Hold my Heart

I was driving home tonight listening to a song called "Hold my Heart" by Tenth Avenue North. It got me thinking about my own heart -- my emotional/spiritual heart. I started to wonder what condition my heart was in.


In the chorus of the song the singer tells the listener about how his heart is breaking, and he's asking God to hold it together. The picture the singer paints is a desperate one. The listener gets the impression that the singer's life is falling apart, and he's at the end of his rope. Everything is in shambles, and he's begging God to help him hold it all together; asking God to hold his heart together because it's being ripped apart. I imagine the singer on his knees on some dark street corner in the pouring rain, looking longingly up at the sky. Or maybe he's crumpled on the sidewalk with his hands over his face. Then in my mind I see an actual beating heart, and it is being destroyed by some invisible force. It's a gory scene; blood is splurting all over the place. Pieces of the heart start to fall, like slices of a cored apple. Then two hands come into the picture and envelop the heart before it completely falls apart. The hands are the only things holding the pieces together.


I knew that wasn't my heart though. I knew because I'd been where the singer had been. I knew what it felt like to have your heart torn apart. My heart didn't feel that way.


Then I imagine a bruised, beat-up looking heart. This heart looks like hell, but it's still being held together by some Frankenstein type stitching. It's all sorts of different colors: black, blue, purple. There are cuts and gouges all over its surface. It's a healing heart, but it looks like it has a long way to go. It kind of looks like a soldier would the day after a gruesome day of battle.


I didn't think this was my heart either. I knew because I'd had that heart too, and I knew the dull ache that came with it. My heart didn't ache like that.

If I'd pictured a third heart, which I didn't, It probably would have looked fairly healed, but with lots of scaring and a few fresh bruises and scratches. I think that's my heart.

I remember thinking it's impossible to have a completely healed heart because no matter how far down that healing path we get, things keep hurting us. That seemed really unfair. But that's life. Life is a series of battles and victories, and it's impossible to get through these battles unscathed. And I would argue that every battle ends in victory because even when we lose, we win. We can take something good away from every failure. There is always a lesson to be learned.

And while hurt or broken hearts are impossible to avoid, we can control the rate of healing. Healing is a choice and some people choose to stay broken. Choosing to heal looks different for everyone.

As cheesy as it sounds, I said to God in my mind, "I want to have a strong heart." I figure the stronger my heart is, the better it will withstand an assault. Besides, it's hard to cut or rip through scar tissue, isn't it?


Things that have torn apart my heart:

My parent's divorce
My friend Nick's suicide
Will Caskey
My mom's bitternes and hatred
My friend's husband murdering their six year old son and then killing himself

These things were all horrible and devastating in their own ways, but they have all made me stronger. I think. Or they've made me a better person. Or they've helped me understand life, myself, or other people a little better. You can learn just as much from the bad as you can from the good, maybe even more:

Romans 5:1-5

1 Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, 2 through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. 3 Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; 4 perseverance, character; and character, hope. 5 And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.

Another Lonely Day

I heard a song on Pandora today by Ben Harper entitled "Another Lonely Day". It's rather depressing, but it’s become one of my favorite songs. It goes like this:

Yes indeed I'm alone again

And here comes emptiness crashing in

It's either love or hate

I can't find in between

Cause I've been with witches

And I have been with a queen

It wouldn't have worked out any way

So now it's just another lonely day

Further along we just may

But for now it's just another lonely day

Wish there was something

I could say or do

I can resist anything

But temptation from you

But I'd rather walk alone

Than chase you around

I'd rather fall myself

Than let you drag me down

It wouldn't have worked out any way

And now it's just another lonely day

Further along we just may

But for now it's just another lonely day

Yesterday seems like a life ago

Cause the one I love

Today I hardly know

You I held so close in my heart oh dear

Grow further from me

With every falling tear

It wouldn't have worked out any way

So now it's just another lonely day

Further along we just may

But for now it's just another lonely day

You may wonder exactly what I like about it. Look at the first verse:

Yes indeed I'm alone again

And here comes emptiness crashing in

It's either love or hate

I can't find in between

Cause I've been with witches

And I have been with a queen

It wouldn't have worked out any way

It seems to represent the end of a relationship and the frustration of not being able to find something stable. And in the absence of love or hate, he’s crushed by loneliness. Whether he finds a “witch” or a “queen”, none of these relationships seem to work out. It seems hopeless.

My favorite part is in verse two:

Wish there was something

I could say or do

I can resist anything

But temptation from you

Here he seems to indicate that he wishes he could fix whatever is wrong with their relationship. It would appear that he is normally a strong guy, but she seems to be his Achilles heel. He can’t resist her. He can’t say no to her. Which is why I like the next line:

But I'd rather walk alone

Than chase you around

I'd rather fall myself

Than let you drag me down

It wouldn't have worked out any way

He faces his weakness and leaves. She can’t tempt him if she’s not around. He’d rather have his pride and be alone than be chasing after some girl who causes him to stumble and look a fool. This is insanely difficult, as I feel like the majority of people in the world are so terrified of being alone that they stay in relationships that strip them of their dignity and self worth.

The third verse struck me the most, as it reminds me almost too much of the last relationship I was in:

Yesterday seems like a life ago

Cause the one I love

Today I hardly know

You I held so close in my heart oh dear

Grow further from me

With every falling tear

It wouldn't have worked out anyway

I was in a relationship like this. It does seem like it was “a life ago”, even though it was only six months ago. I thought I knew the person very well, but in the end I realized I didn't know him at all. He’d lied about so many things that I had no idea what was truth and what was fiction. And with “every falling tear” it made it easier to push him away. Both because I was tired of him causing me so much pain and because he’d become like a stranger to me.

And of course, when you're honest with yourself, you finally realize:

It wouldn't have worked out anyway

Believing this last line was the hardest thing of all for me. Depending on how deep a state of "delusion" or "denial" you're in, you can imagine any number of insane scenarios in which it would "work out". It's quite a step when you are adult enough, and honest enough to say to yourself, and the other person, "This is never going to work out."

So now it's just another lonely day

Further along we just may

But for now it's just another lonely day

And the last step is battling the loneliness. Which is a day to day battle. Because even when I’m feeling fine, others can “drag me down”. I waffle between hope and hopelessness. It all seems so impossible. Too much to ask for. A dream. But hope remains, none-the-less. Because I am generally a hopeful person. Hope is all we have, really. And my hope is in God, whom I know will never fail me.

Why can't I be shallow and selfish and not care?

For some reason, as I was lying in bed tonight praying for whoever crossed my mind, I began to think of my family. And I started to cry. I was thinking about how I needed to have a talk with my step-mom and get everything out in the open. Tell her I think she’s always resented my relationship with my dad. Tell her I feel like she’s jealous of me. Half the time I feel like she loves me and the other half I feel like she can’t stand me. Then I thought I’d tell them I’m tired of trying to be good enough for them. I feel like they’re judging me all the time. I’d tell my dad he’s an alcoholic and he needs to admit it. What’s the worst that can happen? Then I started thinking about my uncle and how he and one of my aunts don’t speak. And come to think of it, neither of my aunts speak to each other. I thought that maybe if I went to visit my aunt that doesn’t speak to anyone and talk to her about things, I could somehow bring them all together. Then I thought about my mom. Who is not speaking to my sister and vice versa. I’m not speaking to my mom either. Mostly because I can’t communicate with her at all. Maybe I never have. She never really listens. I thought maybe I could drive down to see my mom and try to talk it out one last time. Tell her that her other daughter is going off to war and may never come back. Is that how she really wants to leave things? At least if it turns out bad with my mom, I can visit my uncle. I like my uncle. I like both of my uncles. I like most of my family really, they just don’t like each other.

How can one person really conquer all these things? They can’t. But I feel the weight of it all on my shoulders. Like I have to fix it all. Because no one else will.

I don’t want things to turn out like they did with my grandmother. She and my mom never talked about anything. They just resented each other and complained about each other. When my grandma finally died, I was the only one who was there with her. I felt like I was the only one that cared. Because my mom never dealt with her feelings towards my grandmother, her grief was more drawn out and amplified. It was awful. I can’t let my family end up like that.

I had a vision of my sister coming home from Afghanistan with a flag draped over her coffin. How would mom feel then? Would she regret the way she’d behaved? The way she’d dealt with things? I know she would. I don’t know if she’d even come to the funeral.

I’m sure my sister will be fine. I don’t know about my mom. Or the rest of my family.

Or me. I really wish I could stop thinking and go to sleep.

I'll Be Your Huckleberry

There are times in life, every once in a while, when I am overwhelmed by how blessed I am. These times also seem to come after great stress or trial. Once the dust has settled, and your foe lays vanquished at the other end of the square, you’re able to look around you and appreciate that you are still alive, that your enemy (at least metaphorically) is not, and that most of the people watching gave you the courage to walk out there, draw your gun, and fight. Life is a battle, and anyone who believes otherwise obviously hasn’t left their house.

Your enemy could be almost anything: a negative thought or feeling, an ex-boyfriend, your own pride and hubris, a divorce, something you want but know you shouldn’t have, losing your job, losing a loved one. If you don’t fight, these things will eat you alive. They will take you down. They will go for the gut. You will fall, and you will not get up again.

Sometimes these fights are like a shoot-out in an old western. You stand in the square in front of the General Store while men, women, and children look on. You stare down your enemy as you position your hand above your gun. As the sun beats down on you, the clock strikes twelve and whoever draws first lives. Someone falls. It all happens in a few ticks of the minute hand.

At times these fights are like an action sequence from a Bruce Lee or James Bond movie. You and your enemy are flying all over the room, breaking tables, flipping off walls, trying to kill each other with swords, guns, ninja stars, two by fours, or whatever else you can grab. It’s like a dance. However, after no more than ten minutes or so, someone makes a wrong move and it’s over. Just like that.

Occasionally these fights are more like battles. You’re on a bloody battlefield, fighting an enemy you can’t really see. You may be wounded and crawling under barbed wire. Bombs are exploding over your head like a scene in Saving Private Ryan. It’s long, drawn-out, scary, and painful. If you’re still alive when the sun comes up, you win. It’s about survival.

No matter the kind of fight, victory is sweet. When you make it out alive, everything is brighter, sweeter, and more fragrant. You appreciate the little things more: birds tweeting, babies laughing, the wind blowing across your face. Sounds cheesy, but not to someone who has faced death and lived.

Of course, being a believer in Christ, I know that there is no battle I cannot win with my Savior at my side. However, sometimes, when the bombs are exploding overhead, the ninja stars are whipping through the air, and the world moves in slow motion as I pull out my gun, there is a little seed of doubt that tries to creep in and tell me that I might not make it.

As I sat in my parent’s living room last weekend, the battle seemed so far away. On a night when I could have been out on the town, doing any number of fun and exciting things, I could not have been more content sitting there on the couch. My step-mother and I were knitting washcloths, while my 91 year old grandfather telling us stories about the good old days, and my dad sat in his chair reading the paper. “I love you guys,” I said. I couldn’t hold it in. “We love you too.”

The only thing I must overcome now is the fear of when the next fight will come. Why fear when victory is assured? Good question. I guess it is fear of the unknown. For now, I try not to hold onto the fear and try to focus on the tweeting birds, the laughing babies, and the wind blowing across my face.

Finding Your Happy Place

happy place - n.

1. Place inside all of us where we are all happy and get the warm fuzzies. Our happy places are insulated from the jerks that make up just about everyone we encounter.
2. The mental state achieved when one wants to avoid the unpleasant or uncomfortable. Everyone's happy place is different, and usually consists of the things that make them joyous.
3. A psychologically-induced trance-like state, where a person may regress from a stressful situation. A person may go to their 'happy place' when trying to repress unhappy memories from their childhood.
4. A person whom is resting & de-stressing from work.
5. A term used to mean a place visualized or relived in ones mind as horrible or unpleasant things occur

urbandictionary.com


I've been trying to find my happy place lately. At night, when I close my eyes, try to relax, and drift into sleep, I am often kept awake by my ever working brain. I wish I was the kind of person that could just go to sleep as soon as their head hits the pillow, but I'm not. I lay there and rehearse the events of the day, good and bad. I re-think things I said or did and think of ways I could have said or done them better. It's almost like SportsCenter in my brain: Headlines, Top 10 Plays of the Day, analysis, replays, interviews. It's all very tiring.

This is why I've been trying to find my happy place. I need something I can focus on when I go to sleep that will make all the other thoughts slip away. And maybe not even just when I go to sleep, but when the troubles and trials and stresses of life try to get the best of me at any time of the day.

I got the idea recently when reading Johnny Cash's autobiography, Cash. It's really just a collection of stories about how he grew up, the people he knew, his family, his music, his time on the road. Johnny was a very spiritual, Christian man. At one point in the book he talks about how he spends time with God. He finds a quiet place away from everyone, he sits down, and he closes his eyes in a sort of meditative way. He then imagines this place he's been to in the mountains in Alaska. A small patch of ground in the wonderful, big, peaceful forrest. But he doesn't just imagine it. He goes there. It's almost like an out of body experience. And that's where he spends time with God. He goes through this long description of exactly what the place smells like, looks like, sounds like. He knows exactly how far it is from the shore of the ocean and what time of day it is. It's unreal. He probably knows this little patch of ground better than any other spot. And in that moment of meditative prayer, that spot is as real to him as if he were actually there. It blew my mind when I read his beautiful prose about this tiny spot. I wanted one too.

This week I've been imagining myself sitting in a high-backed arm chair in my parent's front living room. I'm wearing my favorite long sleeved t-shirt from high school that has my last name peeling off the back and my gray KU pajama pants. I'm also wearing socks because it's usually freezing in my parents house. I'm wrapped in my almost white, lavender colored robe that I've had longer than I can remember. The red blanket I got as an office Christmas present two years ago is across my lap. I imagine feeling the warmth of the ceramic coffee cup in my hands; the steam rising from the coffee and condensing on my nose as I take a sip. I let out a sigh, as I usually do after my first couple of sips. Amaretto creamer in my coffee. There is a floor lamp turned on next to me to offer a bit of light. It's early morning and there is just enough light to see that the snow is still falling outside. Big, fat, fluffy flakes. Most of the snow fell in the night, and the snow plows haven't come out yet, so most of the snow is undisturbed. Everything is quiet except for the sound of the hot air coming out of the air register in the corner of the room. A small table is to my right with a book on it. The book is Harry Potter y La Piedra Filosofal. There is a green mechanical pencil stuck in the middle of the book and a few yellow, lined sticky notes poking out the top. I just sit there, and stare out the window, and sip my coffee. I sip slowly and silently wish that the coffee would never run out and that the snow would never stop falling. An old Ford pick-up truck with it's headlights on slides through the stop sign at the corner, and the snow keeps falling.

Another happy place involves reading a book in approximately the same spot as my winter scene while rain falls outside. The window is slightly open and I can hear the rain falling. It's not a torrential rain, but a steady downpour. A cool breeze floats in.

Another happy place involves me laying in my childhood bed in Overland Park. My window and door are open, and the attic fan is running down the hall. I can imagine little, six-year old me perfectly. I'm wearing an over sized, navy blue t-shirt that says "Wiegand for Governor". I'm missing one of my front teeth. My skin is brown from playing in the summer sun. I remember exactly what my sheets and bedspread looked like. A small, mutt puppy is snuggled under the covers with me. She has blue eyes.

It's just a start. It's important to know all of the details. That way the image of your happy place flows more easily, and you're not hung up deciding on the details. It must be the same every time. You'll know your scene so well it will be easy to get lost in it. It will be like you're actually there. Breathe deep. In and out.

It seems to me that most of my happy places involve some sort of soothing white noise, or nature sounds. No music, as the words would distract me. No other people, as they would distract me too.

While it has become somewhat of a societal joke for angry people to repeat to themselves in moments of frustration, "I'm going to my happy place!", it's not really a joke for me anymore. It's a reality, and sometimes the only way I can find shalom in everyday trials and tribulations.

A Couple of Moments

"You only get a couple of moments that determine your life. Sometimes only one. And then it's gone. Forever." Jack Burden, All the King's Men

These words echoed in my mind after hearing them. I sat in the dark in my living room and thought about the one moment that determined my life. I couldn't exactly pick just one, but a couple came to mind. It made me sad to think about because most of the moments that came to mind were times when I made the wrong decision, or made no decision, and then the moment was gone. Forever.

In the movie All the King's Men, character Jack Burden is referring to a couple of things. In reference to himself, I think he's referring to a moment in his youth when he could have made love to the love of his life, Anne. However, he chose not to, even though he wanted to. Anne felt rejected and ashamed, and it killed their relationship. I think he considered that the moment that determined his life. If he'd made love to her, they probably would have ended up together and lived happily ever after. Maybe not. But he missed the moment, and it was gone forever.

There are other moments like these for the other characters. Maybe for Anne it would have been the moment in which Willie Stark, the governor of Louisiana and Jack's boss, made her certain promises in return for her "company". She could have said no, but she said yes, and the moment was gone. She broke what was left of Jack's heart and gave away what little was left of her own.

For Willie Stark himself, maybe his moment was when he was about to give a speech at a local fair after finding out that he was just a pawn in a political game. They were using him to split the vote. There was a moment before he started his speech, when he could have chosen to leave and go home, or to just give the speech they gave him. He chose neither, and gave his own angry speech which launched his own, independent campaign. The moment was gone. He ended up dead.

Perhaps Anne's brother Adam's moment was when Willie Stark offered him a job. He could have turned it down, and he did at first, but then there was a moment when he started to re-think his decision. He could have turned it down and remained dismal and broke, but left with his pride and his values. He changed his mind, took the job, and the moment was gone. He ended up dead too, after he shot Stark to death.

If I'd just . . . made love to her.
If I'd just . . . said no to Willie Stark.
If I'd just . . . left the fair and gone home to my wife.
If I'd just . . . turned the job down.

Every now and again, the "If I'd just"s echo in my mind. These moments stick in my head and they replay over and over. I dream about them. I've tossed and turned over them. I've written pages and pages about them. I've cried many tears over them.

I probably won't know if those were the moments that determined my life until I die. Only then will I know whether I let those moments go. The moments in which I was faced with a choice: do or don't; say something or say nothing; do this or do that.

I often say, to myself and to others, that I don't regret the choices I've made in my life, because they've made me who I am. I can't change how those moments passed. But If I said that I never think about those moments and wonder how my life would be if they'd passed differently, I'd be a liar.

I do wonder. If only out of some sort of twisted curiosity. But usually only when listening to a really sad song, witnessing great grief or tragedy, or after watching All the King's Men.

Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Sister

Apparently I am a horrible sister. I'm not really sure what to do about being a horrible sister and, to be honest, I don't really care. I am also most likely a horrible daughter. At least, that's what my mother probably thinks.

Oddly, I don’t give a damn that I am so horrible. Should I give a damn? I feel like I should, but I can't muster enough emotion to get a reading on the Give-A-Damn-O-Meter. Maybe that’s because I know that I’m not horrible. I’m awesome. My sister and my mom just don’t know it.

Why am I a horrible sister and daughter? I am baffled by the answer. I guess I am a horrible sister and daughter because I can't figure out how to communicate with my sister and mother effectively and in a loving way. Therefore, I choose to minimize communication and face to face contact as much as possible. I've gone through phases in which I experimented with different ways to communicate, but the success of these experiments is akin to that of the Japanese trying to translate Navajo in WWII. And I'm not altogether sure that my mom and sister don't actually speak Navajo.

Part of this “horrible” problem is that I don't particularly like my mother or sister very much. If we weren't related, I would not hang out with them. We would not be friends. I would probably avoid them. I would pity the people that were related to them. I don't enjoy spending time with them. I'm most often embarrassed by being around them in public. The way they treat and talk to and about other people makes my skin crawl. And they don't listen. They just talk. And nothing you say or don't say is what they do or don't want to hear. It's like a big freaking Rubik’s cube that I can't solve. I hate Rubik’s cubes anyway.

My strong dislike of my sister and mother kind of kill my desire to "make it work". Unfortunately, unless we are McCauley Culken, we can't divorce our families. It's not like boyfriends and girlfriends. You can't break up with your mom or your sister.

I don’t want to sound like a total jerk. I feel like I’ve gone to the ends of the earth to figure out how to have good relationships with my sister and mom. I have yet to find anything that works. I try to focus on the good encounters we’ve had, but they are few and far between.

I remember a night earlier this year when I went into my sister’s room and laid on her bed and cried and cried. She just hugged me and wiped away my tears without asking questions. When the tears stopped she told me she loved me and that everything would work out.

There was a night last year when I called my mom on the phone, crying my eyes out. I only called her because everyone else I called didn't answer. It was a last resort. But I called her, and she just listened while I cried and sobbed and couldn't get any words out at all. She didn't offer criticism, or opinions, or I told you so's. She just told me she loved me and that I was strong enough to get through it. And she prayed for me. This blew my mind.

I remember calling my mom several months after my grandma had died and listening in silence as she broke down weeping on the phone, talking about the grief she felt at watching her parents’ things being auctioned off for pennies, like they never existed.

Why is it we can only truly connect with each other when we are feeling our most broken? Our most desperate? Our most afraid? Why is it that tragedy is often the only thing that brings us together?

**********************************************

This may sounds silly, but I have often pictured my mom and I sitting at a Starbucks drinking lattes.

I imagine that we sit there for hours and talk about life, and laugh, and really get to know each other.

I tell her everything I'm feeling and she offers me wisdom on how to deal with life.

I listen to her talk about how she grew up and the things she experienced and how they made her who she is.

As I listen to her talk, I come to respect her more and understand what she's been through.

I've pictured this scene a lot, but I don't think this picture will ever become a reality. I don't know if that's sad or not. It's just the way it is.

I’m not really sad, because I’ve lived this scene many times over, just not with my mom or my sister. I’ve had many moms and sisters over the years. Whenever I get sad, depressed, or angry about the crappy relationships I have with my sister and mom, I think about my other sisters and moms.

And I think about how they don’t think I’m horrible at all.

They think I’m awesome.

And I think they’re awesome.

That’s how it should be.

When do you tell the truth? A tricky question . . .

Scene: Middle School, 1997

7th grade me and my friend standing at our lockers.

Random 7th grade friend: So did you see Pam’s hair?

7th grade me: Yeah. I did. It looks terrible. It looks like she stuck her head in a bucket of bleach and then stuck her finger in a light socket.

Random 7th grade friend (looking nervously behind me): Oh, well, I think it looks okay.

7th grade me: What? Are you kidding? It looks like crap. I bet all her hair falls out.

Random 7th grade friend (looking even more nervously behind me): Um . . .

7th grade me (slowly turning around to find Pam standing behind me): *10 seconds of awkward silence* Uh, hi, Pam. Your hair looks great!

Pam storms off and never speaks to me again.

We’ve all been there. Well, maybe not, but we’ve all had friends or family members get terrible hair-cuts, perms, or dye jobs. I'm talking bad highlights, hair sticking up in different directions, bald spots.

You see, I always notice hair cuts. Always. And if one of my friends gets a really bad hair-cut, I say nothing. I would rather say nothing than lie to them and tell them their hair looks good when it doesn't. What if they take all these people telling them their hair looks good seriously? Then they continue to cut their hair the same way for the next 20 years? Do you really want to be responsible for that?

I was telling this to my friend Chris the other day and he asked me what I would do if my friend asked me directly what I thought of their bad hair-cut:

"I'd tell them the truth."

"You would tell them to their face that their hair looked like crap?"

"Well, I'm not going to say it like that. I'd put it a little nicer."

"Yeah, then they never speak to you again."

"Look, if you ask me what I think, I'm going to tell you. If you're not prepared for someone to tell you the truth, then don't ask."

"Fair enough."

This leads into my next question: It’s one thing to offer an unsolicited comment or opinion on a Facebook photo or someone’s latest hair-cut, but what do you say when a friend directly asks you for your opinion on something, or someone, in which your most truthful answer will not be a positive answer. What if the stakes are higher? Are there situations in which telling someone the truth will cause more harm than good?

How about the following scenarios:

Scenario #1: Your best friend’s significant other frequently says sexually suggestive things to you and flirts with you and your other friends when your friend is not around or not paying attention. Your friend is having doubts about their significant other’s fidelity, and they ask you if you think their significant other would ever cheat on them.

What do you say? Truth or lie? Half-truth? Evasive maneuvers?

Now imagine it’s their fiancée.

What do you say?

They’re getting married in a week.

What do you say now?

They’ve been married for three years and are already having problems.

Now what?

What if they’re not your best friend, but just an acquaintance? What if it’s not your friend but someone you can’t stand?

It’s not quite as simple, is it?

Scenario #2: Your significant other wants to pursue a career as a writer. You’ve read their stuff, and it’s nothing special. Maybe you’ve read more interesting stuff written on the side of a bathroom stall. They’ve already invested a lot of time and money (maybe even a college degree) into this career. They think they might be the next Hemingway or Maya Angelou. They ask you if you think they have what it takes to be successful. Is their writing good enough?

What do you say? Truth or lie? Half-truth? Evasive maneuvers?

Now imagine they’ve been rejected for the 20th time by a publisher and they are devastated.

Still the truth? Better to lie?

You’re married and they want to spend a large chunk of your savings flying around the country talking to different publishers.

Truth now?

It’s not your significant other, it’s your sibling.

Now?

It’s your son or daughter.

What do you say?

Getting more difficult isn’t it?

Scenario #3: Your aunt is dying of cancer. It’s revealed that her husband, your uncle, is having an affair with one of her close friends. Your aunt doesn’t know. She is very weak and probably only has days to live. Do you tell her the truth? Or do you pretend everything is fine?

The affair has been going on for years, even before she was sick.

Do you tell her now?

He’s fathered two children with his mistress.

Do you tell her now?

Your aunt is a millionaire and upon her passing, all her assets will pass to your uncle and his mistress. This includes all family heirlooms and properties in her possession.

How about now? You want her to die thinking he’s a great guy and devoted husband?

This last scenario actually happened in the family of a friend of mine. My friend's uncle cheated on her aunt with my friend's mother. They were sisters, and the aunt was in the hospital dying of cancer. My friend's cheating uncle was also her dad's best friend. They told the aunt the truth before she died. I don’t know how you make decisions like that.

You could think up a million scenarios, with a million different variables. I guess the question comes down to what kind of person you are. Would you rather hear the truth, even if it hurts? Or would you rather not know or be lied to, sparing your pride and your feelings.

There also has to be a distinction made between your opinion of someone or something, versus volunteering or withholding information from someone. The seriousness of trying to decide whether or not to tell someone their singing makes your ears bleed versus trying to decide whether or not to tell your friend their significant other made a pass at you is quite different. The consequences of telling the truth in these situations, or not telling the truth, are quite different.

Get Better, Not Bitter

I read something somewhere that said children of abusive or alcoholic parents will follow one of two paths in their lives: they will become just like the parents that raised them, or they will put all their effort into being nothing like them. I think I am a strange mix of the two.

You see, no matter how much you try to not be like your parents, you can't escape the fact that you are a mix of their DNA. They may or may not have raised you, but they are still a part of you. Whether you like it or not.

When my alcoholic, dysfunctional parents divorced, I told myself that I would never get a divorce. No matter what I had to do, if my marriage was in trouble, I would go to the ends of the earth to fix it. I would do it for my kids, if I had any. I would do it for myself. I would do it for my husband. I would not give up.

My dad missed out on my life from age nine to age nineteen. He always said he didn't want a nasty custody battle, but I think he just wasn't strong enough to fight. He said he thought we didn't want to see him, but I think he knew it was my mom that didn't want us to want to see him. There were many nights when my mom would scream and yell at us that I wished he would rescue us, but he never did. I told myself I would never give up on my family. I would never abandon them when they needed me.

I understand that my parents had messed up childhoods, but I never understood, and still don't, why we had to suffer for the crappy things that had happened to them. My dad's dad was married three times and was an alcoholic, just like his father before him. My dad is an alcoholic, though he won't admit it. Grandpa told dad his whole life that he was stupid, and my dad has spent his whole life trying to prove him wrong. Even though Grandpa has been dead for several years, my dad is still trying to prove him wrong. I see the pain in my dad's eyes. I see him trying to numb the pain and forget as he drinks and drinks. I don't know if he sees the pain in my eyes.

My mom grew up in an equally tumultuous home. From what I understand, my grandparents fought a lot. I think Grandpa hit Grandma, but I'm not sure how often. It got worse the older they got, the fighting, not the hitting. By the time Grandpa died, they were sleeping in separate rooms. They'd been married for over fifty years. There are a lot of other things that happened to my mom, but I'm not clear on what they are. I don't really want to know. My mom is an alcoholic, but she won't admit it. She's a very angry, lonely person.

My dad's sisters, Kathy and Carolyn, tell me that I'm a lot like my dad. I'm sensitive and loving.
My dad's brother, Tom, tells me that I'm strong like my mother. I'm independent and smart.

Those seem like good qualities. Right?

My dad is also weak. My mom has an explosive temper. Dad often pouts when he doesn't get his way. Mom shouts and slams things when she doesn't get her way. Mom and Dad can both be very controlling. Dad represses his emotions, thoughts, and feelings while mom lets it all out and holds nothing back. They have both let the crappy things that happened in their lives destroy them, their marriage, and their children.

If you saw them at church, at work, or at the grocery store, they seem normal enough. Maybe even happy, but inside, they are broken, broken people.

I never want to be like that.

My favorite quote of the year is from a book by Donald Miller. Don meets a guy that grew up in foster care because he was abandoned by his parents. He never had a family. Somehow he grew up into a normal, happy, successful person, and founded a mentor program for boys without father's. Don asked the guy how he'd turned out the way he did after everything he'd been through. The guy told Don that when terrible things happen to you, you can do one of two things: you can get better, or you can get bitter. He chose to get better. So do I.

I know that I can't erase all traces of my parents from my personality and who I am, and I wouldn't want to. However, I can choose not to carry their crap into the next generation.

I've taken an inventory of the things I need to work on and watch out for. I've shed a lot of the negativity that my mother fed into me. I've shed a lot of the anger and all of the hate she poured into me. I'm steadily lengthening the short fuse she gave me. I will hold onto the strength and perseverance she instilled in me. I will keep her sharp wit and humor. I will not throw out her constant motivation to excel in all I do.

I will get rid of the low self-esteem my father has been weighed down by his whole life. I will not stifle my feelings and emotions like my father does. I refuse to use guilt as a weapon, one that he's carried his whole life. I will love others unconditionally, as my dad loves others. I will not judge, lest I be judged, as dad understands so well. I will give the shirt off my back to whomever needs it, as dad has done many times.

With God's strength, I will get better, not bitter. I can see the result of getting bitter in my parents lives. I don't want my kids to see that in me.

What People Really Think

It's always interesting to find out what people really think of you. Most of the time, we only find out what people really think of us during an argument with that person, or through the gossip of a mutual friend or family member. People very rarely tell you what they really think of you right to your face. And if they are telling you what they "think" of you, and not what they really think of you, they are probably only telling you the nice, positive things.

Most of the time, we express our negative thoughts or opinions about someone because we want to hurt them, or because we are responding to some negative thought or opinion they directed at us. Very rarely do these negative thoughts or opinions come out in a productive, calm discussion, which is aimed at bettering your relationship. It reminds me of a time when I was in a very nasty argument with my friend Tom.

The argument started at our weekly Bible study, of all places. It began with a disagreement about whose responsibility it was to bring desert that day. Rediculous, right? It’s important to note here that Tom and I already had a pretty rocky “friendship”. We mostly tolerated each other because he was dating my roommate and we hung out with all the same people. As the argument escalated, Tom and I started taking shots at each other.

It turned into a back and forth. Each of us trying to find something more hurtful to say than the other person. We knew each other well and knew which buttons to push and how to prey on the other person’s weaknesses. We might as well have had swords or light sabers in our hands. It was a fight to the death and Tom won. I will never forget the last stab that Tom made. I will never forget the words he spoke. I will never forget how I felt physical pain when his words hit me.

A disagreement about whose turn it was to bring cheesecake ended with screaming and yelling, lots of profanity, slamming doors, and me speeding away from the gathering in a seething, tearful rage.

I remember feeling so amazed after Tom and I’s argument at the things he had said. It baffled me that someone who appeared to be my friend had so many awful, hateful things to say about me. Did he really think and feel all those things? What about the things I'd said about him? Were they true? Some were and some weren’t. We think a lot of things about people that we wouldn’t, under normal circumstances, say to their faces.

Arguments like this are so damaging, because they make you question everything that person has ever said to you or about you and vice versa. Apologies can be made later, in which you say things like, “I didn’t really mean what I said.” But if someone said that to me, my response would be, “You didn’t? Then why did you say it?” You have to question whether or not there’s a small grain of truth behind what was said. And even though you probably respond with, “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it,” it’s a lie. It’s not okay. I don’t know if you meant it or not.

I was never able to trust Tom again. We tried to be friends several times after that and it never worked. I haven’t spoken to him in almost a year. It would have been longer if I hadn’t seen him at a mutual friend’s wedding last summer.

“Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.”
Proverbs 12:18

“They sharpen their tongues like swords and aim their words like deadly arrows.”
Psalm 64:3

Cruel words are like arrows. Once you shoot out an arrow, you can never get it back. Just as encouraging words can give confidence to a man his entire life, discouraging words can beat a man down his entire life. Words can bring life or death. A sharp tongue is indeed a deadly weapon, capable of killing a person’s, confidence, self-worth, and even killing relationships themselves.

It's amazing to see how arguments can escalate. You start out telling your husband he's irresponsible for not cleaning up after himself, and ten minutes later you're screaming at him that you haven't trusted him since you caught him flirting with one of your friends at a dinner party last summer. How does it get from A to Q? Maybe it’s because whenever someone says something unpleasant about us, our response is to counter it with something unpleasant about them. This is really just a ploy to get the focus off of our flaws and failings and onto theirs. It works something like this:

"Oh, well you think I'm *insert unpleasant adjective or descriptive phrase here*, well I think you're *insert more unpleasant adjective or descriptive phrase here*!"

(Also related to "Oh, well I *insert something unpleasant you did here*, well don't forget about when you *insert something more unpleasant they did here*!")

I think the problem is that, instead of discussing things with our friends and family, we let them build up. Small offenses or slights get pushed below the surface. We tell ourselves it’s not that big of a deal or it’s not worth causing an argument. You may tell yourself you’re overreacting or just being silly. But then all these built up emotions, thoughts, and feelings explode at the most inconvenient times.

Whenever situations like this have happened to me, the one thing I wonder most often is, “Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way? If what I said about this or that made you feel that way, why didn’t you say something?”

It all just makes me wish people were braver. More honest. If you have a problem with someone, and it isn’t something petty, you should talk to them about it. Instead of waiting for an argument to throw it in their face.

Bring it on, 30!

I've been thinking this week about how I can't wait to turn 30. This is probably an odd thing for someone to think because most people dread turning 30. I've just been thinking about how awful my 20s have been and how I can't wait for them to be over. It's not that I think my life will magically be perfect when I turn 30, but I have a sense that things will be different. Calmer. More stable.

I know your 20s are a very necessary decade, and there's no real way to avoid them. Most of us graduate from college in our 20s. We get our first jobs and at the same time try to figure out what we want to do with the rest of our lives. Some of us get married and have children. Some of us agonize over why we haven't gotten married and had children. Many of our beliefs about the world and society around us are cemented. Some of us become Republicans, others become Democrats, and even a few of us might become dirty rotten Socialists. Some of us decide we don't care one way or the other. Many of us find or lose our faith in our 20s. Another group of us decides they don't belive in anything at all. Most of us discover what the real world is really about. We experience life. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

So where does that leave us when we turn 30? I would hope that the experiences I've had in my 20s will have better helped me to figure out who I am, who God is, and who everyone else is. I aspire to have a firm system of beliefs and opinions by then, and a firm understanding of why I chose that system and what it means. Many of the big decisions we have to make in life will have been made by then (where to live, what to do, who to do it with). I think by this age, most of us are ready to settle in and live life. However it comes.

I have imagined that when we turn 20, we get an empty, metaphorical toolbelt, and as we move through the years, the things we learn and experience arm us with the tools we need to live through and overcome whatever else we experience down the road. I think what we go through in our 20s fills up our metaphorical toolbelt. I would hope that, by the time I turn 30, my toolbelt is pretty well equipped. Maybe even with a few power tools. I'm not saying there won't be empty spots to add more tools later, but hopefully I'll have a good start. Maybe some of the tools won't be replaced, but upgraded. I also imagine that at some point in life, maybe shortly before I pass away, I will take off my toolbelt and show it to my children and my grandchildren (and if I don't have any children or grandchildren, maybe I'll show it to the neighborhood children or my many dogs and cats). I'll explain, with a certain gleam of wiseness in my old eyes, how I got each tool, and how it helped me to live life.

Old Me: Well, little Jimmy, this ring of keys right here represents all the times I got my heart broken before I met your grandfather. Each of these keys led me to really appreciate your grandfather when the Lord finally brought him to me. This ring of keys taught me that the secret to unlocking my own happiness in relationships with others was to love people the way Christ loved the church, and to seek out those who would love me the same way.
Little Jimmy: But what about those who didn't treat you good? What about those people?
Old Me: Ah, yes! Well, this saw right here represents the lessons I learned about helping, loving, and forgiving those in my life who maybe didn't do the same for me. We can't just cut those people off. We have to continue to help them, love them, and forgive them when they do evil against us or do things to hurt us.
Little Jimmy: What about this power drill? What's that for?
Old Me: That represents God's power in our life. I learned very early in my 20s that by trying to do life on my own, without God's help, I was like someone trying to use an electric drill without plugging it in. When you plug the power of the Lord into your life, you can get a lot done, a lot quicker.

I don't want to sound like a Lifetime movie or an after school special, but this is really how it all plays out in my head.

I often wonder how I'll feel when I'm 80, assuming I live that long. I'm only 26, but I feel like I've already lived so much life. It gives you a lot more respect for old people, when you think about it. It puts in perspective how much wiser older people are, how much more they've experienced. Well, most of them are wiser, some of them are just crazy. I hope I end up wiser and not crazier.

Yes, I'm going to throw a big party when I'm 30. There will be a big banner that will hang from the ceiling that will say, "Goodbye 20s! Good riddance!" Of course, I might find myself doing the same thing when I turn 40 . . . let's hope not.

Car Care and Lifetime Movies

The other day I was hanging out with my guy friends watching football and the question arose as to whether or not the Eagles had ever won a Super Bowl. I was pretty sure they hadn't. My friend Rob decided to Google it. He looked it up and it turns out I was right (of course), they'd never won a Super Bowl.

He read on for a few minutes and said, "Well this is a bit of interesting trivia . . . " Before he could finish his sentence I looked at him and said, "Card-Pitt." "What?" he said. "The Steagles," I said. He paused and then questioned with amazement, "How did you know that?" I told him it was because I was smart.

The trivia Rob had been about to share was the fact that, because the rosters of many NFL teams had been decimated by players going off to fight in WWII, they had to combine a few of the teams in the 1940s in order to have enough players to field a team. One year they had to combine the Cardinals and the Steelers, which they named simply "Card-Pitt," also sometimes referred to as "The Carpets". Another season they had to combine the Steelers and the Eagles, which they named, "The Steagles".

I did actually fess up to Rob that I'd read a great book called America's Game by Michael McCambridge, which was pretty much a comprehensive history of the NFL from 1920 to about 2004. I also own another great football book called The Idiot's Guide to Football, but I didn't share that part. Really, I have loved football since I was very small and have been a Dallas Cowboys fan for just about as long. It wasn't until a few years ago that I really started to read about the history of the game and the finer details of the rules, plays, positions, etc.

For some reason I get a certain degree of satisfaction out of impressing guys with my football and other sports related knowledge. It's probably similar to a guy trying to impress a girl with his knowledge of poetry and literature (except that I actually love football and most guys don't so much love poetry and literature). I figure it gives me a leg up on the competition.

I've always strived to be different than other girls. I have memories from my childhood of being indignant that McDonald's would always ask if the happy meal you were ordering was for a boy or a girl. If you said it was for a boy you got a cool car or an action figure. If you said it was for a girl then you got a Barbie or a pony. Now, I loved Barbies just as much as the next girl, but I remember wondering why girls had to have Barbies and boys had to have cars. What if I wanted a car? I remember always wanting to tell them the happy meal was for a boy so I could get a car instead. Sadly, I never had the guts to follow through.

I was thinking about this the other day when I decided that I should become more educated about cars as well. My sister knows a lot about cars and guys dig chicks that know a lot about cars. Case in point, just look at any guy's reaction to Megan Fox fixing cars in the Transformers movies. Of course, I don't think I would look quite as sexy covered in car grease. Luckily, I just happened to have a book that I bought over a year ago, that's all about taking care of your car. I hadn't even cracked the cover yet. Thinking about it further, I realized it had actually been about three years since I bought it. I'm busy, you know?

It was at this point that I started thinking about do it yourself types of women. I reasoned that, when you are single for such a long time, you have to figure out how to do things that a husband or boyfriend would normally do for you (or at least find someone you can pay to do them for you), like fix the car or repair things around the house. Especially if you don't have any brothers or available man friends around. It was at this point that I flashed back to some Lifetime movie that I'd seen about a woman that had learned how to do all of these things for herself and when a man came along that was interested in her, they had problems because she was so self-sufficient that he didn't feel like she needed him for anything.

I also thought about how, while most of my guy friends have always thought that my sister was hot and thought it was awesome that she knew so much about cars, more than a few of them also commented that she was almost more of a guy than a girl. It was like she had made such an effort to know so much about and be interested in the things that guys are interested in, she'd lost a lot of her femininity. As a result, most guys were more intimidated by her than attracted to her. I don't think she necessarily did this on purpose. I think her desire to be knowledgeable or interested in these "manly" areas was also driven by the fact that she didn't want to have to rely on a man. She wanted to be able to do it on her own. I think she inherited this from my mother, who was a single mom.

I think a lot of people have problems admitting that they need someone else. Needing someone else makes you vulnerable and yes, might even induce feelings of helplessness if they aren't around when you need them. The irony is that people so desperately want to be needed. How does that even work? We don't want to have to need other people, but we want to be needed. Pride seems to be the common denominator. We want to be in the position of power, dispensing the help or knowledge and not be the one receiving it. I think a healthy balance of both is more admirable.

After thinking it all over, I've decided not to go to the class I signed up for at Home Depot on how to put up dry wall. Ok, so I didn't really sign up for a dry wall class. Isn't dry wall heavy? I am going to go ahead and read my car care book, but only so I can be less likely to get screwed over by the dealer when I take my car in to get fixed. Maybe if I can throw out enough car words they will think I know what I'm talking about: camber and caster, carburettor, alternator, blah, blah, blah. While I think it's important to know about "man things" I don't want to become too manly. Plus, there's that old saying about how it's not a good idea to pretend to be something your not. Or in this case, try to be interested in something you're not really interested in. Good advice.

Believe

"We didn't hike to the Sun Gate the next morning; we ran. We ran on blistered feet and sore legs. We got there, and it was fogged in, so we sat along the rock, on the ruins, and waited for the fog to burn off. We sat and sang songs. And it was like Carlos said, because you can take a bus to Machu Picchu; you can take a train and then a bus, and you can hike a mile to the Sun Gate. But the people who took the bus didn't experience the city as we experienced the city. The pain made the city more beautiful. The story made us different characters than we would have been if we had skipped the story and showed up at the ending an easier way . . It made me think about the hard lives so many people have had, the sacrifices they've endured, and how those people will see heaven differently from those of us who have had easier lives."

From Donald Miller's book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years




I think I read the last sentence of this paragraph at least 15 times today. It made me think about how I deal with hardship in my life.

Most often, when tragedy or trouble strike in my life, I immediately feel sorry for myself, and those involved, and I pray for a way out. I ask, "Why me?" or "Why them?" and I shake my fist at the sky. After some time passes, I am able tell myself that the trials we go through in life make us stronger. They make us better people. But do I really believe that? I think that we, as people, often tell ourselves things that we don't really believe. Or maybe we believe them, but they don't really seep into the deep depths of who we are and how we live.

I often like to quote, to myself and to others, Romans 5:1-5, which basically says that we should rejoice in our suffering because it makes us better people, and that our ultimate hope is Jesus (at least that's what I get from it). I think that I believe that concept to varying degrees, depending on the day. When I say "believe", I don't mean, acknowledge that it is true. I know it is true. I mean "believe" as in, I live my life and make decisions based on that truth. I remember one of my pastors saying once that there is a difference between believing in God and believing God.

From Dictionary.com:

"believe" - 1. to have confidence in the truth, the existence, or the reliability of something, although without absolute proof that one is right in doing so. 2. to have confidence or faith in the truth of (a positive assertion, story, etc.); give credence to.

Most of the several definitions I found listed included words like "confidence", "conviction", and "faith". You see, there are many who believe that God exists, but they don't put their confidence, conviction, and faith in God. This applies to many things in life. You might believe something to be true or to exist, but you don't put your confidence, conviction, or faith in it.

Don has reframed this "belief" that I already posses (the belief that trials can enrich our lives and afterlives), in a way that empowers me to "believe" it more.

Imagine a person that lives in a third world country with barely any food, clothing, shelter, or comfort of any kind. Imagine that this person believes in God and that their only hope on this earth is the promise that they will be with God in heaven when they pass. This hope drives their entire life and everything they do. It's the only thing that helps them survive the squallor they face every day. How joyful would you imagine they would be upon actually reaching heaving and meeting God face to face? Would it be the same as that of a middle class American living in suburban Chicago who lived a life full of everything they needed and wanted and more? A middle class American whose life was filled with comfort, family, a good job, and more security than this third world person could ever imagine? Would that joy be equal? Some might argue yes, because they might argue that the joy of being in heaven far surpasses anything anyone, rich or poor, could ever fathom.

Another example. Few of us have been lucky enough to find "the one" right away and live happily ever after. Many of us have been through several heartbreaking, painful relationships and break-ups, and even if you haven't been in many relationships, I know that the lonliness of single life can start to eat you alive. We've often wondered if we should just give up hope and resign ourselves to a life of singleness, divorcedness, or widowered/widowedness. (Yes, I know those aren't real words.) I've felt this way a lot lately. But, reading Don's book today, I realzied something:

"It made me think about the hard lives so many people have had, the sacrifices they've endured, and how those people will see heaven differently from those of us who have had easier lives."

Reading these words, it made me think of how much differently I will see my husband on our wedding day than if I hadn't had to endure so much pain to find him. I think I might even read this passage from Don's book as part of my vows. I will probably cry so much that I will barely be able read what I've prepared, because as I stand up there I will be remembering many things. Things both wonderful and terrible. Things that made me who I am. I will be so overwhelmed by the grace and mercy of God, which has seen me through everything life has brought me, both good and bad, that I will probably drop to my knees in gratefulness and reverence, because I will see my husband differently than those of us who have had easier lives. I imagine that those in attendence who've had easier lives will probably wonder what I'm getting so emotional about (it's just a wedding), and those in attendence who've had harder lives and endured many sacrifices will probably be crying with me.

I Will Love You Until My Dying Day

It seems like whenever I find myself watching one of those dramatic, mushy, tear-jerker, love stories, one of two things happens: I think to myself that love like that doesn't exist, or I pray that love like that does exist and that some day I will find it. Usually I waffle back and forth between the two.

I think a large part of society leans towards the second. (If this weren't true then I don't imagine that the romance genre would make so much money.) Sadly, I think there is a smaller subset of that group that has given up hope of finding such love and instead immerses themselves in the romance of movies, television shows, and books because they know that is the closest they will ever get to real love. In a country in which the divorce rate seems to rise higher and higher each year, and in which it seems like every relationship around you is broken and dysfunctional, we can resign ourselves to thinking that our only hope for the love of fairy tales is, well . . . in fairy tales.

Why? Why is it so hard for us to love and love well? Why is it so hard to love and be loved in return? I think it might be because these dreamy love stories make love seem so easy, and they gloss over the blood, sweat, and tears that go into "making it work". Thus, we fall in love and try to maintain that moonstruck, honeymoon period, but once it wears off we realize that love isn't that easy, and instead of "making it work," we check-out and move on to something else or someone else. The best love stories are the ones in which great conflicts like distance, war, time, death, and everything in between must be overcome in order to be together or stay together. I think it's hard for people to fall in love and stay in love because they don't want to spend the effort to overcome or live through the "everything in between". We give up too soon.

I haven't been to too many weddings, but I imagine that there are more than a few wedding guests out there who have secretly wanted to laugh when listening to a happy "couple to be" exchange their wedding vows (like anyone who ever attended any of Elizabeth Taylor's weddings). For richer or for poorer? Yeah right. If he was poor you wouldn't be marrying him. In sickness and in health? As long as there is more health than sickness! Until death do us part. More like, until I get sick of you or find someone more attractive!

I can say that I've sat through weddings thinking about the divorce rate and wondering which 50% of my friends will be the statistic that will be divorced in ten years. I look at the happy couple and think, they look so happy now, so in love. What is it that happens to make that go away? I think you can fool yourself into thinking that all the couples at every wedding you go to will certainly stay together, but statistics are against you (and them).

I think that if I were a therapist (be glad that I'm not) I would ask troubled couples to bring in video or pictures of their wedding. I would sit there with them and make them watch the video several times. I would have them look hard at each and every picture. Then I would ask them what it was about that person that made them want to marry them? Maybe some of them would admit that they never wanted to marry in the first place. Some would probably acknowledge that they'd married for the wrong reasons. I imagine that some of them would know why they'd loved that other person and some of them wouldn't.

I've loved people without really knowing why. I'm not sure I understand how that can happen. After a recent failed relationship with a man that I'd loved most of my young-adult life, I could not really name very many reasons why I loved him. I couldn't even name very many redeeming qualities that he possessed. I just loved him. I didn't know why. I couldn't explain it. I think love like that is dangerous. Love is more than just a feeling. And I think loving without really knowing why will cause you all sorts of problems. Now, I don't deny that there is something about love that is deeper than words, but it's just not enough to get you through all those tough times.

Love takes effort. It takes work. It take resolve. It takes someone saying, no matter how bad or difficult things get, I will continue to fight for our love. I will sacrifice everything I have for you. I will put your needs before my own. I will love without fear. It takes two people saying that, and meaning it, and living it out, for love to work. For love to live on. Until death do you part. Most of us aren't willing to do all that. That's why most of us fail at love. We are selfish, afraid, and we give up too easily. Rick and Ilsa didn't give up too easily. Noah and Allie weren't afraid. Romeo and Juliet weren't selfish. And if you have no idea who any of those people are then you probably fail at love too.

I guess it just makes me sad that a creation that is capable of living such great love stories (both romantic and otherwise), most often falls so miserably short of the greatness it could achieve. All we have are these glimmers of hope in the stories of others, and maybe a determination that we can be the exception and not the norm. I will probably, despite my occasional pessimism, continue to lean towards the later of my two thoughts: I pray that love like that does exist and that some day I will find it.