Of Fishers and Men

As I retire to bed after a long day of endless fun, I find myself exhausted. Exhausted with heartfelt laughter and etching smiles. I may not have laughed hard or for very long. But my smiles were genuine. 

As my body falls heavier and heavier  into the suffocating Tempur-pedic bed, pain increases as I recognize the sharp pain, digging into my lower back, as a small toy car. I laugh again. And begin to write. 

My purpose? Men and fishers. Today I spent a solid 23 minutes fishing with a little boy and little girl. These children just so happen to be my siblings with the patience of a cat being held back from yarn. 

It was my brother's first cast of the day--and almost of his life considering the rarity of fishing in a desert. The line, 15 feet across the water, lay perfectly still, minus the bobbing to and fro from wandering ducks. "This is the most boringist thing ever." He stated defeatedly after 6.5 minutes. "Why don't the fish come? I have everything I need." 

Gently, and as patiently as possible, we'd help them cast out their lines to obtain the desirable prize of a smelly fish. With each swish of the poll, frustration increased. "Why do people even like doing this?" My sister exclaimed. "It's crazy." 

I chuckled and said, "It's more than getting the fish, it's the experience that drives you here." 

Mid-chuckle, I paused. That was it. That was my answer. To life's wonder of "why, if I'm doing everything I'm supposed to, am I not feeling successful?" 

How often does our Father help us, patiently, kindly, and consistently? How immeasurable is His mercy and love? How often do we find ourselves lost in a world where the only thing we have to hold onto is a pole with a thin line, waiting for the bobber to fully submerge in the water? 

We feel hopeless and impatient. But it's the journey that blesses us and morphs us into true fishermen. Experts in the art of obtaining that smelly fish. And it doesn't always end up being the biggest, prettiest one! Often we fail to realize the fish has been biting the whole time. We may even feel like this journey of life is the "boringist thing ever." 

Thank God for his Son; for the Atonement of Jesus Christ; which allows us to visualize the end from the beginning but also allows us to bare life's "boringist" times. And for that matter, times of sheer disappoint. 

We have been given a gift--the gift of baring all things with enduring patience and hope. 

And for me? That's what hope is. Holding on to a fishing pole, knowing that eventually the fish will follow through with a big ole bite--never letting go. If not, faith makes us cast that line back every time. 

And God always follow through. 

Amber Run

Moments. We all have them. It's in those moments where we are a pile on the ground; mentally stuck in the fetal position. We find ourselves in this awkward state for periods of time. This time may be lengthy or short. But we consistently find ourselves there. Alone. Afraid.

Then we hear something: encouraging words, gentle promptings, motivating melodies, or even the hum of everyday life. And we wake up--even if it takes a few times.

These somethings vary. Tonight it was the gentle music of Amber Run and a good conversation with a friend that nudged me enough. Enough to coax the "little ghost" of insecurity and doubt far enough away from holding me down.

And I began to rise. Not of being but of mind.

Moments. We all have them. It's in these moments, we become something more. We do the seemingly unbearable. And conquer the awkward fetal position.

"I found love where it wasn't supposed to be."

Future Insane Asylum Attendee, right here.

Staring into the great abyss of nothingness. I most often find myself doing this at work. There are days when customers don't permit me to enter into my dream-like state; being the holidays, I'm in this despair quite regularly. But again, there are those days where I can visually fly away into the corners of my mind. What do I think about, you may ask? Frankly, this is the conundrum of the century. As I look over the bridge of my nose, I dose off. My vision blurs and in this moment, I think of absolutely nothing. Such a feat is normally incomprehensible for a person of my gender. Any one can attempt to get my attention, but to no avail. It is almost an awkward  silence until a fellow associate rudely interrupts my bliss with a customer anxiously awaiting my acute abilities to extract and place contacts from one phone to the next. How rude. Clearly my non-existent thought process is more important than your ongoing communication with the "friends" you have whose names are only identified by a series of numbers. Who's to say they're real anyway? 

So I reluctantly exhume numbers once lost and yet again, allow myself to go to that distant place of peace and freedom. Although, maybe isn't either of these. Maybe it's more of an escape from the tedium and stress; maybe it's a stifling of problems like dust under a rug. I don't know what it is; but this much I do know, it is out of necessity. If I didn't have my moments of drool-worthy stares, I would most likely be admitted to an insane asylum. 

Isn't that ironic? 

8 Ball Confessions and Folding Paper Fortunes

Wouldn't it be nice if all of life's most difficult decisions could be simply made with an 8 Ball or a folding paper fortune? Life would be so much easier.

I think of all the times I was on an awkward date and the guy says something along the lines of, "this was so much fun, lets do this again." or "can I kiss you?" It's in these moments I wish I could just say, "Can you hold that thought for a second?" At which point I would pull out my 8 ball, ask it, and proceed to shake it. Most of the answers swim to, "Not likely," or "My sources say no." The answer would leave the boy so dumb-struck, I would have a chance to escape.

Another thing we need to bring back is the game of M.A.S.H. This was a harmless game--or so some thought--that we played as kids. It would determine your entire future based on the number you chose and the handful of people listed on the column for the opposite sex. In a meager 10 min, you would know what type of establishment you would live in, to whom you would marry, how many kids you would have, what your career would be, and what type of car you would own. Ten. Minutes. No hesitations. No preconceived notions. Nothing. Just pen and paper.

...Apparently you can play it online. Is that what the kids are doing these days?


At any rate, I love the idea of leaving all of my responsibilities behind me and in the "hands" of a fortune telling device. Because let's be honest, being a kid is so much easier.

The Change was in Me

Sweat beat down my face. Oh, how I desperately wanted to understand what they were saying but even more importantly, I wanted them to understand what I felt.

She sat back skeptically. "So what are you saying?" She asks thoughtfully. In my broken Spanish, I replied with, "You and I can be with our families forever." Hot tears welled my eyes. That was my purpose. That was why I was sweating in the humidity of Texas. With every ounce of brain power I had, I began to testify. Testify of the love I felt from my Savior, the love I had for my family, the love I had for a perfect stranger.

A hush came over the room. Fellow missionaries waited for her response. She knew we were speaking of truth. 

So, she humbly entered the waters of baptism. She was changing her life for the better, becoming what God intended her to become. I smiled and thought, "This is the best feeling in my life. I love seeing others come unto Him, morphing into something that God can work with."


Little did I know, it was in moments these, and countless others, He changed ME; made me something better. Just as a stone rolling in a river bed becomes smooth over time, the message molded me into something more patient, understanding, and faithful. He took my heart and made it malleable; soft once again.

And for that, I am forever indebted.

I'm Desirable, Said No One Ever...except me.

This is a very serious topic that I have been wanting to post about. I am a desirable woman. Why? Allow me to explain. There is a common misconception that the following are not desirable but I beg to differ. Disclaimer: readers must not violate the "non-judgmental" policy.

1. Excessive amounts of drool that lather my face and pillow after a well-rested night's sleep.
2. My culinary mastermind....of breakfast foods and nothing else. I hate cooking.
3. Deep thoughts as to why my nose gets in the way.
4. The acute ability to place screen protectors on phones
5. I shop at the D.I
6. My amazonic height (also the making up of words.)
7. The dancing capability of a 90-year-old.
8. Dubbed pedophile.
9. Disney/Pixar lover
10. Lioness hair every morning.

Granted, this is just a short list of 10 attributes. Be that as it may. However! With time comes age and with age comes beauty...and diapers.

Thank you, and goodnight.

I Spilled Twice

Today was one of those days. I was on my way to work when I realized I forgot the papers that my boss specifically asked me not to lose.

I guess you could say I woke up on the wrong side of the bed but let's be honest; which side is technically the right side? Is it actually referring to the right side of the bed or the "correct" side of the bed? And what is correct?--a common dilemma in our day and age.

So on my way out the door, I grabbed a bowl of cereal. It's called Strawberries Awake--you know, the cheap brand of Special K. (Side note: I should have just bit the bullet and bought the name brand. It's a fitting title for me, Special, for obvious reasons, and K for Kelly...which it wont be that for much longer.)

At any rate, I got in my car with my milk-drown cereal (for extra special people) and set it on the passenger's seat. As soon as I turned the corner, milk poured everywhere. I had nothing to clean it up. I figured it was just going to have to wait until I got home tonight.

Fast-forwarding to lunch: For whatever reason, it's freezing in Utah. Here we are, in June. and it's below 40 degrees outside. Bitter, foul, and freezing. So what does a "special k" girl like me do? I buy some hot herbal tea at the friendly 7/11. Again, I turn the corner, after placing my tea in the empty bowl beside, thinking it would barricade it, it spills in the exact same spot as my foul dairy friend had done earlier. 'That's it.' I thought. 'I am done for.'

Not only did I spill once, I spilled twice. In the same spot. And I was so bitter, I didn't muster the energy to clean it up.
So here I sit, feeling extra special, tired, and full of tea--just not off of the car seat or floor. I'm not that desperate.

The Clock Ticks

The clock ticks.
No one around.
Hunger returns.
Smiles remain.
Tiredness gone.
Thoughts envelope.
Chest pounds.
Eyes weary.
Fingers type.
Nothing matters.
Fear comes.
Fear leaves.
Hurt heals.
Love hurts.
Warm embrace.
But no one's around.
The clock ticks.

Joy.

Love Defined

Love isn't something that should grow stale or cold; but it often does. It is something that is acquired solely through effort. It truly is an ability. Why? Because even in my "puppy love" I find times when I don't feel as close; don't feel as accepting; as confident. This is when open communication is a necessary part in this game we so cruelly name life. So what do we do to keep these channels open? We do the one thing we were designed to do as human beings: recognize WHOM is behind it all.                                    

So who is that? That would be God. He, being onerous, is also intimate. That is why these so called "coincidences" don't exist in my vocabulary. That is why I believe love exists. Not merely because it's a "nice thing" or something "convenient." It is what we were born and bread to do. To fulfill our purpose and become as creatures of He whom designed us to be more than we will ever understand or give ourselves credit for.


That being said, what is love? Something that endears us to another being? Something that can be tossed in the wind? No. It is our divine capacity to see others through God's eyes; to witness a person in their potential "god-like" form while choosing to overlook weaknesses and shortcomings. It is to recognize that even the most vile of people can be spared through that same sacrifice that spares each of us daily. For that is how He looks at all of us; with such compassion that only He can understand.


THAT, my friends, is love. And THAT is what we all have the capacity to obtain.

Time has past, treasure it while it lasts.

A new word has been added to my vocabulary. A word that will forever be fond to my heart. Something that may annoy some but something I can't let go. It was found in a place where my heart resides. And will continue to reside until I make memories of my own in a life created by someone I once was.

Some may consider me a fanatic; others may consider me a freak. But what I have to say to that is this: Texas pride is not a plague but a prize; a delight not a distaste. I used to be a hater of the biggest state in the nation but I have changed my ways and I'm never looking back.  Why? Well, because it has added this word into my vocabulary. The word is this: ya'll.

No one will ever fully comprehend the power of the "ya'll" unless they've lived in the Lone Star state. So. When you ask me questions like, "How would you summarize the last 18 months of your life?" or "Did you enjoy your time in the home of the blue bonnet?" My answer will be this:

"Ya'll will never understand unless you move to Texas."

or

"No sabes nada hasta que viva en Tejas."

You're welcome.

P.S. If Texas does secede, I'm moving out of the country.

A Kiss With a Fist is Better Than None

Dusk flirts with the balcony of my grandparents porch which overhangs a Garden of Eden. The trees dance in the wind; the blackberries not fully ripe; the tall grass an arrow to the bay. Childhood.


My eyes cascade the scenery. I stop at one desolate spot in the tall aspens. This spot once encompassed my most precious journal entries as a little girl. It composed of a worn rope, a sturdy plank, and an old, broken tree.


Memories flood. I smell the air and hear the sounds of days long forgotten. I'm on that swing again. Sitting there in solitude, pumping my legs forward and backward. My light brown hair sweeps over my sun-kissed, freckled face. "Those are angel's kisses." He once said.


His hands calloused, grasp the thickness of the rope with unsuspecting strength. I am lifted over my grandfather's head as he prepares to launch my six-year-old body over the leering blackberry thorns. In his release, I grin.


In the height of the swing I experience liberation. Nothing matters. My feet graze the leaves as the pendulum reverses. The sky is uncommonly blue and the clouds,  cumulous and white. I giggle and look back at his leathery face.


The memory fades. The swing is now gone along with the freedom of letting go.

My grandfather is selling this home. Along with all of my secret spots and fairy houses. He turned eighty this week. His hands are now soft and wrinkly. No longer calloused from years of pushing a swing for a little girl that wanted nothing else.


But the heavy fist of reality brings me back when I realize memories are only for reminiscing. A smile plays on my eyes.


Tonight I received a kiss. A kiss with a fist, which is better than none.

Helplessness Blues

Another box. Another dirty rag. Another sparkling shelf. Another "almost full" box. Another empty roll of tape. Another trash bag. Another day gone.

I pull the tape as it screeches over the next box. Week three on the Island of Friday Harbor. The tape sticks to the roll, making it nearly impossibly to find the end. As I roll the tape in my hands, searching for it, I find myself smiling. 

Why would I smile at such a tedious task? Because all day I've been caught in a cloud of reminiscent beauty. I've been down this dusty road of moving before. Three times in High School alone. However, this time was different. Not only was I assisting my parents in salvaging their social connections by getting off an island, I was staying busy at the same time. Two birds with one stone? I think yes. 

The busier I am, Fear's chance of creeping into my tangled thoughts is slim to none. 

I'm just shy of twenty-two years of glory. I've been through enough to callous my heart as well as my hands. But these hands and this heart are leaving for a humid land; a land named Houston. Both will soften. 

I find the end of the tape and continue my task with joy in my heart. Fear continues to play at my fingertips with every closed box and spray of cleaner. However, I feel it. I feel power in patience as I wait, with each passing day, till I leave to share with others what brings me the most joy. 

The image of my face and personality are already becoming a memory in the minds of those I love, who still reside in a town of 30,000 in Idaho. Most wont be there when I return and it makes the edges of my thoughts rougher and the corners of my mouth stiffer. And yet, I'm still happy. 

The tape runs out. Sadness enters deep pockets, once full of love. I grab another roll and start packing again. The sound of the tape sinks into my mind, blocking thoughts of negativity and regret. Everything will work out. 

My bright headphones hang from my ears, playing a song that causes a shiver down my spine. "What good is it to sing helplessness blues? Why should I wait for anyone else? And I know you'll keep me on the shelf, I'll come back to you someday soon myself."

I grin again. For the amount I lose will I gain that much and more. 

Brace-faced with a Five Head

I looked back down at my half-eaten chicken patty sandwich. Nothing was on it. I could barely open my mouth because I tripled my rubberbands in my braces. I had hoped to shorten the tedious process of tooth correction only to employ migraines at the tender age of 13.


 I wasn't even hungry any more. Placing the sandwich back down, I continued my conversation with my friends about the new Gameboy Advanced that came out. I had a Spongebob game. The boy to my right was obsessing about the Platinum Pokemon game. Pokemon was so the fifth grade. I rolled my eyes and pushed my oversized glassed up my large nose. 


Then it happened. HE walked by. I smelled the air as he passed. This was, after all, the first boy that didn't have cooties. His hair was long, brown, perfectly swooped to the left. As I was watching this 13-yr-old supposed "greek god," he flipped his hair as he walked. In mid hair-flip he turned and looked at me; or at least I hoped he'd aspired to do so. (If I'm being honest, he was looking well beyond my large forehead.) Time stopped.


I smiled. Mouth, full of metal, I smiled. He looked at me, smiled back, then walked away. Although it was a courtesy smile, it was a smile. I felt validated. In my bright, purple, butterfly shirt (a hand-me down from someone younger than me) I felt justified.


I was brought back to reality when my best friend had said my name, at least 14 times, "Justine. You have half-masticated chicken meat all in your braces."


My life was over.


And so the awkwardness began. In the words of my friend, Emmilie Buchanan, "I will make 17 cats really happy someday." 

I Love This List

Today: 
I woke up, wrapped in my baby-sister's arms.
I got beat up by Godzilla. 
I cuddled with my littlest brother while watching Willow.
I ran out of breath laughing with my smart-mouthed sister. 
I became reacquainted my #1 fan and looked at her freckles sprinkled on her nose for a long time.
I got my butt kicked by my "big" little brother on a run even though he was easy on my very out-of-shape legs. It was a good talk/run.
I felt pure love for a little boy and his smiling face fogging up a window as he anticipated my arrival at his school. 
I pushed two kids on two separate swings, simultaneously.
I found out what the "spit" is that forms on plants in Washington and I laughed with my sister because my little brother played with it, "BUBBLES!"--aka bug excrement.
I broke up 52 fights between siblings.
I thought about Texas.
I practiced Spanish tongue twisters.
I lost my hearing in my left ear from screaming/laughing children.
I turned my brother into a 3-headed monster.
I held hands with a 7-year-old beauty.
I watched my "soon-to-be" 18-year-old brother walk like 
Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.
I admired my parents...again
I messed with a bunch of baby spiders and threatened to put 
salt on a slug.
I became a little better.
And I loved every minute of it. 

Mechanical Worship

I sat on the lonely, yet familier bench.  Had it really been seven whole days? I glanced around me before the meeting started. One boy was digging deeply for treasures, without success; a mother scolded her child for tangling foreign objects in her blonde locks of 80s styled hair. Four pregnant women walked by me, all gabbing about how they felt and when they were due. Once the meeting started, one man's head, bobbing up and down in his sleep (mind you, this was right after the opening remarks.) I prepared myself for the explosion of sound that would penetrate the noise around him when his head would meet the pew for the seventh time.

Business, business. That's what this was about. Meeting, meeting. Restless children. Crinkling snack packages. Organ blaring the notes of a familiar hymn.

I mechanically opened my hymnal. The poem went in one ear and out the other. It touched my lips as well as the three little girls next to me with no significance. Without intent, the vision of the Savior passed through my mind as a quiet reminder of why I was here. People-watching had to be saved for another time. Bowing my head I recalled several stories of His life. All the Savior asked for was his friends to watch while he went into the Garden to pray. Three times. Then, said He, "Rise, let us be going: behold, he is at hand that doth betray me."

 And this was the budding, quiet reflection of my life and His. "Greater hath no man than this: if he lay down his life for his friends."

My friend laid down His life; for me and my imperfections.

Testimonies were born. I felt a love for the leaders; the kind words that were spoken of a family that recently lost their mother; the tenderness of an elderly man's tears as he expressed his love for his Father in Heaven. Each of the children I had observed before conveyed, with fervent conviction, that Christ lived and that families could be together forever.

My judgmental heart turned to an compassionate one. I was looking in a new light. My eyes had been opened through Heaven's eyes. I realized I had to actively seek it. Just as the blind man had to find the pool of Siloam to wash the clay from his eyes, so did I. And THAT was why I was here. Among strangers; to wash the hardened clay that covered my entire face.

And this gem was salvaged amongst sand, dirt, toil and snare. This good news needs to be shared!

I left the meeting with conviction to become better. I left with the inclination to shake those that don't understand; that see rocks and twigs, rather than gems and jewels. I glanced down and in my palms lay my most prized possessions: greater than riches and health. I had miracles and happiness at my fingertips; all I have to do is turn the pages and share that message with others.

The 80s Prom

I grabbed the tip of several strands of hair. I just couldn't seem to get my hair big enough. It was a simple equation: comb at the top+dragged to the root= volume of a goddess. My hair was at least five inches off the top of my head--it would have to suffice.

 I painted my nails black tonight. Garnished my lips with lipstick named Voluptuous Red; how fitting.  

We entered the party: black ties laced the room. Prom dresses, tuxes, platform heels, and dress shoes. I looked down at my DCs and 80s dress. Rubbing my lips together one last time; checking if I need to reapply we bust into the room.  My friend in front of me with hot red lips, very rosy cheeks, and hair big enough to fit into Texas. 

Were we going to the Prom? No. Let's be honest. We're WAY too old and mature for such events. We were going to a mutual friend's birthday party. The music? Coldplay. On any other occasion this would have been acceptable but tonight was a night for Maroon 5 to sing about the moves like Jagger. 

In our corner we turned it up. Danced; well, tried to. We all looked like white girls with our hands in the air. We made complete fools of ourselves. People stared. What were they to do with the wreckless girls in the corner? What did they end up doing? Nothing. 

Then, a slow-motion moment. It's in this moment I realized something. I loved how I felt right at that moment. For a moment, I was allowed to escape and be someone from the era of Pat Benatar and Bonnie Raitt. Mothers everywhere would have been proud of my hair height and the length of my tone deaf notes attempting to sing along.  I could be someone that had no fears, and no regrets except deflating hair. 

What was I experiencing? Let me explain. I experienced a total eclipse of the heart. Amidst the rational stares of classily dressed men and women, I found love in a hopeless place. Rationality reared it's ugly head and the sweet release of endorphins brought the corners of red lips turned down to the opposing, yet pleasant expression of joy. 

How to end this: I have an overwhelming love for dresses made for 12-yr-olds, old music, red lipstick, black nail polish and slow-motions moments of happiness. 

My Friend, the Cash Register

The semester is progressing further and further--farther and farther? Meh. (I'm listening to John Mayer aka I could care less what proper grammar is necessary.) My life consists of the following: music, work, church, work, a tiny bit of homework, and did I mention work? Sounds really tedious right? Right. However, I've found joy and company in my reflection. Why is this? Let me explain:


My best friends are so busy if I ever have that prestigious opportunity to see them, they're sleeping. I've found good conversation a rarity. I mean, I barely have acquaintances, of which I lovingly refer to as "good company." What happened to being cool? Remember when I was younger--as in a few semesters ago--when people would plan their lives around me? This can't be happening to me of all people. It's all about me and I'm way too much of an extrovert to be alone for an extended period of time (usually about two days). The thought of trying to become an introvert makes me feel queasy. 


Immature? I gently refer to the name of these symptoms as Loser-a-phobia. So what do I do to compensate? I talk to myself--everywhere. No, I'm not really that psycho. However, today I found myself with a lot of spare time and two things happened to me that I'd like to share with my cyber-based messaging system full of hypothetical enthusiasts: 


1. I went to the efficient self-check out stand at our homely local grocer. As the cashier watched my transaction, without my knowledge, I listened to the instructions of the personified computer system. 
         "Welcome! Please enter cash or select payment type."
I was thrilled! Someone was talking to me. And not only this, she had such a friendly voice. Quickly looking around before I answered, I simultaneously reached into my hippy bag for my wallet. As I was completed the transaction I answered her. 

       "Okay I only have a few quick questions. Answer them 

         and I'll flip my plastic for you:

         1. Will my husband be able to handle my extremities? 

         2. Do I have friends?

         3. If the answer is no to the prior questions, who's the fairest

             maiden in all of Rexburg?" 

Her response?

  "Item has been removed from bagging area. Please ask an associate for assistance."

I muttered under my breath several expletives as the cashier walked over cautiously. 
      "Do you need help, ma'am?"

      "More than you know..." I muttered. 

After questioning my response to no avail, she swiped her card and I began the process all over again. And to think the only thing I wanted from this stupid machine was a little advice! Defeated, I walked out with my eyes sweeping the walkway in front of me. The sunshine hit my face. 'I'm losing my mind,' I chuckled. 


2. I got into my car. 'Oh, car. How I loveth thee. Will you be my friend?' 

No response. 

Turns out inanimate objects tend to have a better understanding of my sense of humor than people do. 


I laughed at the awkwardness of my logic and drove away drinking my diet coke. 

Gene Kelly in a Dentist Chair

The scene started out with Gene. Beautiful Gene Kelly. Why was I not blessed to be born in that era? He was singing as I was reclined, watching him in his suave ways. Yes, he was projected on the ceiling. You'd think a girl couldn't be happier.

What Gene didn't know is I was laying in a dentist's chair that was rather uncomfortable. I was nervous and excited. Yeah, you've met those people that actually like the dentist? I'm one of them. Weird, right? Nevertheless, I was distracted by his buttery voice and 100watt smile. Bliss. 


Then it happened. The next thing I realize I had some lady's hands in my mouth while she persisted on asking me questions when, clearly, it was impossible to make any sense out of what I was attempting to say. 


'Mmmhmmm," she'd say. Or "No kidding!" If she could understand me at this point I'd like to see her have a conversation with Chewy from Star Wars. Yes. That just happened. You're welcome. 


At any rate, Gene still strummed on my cute little heart-strings. My mouth was being torn apart by this bilingual-ist yet, I was grateful. No cavities. No toothaches. I passed. 


On the drive home, I felt my jaw, ouch. Like, my life is like, so like hard and stuff. O-M-G. 
-__- Puh-leaze. I imagined a life in which I'd shovel plaque out of someone's mouth. A life listening to children gag, throw up, cry. And the looming thought of everyone loathing your career which directly corresponds with your personality and therefore leads to your lack in forming any sort of normal friendship.


And suddenly: 
my life was luxurious. Thank you, Gene Kelly and tired dental assistent. 

Thunder

There is something extremely dissatisfying about a storm without the deafening result of thunder. Thunder is something that consistently reminds me of how small I actually am. I'm nothing in this world. I am simply a child; a child with hopes and dreams of becoming something bigger and better. I am the soil to this wonderful thing called earth.

Ironically, in my inadequacies, the thunder also teaches me that the being who created life itself, created it solely for me. And He would have done it for me, alone. Call me egotistical but I've come to realize that there are people are individually significant. We are known by the author of our lives.

And each etching of the pages He writes consists of a different template and font. We are unrivaled in one another. None alike. However, I am so appreciative that we are so unique. Our author's hand aches at each stroke we attempt to erase. Yet, I know He loves me. In my faults, weaknesses, strengths, and fortes. It's the process to understand this that is so tedious and everlasting.

We can read and read this book that is being divinely recorded. We can search with all of our strength but it ultimately comes down to this: We will have to learn our heritage through a process like the anticipation for thunder.

First, we start off with the wind. It rages, on and on. And then the silence before the change--which calls for pondering and gratitude. Then the rain. It slashes against the pavement yet the fragrance is so sweet. Soon, lightening. Brilliant light flashes across the night sky--sometimes day--creating a path amidst areas of darkness.

Silence comes. Again. We feel the beat of the thunder arise and brace ourselves. Then it happens. The crack so loud you feel it in your bones. And you feel small. So small and insignificant, yet so important to Him that loves us. But only after the cycle repeats.

The journey for me thus far consists of the prior. Never once does the storm hit without bringing me to humility as well as gratitude for the Almighty being. So what do I do in return? Think of my personal wealth, blessings, and virtue; Think of those whose fonts work so well with mine; Think of windy moments that make me fray around the edges; Think about the light directing my path in no particular direction apart from the good; think about the One who did it all for me.

So, in short, I am nothing. But to the true Master of thought, I am everything.

Hilarity Amidst Monotony

The man began his slow and tedious shift. He was just working another day; earning another dollar.

Cereal was his task. It's tower that lay ahead. He knew that he'd be earning the money for the sole purpose of his wife and children. One. Box. At. A. Time.

As he turns to pick up the next box, two girls are down on the ground. One is tall, freckly, and red in the face. The other is also tall, freckle-less and crying. Both awkward.

You would suspect they were in pain; that something was terribly wrong. When gasps of air were finally taken, he realized this this wasn't a moment of heartache. They were laughing hysterically. The attempted explanation was given in vain.

Their story:

Two best friends. Walking in a store, shooting the breeze regarding their one true love: food. They weave in and out of the isles, debating on what to purchase for the night of entertainment. While looking through the the cereal they both glance down the isle that contains marshmallows and soup.

In this split second they see a father holding a bag of the fluffy goodness and his son's back facing him, coveting this childhood delicacy. As the dad observes the bag of mallows, he frowns, looks at his son, then chucks the bag at the back of the boys head. Causing the boy to tip awkwardly into the shelf.

Who would have thought bad parenting would have been something so fulfilling?

Well, let me tell you. These three individuals found this moment of hilarity amidst monotony.