Stop this Train

I never thought the day would come. Four years of memories thrown into boxes, mostly labeled stuff, but an attempt had been made to organize them. The sky looked melancholy, and large droplets of rain poured out of the sky. It was fitting, for I felt that at any moment, tears could pour out of my eyes in just the same way. Soaked after loading both my mom's car and my Liberty, I finally slipped in the car and sighed to myself. I started the car, and John Mayer blared through my speakers as I drove to lunch. As I turned on to Highway 6 for what I knew would be the last time as a Waco resident, "Stop This Train" by John Mayer came on. This was the moment I'd been dreading. Crocadile tears swelled in my eyes, and eventually trickled down my face. Life was changing, and I knew I was sure to change also. Everything was unknown.

One year later, it was another friday. The air reeked of rain, and the humidity made walking outside feel more like taking a shower. As I cruised down the streets of northwest Plano, streets that now felt like home, the same song came on shuffle on my iPod. "Stop this Train..." It's strange that the same song takes on such different meaning now.

It still feels surreal. I'm an adult. My days of being completely surrounded by people my age are over. Have I learned? More than probably any year of my life. Has it been difficult? At times. Am I more sure than ever that I am where God wants me, that He is strengthening my faith, and that He is molding me into who He wants me to be? Absolutely.

I love that He has a plan and is sovereign, and that He uses hard situations to draw us closer to Him, like a father gently yet securely holding His child.

See once in a while when it's good
It'll feel like it should
And they're all still around
And you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing
'Til you cry when you're driving away in the dark

Singing stop this train, I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
'Cause now I see I'll never stop this train.

Stressing surrender

Stress- physical, mental, or emotional strain or tension. Change- to make the form, nature, content, future course, etc., of (something) different from what it is or from what it would be if left alone. For me, these two concepts seem to go hand in hand. And also come around together. Stress is something I've struggled with for years. My stomach knots, and I cannot eat or sleep. I look like a zombie and act like a lunatic. I pace. I exercise. But that doesn't seem to help the simple fact that things will change and I will stress.

Two or three years ago, I saw Evan Almighty in theaters. And loved it. Lame, I know. I think Steve Carrell is hilarious, and I can vividly picture myself laughing so hard I cried at multiple points in the movie. For me, though, the most memorable part was not some witty line of comedic genius, but a quote that has stuck in my head time and time again. Lauren Graham, Steve Carrell's wife in the movie, is upset that their family is being torn apart by the fact that her husband is building an arc. She is upset and keeps praying for her family to stop fighting, and for them to be able to love each other again. God's answer to her? (disguised as a man at a skuzzy truck stop) Let me ask you something. If someone prays for patience, you think God gives them patience? Or does he give them the opportunity to be patient? If he prayed for courage, does God give him courage, or does he give him opportunities to be courageous? If someone prayed for the family to be closer, do you think God zaps them with warm fuzzy feelings, or does he give them opportunities to love each other?

This really rang true to me. How many times have I, as a Christian, prayed for the ability to be able to love someone and just expected for God to make me a loving person? How many times have I asked that He will help me to "cast my anxiety upon Him", and naively think that He will just remove my fears and worries from me? I don't think God works this way. He wants us to be so wholly dependent on Him, that simply providing us or taking away what we ask (in these situations) does no good. It does not glorify Him. It does not make us more like Christ. I still struggle to grasp this concept.

A devotional e-mail I read today said it like this "The practice of surrender requires perseverance." Praying for that steadfastness.

Time.

Cause I need more time. Just a few more months and we'll be fine. Just say what's on your mind. Cause I can't figure out just what's inside.

Time. What a concept. It's arbitrary-ness. It's necessity. It's control. It's invisible- but aren't most important things.

Sometimes time passes slowly, creeping along as if it is syrup slowly seeping along a slippery pancake. Other times it races by, as if it is Michael Johnson, running at record speeds towards a goal. A finish line.

How to feel about time puzzles me. It can seem urgent, as if not one second should be wasted. Like I can't get enough. So much to do. So many memories to be made.

Other times, it feels like it doesn't matter. Sure, February is over, but there will be another February. It will probably feel similar to this one. Or will it?

When I was a kid, probably in third or fourth grade, I had an insane fear of the end of time. Of the world ending. I can remember many balmy summer nights, laying in my bed beside my lime green accent wall in my bedroom, working myself up into a cold sweat. I couldn't wrap my mind around time. Around the concept that forever would never end. Never. Ever.

Striking a balance between that urgency, that fear that it will end, and that fear that it will never end, is the challenge. But then again, isn't striking a balance the challenge of life?

Have you seen God?

I have a new friend in my client's 4-year-old preschool class. Her name is Jordyn, and I am convinced that she will become a speech pathologist one day. She is absolutely fascinated by my client. I, of course, use this to my advantage and encourage the 2 of them to socialize and be friends.

My first memory of Jordyn dates back to the fall, probably the first time I started shadowing my client. I was standing in Fellowship Hall of the church where the preschool is held, and my client's class was lining up after indoor recess. I was suddenly startled by a blood curteling scream. Someone was yelling at the children. I quickly whipped around, expecting to see an adult. But no one was there, just children frantically trying to line up and go to snack time. I was bothered, as I couldn't figure out who was yelling. Then, my eyes were drawn downward. A tiny girl, dressed all in pink with bouncing golden brown curls continued to yell "Come on guys! Line up!" in the loudest and most abusive sounding voice I'd ever heard. That was Jordyn.

Recently, Jordyn runs up to me as I walk into the classroom and declares "I'm going to stay by your side the whole time you're here!" And she does.

Last week, during snack time, I was sitting in between my client and Jordyn. My client was babbling and pointing at the ceiling. I asked my client," What do you see up there?"

Jordyn tapped my leg and said, "I think he sees God!" I smiled to myself, then decided to talk to Jordyn a little more about her comment.
"Maybe so," I replied. "Jordyn, have you ever seen God?"
"Yes!" she stated, with confidence. "He used to come to my church in Indiana."
"Oh, wow! You are very lucky! Did God talk to you?" I continued to probe.
"Yes. He spoke a lot. I don't remember what He said, but He was there!"
This made my friday.

Sometimes I wish that we could see the world with this child-like innocence. In all reality, God does speak to us. Sometimes at church, sometimes while we're sipping our morning coffee during a blizzard in traffic. If only we were listening, seeing that He is there, and obeying and responding to His word. I hope we can all meet with God like Jordyn.

Test

The fizzy feeling of a redbull tingled as it trickled slowly down my throat, through my esophagus, and into my stomach, where I lost feeling and track of it. My palms perspired. My eyes felt plastered open due to the mass amounts of caffeine consumed. My mind felt drowsy, as it had been drilled and drilled; as if I attempted to jackhammer information into it. My stomach knotted, redbull and all, as the professor walked up the aisle, smiled at me, and handed me the thick packet. Here we go. Tests are out.

Until recently, in my life as a full time student, these are the only tests I'd ever experienced. I've heard about others being tested (namely Matt Chandler in his battle with cancer), and bible characters dealing with spiritual tests (i.e., Paul). I knew these were possibilities in my life. But I'd never felt tested before. Until the past 6 months.

Looking back, I can see that my faith was tested. This test lasted longer than the typical hour and a half I'm used to. And there were no essays, and for sure no word banks. This was real. This was life.

The target was something I have worried about for a long time. I think that's where tests start… worry. It's an easy target; something you're clearly already sensitive about. An easy target to make you lose faith. And that's where it started. It began slowly, making small choices. Ignoring the still, small voice. Thinking I would come around and obey later. Putting it off.

I'd prepared for this test. Not an all nighter, no. I prayed. I read the Bible. I knew the facts. But like a shy freshman with test anxiety, the information flew out of my mind. It was as if it was never there.

2 short weeks later, I would know how I did. A concrete number telling me whether or not I passed or failed. Telling me whether I was good enough.

Life tests don't get grades, but I find it easier to know whether or not you pass or fail. You feel it. You see it. You just know.

I failed. I took life into my own hands. I refused to relinquish control. The test was a test of my faith. I let it go. But there is good news. I'm broken but being rebuilt. His strength shines through my broken weakness. I find comfort there. I find grace.

Bikes?

I have an odd obsession with bikes. It started sometime this summer; I can't exactly remember when. But all of the sudden, I wanted the focal point of my bedroom in my new apartment to be a bike wall hanging. With my birthday money, I purchased an old timey bike necklace off of etsy (pictured left) and it has become a staple in my wardrobe. I even purchased a cream bike that sits prominetely on my nightstand.

This semester, I am spending a large portion of my week with preschoolers. I am a grad assistant at a preschool language program, which I absolutely love, work with some preschool aged chidren at a private school for children with learning disabilities, and, my favorite part of all, I shadow the preschool boy with autism that I worked with this summer. He is mainstreamed in a regular 4 year old classroom, so shadowing him means encouraging him to socialize with the regularly developing kids.

One of the kids, Gibson, is particularly cute. He always wears gray clothes, is very animated and acts like a little man. Inspired by the bike obsession, I have been wearing the bike necklace nearly every day. Last week, Gibson came to ask me a question, when a look of perplexion came across his face. "What is that for?" I asked Gibson.
"What is that on your necklace?" He asked, still looking quite confused.
"It's a bike!" I said with a smile, hoping the conversation would end, because I wasn't sure how to explain this to anyone, especially a 4 year old.
"It doesn't look like a bike. It looks like a wheelchair." Gibson replied. I was definitely not expecting this, so I explained that it was an old timey bike, and it looked different than a regular bike that he would ride.
"Are you sure?" he questioned. "It really looks like a wheelchair."
I just smiled this time.


His questioning made my week. When I went back today, I wore the bike necklace. It now puts a smile on my face everytime I put it on. I love kids.

Gray

Gray. It's a strange color; a perfect combination of black and white.

My favorite color is gray. It's odd, I know. It's such a melancholy color. It's dull. It's depressing, It's glum. It's the color of clouds before rain cleanses them. Strange as it is, I love it. Every time I am perusing for bargains at Marshalls, I smile with delight as I see a gray knee-length sweater dress. My friends and family laugh. It's odd.

Life used to fee black and white to me. Things were right and wrong. Plain and simple. There was no middle ground. I knew what was right, what I was supposed to do and what was wrong and that I shouldn't do, and I had no problem finding the discipline to do just that. It came naturally to me. I took that for granted.

Lately, life has felt very gray. What used to be so plainly black and white has somehow been blended together. Emotions float in between. People float in between. And all of the sudden, what was a palate of neatly dabbled splotches of black and white is a charcoal mixture. It's hard to know how to fix it. It's difficult to know what to do next.

Part of me things that the gray is what makes life...well, life. Perfection is wearing. Life would be dull without imperfections. Maybe embracing the gray, embracing the complication, embracing the mess is what makes life.