with one of those things.
I nearly burn my finger off letting
the butane out of its yellow, plastic trap.)
So most of the time I stay inside
while you find a friend to smoke with.

You ask me what’s wrong.
You think it’s the cigarette itself.
“I only smoke one a day, maybe less.”
I tell you I don’t care, and mean it.
Those surgeon general jokes I make are only meant for laughs.
Because the truth is             I think smoking’s hot.
You’re like Gatsby.

It’s the way you hold it,
the way your big hand handles something so small –
so delicate, so intimate.
Put to your mouth like a kiss.

I love you.

I call this a prose poem. 

I also call it an apology.

--

I love you.

Okay, now say it with more feeling.

I love you?

Better, but with more passion this time.

I love you?

Close, but it’s missing something. Say my name.

I love you, Caitlyn.

Say it slower though, like you mean it.

I loooovvee yooo—

Not that slow!

I…love…you…Caitlyn.

Better, but it’s still not right. Hmm. Call me something else—call me “babe.”

I love you, Babe.

Try “baby.”

I love you, Baby.

Maybe it’s what you’re wearing. Can you put something else on?

[In a hat.] I love you.

Now you look ridiculous. Say it to me over dinner tonight.

[Over dinner tonight.] I love you.

What if you were holding a ring?

[Holding a ring.] I love you.

God, that’s still not right. Someone get this guy a baby!

[With a child.] I love you.

Hmm. Take me on vacation; tell me then.

[Clinking glasses.] I love you.

Now say it while you kiss me!

Mm mmuvf mooph.

Are you trying at all?

I LOVE YOU!

You don’t have to shout it! Geez.

. . .  

You don’t love me at all, do you?

Bitch.

Finals interlude

Okay, so I haven't been inspired to write at all. I'm just trying to get everything finished: finals, classes, papers, projects, etc.

So here's a poem I wrote for creative writing this semester. It's about -- guess who?


VI.
On his windowsill he keeps
dead insects in alcohol
in glass vials. Dragonflies
and moths with motionless wings
sit still, keeping guard. Below,
he sits on his couch not a
bed—he doesn’t own one. He
sleeps hard on the floor alone.

On his couch, behind a closed
door, he thinks and stares at
the cardboard beer box he cut
and flattened into décor
above his closet. The rest
of the wall: bare, beige, and bland,
except for a lithograph
of Emily Dickinson,
plucked from a library book.

In the corner: his altar.
Three guitars—an acoustic,
electric, and bass—lean up
against his vintage, baby-
blue, nineteen-seventies amp.
A one-millimeter pick
sits and waits for him to play.
When he does play, it’s with shut
eyes. Concentrating, he jams.

With knock-knock-knock on the door,
a young woman walks into
the bachelor’s dead-bug, bed-less
hub—his pad. He stands up and
hugs her, smells her hair, kisses
her neck near her collar bone.
He says, “I love you, pumpkin.”






Deep, pleasant sigh.

Lauren

Unsaid

Some things are better left unsaid.

V.

“Talk to me,” he says,

caressing her hand

and fondling the wrinkles

of her numb fingers.

She says, “I’m fine.” Not

that he asked.

They walk with naked

stares into the night.

She pulls out

her hand from his hand

and shoves it into her pocket.

“Baby, come on. What

gives?”

She thinks

of a better lie to tell,

but she can’t. So she says

the same thing again

only slower, harder.

And eat it too.

He baked you a cake?

Yeah. Isn’t it great? I’ll never want to finish eating it.

He obviously likes you.

Well, I thought so. Before, I mean, when he gave me the cake. But I know he doesn’t.

Caitlyn, he baked you a cake for crying out loud. How could he not like you?

He’s just home-broken. House-broken. Whatever you call it. He bakes.

No guy bakes for a girl he’s just friends with.

This guy does.

I don’t believe it.

Oh, believe it. You should’ve been there when I met him.

Tell me.

We were at McConn.

Together?

No, no. I was in line, and he was in front of me.

Did you say hi?

Not right away. I just kind of stared.

At what?

His hair.

His hair?

He has really nice hair. He usually covers it with that silly hat.

But underneath it?

Really … great … hair.

[pause.]

So then you said hi?

No, I touched his hair.

You didn’t?

I did. And you know what? It’s soft. Just like you’d expect it to be.

You’re joking, right? You just went up and touched his hair.

I wish. I asked first.

That’s a little better.

I said, “You have really great hair. Can I touch it?”

Oh, Caitlyn, that’s hilarious! What did he do?

He leaned over and let me touch it.

Aww.

The rest is history.

Then he likes you?

Not exactly.

You just said the rest was history, like it’s the end of the story. So it’s not?

Well, that was a month ago. So much has happened.

Like what?

The date.

You went on a date with him?

Sort of.

Tell me!

It was nothing. We just watched a movie at his apartment.

Alone?

Well, yeah alone. It was a date … I think.

You mean you don’t know?

It seemed like a date. He flirted.

Yeah?

And he walked me back to campus.

Did he try to hold your hand?

No.

Then it wasn’t a date.

He could be a prude.

Yeah, Caitlyn, get real. Did he know that you liked him? On the date, I mean.

Oh yeah, it was pretty clear. Lots of signals.

But he didn’t hold your hand?

Nope.

Then he doesn’t like you.

I told you.

But there’s more, isn’t there?

Well, that happened two weeks ago, so yeah there’s more.

What next?

He called me.

He didn’t!

The next day. He called me just to talk.

Oh, guys never do that.

They don’t.

Surely he must like you.

I thought he did. When he called me, I was sure of it.

Then what changed?

Well, he gave me the cake.

Right.

He gave me the cake Thursday, then yesterday we talked. We DTR’d.

Defined the relationship. Got it.

I told him I liked him. I told him I liked his hair and his smile and the way he says his vowels.

Then how’d he respond? What’d he say?

He said, “Huh.” He just brushed it off, like it was nothing.

That doesn’t mean anything.

Of course it does. It means everything.

[pause.]

So are you sad?

Kind of.

What’re you going to do with the cake?

Eat it, I guess.

Life updates, August 2010

I haven't blogged to just blog in a while. I've written a lot about PLC; I've written a few creative pieces, but I haven't just blogged.

Granted, most of the time I blog I have some muse to inspire me. I'm muse-less. I'm reading an essay by Ray Bradbury about "feeding and caring for your Muse," but it hasn't helped. I'll be back to school soon and will have plenty to write about. So, no worries. (Were you worried?)

But, stuff has been going on, so I'll update you.

Updates:

1. I'm in America. Yes, I'm adjusting well. I've spent 20 years and two months in America; two months away isn't going to do much difference. I wish it did, sort of. I wish I viewed my life completely differently (but for the better) now that I'm home. I wish I was more thankful for my freedoms. I wish I spent my money on the children in Iraq and not on Old Crown coffee.

2. I have a boyfriend. For those of you who don't know the story, Nate and I started talking when I was in Iraq - the first week I was there, actually. We had a few classes together at IWU. (Fun fact: one of my first memories of Nate was when he beat me in Scrabble. Bah!) We're "official" now, and have been for 3 1/2 weeks.

3. I'm going back to IWU soon. I don't know the exact date, but I'm heading back early for Sojourn workshops. I am the managing editor this year (second in charge, I guess), so I get to plan said workshops. It's kind of fun. But also extremely stressful and hectic and frustrating.

4. I have a million half-read books on my bedside table. I started reading a few books in Iraq and in transit (Jayber Crow, Teaching a Stone to Talk) and started a few more now that I'm home (The Zen in the Art of Writing, The Copy-Editing and Headline Handbook), but I've only finished a few this summer. I'm disappointed in myself. Last summer, 19 books. This summer, 3.

5. I was in the Fort Wayne Journal Gazette this morning. I was interviewed about my internship. You should read it, then feel led to donate to PLC and #RemedyMission.

Creative Writing: Untitled

Yes, a preface: I can't title this, because if I did, it'd be really cheesy. It'd probably be something like The Words Didn't Come or He's Perfect. Oh barf. 

Here's the thing about writing fiction: it's fiction. Ha, it's not true. But in some regards, it is true. I can't write something that doesn't have some truth in it, or something I've seen in real life, etc. But you all are going to read it and think that it's absolute truth. I know you, audience; I know some of you will. You'll say the "she" is me and the "he" is Nathan. And you'll write some stupid comment saying either "aww" or "oh barf." 

So just read it as fiction. And don't leave any awkward comments.

-Lauren

--

She clutched her mug. She took a sip. Lukewarm coffee. She set the mug down. Pause. She took another sip. Her friend asked her, "What's he like?" She thought. But couldn't answer. The words didn't come. She knew in her head. But she couldn't say it. 

She couldn't say how much she loves the way he cuts his hair; the way he dresses; the way he smiles at her; the way he plays the drums on her arm; the way he talks more sentimentally at night than in the day; the way he tastes like beer; the way he pronounces her name; the way he laughs when he tells stories; the way he rambles on ...; the way he cares about what she cares about; the way he's over the top; the way he's just enough; the way his smell clings to her clothes after they've hugged goodbye.

When she's asked, she cannot answer. Not how she should. "He's perfect," she says. And leaves it at that.

Hi, I'm a narcissist

I am a narcissist.

After my Media and Society paper about narcissism on Facebook, I realized that I have all the tell-tale signs of a narcissist. I talk about myself. I am frustrated when people don't honor me the way I think they should. And in the midst of my self-loving is self-loathing - I want to be more than I already am.

It's a big mess.
It's also something I've been praying against since the spring.

My goal for this internship was to rid myself of narcissism. I wanted, and still want, a character arc. I want my character - me, Lauren Deidra Sawyer - to change during this internship, and for the better.

I wanted to magically become more others-focused and compassionate.
I wanted to overcome my insecurities and view myself soberly.

It's about four weeks into my internship, and I think it's finally happening, just not in the way I had imagined. I thought that I'd start stripping myself of narcissism when I met a bunch of sick kids or toughed the 115 degree heat. But honestly, I'm being challenged the same way I am in the States.

Note that I'm glad I'm going through this. I don't want my dear PLC family to think that they're doing anything wrong. Everything that's going on is for the best - I believe it. I won't be able to shake this narcissism without fire.

Observations:
- I am most comfortable in a leadership position ... so I find myself in a country where women aren't meant to lead. I'm forced to be okay with that.
- I'm not the best. Esther's the journalist. Lydia's the artsy one. Claire's the funny one. Sophie's Wonder Woman. I'm just me. A me that isn't "winning" at the moment.
- The task I chose for the summer does not bring me instant gratification. I am one of the few interns that took a long-term project. I am making headway on my assignment - PLC's year-end review, kind of like a magazine - but it's not as though what I'm writing is posted on the blog. It's hard. That's the one thing I love about working at a newspaper - I can see results by the end of the week.
- To somehow make this vague and mysterious: it's hard talking (I mean "talking") to a boy when you're a narcissist. It's easy for me to talk about myself all the time, but that's not how you attract the opposite sex.


Oh God, break me down.



I read this prayer in Elise and Sarah's copy of "The Pursuit of God" by A.W. Tozer:

Oh God, I have tasted Thy goodness and it has both satisfied me and made me thirsty for more. I am painfully conscious of my need of further Grace. I am ashamed of my lack of desire. O God, the Triune God, I want to want Thee; I long to be filled with longing; I thirst to be made more thirsty still.


Show me Thy glory, I pray Thee that so I may know Thee indeed. Begin in mercy a new work of love within me. Say to my soul, "Rise up, my Love, my fair one, and come away." Then give me Grace to rise and follow Thee up from this misty lowland where I have wandered so long.








Ezekiel

O Me of Little Faith

A review and commentary on Jason Boyett's new book.

--

Context: I've been embracing this thing called doubt since last November. I could tell you the specific date, if I looked it up. It was that Saturday Jacque came to visit me at school, the first time we hung out since she stopped believing in God.

I didn't talk to her about it; I wonder if she even knows about my doubt.

--

Jason Boyett makes me feel a little better about myself. Doubt is still very new to me. Like I said: November. For someone who's been annoyingly sure about everything pertaining to faith, a few months is not a long time.

Jason starts his book by saying: "I am a Christian." (Me too.) "I have been a Christian most of my life." (Me too.) "But there are times--a growing number of times, to be honest--when I'm not entirely sure I believe in God."

Me too.

I didn't have to face my doubt back in November, because I was crushing on a boy, and when you're crushing on a boy, there are more important things to worry about than your faith, like whether or not that boy likes you back. He didn't like me back. In December I had to face my doubt.

Jason says that doubt is something we need to walk alongside. (Hey, Doubt, can we be friends?) It's not to be pushed down or reasoned away. It's something you need to live out.  He says it's okay to ask questions because John the Baptist doubted ("Are you the One who was to come?") and so did Thomas ("Unless I see ... I will not believe it."). He needed proof.

I feel like Gideon, who even after God made the fleece wet with dew and the ground dry, I ask him to make the fleece dry instead. Prove yourself to me, God, I say. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he seems vague and aloof.

In December, when the crush was gone and all I had was myself and my doubt, I wrote a creative essay about how the God I believed in was dead. It ended with a stream of cusswords I'd never say in real life. It made me feel better, though, to get it out in the open. In the same way, doubt is better dealt with in community. It's not something that we should hide. We shouldn't be afraid to expose our weaknesses.

Jason writes:

My impulse here is to write "Owning your doubt means refusing to pretend." Don't pretend to be better than you are. Don't pretend to be smarter than you are. Don't pretend to be more spiritual than you are. Don't pretend to have it together when you don't. Don't pretend to have all the answers when you don't. Don't pretend to worship when you don't feel like it. Don't pretend.

But I can't write that in good conscience, because I still pretend. A lot. Too much. (pp. 157-158) 

The few months I've wrestled with doubt have been marked with isolation and cynicism - especially at a Christian school. I still talked to my friends about my doubts, but I didn't feel like they really got it. I felt like they just saw me as one of those baby Christians who's just figuring things out.

For me, writing it out helps, like with my creative essay. Talking it out helps too, but it's harder. It's hard admitting to others your doubts. I remember Jacque was afraid to tell me when she started doubting God, because she thought I'd try to Four-Spiritual-Laws her back to salvation. (I didn't.)

--

Doubt isn't very fun to talk about. It isn't much fun to read about either - not typically. But Jason keeps his book light and humorous. He gets into the deep stuff (he quotes a lot of Latin phrases) but he adds his signature subtle humor by frequent use of footnotes.*

And if this were a style critique, I'd say Jason effectively uses rhetorical questions to bolster his theme of doubt. This also keeps the writer (Jason) from sounding elitist or arrogant. The reader thinks hey, this guy's got a lot of questions too! I can trust him!

If this were my Sojourn column, I'd tell you that you should buy the book just because Jason is a stellar human being. If this were a cannarf review, I'd give it a +5. If this were my blog - and it is - I'd direct you to Jason's blog because he does a better job of promoting himself than I.

Also, you should go buy his book.

* footnote. Yeah, I know, I'm clever with this whole footnote thing. Right after I tell you about Jason's use of footnotes, I add my own. 

But one thing that's really attractive about this book is its size. I'm not the first one to comment on this either (ahem, Katie McCollister). It's small enough to keep your hands from cramping, but the print is still large enough to read without squinting. Kudos to Zondervan on this one.

Lauren

Creative Writing: Head vs. Heart

I wrote this over Christmas break.

I like imagining what my head and heart talk about - they're always disagreeing. This is the manifestation of that. Enjoy.

P.S. Well, just don't read too much into it. Just ... enjoy.

--
My head and my heart are always at odds with each other. Head is pragmatic, reasonable and is always making those ridiculous pro-con lists. Heart is passionate, stubborn and can convince Head of nearly anything. Today they’re in a full-out death match. (Head can be so brutal!)

HEAD: Heart, it’s time you get over this boy. He doesn’t like you anyway. Remember that movie? Let me spell it out for you: he’s just not that into you!

HEART: Gah, shut up, will you? Can’t a girl dream? He did act like he liked us in the beginning - hullo?! You were there. You’re the one who had to convince me that he liked us. I was the one who kept telling you that “oh, he probably treats all his friends like this,” or “he just likes our company.” You had to be so adamant about it!

HEAD: Well, he did seem to like us at first.

HEART: So he lost interest? Great. That makes me feel awesome.

HEAD: Hey, I don’t know. Boys can be weird. And gosh, haven’t you ever lost interest in a guy?

HEART: Well, yeah, but I usually have some good reason to. ... You don’t think he stopped liking us because of something I did, do you?

HEAD: You can be a little over the top.

HEART: But so can you, Miss Let’s-Analyze-Everything!

HEAD: I’m just doing my job, Heart. If no one analyzed the situation you’d still be caught up with your last crush ... the engaged guy? Remember him?

HEART: Hey, you promised to let that go. I wasn’t myself. I was too busy marking off your stupid checklist.

HEAD: That’s a perfectly good checklist!

HEART: It’s a stupid checklist. It is supposed to tell me what we want in a husband. Really? When did you make that list, anyway?

HEAD: Uh, five years ago.

HEART: Exactly, we were fifteen years old and you thought you’d know what we’d want in a husband. Guess what? THAT ENGAGED GUY WAS NOT OUR TYPE!

HEAD: Geesh, calm down! It was one simple mistake.

HEART: One mistake? What about TallGuy and ObamaFan and WorshipLeader? They fit your little checklist.

HEAD: Hey, don’t blame me for all of those crushes. You’re the one who fell for them.

HEART: Yeah, but not because I thought they were hot or romantic or whatever - the things hearts usually fall for. No, it was because they fit your stupid standards. Stupid you with your stupid, stupid standards!

HEAD: Stop calling me stupid! That’s very offensive.

HEART: Sorry, Head. You’re just upsetting me.

HEAD: Why, Heart? He’s just like every other crush.

HEART: But he’s not! He’s the one that didn’t fit your list, but is so perfect for us.

HEAD: How do you know without my list?

HEART: I just know. I mean, he is smart like you, and creative like me, and he sees beauty the way we do, and he is really clever and quirky, and he would fight for me - I know it!

HEAD: Is he cute?

HEART: You know he is. But that’s not even the half of it. He’s like someone you’d read about in a book and fall in love with. ... Maybe that’s why you’re so eager to get over him, because you think he’s just a storybook character.

HEAD: Maybe. ... He does seem to have that too-good-to-be-true quality about him.

HEART: And for once I didn’t make it up. He really is that amazing.

HEAD: He really is.

Sigh.

This isn’t helping anything. He’s not calling us and you are not over him yet.

HEART: So what are we going to do?

HEAD: For once, I don’t know.

--

I love that last line.

Repent and be baptized

Over spring break I thought about what God's been teaching me. I immediately thought of forgiveness, how he's showing me that true forgiveness demands repentance. But then I remembered how I've been doubting basically every belief, and he's been teaching me the importance of faith. And then I thought about how everything is dying, and how I have to let it die, and be transformed ... redemption. And Grace? The hug? This should sound vaguely familiar: my blog series.

Ah yes, my blog series. Remember how I said that these four guys (forgiveness, faith, redemption and Grace) would be BFF? Well, they've been sticking together these past few months indeed.

This blog is about forgiveness.

--

This is what I know about forgiveness: you cannot truly ask for forgiveness unless you've repented. It's kind of the definition of forgiveness. It's insincere unless you mean you will never do that again.

A few blog posts ago I wrote about how I handled a rejection horribly, and how I began blaming him, my former crush, instead of taking a few big breaths and moving on.

This blog is about him.

Back story. Whenever I feel the need to get over a crush (when it's going no where or I am flat-out rejected), I react in two ways: I either never get over him or I demonize him. I decided to demonize this poor guy.

I wrote several angry pieces about him (blogs, essays, etc.). I got my posse of girlfriends to hate him too. It's all very teenagery of me, very "Mean Girls."

Anyway, I started feeling guilty - obviously - because that's no way to treat another child of God. So I sent him a text, invited him to coffee, and planned my apology. (When I say planned, I don't mean I wrote a script - I should've written a script. In hindsight, writing a script would have made this go smoother.)

Let's stop right there. Have you ever apologized to someone? I mean really apologized to them. I don't mean sending an email. I don't mean saying sorry for hitting their car or forgetting their birthday. I mean, sitting someone down, admitting a fault and begging for forgiveness.

Let me tell you: it's hard. I don't think I've ever done it before. Oh, I've needed to - several times - but I've never done it. Yesterday I realized why: it's messy. It's really, really messy.

I thought it'd be more like the movies. I'd say, "I'm sorry for treating you like crap, even though you may not have noticed it. Please forgive me." Then he'd give me a sad little smile and say, "Aw, of course I forgive you." Then we'd hug and part ways. Friends again!

Yeah, no. That doesn't really happen. He kept asking questions. It was more like this:

Me: I'm sorry for treating you like crap, even though you may not have noticed it.

Him: How have you treated me like crap?

Me: Uh, I've written ... things.

Him: What things?

Me: I dunno. Essays. I got my Prose class to hate you.

Him: Well, how? What'd your essay say?

Stop, stop, stop! Lots of awkward silences followed. He did, finally, forgive me. And we're friends again. But it wasn't as picture-perfect as I had hoped. And I didn't feel like sunshine and rainbows afterward either.

On the phone:

Jacque: How'd it go?

Me: Alright. I don't feel any better.

Jacque: Oh yeah?

Me: I was afraid this would happen.

Jacque: Are you glad you did it, though?

Me: Yeah ...

I am. It restored a relationship. But it sucked. And even now, twenty-four hours later, I still replay my silly responses in my head. But I think that's okay. I don't feel the urge to call him a dirty bastard! under my breath anymore. (Which is good because he's not a dirty bastard at all. Not even a little bit.)

--

Walking to my car before the aforementioned apology, I recited in my head my goals for the evening. I wasn't going to write a script, but I did have expectations for the night:

1. Apologize (i.e. not chicken out)
2. Reconcile our relationship

I recited that in my head as so: a-pah-lo-gize-n-re-con-cile (imagine it sing-songy). Then it turned into: a-pah-lo-gize-n-re-con-cile-ev-ery-one-of-you. Then it turned into Acts 2:38: "Repent and be baptized ev-ery-one-of-you, in the name of Jesus Christ, for the forgiveness of your sins."

Then I started thinking: What was it that I wanted to accomplish this evening? Wasn't it the same goal as Peter's? To repent (to ask this boy for forgiveness)? To be baptized (to give our friendship a rebirth)?

I think ... I think it's the same thing.

Maybe I wasn't sitting across from this boy. Maybe I was sitting across from Jesus.

Me: Jesus, I'm sorry for being so judgmental.

Jesus: How have you been judgmental?

Me: Uh, I've just thought things about people without knowing them.

Jesus: Like how? [stares at me with his pretty green eyes]

Me: [looks down at her arms, her tea, looks over to the other table, up at the ceiling]

Jesus: Well?

Me: Um. I've ... called people names in my head ... I've ... 

Jesus: What names?

Me: Um. Dirty bastards.

Jesus: Hmm.

Me: I'm sorry!

Jesus: [pause] So what now?

Me: I don't know.

Jesus: Laur-en.

Me: I want to be your friend again. I want you to be my Liberator.

Jesus: Okay then. We will be; I will be.

Me: I'll make it up to you ...

Jesus: It's okay, girl. We're cool.

Me: ... Good.

Jesus: [sad smile]

Me: [sad smile]

ezek.

It is fine, it is fine with my soul.

Most of you are well aware of my cynicism. I haven't done a very good job of hiding it, after all. I've been trying to get to the root of it, to know exactly why it is I feel so jaded, but I'm not sure I can narrow it down to one or two things. But I'll try. Maybe then I'll be healed of it.
--
Friday in our typical day-before-break praise and worship chapel, we sang the hymn "It is Well with My Soul." For some reason, singing it reminded me of when I was in middle school and I'd pray before getting a test grade back.

I'd say: Pleaseohpleaseohplease say I got a good grade, God.
The Spirit would reply: You did fine.

Every time he'd say that: "you did fine." I knew even then that "fine" was a relative term. When I'd pray that in a history class, "fine" meant an A or A+. When I'd pray that in geometry, "fine" meant passing.

God's telling me today that I'm fine. I'll be okay. Whatever I'm going through will pass, and I'll be stronger because of it.

But as an apology to all the people affected by my cynicism, I present this blog. Here's why I've been so melancholy, or at least a few guesses:
--
1. How hard I work in class or how naturally gifted I am - manifested by my GPA - determines my worth.


I wrote a creative piece the other day about Sixteen-Year-Old Lauren haunting Present Day Lauren. It made me miss my youthful optimism. Observe:

I really don’t have time for this, Laur.

Come on. Here. I’ll help you pack up your books. Where you going anyway?

World lit.

Oh man. I’m in American lit right now. What a killer.

You’ll get an A. Well, A-.

Same thing.

Ha, I like your optimism.

Remember when "A-" was as good as an "A"? Now I'm well aware of the raging gap between a 3.7 and a 4.0.

Prof. Perry and I had a conversation about this a week and a half ago. I told him how desperately I wanted an A in his class, and how he should consider making the class easier in order for me to achieve that. (Despite our good relationship - I have been called a brown noser, teacher's pet and suck up more than once, thank you - he did not relent.) Actually, I think that upset him - that I wanted an easy A.

The thing is, that's not even true. I don't want an easy A. I want to learn. That's what I want more than anything ... to know as much as I can about the things I care about. I want to know more about media and society; I want to know more about writing prose; I want to know more about the character of God.

I just want my grades to reflect that.

And you know what? My grades would reflect that if I tried harder, if I pushed myself further. But physically, I can't handle that. I can't stay up all night writing an essay just to get it to the right word count (sorry, Dr. Allison, you say 1500 words, I say 1000).

So right. Correct. I would rather get an A without the unnecessary hard work, if I was still learning. True. I believe that. I want to be pushed harder, but when I push myself harder ...

I get obsessed.

Vicious cycle. It doesn't even make much sense.

Except that I want to be good at everything. I want to have A's in all my classes. I want to make Mom proud and Dr. Ferguson (my advisor) proud and Prof. Perry proud and all the other lazy comm. students jealous.

It's just not all possible. I can't be good at everything, which is a hard truth for me to get. Thus, it's making me cynical.

2. Despite what I tell myself, I let boys define who I am, or the act of liking boys define who I am.


I was listening to this song on the way home from Jacque and Carlee's:

Say you're wrong
Let's get this over I
Would like to get some sleep tonight ...

Now I know that I was not the man you wanted
You know I loved you and I wanted to make you proud
My intentions were to never give myself to anyone
Look what I've done

Mmm. I love those last two lines: "My intentions were to never give myself to anyone, look what I've done." I'm going to try to remain vague and general here, but I don't know how successful I'm going to be. Pretty much I let myself get burned because of a crush. I haven't been burned like this in a while, and though I've done a pretty good job at blaming him for this, it's my fault.

It's my fault, friend.

Though I don't regret liking him - and despite my general attitude of hatred toward him, I still think he's a really cool guy - I handled it horribly. I expected too much out of someone who didn't return the affection.

I go back to my quote of the month: "When people are in love, they act stupid. When people get their hearts broken, they act even stupider."

As Lindsey would say, "That's not very profound, but it's true."

I want to make it up to this kid. I'm trying to think of the best way to do it, but I think it involves leaving him alone forever. And deleting his number from my phone. Maybe.

All I know is hating him and writing essays for Prose about how much I hate him isn't solving anything. I'm brooding; I'm just getting angrier. It's been seven weeks - seriously. Heart, move on. Start focusing on things that matter!

3. We Christians are good at talking, but we're not very good at doing.

I have Matthew Paul Turner's "Jesus Needs New PR" blog bookmarked on my Google browser - I frequent it often. (Probably because he updates it like a madman. Imagine if I updated this blog three times a day!)

MPT blogs about the Christian subculture mostly, and likes to pick fun at it. He grew up a fundamental baptist, so he has room to make fun of fundies, but sometimes it gets a little ridiculous. He has a "Jesus Picture of the Week," for example, with paintings of our LORD with his own snarky, semi-sacrilegious captions below. Or, he'll rant about Joel Osteen (using $ for all his s's). Or, he'll post videos of dorky Christian musical groups.

It's cool to have a sense of humor. I told you that I frequent this site often - it makes me laugh. But it gets draining after a while. In fact, it makes me wonder if MPT isn't turning into his own kind of fundamentalist. ...

I like what Brian McLaren said (via a character) in A New Kind of Christian: "I've found that liberals can be fundamentalists too. Liberals are often just fundamentalists with a different set of beliefs. Not all of them, but many." p. 9

Huh. Sounds like me most of the time.

(And please, Matthew, if you're reading this - thanks, Google Alerts! - know that this isn't about you. You're just a for-instance so my audience gets it. I will still read your blog. Keep up the JPotW!)

But I am just like MPT. I roll my eyes at people who believe in the literalness of the Bible or who quote scripture in their sleep. I've taken a liking to MPT's jingle: "You can't spell 'fundamentalist' without F-U."

It's kind of disconcerting though. Making fun of something gets old after a while. I wish instead of talking about what's wrong with the Church we could be busy being the Church.

I wish I would. I wish I'd stop focusing on myself or rolling my eyes at others.
--
Finishing this blog doesn't make me feel better - surprise, surprise. Reading this blog probably didn't inspire you all in any way either.

But I guess that's okay. Here's where I'm at spiritually. It's messy, but oh well. I'd rather be honest and transparent than pretend I have it all together.
--
"Be true! Be true! Be true! Show freely to the world, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred." - The Scarlet Letter
--

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come
Let this blest assurance control
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate
And hath shed His own blood for my soul

It is fine, it is fine with my soul

ezekiel

Creative Writing: On a Bench with Joel

Preface: I promised more creative writing in my 2010 Writing Goals. Here's round two. I wrote this piece for Prose, and I admit I am awfully proud of it. For the most part it's in classic style, but I waver from it here and there (which is why I got points docked). 


The names have been "changed" to protect the "innocent."

--

“It is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation,” said Joel, quoting Herman Melville.

Joel sat on a bench in the far corner of the college student center. An empty cardboard coffee cup sat in the empty seat beside him; his MacBook was propped open on his lap. Joel was haphazardly deleting a list of unanswered emails when the girl arrived. He shut the lid.

“Sit down,” he told her, moving the cup. Joel shoved his Mac into the open satchel bag next to his sneakered feet. As he made room for the laptop, the bag’s contents spilled: gloves for the cold, a book of poetry (to be read for class and for pleasure, he assured her), and a digital voice recorder. He put all the contents back inside except for the recorder.

“When I’m driving in my car and I have a great idea, I talk into this,” said Joel.

She nodded. The girl had a recorder of her own peeking out of her side pocket; she pulled it out to show him. “I have one too.”

He continued, “My housemate left it when he moved out, so I kept it. He never could take care of his things.” Joel tossed the recorder on top of the satchel and kicked the bag underneath his seat.

The girl pulled her legs up onto the bench turning to face him, and Joel did the same. He drummed his fingers on the wooden-arched back; he leaned against the armrest. She inched closer, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

The girl was sure she was in love; there was no other word to describe her feelings. While other boys his age wasted away weekends watching movies and playing video games, Joel made art; he read. Joel was not like other boys, always rambling on about football or girls; he spoke about art and philosophy. He was a teacher, the girl his student. All she wished to do was sit at his feet and listen. And she listened intently.

As they sat there on the bench – the girl unaware of anything but him, he unaware of anything but himself – Joel began telling her of his lengthy theories of theology and the human condition. He told her how he was an Epicurean; he does everything with moderation. He told her he hated obese people; he eats everything with moderation.

He told her what it meant to be an artist – unrestrained by anything but one’s own inhibitions. The girl was a writer; she managed to tell him between breaths. He viewed art more highly.

“With art you can be original,” he said to her. “Writers use everybody else’s words.”

Originality was Joel’s favorite trait; he believed he possessed it in heaps. When he got dressed in the morning, when he chose what to eat, what picture to paint, who to speak to – he thought of no one but himself. He renounced imitation. Joel taunted anyone who thought inside the box, and mocked those who tried so desperately to do the opposite.

“To be nobody but yourself in a world that’s doing its best to make you somebody else, is to fight the hardest battle you are ever going to fight,” said Joel, quoting e.e. cummings.

The girl scooted even closer to Joel. He was too distracted by someone behind her to notice. A blond boy who looked to be Joel’s opposite – blond hair, clean shaven, broad shoulders – was walking past. Joel called after him, but the boy hesitated coming over. After a full-arm wave from Joel, the boy walked to the bench. He stood before them, ready to speak – he opened his mouth to start – but Joel spoke first.

“Can I see them?” Joel pointed to the three-foot portfolio the boy’s white knuckles clutched.

He refused. He knew Joel to be a relentless critic. They continued in a ping-pong of pleas and denials until the boy gave in. He held his breath.

“It’s not bad,” said Joel, looking at a charcoal drawing, “but it’s missing something.” Joel spoke a textbook of critiques: the composition’s off just a bit; this shouldn’t be the focal point. Art should tell a story, he said. This doesn’t tell a story.

The boy looked on expressionless.

“You’re upset?” Joel asked him.

He didn’t respond, but looked at the girl for support. She stared back at him with wide-eyes, saying nothing.

“Well, I wasn’t going to lie to you. What good would that do you?” Joel slid the drawing back into the portfolio and handed it back. “Did you have a chance to see my artwork? It’s hanging upstairs in the art building.”

Gripping his portfolio much harder than before and walking in strides much more hurried than before, the boy left without answering.

Joel turned to the girl. “I wasn’t going to lie to him.”

The girl, blinded by her infatuation, could not see what the boy saw. She could not see the self-absorption, the superiority complex. To the girl, Joel was an intellectual, an artist with insight she could only understand if he broke down it down into bit-sized pixels.

Joel was right: the boy’s composition was all wrong.

“It was nice talking, but I need to finish my homework,” said Joel.

Without voicing the truth – her desire to stay, to hear him talk more – the girl got up and stuck out her hand. “Goodnight, Joel.”

He met her hand with his. But mid-shake, he scratched her palm with his forefinger. He smiled. “I like to touch people in a way they’ll remember me.”

The girl blushed as she walked off in the same direction as the blond boy. She didn’t look back, nor did Joel watch her leave.

Reaching under his bench, he retrieved his MacBook, opened it, and deleted a few more emails before beginning his homework.


Afterward: In classic prose, the writer presents a truth to her reader. When my classmates read this, they thought my truth was that "Joel is an egotistical jerk." That wasn't my original intent, but okay. 


Dr. Allison, however, wrote the greatest comments on my paper. After Joel acts elitist toward the girl (for the first time), he wrote: "He should be slapped!" And after the girl scooted closer to Joel the second time, he wrote: "She still likes him? Why?"

Oh, Dr. Allison, if only you knew.

Interlude: fiction

So, I never write fiction on my blog. I wish I did; I know I should. I've decided to take a break from my series (Faith, Forgiveness, Redemption, Grace) to give you a work of fiction, inspired by a story I read in Zoetrope: All Story. Enjoy!

The conversation … if Caitlyn had the guts to call him.
By Lauren Sawyer

Hey I think we should talk.

Talk?

Yeah. About us.

Us? You mean … us?

Yes. Is that hard for you to understand?

No, I know what that usually means. But there is no us.

Well, there’s something. There’s me and there’s you and all the drama binds us together.

O … kay? Was that supposed to be poetry or something?

Jared, take me seriously.

Okay. Us. Tell me about us.

Well. See. I am mad at you.

You’re mad at me?

Yes, Jared, I’m mad at you.

For what?

I told you that I liked you.

And?

And … you didn’t say anything.

I did too say something.

You’re right.

I’m right?

You said “thanks.”

I did.

You are thankful that I like you?

Why, yes I am.

That’s a jerky thing to say.

Why? I was flattered.

Well, I’m glad I made you feel good about yourself.

[pause.]

Is there anything else about us you think I should know about?

[pause.]

JARED, YOU JUST DON’T GET IT!

Get what? And why are you yelling?

I like you. Or, I liked you. And you didn’t say anything. I mean, errrr, all you said was “thank you.” That’s not enough.

What did you want me to say?

I wanted you to tell me you like me.

But what if I don’t?

Then tell me you hate me!

Fine. I hate you.

Bastard.

You told me to say that!

I want you to like me.

This isn’t helping, Caitlyn.

[pause.]

So you really don’t like me?

Nope.

Not even a little bit?

Let’s just be friends.

Like … a tiny, eensy-weensy bit?

It’s not you, it’s me.

What if I was the only woman left in the entire world …

Then I’d bang you.

You’re disgusting.

You want honesty.

Can’t we just try dating?

I’m moving to Mexico.

So that’s why you don’t like me?

Cait-lyn.

[pause.]

Well. I guess that’s what I wanted to hear.

Really? That’s what you wanted to hear … that I don’t like you?

Well?

[pause.]

I love you, Caitlyn.

What?

I love you. I can’t live without you.

You can’t?

You’re all I think about when I wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night. I want you to have my baby.

You’re mocking me.

I want us to grow old together in the suburbs. I could work in accounting, and you could stay home to raise our children.

Stop.

We’d live this pristine little life. I’d work my way up in the company; you’d keep yourself busy with your housewife hobbies. Knitting. Sewing. PTO.

Please.

We wouldn’t be happy, but we’d be content. It’s the American dream, after all. At least we’d die together.

Stop it! You think that’s what I want, Jared?

That’s what all women want.

Then you don’t really know me.

I never claimed I did.

I want to travel the world. I want to live in Paris and Moscow and London.

No, you don’t. You want your white picket fence, two-point-five children and stability.

I don’t! I want adventure! Intrigue! Chaos!

You want to get married to a stiff-shirted churchgoer who brings home the big bucks. You want a faithful husband who treats you like a princess.

No, I don’t. I want to live on the edge – never settle down.

Caitlyn, please.

That’s what you want too – I know it. You want to travel. You want adventure. I can share that with you.

That’s not what you want.

How do you know?

Because all women are the same.

Chauvinist.

I like to think of myself as realistic, thank you. I see the world as it is. You are just like all the other girls, and I can't afford to settle down.

Then you’re missing out.

On what?

Me.

[pause.]

So are you satisfied?

With what, Jared?

With me. Do I need to tell you I love you again?

Not if you don’t mean it.

I don’t.

[pause.]

You really don’t love me?

Cait-lyn.

What? I think you should love me. Is that so crazy?

Kind of.

Why kind of?

Because we hardly know each other. And you’re so much young—

Oh, don’t say it!

But you are, Caitlyn. Six years.

FIVE AND A HALF!

You’ll find someone.

Easy for you to say.

Someday.

When I’m old like you.

Yes. When you’re old like me.

Jared, please, you might regret this.

Why would I?

[pause.]

I guess I should hang up.

Yes.

You sure you don’t love me?

Positive.

Okay. Well, goodbye, Jared.

Goodbye.

Wait –

[click.]

on Faith

For the revelation awaits an appointed time;
it speaks of the end
and will not prove false.
Though it linger, wait for it;
it will certainly come and will not delay.

-Habakkuk 2:3-

--

"Do you think if you ignore my revelation that makes it untrue?" - God

--

I know very little about faith. I know it has to do with belief ("faith is being sure of what you hope for and certain of what you do not see"). I know it has to do with taking God seriously, and not calling yourself a god like Shirley MacLaine in that movie.

I know that "the principal part of faith is patience" and that God doesn't work in my time frame, but His own.

But that's about all I know.

--

Note the question I have at the beginning of the blog: "Do you think if you ignore my revelation that makes it untrue?" This is what started my thoughts on faith.

God and I were hashing it out the other day. We got on the topic of faith, specifically this promise we made back when I was 16 or so. This was my prayer:

"Dear God, I pray that you don't tell me who I'm supposed to marry until it's time for me to get married. Okay, thanks."

I've always been pretty cool with this prayer. Sometimes I regret prayers I've made (i.e.: "dear God I pray that I don't date anyone until I date my husband"), but this one I liked. I have this irrational fear that the moms of the boys that like me - and I don't like in return - tell their sons that I'll come around, that God wants us to get married or something. That kind of disgusts me. Hence why I don't regret this prayer: I refuse to be like one of those moms.

But it came up again, when Jesus and I were hashing it out, and He humbled me. Because what if God wants to tell me who I'm going to marry? (He hasn't yet - THANK GOODNESS - and I hope this is an object lesson, not something He'll actually do.)

But sometimes I think God tells me things that I don't think I should know. Some of those revelations are "lingering," some have been proven true.

But what if I decide not to listen? What if God tells me who I'm going to marry, but I plug my ears with my fingers? Does that make His revelation less-true?

Or, what if God lies to me? What if I ask God if I'm going to work for Zondervan and I hear Him say yes and I'm so sure that's what He wants for me, but I don't get the job.

But what if planning for the Zondervan job gets me a job at Tyndale? What if that lie got me where I needed to be?

Is this a matter of the end justifying the means? I don't know - maybe. Does God work like that? Or can he?

--

I can come to no conclusion. Of the topics I'm planning on discussing (Faith, Forgiveness, Grace and Redemption), this is the vaguest.

But I suppose you can have faith without knowing what it means, right? (Ha, I hope so.)

with love and squalor,

ezekiel

Do we really even want to know what's going down?

I can see the forest for the trees - at least, now I can.

Let me try to sum up this past month in a series of random words sandwiched between a linking verb and object, as if they were all true adjectives. Get what I'm saying? You'll see:

I hate fields-dying-RELEVANT-boys-cancer-distances-viruses-overwhelming-deadlines-midterms-crying-breakdowns-failures-unskilled-dry-unfocused-hate/love-Bminus-Huckins-emailharassment-dramatic Octobers.

This was my October. How was yours?

I don't say this to complain; I say this in reflection.

A few weeks ago I had my "breakdown," the day after Lindsey and Autumn had their own. But since then it's almost been worse. My poor emotions have been strangled with rope, shoved into a cage, thrown into the ocean and anchored to the bottom. I guess I can only afford one breakdown a semester?

Long story short: boys suck, I have no idea where I want to work when I grow up, my mom has some health complications and boys suck.

Not all boys suck, sorry.

It's been healthy to get away from campus. I feel like I can see what I'm going through for what it is. A valley. That's all it is. It's another valley. I've been through tons.

And what I've learned through previous valleys is that you can either grow closer to God through them or let them push you away from him. It's your choice.

I want to kick and scream. I want to tell people what I think of them.

But ... gosh. I can't. I have to keep chugging along. I gotta keep praying and reading and talking and singing and whatever else.

But sometimes it's hard.

-Ezek.

2 + 2 = <3

I am analytical. I like to take complex issues and break them down into parts.

I'm like my step-dad, who after taking a personality quiz, laid awake at night analyzing whether or not he is, in fact, analytical.

This is true when it comes to boys. Observe:

In high school I only had about 3-4 real crushes. What is a "real" crush, you ask?

A real crush is defined by the following:

1. It lasts longer than two weeks. This immediately eliminates those cute boys you meet once at a concert and never see again -- unless you're their friend on Facebook.

2. The boy stars in nearly all daydreams. Sometimes he'll star or guest star in a real dream as well. (This means you think about him way too much.)

3. You attribute something strange to him (via observation, nickname, etc.). For example, if his initials were ATP, you'd call him Andenosine Triphosphate. Or you notice how many times he wears primary colors versus secondary.

4. You hate his girlfriend. The crush is fading or never really began if you start befriending his girlfriend.

So, with that being said, in high school I had a few crushes, but in college I've had many more.

This is a matter of simple arithmetic. Since, for me, a crush typically begins with attraction, then becomes, uh, less shallow by being based on similar beliefs, that narrows down my crush-candidates.

Say there are 10 boys at my church in my 6-year range (6 years older is my max, my minimum is one year younger). Only 5 are cute. Only 3 believe in predestination (for example). That means I have a maximum crush value of 3.

But at school, there are 1,000 boys in my 6-year range. Assuming that I will not have the chance to meet all of them, we'll compare both groups proportionally. There are 100 times as many boys at IWU than at my church. This means there are probably close to 500 cute boys at IWU and only 300 with the same predestination viewpoint.

I now have a maximum crush value of 300.

This is my problem. No wonder I had so many crushes last year!

But this is not what's so bizarre. That is simple math. Though it may not be 100 percent accurate, the fact that I like more boys at school than at home makes sense.

What's weird is the type of boy I'm attracted to.

Last weekend I tried to explain to my friend Heather why I liked this particular boy. Nothing sensible came out of my mouth. I don't know why I like him; I especially don't know why I've liked him for so long.

I have come to the conclusion that I can have one of three crushes:

a. One based on reason - it makes sense to like him, but there's little attraction.

b. One based on attraction - it makes no sense to like him, but there's lots of attraction.

c. Both a & b

This crush of mine falls into the category of "b." I am attracted to him, but I have no real reason to. We don't have similar interests. We have different values.

Again, while thinking about this crush, I came to the conclusion that I would rather have a "b" crush over an "a" crush, if "c" wasn't available. I would rather marry a "b" guy than an "a" guy.

Because I can reason anything into existence.

I can convince myself of anything; I can comprehend nearly any equation, if I think really, really hard about it. I can lie to myself. I can read between the lines.

But I cannot make myself attracted to anyone.

This sounds a little cynical, but I believe it to be true for myself. I able to understand complex math and receive an A in a class I hate, but I can't convince myself to stop crushing over some guy.

Signed, a hopeless romantic.

Title Track: Celebrity Treatment

I hate celebrity news. I hate it with a passion. I flip the channel when Entertainment Tonight comes on. I changed my Internet homepage when CNN covered Michael Jackson’s death too long.

But I love celebrities – Christian celebrities.

I’m not referring to those B- and D-list actors like Stephen Baldwin, or American Idols who came out of the Christian closet after they won. (Four words: Jesus Take the Wheel.) No, I’m in love with Christian writers, particularly Donald Miller.

Or maybe only Donald Miller.

Don Miller is the author of the New York Times Best Seller, “Blue Like Jazz.” He’s written four other books, “Through Painted Deserts,” “Searching for God Knows What,” “To Own a Dragon” and, his most recent, “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years.”

I used to joke around with my Bible study leader, Ruthanne, who is Don’s age, saying that she should marry him. She said she won’t because he’s too liberal and he lives too far away.

I stopped teasing her about this because I am the one who’s going to marry Don.

I talked to my friend Jacque about this a few weeks ago, and she made me calculate how many years older Don is than me. Nineteen. I told her that he was in my 20-year limit. She told me that was gross.

Prior to this moment – the moment I realized I wanted to marry Don Miller – I thought I had a healthy fascination with this man and his writing. I read his books (only less than five times each), I read his blog, I’m his fan on Facebook, I follow him on Twitter, I want to move to his hometown. …

But one day I tweeted about his new book I preordered, how Amazon says that it won’t release for three more weeks. And Don Miller direct messaged me.

Don Miller direct messaged me.

For those who don’t use Twitter, that’s as good as an email. Don Miller thought about me for a whole five seconds of his busy life. He might as well have proposed.

Going to bed that night, with an ungodly amount of excitement, I realized that I might have a problem.

My celebrity crush phase did not end in middle school with David Duchovny (I was a big “X-Files” fan). I am in college and I am crushing over someone that is completely unattainable.

I do not know what to make of this. I want to reprimand myself for spending so much energy concerned with someone I may never meet. What’s the point of buying his book before it comes out? Does he know I did that? And who cares how I display the book or how I smell the pages and hug it like a friend?

Who am I trying to impress?

I think about when I make new friends and how anxious I am for them to like me. I choose my words carefully, I butter them up, I do favors I might otherwise do begrudgingly. When my friend Austin and I first became friends, I always offered to meet at a coffee shop closer to his house, and I would pay for my own drink.

Now Austin knows me as the biggest moocher ever. When we eat at Buffalo Wild Wings, my favorite restaurant, two-thirds of the time he or our friend Matt pays my bill.

I pride myself, not for the generosity I once brought to our friendship, but for my ability to persuade my guy friend to serve me.

What if I always treated people like celebrities? I don’t mean that I want to fawn over them like I do Don Miller, but to honor them and put them above myself.

In Romans 12:10, Paul says that we should “be willing to associate with people of a low position.” The Message paraphrase says to “practice playing second fiddle.”

Don Miller, in an interview with RELEVANT magazine, said that as a writer, he never wants to write a book that he isn’t proud of, to write something that is second-rate in his mind. But as a Christian, he says, he hopes he has the humility to do so.

I get excited – and dare I say, obsessive – when it comes to certain celebrities, or to people I feel the need to impress. But I want to be someone who honors others just because I can, just because I love them.

I want to learn to set my own desires and interests aside to serve my brothers and sisters. I want to start treating them and treating my neighbors and my enemies like celebrities.

The post was originally printed in Indiana Wesleyan University's The Sojourn newspaper.

The Mirror

Hello, friends.

I wanted to start this blog with a forward to stop those who might criticize the following. This isn't for you; this is a testimony to who God's shaped me into and a testimony to who I am becoming. Maybe I'm too honest in it, maybe I'm not honest enough. Whichever way you see it, please keep the hate to yourself.

I've never written anything that has opened my eyes like this piece. It has shown me how far I've come in the past four years ... and it's showing me how far away I still am. Tonight, while flipping through an old journal of mine, I realized that my pursuit of my identity started with a boy -- Adam. I wanted to know who I am before dating him. I never dated Adam. Nor have I "found myself." I'm intrigued by how God has used these gentlemen (Adam and others) to show me who I am.

So, without further ado. ...

“The Mirror”

By Lauren Sawyer

My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love …

These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself

- Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself” -

The hurricane of bath water filling the tub only makes me turn my music up louder: the punk-rock I’m so fond of at this time, the heartbreak the artist squeals. It fits my mood. I’m a romantic even at fourteen.

I am in eighth grade, thinner than I know, with shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair – straight in the winter, wavy in the humid summer. Nothing about me categorizes me as either beautiful or repulsive, save for the metal brackets glued to my teeth. (My orthodontist let me get colored rubber bands only once, and I chose gold – the same color as the food particles stuck between the grooves.)

Still, plenty of other girls have braces and I don’t feel any different than them. So I smile in the mirror in front of me – and sing.

I sing a love song for my future husband and a love song for the God I already know. I change audiences as I sing, knowing that both God and this boy would appreciate my song. No one can hear me outside the locked bathroom; my singing is muffled. My middle school prayers are disguised by the water and song.

This is my ritual. Bath time is set aside to be alone with myself and with God, when my mind muddles through memories of this day and expectations for the next. I dream now; I sing my love songs and pray now. It’s my special time-oasis. It’s my Walden Pond.

I stand across from the sink wearing cotton shorts and a lace camisole that fits too loosely at the top. I keep my socks on for irony, contrasting my long, bare legs bending in at the knees. I twirl in pirouettes twice before adjusting my look in the mirror – I twist tiny braids into the crown of my hair. There. Perfect.

Skipping back to the tub, I release a few inches of water to add more time to my pre-bath ritual. I’m back by the sink, looking at myself curiously in the mirror. My journal, the flimsy red thing I hid beneath my towel, is pulled out and I begin writing:

Dear Jesus, I know who I’m going to marry.

And I do. His name is David and he’s a musician. He wears a modern-day beatnik beanie with curly brown hair peeking out; his muscles bulge at the biceps. I write down his characteristics: blue-eyed, shy, respectful, funny, smells good. I push aside the notebook and stare at myself in the mirror.

I make faces as I always do. My favorite is the tiger growl (I wiggle my fingers accordingly). I scrunch up my nose or bite my lip, attempting an endearing look like the girl-next-door in the movies. I practice flirting with my eyes – something I have yet to accomplish.

My bathwater’s nearly full, but I must play with my hair once more before immersion; I push the fibers into a dramatic pouf. I make a fierce model face then promptly splash into the tub.

My ritual’s complete, but it’s to be repeated tomorrow and the next day. For four more years I dance in front of that bathroom mirror, praying and singing to both God and man, with no distrust for the reflection before me. I love myself in the way a healthy girl should.

But slowly, like the dripping of a broken faucet, my confidence began to wane. My ability to stare blankly into my face and at my half-clothed body became increasingly difficult. By college I was afraid to look.

--

I am in tenth grade and I have found true love.

In May of last year I decided to create a Myspace page to track down a high school senior, one I had heard about for years from my sister who had a crush on him. His name is Adam Parker and he is the greatest guy ever.

We talked on Myspace for over a month before meeting. And the night we did meet – a group of twenty high school students arranged a capture-the-flag game in my neighborhood – the first words I heard out of Adam Parker’s mouth were: “Where’s Lauren?”

We stood out in the humid air, agreeing on rules and team names. My hair had turned from silky to coarse in a matter of moments, and my shirt refused to disguise the sweat stains under my arms. My metal smile greeted him. “Hi.”

He reminds me of David, my husband from two years ago, the one so delicately described by my bathroom sink. He doesn’t like me the way I think he ought to, but I know I matter to him. He tells me all the time:

“You inspire me, Lauren.”

“You are so wise for your age.”

--

I’m a junior now and a master at ping-pong. My boyfriend Luke and I play whenever he comes over. We don’t keep score, but if we did, I’m sure I’d win. Sometimes he hits the ball across the room just so he can watch me chase it, and then he runs up and hugs me.

After a few weeks as “exclusive friends” – which, despite not knowing what that meant, gave me something to think fondly of in class – Luke cut short one of our ping-pong games. Once he whispered to me his plan, he walked up stairs and asked my mom permission to date me.

Luke buys me things to show his affection: a necklace, a DVD, dinner, a slushy. Or sometimes he slips notes or gas money into my pocket, as if I don’t notice. But most of the time, Luke and I walk through our neighborhoods talking and arguing and holding hands.

--

I’m still a junior, but Luke and I broke up. We started fighting, mostly about my best friend. She doesn’t like Luke very much. Everything is so confusing. I want to make everyone happy – my friend, Luke – but I’m the one suffering.

Tonight we sit tightly on that green leather sofa, my best friend on my right, Luke not five feet away.

“I hate him,” she tells me. I think she smiled. “Well, I hated him.” She reemphasizes the past tense to make me feel better. I don’t feel better.

Luke and I dated for four months – only two we called “official” in fear of my best friend throwing a fit. She didn’t like the way he came over every Monday night or joined us at youth group and answered all the questions in Sunday school.

“But I liked him,” I reply, not emphasizing the past tense. “Actually, I still kind of like him.” I get up from the couch and talk to another friend – not looking at her, not looking at Luke.

--

I haven’t had a date in front of the mirror in a while.

--

It’s summer and I am seventeen years old. I haven’t had a boyfriend since Luke, but I don’t care very much. I am a single woman; I can woo any boy I like.

Today’s the third day of a nine-day mission trip in Slidell, Louisiana where I’m teaching Vacation Bible School to young Katrina victims. Outside it’s a limitless sauna, so I do my best to stay indoors to tame my frizzy hair. I haven’t taken a shower all week, I have proudly announced to my friends. Not because I am a bra-burning feminist, but because of the cockroaches. They love the shower stall more than me.

But even without a shower and with my hair, which is cut short in a bob and responding like a 70’s afro, I manage to attract the attention of a boy.

His name is John Derek and he is Matthew McConaughey – in both looks and attitude.

He’s lying on the floor, elbows propping him up, playing a handheld video game. Charming, I know, but I still want him to notice me. I myself lay down, at least three feet away, and pretend I’m caught up in something else. I pull out my cell phone and begin texting no one at all.

I squirm closer – he doesn’t notice.

I army crawl an inch, two inches, three until John Derek notices me. “Hi.”

He turns back to his game. “Hi.”

I lean over his shoulder and ask what he’s playing. Pokémon, I think. I somehow see past the geekyness to ask him how to play.

He tells me, seemingly uninterested, but he puts the game aside. Then we engage in what I can only describe as a “flirting war” – one of those awkward-for-everyone-else-but-the-people-involved bustles of quips, poking, tickling, giggling and blushing. It carries on the rest of the night and most of the week.

Until my best friend told me it wasn’t worth it. He did live a thousand miles away, and he did flirt with all the other girls. And besides all that, he wasn’t really my type – jerky, manipulative … good-looking.

In an attempt at self-respect, I spent the final two days of the trip far away from John Derek. I had friends act as body guards, standing in the way whenever he got too close to me.

I left Louisiana without saying goodbye to John Derek. I think with him, though I had maintained dignity by not flirting with an unattainable boy, I left a part of my vulnerability. After that week I forgot that I was pretty enough to flirt.

--

High school is behind me; I have graduated. I gave up on finding a high school sweetheart and have pursued only friendships with guys.

Meet Matt. He’s in an on-again, off-again relationship with my best friend, but for most of our friendship they haven’t been together. Matt and I are close – really close – except nothing physical takes place. We’re just always together: getting coffee every weekend, seeing movies on boring evenings and texting till midnight.

Until now.

My finger dances on the plastic lid of my latte cup. He is speaking, but I’m trying not to listen. I swirl the cup around, imagining the brownish funnel the coffee is making inside. I guess how many sips were left: three? four? I take one for myself, the lukewarm cream dissolving in my mouth before making it to my throat. Just one.

Now it’s empty.

Now I’m forced to look at him and listen to his story.

He’s leaving me again, for her. It’s not that we were dating … I have no desire to actually date him … at least not admittedly. But when Matt went back to my best friend for the third time, leaving me dateless for the eighteenth month – well, now I’m lonely.

--

Welcome to college.

I expected nothing less than a dozen dates lined up by the first day of classes. I am in college and all college girls are pretty and worth dating – except me. I ho-hum through the first semester, finding plenty of crushes and very few dates.

My best friend isn’t here to weed out the losers. There are no Adam Parkers or Lukes to declare my importance. Matt is back at home, miles away, with his girlfriend.

And I am without a bathroom of my own; I’m stuck sharing it with my two roommates who wouldn’t understand my singing or my silly face-making.

I figure I need to do some soul-searching: to learn how to see myself in a new way, to learn how to find a mirror that casts my own reflection, not the reflection of others’ view of me. For too long I’ve relied on other people to define who I am.

I am not just the girl who crushes after a certain boy, or just the girlfriend of another. I am my own person, if only I knew who that was. I need to find myself and know myself as an individual.

I need a new bath time ritual.

I need a new song to sing.

Dear Sex,

A from-the-heart commentary.

February 2, 1998

Dear S-E-X,

I am scared to say your name. Teacher says it’s a bad word so I don’t want to get in trouble. I just figured out what you are today. You’re gross.

Mommy took me to see Titanic and I think Jack and pretty girl had S-E-X. They weren’t wearing clothes in that car. Mommy said that’s what you are. I think they looked cold. It was like a bazillion degrees cold in that car. There was an iceberg.

Mommy also said that people shouldn’t have S-E-X until they’re married. It’s bad when people like Jack and pretty girl have S-E-X before they’re married because that’s what Mommy says. And I think that’s where babies come from. Mommy said that babies come when a boy and a girl sleep together. Jack and pretty girl slept together. I bet they’re gonna have a baby.

At recess a boy asked me if I was a virgin. I said I didn’t know because I don’t know what a virgin is. I think a virgin is someone who doesn’t have S-E-X until they are married. I think I am a virgin. The boy at recess said that this brown haired girl isn’t one. I laughed because that’s funny. How can she be a virgin if she isn’t even married?

With love,

A virgin

(I think.)

June 12, 1999

Dear S-E-X,

My sister got pregnant and she isn’t even married. My stepdad got really mad at her and she has to move out and get married. There was a lot of crying at our house today. I cried too because everyone else cried. But I’m kind of excited. I really want a baby niece or nephew.

I figured out what a virgin is, and I am one. It means I haven’t had S-E-X. I haven’t. I’ve had a boyfriend though. We talked on the phone once. He sent me a watermelon eraser in the mail too. I haven’t talked to him since I started third grade though. I’m kind of shy.

My mommy asked me if I knew what gay meant. I think she said that it’s when a boy has S-E-X with another boy. I thought it meant that a boy acted really girly. Sissy said that there’s this boy on the bus that’s gay, but I don’t think he’s had S-E-X. He is only in the third grade! People don’t do it until they are like 19 or something. That’s how old my sister is. The one that’s pregnant, I mean. She’s 19.

With love,

A virgin

March 13, 2001

Dear Sex,

I can get pregnant now—I started my period.

In school we learned all about you. We even had to look at a diagram of a boy’s thingy. (You know what it’s called.) It was really gross. I wanted to close my eyes the whole time but I actually thought it was interesting.

We learned that we have these things called hormones that make us want to have you really bad. I don’t know if my hormones are working yet because I don’t really want to have you. If I did though, I’d tell you.

With love,

A virgin

November 19, 2002

Dear Sex,

You’re very romantic. My sister and I watch the show Friends all the time and Chandler and Monica make love a lot. But it’s okay because they get married I think.

I bet it would be really romantic to make love on my engagement night. I mean, I’d be getting married so it’d be okay if I did. My boyfriend would sprinkle rose petals from the doorway of my house all the way upstairs to my bedroom. Then he’d be there with a ring and I’d say, “Yes!”

I really hope the guy I marry is romantic like that. I’d probably have to drop him a few hints about the rose thing, but he’d catch on pretty fast.

With love,

A virgin

June 20, 2004

Dear Sex,

This boy I like asked me if I masturbate. I didn’t know what the word meant so I looked it up in the dictionary. No, I do not masturbate. I think he might though because he said it all dark and mysterious.

That same boy told me about this dream he had that he had sex with his girlfriend. He probably shouldn’t have told me that. I know his girlfriend and she’s really sweet and wouldn’t have sex when she’s still in junior high. But that boy told me he and his girlfriend had this thing called cybersex where they actually do it on the Internet. I don’t really know how that works, but I think *NSYNC sang a song about it once. Sounds kind of weird to me.

With love,

A virgin

July 31, 2004

Dear Sex,

I kissed a boy for the first time! Well, he kissed me. We were leaving a party and he kissed me on the cheek. It was really sweet.

We kissed mouth-to-mouth like three days later. We were riding home from a youth group trip and he decided that it was a good time to make a move. I kind of didn’t want to kiss him in the back of a van, but I couldn’t really stop him.

Don’t make fun of me, but I really didn’t enjoy kissing all that much. It’s kind of gross if you think about it—germs and all that. I won’t tell him that though. Well, I couldn’t tell him if I wanted to because we broke up.

Yeah, a week after we started kissing he broke up with me for my best friend. I was kind of mad, but not really too mad because I liked having the freedom to crush on other boys. Besides, as I said before, kissing was not that big of a deal.

With love,

A virgin

April 11, 2005

Dear Sex,

Today I decided to remain abstinent until I get married. I bought a purity ring to prove my commitment.

I think that sex needs to be special and between a husband and wife. That’s what my youth pastor says anyway, and all those books I’ve read. There’s this one author I read that said that you shouldn’t even kiss before you’re married! That’s a little crazy.

I started liking this guy who is three years older than me, but don’t tell anyone. I think that I’m going to marry him; he’s basically the hottest guy ever. He’s dated a lot of girls that are S-L-U-T-S. (Well, my sister calls them that. I don’t like to cuss.) I wonder if he likes me.

Anyway, it’s a lot of fun daydreaming about him. Don’t worry, I only think about clean things like holding hands and hugging. I would like to kiss him though, but not yet. I would want to wait like a month or two after we started dating. I think that’s a good amount of time.

With love,

A virgin

October 30, 2006

Dear Sex,

My boyfriend of three months broke up with me. I feel really dirty.

We didn’t even kiss and I feel dirty! I think that he liked to touch me too much. He didn’t like touch me in the wrong parts, but it still didn’t feel right.

With love,

A virgin

September 13, 2007

Dear Sex,

Two girls from one of my classes last year are pregnant. They’re juniors in high school! It’s hard to believe that someone younger than me is having sex before I am. Crazy.

I guess a lot of people have sex in high school, I just haven’t realized it until now. People are just lonely; they want some sort of fulfillment so they go to their boyfriends. Guys must love it. I mean, teenage girls are so naïve and desperate. Not me, though, or my friends.

I think Christianity’s the difference. I forgot to tell you that, Sex, I am a Christian. That’s why I want to wait to have you. I’ve still been told a dozen times that even Christians have sex outside of marriage, but I don’t believe them. If I were truly committed to Christ I would not have sex. Period. That just seems so obvious.

So like I said, those girls in high school who are having sex (and getting pregnant) are just lonely and void of something—Jesus. Someone should evangelize to them.

With love,

A virgin

December 2, 2007

Dear Sex,

I found out that one of my first boyfriends was caught having sex with his girlfriend—in their house! How sick is that? I am kind of not surprised, though, because he’s not really a Christian anymore. His sister (my friend) is mad at him and I doubt she’s going to talk to him any time soon.

I have friends at school who talk about having sex … or about doing it in the near future. It still seems so foreign to me. I guess I never believed that high school students did anything bad at all. Man, I remember when I first realized that my school has a drug problem. It was only a few months ago.

I think I’m ignorant to a lot of things, but I am okay with that. I’d rather stay the sweet pure Christian I’ve always been.

With love,

A virgin

June 8, 2008

Dear Sex,

My closest guy friend is a sex-addict. I wrote a whole essay about it once—about how I thought he was one even though he’s a virgin. But he really is a sex-addict. And he’s not a virgin.

He’s a Christian too, which is why he repented of it. He sat me down at a coffee house tonight and told me how he regretted it so much. He felt so empty inside and he wanted to get his life right again. I really admired him. Yeah, he messed up, but he’s ready to own up. I’m so proud of him. Even though he is a sex-addict.

With love,

A virgin

December 11, 2008

Dear Sex,

My closest guy friend never stopped having sex. I guess it’s one of those things that you start and never find the will to stop. He is an addict, I suppose.

I have decided to remain indifferent to it all because that will keep me from yelling at him. He no longer calls himself a Christian, so I guess it’s okay if he still has sex. It’s still a sin, but at least he’s not defaming the name of Christ. Does that sound cold-hearted? It seems that way to me. I should try to be nicer.

I found out that a lot of people I love and respect have been sleeping around, but I’m trying not to let it work me up. My sister tells me that my moral standards are different than a lot of people’s and I shouldn’t impose them. I am forced to agree.

With love,

A virgin

January 17, 2009

Dear Sex,

I guess Christians have pre-marital sex after all. Today I learned that two of my Christian friends slept together. They love Jesus but still have sex.

Sin is sin, no matter what. I tend to forget that. I find myself damning those who have sex outside of marriage or drink underage or do drugs more so than I damn myself for being proud or selfish or judgmental. There’s a plank in my eye that I have continuously ignored.

But I cannot help but view you, Sex, from my perspective. I cannot help but see you as something peculiar, something designed for a certain time and place. And when I see people from my school and my friends who have engaged in you, I don’t see what the media makes you out to be—I don’t see romance or fun or commitment or beauty. I see a lot of sad people searching for something. And instead of finding happiness, they’ve found the day-after blues: when he leaves to go to work or she grabs her clothes and drives away.

Sex, I don’t want to get to know you yet! I want you to remain a mystery until my wedding night. Then I will appreciate you, then I’ll get to experience that romance and fun and commitment and beauty. But not until then.

A lot of people throw you away. They waste you on people they will never truly love. They waste you on a night of passion or a night of loneliness. But that’s not fair. That’s not fair to you.

But don’t worry, Sex, I still think you’re special.

With love,

A virgin.

Don’t get worked up on the dates or people in this story. Bits and pieces I had to change for the fluency and understanding of the commentary. Just take it for what it is. Am I trying to be edgy? Not really. I’m just still learning about love and sex and pain and God and everything in between--and this is the result. In love, Lauren.