Dissonance.

It doesn't take a great deal of Facebook stalking to know that I love music and concerts. But here's what you might not know. Concerts aren't pure joy for me. Music isn't pure joy for me. It has a flavor of bitterness to it. My heart still aches to create music, to play music, to be in a world where music plays a significant part. I hate that the dissonant notes are there, but at the same time, they deepen the melody.

I remember crying with dear friends not so long ago after one of my favorite concerts. I couldn't really explain why I was crying, other than the beauty and the longing danced so powerfully within me that I could not contain it. My emotion burst out of me. Tears are one way this happens in me. Music is another. Melodies, harmonies, chords, and lyrics used to burst out of the emotions stirred in my heart. But now the notes have quieted. And now I watch and listen as notes pour from the instruments and voices of artists. And my heart aches within me, longing to be one of them. Longing to have a part in their chorus.

God asked me to lay down music years ago. For a time, it was in its entirity. Being a part of a band had become my identity, a way that I tried desperately to earn friends or approval. I knew that I needed to learn about who I was as a whole person. So I obeyed, and I laid it down at his feet. After a few years, I was allowed to pick a piece of it back up as opportunities to sing at my church and in a gospel choir emerged. I believe this is all I will likely be able to hold in this one life God has given me. But my heart still yearns for more.

I love music. It speaks to my soul. But there is a part of my soul that will always long to speak back, to be a contributor to the field of art and not merely a consumer. Perhaps there will be a place for my words and voice on this earth. Or perhaps this is yet another way that I am reminded that I was not created for this earth. I long for a place where beauty exists without pain, where sweetness is not tainted with bitter, and where I am unleashed to glorify God with my full self.

I am learning to hope, despite the pain that hope brings. For hope reminds me that desires not satisfied in this life bring us an ever present reminder that they will be satisfied in the next.

Embarrassment.

My most embarrassing moment to this day occurred early on in my middle school career. I was homeschooled and started at a private school in 7th grade. This meant that I did not know any lunchroom protocol. So when I was standing next to the conveyer belt that takes all the trays into the kitchen and they began to fall, I did not anticipate that people might think I had dropped my own tray. And I definitely did not anticipate that they would laugh and clap.

The horror and shame and embarrassment I felt sent me into a dizzying emotional nosedive. I actually did drop my tray at that point, and then I ran blindly into the girls' bathroom, tears streaming down my face, and threw up. I am fairly certain I stayed in there throughout my next few classes.

When I have to tell the story for some reason now, people always say that I should have taken a bow. It never would have occurred to me. I guess it's ultimately linked to everything I've shared this Lent season. I'm afraid to fail in front of others. I'm afraid to let my weaknesses show. I'm afraid to be less than what I think I should be (or someone else thinks I should be). I'm afraid that the slightest slip up will result in me being the weird girl who did that weird thing and now she doesn't have any friends.

I still have issues eating in front of people, especially if it involves walking in front of them with a plate of food. Some days I can't make myself do it, and I make an excuse about not being hungry or having recently eaten. But the stronger I get, the more days I can risk tripping, dropping something, or being humiliated. I am trying to learn that I am free to fail, and that I can simply laugh and take a bow when I look foolish. I'm thankful that I'm not still in middle school, and that, as silly as it sounds, people won't stop being my friend if I do something embarrassing. It's embarrassing how hard it is for me to believe that. That might be who I was. But through the grace of God, that is not who I am.

Sin and grace.

The church has taught us that people who have faith should not stumble. Some stumbles are okay, perhaps. Other stumbles are off limits. We know that sin is a part of life, and it is the reason we need grace. We know that we cannot earn or merit grace. And yet, we try. We trick ourselves into believing that perfection is attainable. Sure those "little" sins happen every day, but at least we're not doing those "big" sins. I hope this sounds ridiculous to you. And I hope it also resonates, because though we know it doesn't work this way, we act like it works this way. And then we must live up to the pressure. As Mark McMinn says about a man he counseled, "He could not afford to speak a language of sin because there were no arms of grace to catch him if he fell." Part of my job is to offer a place to fall and receive grace. But here's the thing. I also need a place to fall. Because I do fall. And sometimes I am not aware of the arms of grace waiting to catch me. I need to be reminded. And I'm so thankful for the people in my life who have been and continue to be those beautiful, strong arms for me. I hope my arms are grace for them too.

Even though I've known my whole life that grace cannot be earned, I must admit that I have continued to act like I could earn it. And therefore, I have acted in pride, as if I don't really need it. Nothing could be further from the truth. I need it, I don't believe I deserve it, and it's hard for me to receive it. It's a discipline for me to open my heart to receive what God longs to give me. I am not humble, as he would have me be. Instead, I am humiliated by my sin and shame, and I turn my face away from his grace because it exposes my sin. So I sit here, peeling off these layers in front of your reading eyes, exposing myself in ways that feel amazingly uncomfortable. I had no idea what truly waited for me when I began this Lent's journey. I'm stretching, practicing, trying to get better at being not only aware of my need for grace, but able to receive it when it is offered to me instead of feeling that I must resist it somehow. Some believe, after all, that it's irresistable. :-) (That's a joke for you people who love to talk about the five points of Calvinism. If you didn't get it, just chalk it up to nerdiness and continue on.)

My worship leader and dear friend sent me a song to learn today. It discloses my heart more fully than any words I could write. Sorry to spoil it for you if you like to be surprised by our Sunday set lists. Bryan, I hope this wasn't a secret. I just couldn't not share it. It was too perfect.

Don't Take My Picture.

I hate having my picture taken. It's incredibly anxiety provoking. If you've ever tried to take my picture, you likely know this about me (and probably have a picture of my hand in front of my face). For those of you who go to Providence, remember when they used to have the band on the screens behind the words? Pretty sure I made a legitimate bribery attempt to get them to stop putting me on the screen. Then I stooped to using theological arguments. And I legitimately considered quitting the band.

Here's the deal. I'm sure it's no surprise to anyone that, as a woman, I'm insecure about the way I look. Almost all of us feel it. But no one admits it. So I'm admitting it. And even though I know that most of you reading this will feel the same way, I still feel remarkably foolish admitting it. Society has me convinced that I am too round, too plain, too slouched, and the wrong shape. I've struggled with my weight being too high and too low. I feel like no matter how I pluck my eyebrows, they never look right. I feel lucky if one out of every ten outfits I wear is cute. The rest of the time I hope people don't see me.

Most days, I can remember that these things don't really matter. Some days, I literally stay inside because it's easier in here. Some days I look in the mirror and see my personality smiling back at me. Some days, I just don't look in the mirror because I can't handle it.

I don't share this so that you'll affirm me or feel sorry for me. I share it because a) that's the rule of this awful game that I'm playing. But more importantly because b) if you struggle like this, I want you to know that you're not alone.

And as a side note - if your struggle has you engaging in dangerous behaviors to try and control your appearance, I'd love to talk to you about how you can find some help. Eating disorders can be deadly. If you're wondering if you have any tendencies toward an unhealthy relationship with food, you can take a quick assessment online here: Are You Dying to Be Thin? Oh, and as a side note to my side note - I do not know this psychologist and am not endorsing her or her website. This is just a link to a helpful quiz.

Oh, and you might like these two songs. I'm not sure why I have so many links on this particular blog...

Reduce, reuse, recycle.

My life currently consists of at least three contexts that do not overlap with one another. So I reuse outfits. I wore the same thing three times this week. I do this mostly because I'm lazy and trying to pick out clothing exhausts me. So when I find something I like, I use it in all my contexts so that I don't have to remember later where I wore it and where I can still wear it. I might have to get more clothes if my life ever aligns in a way that I see the same people more than 1-2 days a week. Reduce, reuse, recycle, right? Please don't think I'm gross.

Professor Lupin.

I wonder sometimes if I need my dog more than he needs me. I knew that when I rescued him off the side of the road I was indulging some level of codependency, because I told my mom that at least this was a healthy way for me to fulfill my need to rescue. I think he's a handsome little guy, even though the first time my sister ever saw him, she remarked, "Rachel. That is the ugliest dog I've ever seen!" This, by the way, is why he's moving with me and not staying with my sister when I move to Chicago this summer. She's mad about it, but she knows that I love him more (and that she never would have stopped on the road to pick him up in the first place). Sometimes he looks at me with his sweet little face and I burst into tears, begging God to never let him die. I know that this prayer is ludicrous, so please don't bother telling me. I know my dog will die. But I pray it anyway sometimes, so take that for what you will. For now, I'm good being codependent with my dog. :-)

Scribbler.

Did you know that "scribbler" is a synonym for writer? It means, "a composer of written work" according to Dictionary.com. I want to be a writer. I've always dreamed of it, although I could never admit it until two years ago. It's part of the reason that I'm continuing on for my doctorate in clinical psychology. Why is this something I'd rather people not know about me, you ask? Well, thanks for asking. It's because I'm afraid to admit that I want something that I'm not sure I'll get. I don't want to try and fail. I don't want to be that person who always dreamed of being something and never became it.

But here we are, on this journey of vulnerability, where I'm being forced (okay, gently led) to lay down pride and be honest about who I am and the rough edges that are just as much me as my gold stars. Perhaps the rough edges are even more who I am, for who I am is a broken and sinful woman in need of Christ. I am so broken that I can forget how broken I am. The stars are just a reflection of a Light that isn't mine.

So in my brokenness, I am daring to admit to you that I dream of being a writer. Let's go one further. A writer who a few dozen people have actually read. A writer who has had some sort of impact. It's a risk, because there is a very real possibility that this dream will never come to fruition. And then I will be the 89 year old of whom someone says, "Didn't you want to be a writer?" But I pray two things: 1) that God will provide a way for me to write if indeed he has something that he'd like for me to say and 2) that if he doesn't, I will not regret trying or being bold enough to admit what I wanted. Perhaps it is in the trying that I will discover my true calling. Or perhaps it is in being brave (or silly) enough to try that my dream will come true.