God, relationships, and an overuse of the word 'suck'

Alright. Well. Here's the deal:

My favorite image of God is that of the Great Romancer - my husband. As a romantic, I have viewed Him this way even as a young girl. But, as we all know, relationships are tough. They even suck at times.

Friendships suck. Boyfriend-girlfriend relationships suck. Marriages suck. They're hard sometimes, and they really, really suck.

Anyway, I was thinking about God as my Husband today, and it kind of pissed me off.

I'm coming out of this really low spiritual valley. Translation: I've felt far from God; I've felt far from the Church; I've felt like I've been asleep the whole time. I'm finally getting back to where I know I should be. I let God off the couch; I'm letting him back in bed. But I feel like it's not enough.

Why? Well, a relationship is never one-sided. Sometimes I feel like my relationships with others are easier than my relationship with God because with them, I can tell if they're putting in effort. I can see them trying. I can see someone keep his mouth shut when he usually yells. I can see her clean up her side of the room.

But God? Geez, I can't tell if He's even trying.

I pray to Him. I read about Him. I sing to Him. I tell Him everything I'm feeling -- and still nothing. God, do you even hear me?

I feel like I'm holding up my end of the deal, but He is not.

I say, "God, I think we need to work through this." And what is He doing? He says He agrees, but does nothing.

It's funny because yesterday at church I filled out a spiritual inventory. It's supposed to tell me how I'm doing spiritually. I keep thinking about my results. It sure looks like I'm a Christian. It sure looks like I'm doing all the right things. But it's going to say that I'm not doing enough. It's going to say that I'm acting like a baby Christian all over again.

I read my Bible. I pray. I fast. I go to church.

That inventory is going to say that I'm doing alright, but I need to tithe and help out at the church. It's going to tell me that my faith isn't very deep -- it's surface level -- and they're going to invite me to go deeper. They're going to tell me to get into a small group or find a mentor or go through some membership class.

They're going to think of me as a little kid, someone who hasn't seen the rough side of faith -- as if this is the first faith crisis I've seen.

Well, it isn't.

I've been "married" to God for some time now. We've had some good times and some bad times. We aren't newlyweds. We're not in the honeymoon phase.

I'm doing everything I know how to do to get out of this phase.
But still it feels like God's not holding up His end of the deal.



O Lord, you have examined my heart
and know everything about me.
You know when I sit down or stand up.
You know my thoughts even when I’m far away.
You see me when I travel
and when I rest at home.
You know everything I do.
You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, Lord.
Ps. 139:1-4, NLT

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

Hi, Heart.

I hesitate to blog anymore because my audience has grown so much. I don't mean that to sound like bragging, but since I went overseas and got a boyfriend, more people have been interested in what I say. That scares me. Gulp. Do I want you to read this?

I have one standard for my blog - honesty. I write what I believe (whether it's truth or not is another matter). I write in order to enact change; I write in order for my brothers and sister in Christ to agree, to say "Amen"; I write to vent or rant or ask questions. But I write with the intention of total transparency. I know I'm not always right. I know that what I say is often embarrassing or self-righteous or ignorant. I want this blog to be a testament of my brokenness. As long as it's honest.

(It's odd: I only half-realize that what I write is public. It's not until someone I don't know very well comments on a post that the regret kicks in. Should I have written that?)

But I've been doing this since I was 14, so no use stopping now. Even if this blog gets read by thousands - oh, maybe one day - I can't quit being myself. I can't quit pondering and wrestling and ranting. Am I not Ezekiel, God's mouthpiece?

--

I've been thinking about my heart a lot, because of this book I read. I finished reading Joy in the Morning by Betty Smith for possibly the fifth time. I lost count. 

The story is about Annie and Carl Brown during their first year of marriage in 1927. Carl is a third year law student and Annie is his 18-year-old bride. It's a rags-to-riches story, a theme popular in its time.

I love the book because I think I'm Annie. Rather, I view myself as someone like her. I know I'm not really that much like her. I either wish I were or I try to be. 

Annie's a writer. She's this quirky girl who gets way too excited about silly little things; she gets absorbed in projects; she wants to fit in; she loves reading; she loves observing people. She's a character.

What I love most about Annie - and how I relate to her the most - is her childlike heart. She seems so very young. She calls herself a dope all the time. Carl calls her his child-bride.

Annie's 18 in the book, 19 by the end, but her heart is still 12.

Her heart is a curious little girl who wants to read and write and play house.

She has conversations like this with Carl:

"Would you love me if I was a factory worker?" [asked Carl.]

"Of course. But you're not a factory worker. You are going to be a lawyer. You got to be a lawyer. I told the children their father's a lawyer."

"What children?"

"The children I'm going to have."

"We're going to have."

"I'm going to have them. You can watch." p.61

When I am confused about something or need to make a decision that my heart has a say in, I compartmentalize my Heart, my Head and sometimes my Body. I give them voices and let them speak.

I did it once for this blog. 

I let my Head speak for my rationale. I let Heart speak for my, well, heart. And I let Body speak for my impulses.

But I decided a few weeks ago that my Head, my Heart and my Body are different ages. Body is obviously 20. But Head is in grad school - 24, 25 maybe. 

Heart is 12.

I think my Heart's still a baby.

I remember when I first had that realization, when I was 13. When people asked me how old I was, I'd want to say 12. Sometimes I still want to answer 12. 

I don't know what that says about me exactly. I hope it's nothing bad. I hope it doesn't hurt my relationships or cause me to remain naive or pathetic for the rest of my life.

But I think it'll keep me like Annie. I think it'll keep me hopeful when life is stressful. I think it'll keep me writing even if I never get published.

--

A few years ago I began this quest to find myself. I wanted to know who I am stripped of every relationship, every label or stereotype, every defining quality. I wanted to know who I am via Jesus and no one else. 

Something happened, I think. I had it all figured out sometime last year. I felt cool. I felt confident. But then life happened. I started doubting God. I started doubting that he cared about me at all, that he had a plan for me. Or something. Man, I don't even know what happened.

So I'm back here again. What I started two years ago, I'm starting again. I'm trying to find myself.

Yeah, I know the basics. I know who I am as a writer. I know who I am as a student, as a woman, as a dreamer, as a friend. But I don't know who I am as a girlfriend. I don't know who I am as an adult, a professional. I don't know who I am fully. I only know in part.

I know my Head, but I don't always know my Heart. I never know what she's up to. I have to ask her, and when I do, she starts freaking out. 

I figure life is like this. I wrote a few years ago how my friend Adam told me that you can never fully know who you are, and I said that I didn't believe him. I believe him now. I won't always get myself. I'm peculiar, even to myself. But I can learn. And the learning may never stop.

Ezek.

To be human

people are just people
they shouldn't make you nervous
the world is everlasting, it's coming and it's going

--

People are just people.

I read in George Orwell's "The Lion and the Unicorn: Socialism and the English Genius" that people are not just people, that people in England aren't the same people in America or in Germany or in South Africa. But I don't believe George Orwell - and I wonder if at the end of the essay he doesn't refute his own opinion.

I joined Preston and Claire who taught English last night at the Life Center. I had met a few students last week at the party, including Van's brother Ahmed, Zeba and her husband Amir.

The two-hour class is organized into two parts. It's an upper-level class centered on conversation, so each half of each class has a different discussion topic. The first topic was marriage.

What surprised me about our conversation about marriage with Kurds, primarily Muslim Kurds, was that nothing they said surprised me. Every answer sounded American. Everything sounded Christian, and not even ultra-conservative Christian. It sounded like something I've said about marriage or I've heard said about marriage.

Several of the students talked about respect: the husband respecting the wife, and vise versa; the wife respecting her husband's friends, etc. They talked about what they look for in a spouse: education, values, looks, honesty.

--

I'm writing this to expose my ignorance. I assumed a lot about this culture because of the books I read (A Thousand Splendid Suns) or movies (I'll be honest: Aladdin), but I've been wrong.

It's hard to know a culture without being immersed in that culture. I can read all I want, and still not grasp what a people group is all about. I can talk to Jessica and Jeremy about life in Kurdistan, without understanding what life in Kurdistan is really like.

I can't stop thinking of the Incarnation, and what it meant for God to step into our world in order to empathize with us.

He didn't just read about the world or watch movies about it.
He lived in our houses; he "moved into the neighborhood" as Eugene Peterson says.
He put on our skin; he put on our culture (he wore Klash!).
He died a death that we die: political, religious.

So when God says to me, "Girl, I get it. I know what you're going through."

He means it.


I'm beginning to understand that now.





Lauren

[* photo by Lydia Bullock]

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

A character who wants something ...

Story.

PROLOGUE: Late last year RELEVANT Magazine died to me. On vintage episodes of their podcast, the crew joked that washed up actors belonged on a "You're Dead to Me Wall." Now they're on mine.

Around that time I read Don Miller's A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life about Don's journey editing his memoir into a film script. In the process he learned what it means to live life as a story -- a story big enough for the big screen.

As this story of mine was dying - my dream of working for RELEVANT Magazine - I started seeing how very small that story was. My dream was to work for a small entertainment magazine. Huh. Not that there's anything wrong with writing for RELEVANT - I still respect its mission, after all - but it's not something worth living for. But that's what I did ... until it died.

It was a long, slow, painful death, starting in January and ending in October. So when the time came for me to put the coffin in the ground, so to speak, I hadn't really planned for life after RELEVANT. What did I want to do with my life? What kind of story did I want to live?

In late October I prayed for a dream to take RELEVANT's place. If the fields must die, something must spring up in its place. This is about that dream.

A CHARACTER: I always play it safe. I don't take risks if I think I'll fail. I've only been rejected by two boys, and both times were done with subtle hints because "Do You Like Me?" is not in my vocabulary.

A typical conversation:
LAUREN: I hate my job! I never want to go back.
JACQUE: Do you just hate your job because you aren't very good at it, and you're used to being good at everything?
LAUREN: Indeed.

A CHARACTER WHO WANTS SOMETHING: That verse in the Bible that says, "Delight yourself in the LORD and he will give you the desires of your heart" comes with stipulations. For one, God isn't going to give you everything you want. I want Leonardo DiCaprio. I'm not going to get Leonardo DiCaprio.

But God wants us to want.

I mean, he wants us to be content with what we have - that's not the point. He doesn't want us to be greedy or covetous or envious - those are two of the seven deadly sins, after all - but he wants us to desire stuff. Mostly he wants us to desire good stuff.

He wants us to desire things like peace and justice for the people in Darfur. He wants us to desire things like health and comfort for the people in Haiti. He wants us to desire bigger, better stories that change us, that take us on journeys and out of our comfort zones.

And so I prayed. RELEVANT was dead and buried, and finally I was okay. There's something more important than writing about pop culture to a Christian audience.

Perusing Jason Boyett's blog, I came across an organization called Preemptive Love that sells handmade shoes to pay for Iraqi children's heart surgeries (through their for-profit company Buy Shoes. Save Lives.).

I was in Radio Production at the time, not paying attention to Prof. Perry, exploring the PLC site. When I read their mission statement I was so, so close to leaving class, running back to the dorm to tell Lindsey about my discovery. Because, ready for this? Best mission statement ever. (See left side of your screen. Or for Facebook readers, look up. Or down. It's hard to say.)

I don't know what I believe about a lot of things, honestly. I don't know if I really believe in once-saved-always-saved theology or what to do about the environment or how involved in politics Christians should be. ... But I know I hate war. I know that Christians are called to love people and not kill them. I know that instead of DESTROYING we should be CREATING. I fell in love with PLC.

After reading more and more about what they do and who they are, I knew that I wanted to intern with them.

--

Don learned that every story has an "inciting incident" that moves the character from just wanting something passively, to fighting to get it. It's where the conflict is introduced. Jack thinks Rose is pretty, but it takes her dangling off the edge of a ship for him to pursue her.

--

A CHARACTER WHO WANTS SOMETHING AND OVERCOMES CONFLICT: My mom does not want me in Iraq. Well, duh. I don't think anyone close to me wants me in Iraq.

Every good story has conflict - this is mine. My friends and mentors tell me one of two things: 1.) If I'm supposed to go to Iraq, Mom will magically be okay with it. 2.) I should probably not go to Iraq unless I know God wants me there.

I believe God is big enough to make Mom change her mind. I also believe God is big enough to tell me in plain language that I'm supposed to go to Iraq (or not).

And that's been my prayer - for either of those. But honestly, nothing's that clear. I will say that I feel peace about the internship, which is odd. I'm never at peace about dishonoring my mom. (Mainly because I've never dishonored my mom before.) I'm never at peace about doing something big and scary.

--

This is where my story pauses. I'm emailing my application in tonight.

God's will is still vague. A feeling of peace is not something to base a huge decision off of, right? Lindsey suggested I fast, so I am. One meal a week. Maybe a little discipline will help me hear him a new way. Maybe. I hope.

Dear friends, I need your prayers. I don't need your advice, though. Ha, I mean this in a respectful way. I've heard all sides of this; I know my options. It's listening time. It's decision-making time.


with love and squalor,
Lauren

An Introduction

I don't know how to start this blog - I don't have a witty anecdote. I guess I could say this: the other day Molly and I were having "WTF, Jesus?" moments around the same time. I went to the Williams' prayer chapel and scrawled broken arguments to God. (I'm not sure what Molly did.)

I'm fine, really, I am. I am.

I started taking control of my life instead of letting God, and whenever I do that trouble follows. This isn't to say God is punishing me; I just don't know how to run my life as well as God. Amen, amen.

--

I want this to be a series, a four-parter: Grace, Faith, Redemption and Forgiveness. I can't do blog series because I get so bored and distracted. I write what I wanna write when I wanna write it. But this I need to do for myself, and for God. This blog series is my spiritual act of worship.

--

Why these four topics? Well. That's a good question.

In World Civ. we're learning about the 7 Deadly Sins. After discussing Greed, I began thinking about which of these sins would be friends, had they the ability to form relationships. I came to the conclusion that Greed, Lust and Gluttony would be BFF.

I figured it like this: Gluttony has to do with hungry, about getting your fill. Greed is about desiring money and possessions and stuff. Lust is about hungering for another person, for them making you feel a certain way. They're all about hunger - eros and what not.

If four virtues (are they virtues?) could be friends, it would obviously be Faith, Redemption, Forgiveness and Grace. And Love. Love would be in there somewhere. Maybe Hope too.

Anyway, Faith is about belief and loyalty - no matter what. And it takes Forgiveness to keep faith in someone or something that isn't faithful back. And Redemption is like that never-ending process that underlies it all: you the faithful are redeemed while the unfaithful is redeemed, becoming the faithful, etc.

And Grace is the hug that brings us all together.

That doesn't make much sense, I'm sure. I'm just finding correlations - it must be the economics student in me.

--

I'm processing life right now. Piece by piece by piece by piece. I know who I am. I am Lauren Deidra Sawyer. I am classy. A little quirky (no, Linds, not awkward). A writer. An avid reader. A music snob. A little sister.

But what do I do about you? I know who I am, but what do I do with you, Life? What do I do with you, Religion?

Thus: this series.

with love and squalor,

ezek.

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.

heart is scarred by duel volition

I don't know how to begin this blog. I really just have a lot of word vomit to throw at you all, but that way probably won't be the most effective.

I finished a piece for my magazine writing class that affected me like nothing else I've written since the infamous "secret book" some of you have been dying to read (or have yelled at me over). But this new piece I started writing about my lack of self-esteem - how it has waned over the past few years - but it ended up showing me how much of my identity I search for in other people. How I made beauty relative to my circumstances.

It started in middle school. Looking back I thought I had all the self-esteem in the world. I rocked my style: tiny braids in my long hair, trucker hats, low-cut tops with camisoles, wristbands with safety pins, baggy khaki pants from Aeropostle and in eighth grade, when I cut my hair short so I'd look like Scully from the X-Files, I wore button blouses all the time.

Oh, I had class.

But did I have self-esteem? Did I believe I was worth anything?

Maybe more than I do now, but not much more. I really hate admitting it - because I think I rock more than you know - but all through high school I was looking for my identity in everything but God.

I looked for it in crushes.

I looked for it in boyfriends.

I looked for it in Ashley.

I looked for it in Tom.

I looked for it in pride.

I looked for it in Christianity.

But it's not the same as finding your identity in Christ. To find yourself in Christ, well, if I knew exactly what that looked like it'd be easier for me to obtain. I could even be there already. I could see that I have value no matter how annoying my stupid hair is or whether or not I have friends or good grades or if that hot kid in soc will freaking look at me.

Ugh.

I stumbled upon my Xanga page. My second one, the one I made after I started liking Luke. I hate that in so many areas I got it - I knew that God is the only one I need to live for - but at the same time I was self-righteous. I was mean to Luke, I was mean to Ashley and Amanda. But I clung to God. But I clung to a part of God. Or, I clung with a part of me. Or something.

Who am I?, because I don't know.

I feel like that God-hungry, Scripture-memorizing child of God I was back then isn't me any more. But neither am I that unconsciously cruel. Or am I?

I am bitter. I hate all peppy Christians. I am confused. I wish things made sense.

But I still cling to God with whatever's left of me. Not because I need to prove anything to you, but because I don't have any other choice. This is hard, sir. Please help me.

I'm broken, but guess what:

When I'm broken, then I will be made whole.

To go high, you must first go deep.



So here I am.



ezekiel the enamored.

I know you feel like you're broken and you don't have purpose in this world anymore. I know you'd rather indulge in comforts that aren't stable and won't ever save you. But I can't have you like that. I need you to turn around and find comfort in me. Stop your pity party and come back to me. I miss you.

I know we haven't been close like we have in the past and that scares you. But why do you run away? If you know we're drifting apart, why do you wander farther and farther from me? I want to be gracious and I want to romance you, but you've given up. What have I done?

Can't you focus on me for just five minutes? I love you, that's why I need you to get this. I know you have other things going on that demand your attention. I made life that way, you know. But I need you. I can't be without you. Come back, Love, and let us walk together like we used to. Let us be in love again.

I know I seem distant, especially when things in life are so hectic. But I'm here. I'm always here. I'm waiting for you to love me in return. I want to talk to you. I want to get close to you again.

You haven't fallen as far as you think you have. Just return to me and we'll forget about the past. It'll just be you and me forever. That's what I want, Love. Just for us to be so in love again. [Sept. 17, 2006]

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.

disillusioned

A few months ago I thought it'd be really cool to be disillusioned with the world. I wanted to be like a post-WWI expatriate or like Franny Glass from Salinger's novel. I pictured myself in a bar drinking a Shirley Temple slurring my life story to the bartender, telling him over and over again how much I liked eating the cherries at the bottom. (I'd be faking the banter, of course, because I'm drinking a non-alcoholic beverage. The bartender is too distracted to notice.)

I decided a few months ago that I no longer cared about being prude or blameless, I wanted to dress like a whore and cuss the crudest words. I typed out a few cuss words that night. I felt a little better, but not a lot.

Then I decided I was going to marry someone at least ten years older than me ... someone who was just as disillusioned as me so we could complain together about this godforsaken world we live in! and about how no one understands us! Or something like that. I don't really know what disillusioned people complain about, to be honest.

And then I realized that I am not disillusioned. I am actually quite optimistic and forward-looking and hopeful. I just wasn't happy with where I was and who I was among at the time.

A few months ago I was just starting college. I chose an extremely conservative Christian university to attend, not thinking much about all the rules that entailed. But I have always been a rule follower. I have always been the "good girl," the teacher's pet, the leader at youth group, the favorite daughter. (Don't tell my sister.) I figured I could handle whatever this university threw at me.

Except ... I couldn't. That's where all this disillusion came from. I thought this school would be my "comfort zone": Christians around other Christians talking about Christian-y things. But I really don't like that. I especially don't like the pressure.

It turns out there's no such thing as a cookie-cutter Christian. One week of college told me that. There are cliques here at Christian schools, you know, but all of them have the word "Christian" before them. The "Christian" preps, the Christian jocks, the Christian hipsters, the Christian nerds, etc.

I found it much like high school, except there's that pressure of being "on fire for God." Not only do you need that place to fit in ... you need to prove your worth as a Christian: "Hi, my name is Lauren and I read my Bible every night."

So into the first month of school I had pressure from all sides: to find friend and to be "on fire for God." Neither were really working. I had friends, sure, but none like the ones at home. I loved God, sure, but I wasn't healing people in Jaheezus name!

I began to realize that I did not like this. I did not like feeling of being judged by these Christians, whether they really were judging me or not, and I hated that it was hard to find friends at a Christian school. So I decided to become a Christian expatriate. I wrote down those cusswords. I started writing a novel about that bartender.

I figured that the reason I felt so disconnected with those people was because I just didn't fit into their club. There are Christians and then there are Christians. I must have been part of the latter, those who look, smell and act Christian but aren't really. I don't follow their code of ethics or something.

I really wanted to break my school's rules because I thought that would prove that I was not like the other Christians in my school, not just "kinda not" like them. Once I decided that, I found myself really bitter toward my roommates' opinions. I made sure that I found a flaw in whatever the speaker said at chapel. I really had become disillusioned with the world.

And it was ugly.

I know the first few months of college are supposed to be hard. I know there's a lot of homesickness and stress and fear ... but I didn't have any of that. The only thing I was really afraid of was myself. (As cliche as that sounds.) I didn't like how I "measured up" against the Christians around me.

I would have killed to be the Christian hipster or the Christian prep. But I knew I wasn't. I was the "Christian outcast." I cared too much about where I didn't fit in instead of seeing where I did. I got too caught up in, what the apostle Paul calls, "civilian affairs." I was losing sight of my true identity and instead looked for it in others.

And so here I am. The semester just ended, and I can only hope that I am closer to the person I am supposed to be. A friend told me once that we can never really know our true identity, but I don't know if I believe him. I mean, maybe not to the extent God views us, but I know that I can be closer than I am.

I know most people don't follow their New Years Resolutions but I am going to make one anyway. This year I want to see myself the way God sees me: as a woman of God, passionate in what she does, a creator, thinker.



"This is my voice, all shadows stayed. This is my heart upon the altar laid. Please take all else away. Hear my cry, I beg I plead, I pray. I'll walk into the flames, a calculated risk to further bless your name. So strike me deep and true, and in your strength I will live and die both unto you." ("Identity Crisis," Thrice)



with love,

ezekiel.

the antiblog.

I used to be honest-gut honest-without fearing what people said or thought about me. When I was an underclassman in high school, I posted blogs about how much I loved God and how Satan sucked. (And I said it quite eloquently, I might add. Just kidding.)

And then I began writing makeshift poetry. As a sophomore I would collaborate songs and poems with my own words to form what I called a blog, but it was really just a collage. And as a junior and senior I began to write editorials, examining my faith versus the religion I'm taught at church and the life I tried to hide behind. I asked questions.

But now, I can't bring myself to do any of that. I am embittered, but I just argue; I am dry, but I don't cry to God. I am stale. I have forgotten how to blog.

I don't know what I spend so much time thinking about. I'm not pondering some deep philosophical question or imploring God on the great mysteries of life. I think about what people are doing. Their hairstyles. The shoes they wear.

Dear Lord, what's wrong with me? I have fallen into a routine of study, eat, sleep, watch movies (or Colbert) and sleep some more. Is this the life you have called me to?

What about teaching me to love? What about speaking your Word like Ezekiel? What happened? Who am I?



I wish I knew.

I wish I was who I thought I was a few months ago.

I wish I would die to self-will already.

I wish I could realize stuff with Amanda again.

I wish I knew what I was doing.



I'm going to keep trudging through. The beauty of a trough is that it's the lowest point--it can't dip down any farther. It's only up from here.

On to victory or underground.,

Ezek.

Refine hate and love, fall afresh on me. End this crisis of identity.

It turns out I don't know who I am. I thought I knew; I thought I had everything figured out. I was wrong.



Amanda and I were talking about identity, how college is the time where you find yours. I guess that makes sense. That is, after all, what everyone had told me.

Amanda (God bless her...) had one of her "realizations" last night when we were talking. She said that when you put your identity in other people rather than Christ, you're more likely to blame them when you get hurt.

This week (and really this whole summer) I've been wrestling and I haven't been sure quite why. I've been in a spiritual trough, but those have never bummed me out to this extreme (because I trust in the temporary state of the season). I think it's because I don't know who I am.

It turns out I have been looking for my identity in everyone and everything but Christ. I've looked for it in my friends. And, already, I have begun looking for it in my future career.

I know who God has called me to be (what to do with my life), but that only tells me about what I am going to do, not who I am. So I'm going to find out.

I want to go to Tinker Creek to find out, but that's not exactly realistic. I don't live in Virginia. And I hate camping. Hmm.

Anyway, I think college will do my some good (ha, who would've thought?). In the meantime there's a thing called prayer and a thing called journaling. I shall see where that gets me.





Ezek.



This is my voice, all shadows stayed this is my heart, upon the altar laid
Please take all else away, hear my cry, I beg, I plead, I pray
I'll walk into the flame, a calculated risk to further bless your name
So strike me deep and true, and in your strength I will live and die both unto you.

Stand and Feel Your Worth

Wake, stand and feel your worth, O my soul.

Feel and know the word that can save us all.



At Sunday school and at youth group we've been talking about self-image: how we view ourselves in relation to how we view God. The correlation is this: if you are told you are a slut long enough you believe it about yourself and therefore believe that God thinks you're a slut also. Or a loser. Or a failure. Or whatever putdowns you have been bombarded with.

I guess you just figure that if the world thinks you're one way, it must be true, and God views you the same way.

And me? I feel like I'm a pretty self-confident girl. I've have good grades, a fun job, shiny red hair, and an amazing internship... but only half of me relishes in that. (And that side also has a tendancy to relish in all that a bit TOO much.)

The other half of me is convinced that I am inadequate. I am unworthy of everything and everyone I pursue. It's like this: I may be smart, but a voice is reminding me that I'm not smart enough. I may be pretty, but Ashley and Sam are prettier. I'm only second-rank. I can never be the best.

And maybe, maybe I cannot be the best. But it's killer to hear that I will never be good enough.

I constantly feel this way. I feel like I'm unworthy of dating a man-after-God's-own-heart kind of guy or befriend a certain person because they're too intelligent or cool. I'm unworthy. I'm not good enough and never will be.

I fight this; whenever I feel uncomfortable with not being up to par with the people around me I start to fight my insecurities with pride. Well, they may be more outgoing, but I've got more drive. Or, she may have a better voice, but I can write better.

I thought this way all my life: through middle school, through my underclassmen days. I just don't feel that I'm worthy of anything. That I don't matter. That I can never be good enough.

( Maybe this is why I have so much drive; I want to prove myself worthy. )

Nevertheless, through Tom's message Sunday night and morning I got to expose this stuff. I feel freer, not completely but I know in time I'll overcome. It's hard to let go of stuff you're used to. You know, "old habits die hard."

I do know this--I matter. I'm worthy. God made all men equal, meaning I am worthy to be the friend of anyone in the world. No one is greater than me. (But I am not called to put myself above anyone else either.)

George MacDonald put it this way--I love this!--"Here there is no room for ambition. Ambition is the desire to be above one's neighbor; and here there is no possibility of comparison with one's neighbor: no one knows what the white stone contains except the man who receives it.... Relative worth is not only unknown--to the children of the Kingdom it is unknowable" (emphasis mine).

I assume I'll have more on this later, but right now I think I'll just bask in the fact that I matter to God. :-)

worthy

I put myself into the category I think most women put themselves in.

I feel as though I am too much... and yet not enough at all.

Does that make sense?

I push myself, I make myself known, I take control, I'm ambitious.... If a guy saw me in action, he'd say that I am a strong girl.

I doubt myself, I fail, I'm not the best, I have no self-confidence, I lack focus.... If a guy saw me walking down the street he'd say I were timid.

I am TOO much because I push myself to the point of being ugly. I want things so perfect that I go insane trying to make them that way. I expect people to follow my standards. I make lofty goals and achieve them. I don't WANT there to be room to grow... I want to grow above and beyond reality.

I am NOT enough in that I don't have faith that can move mountains. I rely too much on hope and not enough in God. I don't have the drive to witness to my peers. I am scared to death of people. Heck, I barely even LIKE people. I would rather slink behind a wall then make my presence known.

How can I live such a paradoxical life? How can I be two people at once?

I am not either person. I am Lauren.

God never told me that I am TOO much or that I'm NOT enough. He told me who I am. He's given me a new name. He's called me to be Ezekiel--Ezekiel the watchman. That is who I am.

I'm not called to be a workaholic business woman.

I'm not called to be a stain-wearing techie.

I'm called to be ME.

There's a difference between being unworthy of God and being unworthy of man. We can never be worthy of God. He is too much for our comprehension. He's too multi-dimensional for us to grasp. But we can be worthy of man.

We ARE worthy of man.

God created men and women to be equal. God saw them both as good.

God loves sinners and saints alike. He loves people with dark skin and ivory skin. He loves blondes as much as brunettes.

He loves us equally. We are equal. We are worthy of each other.

For me to say I am too much or not enough, what standard am I comparing myself to? Am I comparing myself to another? We are all equal. I am not too much for you. I am enough. God made me this way.

I am in his image.