The Men I've Loved

Love is a strange, many faceted thing. Love is beauty. Love is truth. Love is wonder. Love is.

I hate reducing Love to mere words because the English language is sadly lacking when it comes to describing the indescribable (of which category I happen to believe Love falls into).

Love, for me, seems to have changed over time. When I was a child, I understood Love as from a purely emotional standpoint. I saw Love as solely a choice in my adolescent years. I now (from the ripe old age of 24) see Love as not only both but so much more than either of these vague human terms can convey. Love is both emotion and choice. Love is all-encompassing. Love does not discriminate. Love accounts for the unaccountable things that we find ourselves doing on occasion or being recipients of. Love is. Love is Love is Love is Love is Love.

Understand the mystery that is love any better yet? Cool. Me neither.

Back to the slightly scandalous theme of this post, men. Specifically, the men who have managed to capture moments of my attention and pieces of my heart, no matter how long or brief. This one’s for y’all so pay attention!

I don’t consider myself to be a particularly easy or hard target. I don’t believe in playing games (specifically, playing hard to get...I see no point in this) and I don’t believe Love is something that should be toyed with. I do believe Love can be taken both too seriously and not seriously enough. I don’t believe in denying that Love exists and/or existed, not to myself or anyone else. I believe in being honest about Love. Hence this whole post.

Gentlemen: if I have at any ever been even slightly attracted to you, that is a huge point in your favor. Why?

Everyone has their own way of dealing with pain and rejection. Every girl has experienced the guy she likes falling for another girl and having to watch it happen and to be happy for him when it does. Or sometimes the guy likes her back and things are great for a little while, but it doesn't last forever. Or sometimes the guy makes everyone (including the girl) think he likes her but never follows through on asking her out. These are all sad circumstances to find ourselves in. These are all examples of frustrated Love.

Everyone has their own way of dealing with it when it happens. I’ve done the Love thing right and I’ve done the Love thing wrong, but now I do believe myself to be at some sort of happy middle ground. I “deal” in much healthier ways now and pretty much all of them benefit you (the men I’ve Loved).

If I have ever had a crush on you and made things terribly awkward by telling you (I am honest to a fault and I will not apologize for this), take comfort in knowing that you now have a prayer warrior praying for you, your physical and spiritual wellbeing, and the success of any future relationship you might have. If I have ever dated you, I pray with the same intentions for you. I pray the Rosary, the Divine Mercy Chaplet, offer my communion for you at Mass, say a Hail Mary or simply ask the Holy Spirit to be with you when you cross my mind.

You are a part of my life that I think deserves acknowledgement. You aren’t just a paycheck or a body - you are a human being of intrinsic value and worth. And, however briefly, you have been loved by a woman. Take it for what it is - a compliment to you! - and take heart; somewhere out there, the perfect person is (hopefully) preparing themselves for you. Heaven knows, I pray for that too!

Finally, not exactly on topic but not exactly off...if you have ever Loved me. Gentlemen. I must apologize because I am not sure I will ever be comfortable with receiving positive attention. That probably makes me exceptionally weird and awkward if you’ve ever tried to tell me...believe me, I’m sorry. That being said, if you ever work up the nerve to tell me please know 3 things.

1) Whether I Love you back (having a crush is a type of Love y’all) or not, I am honored you asked me out/told me. Seriously. And I will probably thank you for it. It’s no small thing, getting up the nerve to ask someone out. I understand that and I appreciate you thought I was worth doing it for!

2) I won’t ever downplay it or talk about it in a negative light with my friends/peers. I won’t deny it happened, no matter if it turns out to be the absolute worst date ever in the world. It’s not nothing. On a scale of 0 -10, 10 being the most important, getting asked out/having a guy tell me he likes me makes at least a 5 in my book. And since I’m not in the habit of lying, you can just take this at face value - but seriously, any friend I have ever talked to about guys can attest to this fact.

3) It’s gonna be a little pick me up, probably for years to come. In case you couldn't tell from this ENTIRE post, this isn’t the sort of thing a girl forgets.

So. To the men I’ve Loved, however briefly. This is my thank you, my encouragement and my acknowledgement of how you’ve touched my life. You remain in my prayers. Pax vobis. 

To My Fellow Leaves

To My Fellow Leaves, the Common People of this World:

Greetings. The world has an awful lot to say about us these days. Once a year, it seems, we can be sure of getting our due. Social media is full of breathtaking pictures of us, accompanied by a quote of some sort. These quotes, of course, have varying degrees of inanity that are meant to be profound and too often, fall short.

Nevertheless, now is our time to shine. We, the commoners. The ones who are never missed except when there is no shade. The ones who clean the very air around us and help make the world a better place by plodding along day after day, doing the very same things over and over again with no immediate result. We are the good people. The overlooked. The caregivers. The people who are not fully appreciated until we start to die, fall to the earth and begin to be trodden underfoot. We, the servants. We are the leaves.

I have, my dear compatriots, discovered a quote I think as describes us best. It reads as follows.

~

The tragedy of the world is that so many are unloved. Roses always look beautiful and smell sweet, and hence they are a prize to be possessed. Sweetbriar, however, has fragrant leaves, and they are never so fragrant as when it rains. The common people of the world are like these leaves; they have something fragrant about them, particularly when the days are dark and clouded and rain falls in their lives. Anyone can love a rose; but it takes a great heart to love a leaf.

Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen

~

It takes a great heart to love a leaf.

It takes a great heart to love a leaf.

What is loveable about monotony? Are we loveable when we feel that in the great play of life, we were cast in the part of the drudge? Who else is discouraged every time you vote seeing the immoral candidates win? Who else gets tired of turning the other cheek but at the end of the day, turns it anyway and will turn it again tomorrow? Who volunteers at church? Who doesn't need recognition but SOME appreciation would be nice once in a while? Us. The leaves.

The road to notoriety is paved with anonymity. And yet, it's not really notoriety we want, is it? We just want our ordinary, every day sort of goodness to take root in this aching world that so badly needs our love and yet avoids admitting it at all cost. We want to feel like we are making a difference.

The world is a scary place right now, but like Gandalf, I happen to beleive it is the ordinary folk who keep great evil at bay through small acts of kindness and love. Gandalf, a great wizard (and to go along with the analogical theme of this blog post, a rose), looked to Bilbo (a nobody, a leaf) for courage when he foresaw the doom of the world. The rain had started falling fast and heavy and suddenly the little everyday actions of a hobbit were what could save the world.

My fellow Leaves, Commoners, Peasants, Ordinary Folk...it takes a great heart to love us. And on days when you feel forgotten, remember that the greatest heart of all (God) sees your worth and values you right along with the roses.

The rain is coming, friends. It is to you the world will turn when things go wrong. Be ready to astound the world with the fragrance of your ordinary little lives.

Ruined

Two weeks ago, I was minding my own business, rereading an old favorite book in Barnes and Noble.

I am the type of person who gets lost in books; I laugh, cry and get angry right along with the main characters...if you try to talk to me while I am reading, chances are you will have to repeat yourself at least once before you have my full attention.

I prefer books over people, or shall I say, I prefer books over random people I don’t know that also happen to be in the same bookstore. I’m not there to make friends. I’m there to be with the friends I already have, aka the books. Aside from the library, Barnes and Noble is probably my fourth favorite place on earth.

That is part of what makes what happened two weeks ago so upsetting for me and why this post is titled “ruined”.

Two weeks ago, I was approached and sexually harassed in the middle of Barnes and Noble while reading a book.

He didn’t act like a turd when he came up and introduced himself to me. He wasn’t overtly creepy and didn’t make me feel uncomfortable....at first. But let’s be honest. I was in what I considered to be a safe space, pulled from the middle of one of my favorite SciFi novels. Half of my mind was still on the story, while the other half of me was smiling and nodding and regurgitating the overused polite nothings that are categorized as “small talk” in this day and age. I wasn’t paying that close of attention to what he was saying. I was hoping he would just go away so I could finish my book.

He didn’t go away. He sat on the floor at my feet (I was in a chair) and proceeded to try and have a conversation with me. And this is where so many of us women get taken advantage of or put in situations that leave us feeling gross, filthy and used. I decided to be polite. I closed my book - with a little sigh - looked him in the eyes and talked to him. My momma raised me right; I have manners (even if I don’t always use them) and at this point, I considered the conversation an opportunity to die to self. I think I even offered it up to God saying Your will be done.

I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation. I’m sure I could if I wanted to but I’d really rather not. What I do know is it took him less than 10 minutes to go from asking me out to telling me in an extremely crude and derogatory fashion (that I will not repeat here or ever, for that matter) that he wanted to have sex with me.

I have a nimble mind and a quick wit. I have a comeback for anything anyone says to me but in that moment, I was struck speechless. I was angry. Disappointed. I felt threatened, attacked, ashamed and sick all at once.

The only thing I was capable of was spitting out the words “I am very done with this conversation and you need to leave right now.” Some comeback, eh? To his credit, he did leave, although I’m sure it had less to do with what I said and more to do with the way my entire demeanor changed as soon as he said what he did. I went from nice, polite Rachel to you done fucked up Rachel in a matter of seconds. I’ve been told I wear my emotions on my face; I am sure he looked at me and saw his best option was to scram. I’m thankful for that.

I waited a few minutes, checked my purse for my knife and kept it tightly in my hand while calling my best friend Katherine as I exited the store. I wasn’t sure if the guy was going to be waiting for me or not. It was night and the area was pretty dead. I did not feel safe. I felt exposed, threatened. The only thing I wanted to do was go home but I made myself take a longer route and paid close attention to my rear view mirror as I drove. No one followed me home.

I cried on my way home. I cried again telling another close friend what had happened. I was loathe to tell my roomate/sister what had happened to me because I felt ashamed. I was reluctant to tell anyone because I felt guilty about what had happened, even though I knew none of it was my fault.

This is the mindset of people who are victimized through abuse, harassment or exploitation of any kind. They feel guilty. They feel like they deserved it. And if they don’t get up the courage to tell people and have someone to contradict the terrible voices in their head, the consequences can be fatal. I came so close to telling no one what had happened because I didn’t want anyone blaming me for what happened. I was already doing a fine job of blaming myself.

I think the most upsetting thing about this whole encounter was that I know for a fact if he had taken me out, if he had bothered to get to know me at all, I seriously doubt he would have said what he did. (I mean I could be wrong, some guys are completely disgusting.) It wasn’t cool to be reduced to the status of a thing, no matter how briefly. It was humiliating and degrading.

I’m not sorry I was polite to him. I don’t regret being kind at first. I don’t think dying to myself and entering into a conversation with him was the wrong choice. Nothing I did was wrong. What he chose to do with it was but I can’t control him, I can only control me. Which is why the next time a guy approaches me in Barnes and Noble (if I can ever get up the courage to go back), I might be a little more wary but how I treat him won’t change.

My biggest regret of the whole encounter was my comeback. I wish I had been capable of explaining to him how and why his comments were the wrong way to treat women. I wish I had been able to encourage him to treat women with respect in any future encounters he has with them. I wish I had been honest and told him how he made me feel, instead of just telling him to go away, because I would like to think his intent was not to make me feel like trash. His delivery was certainly lacking but everyone’s does once in awhile.

The one plus to this whole sordid affair is that I am prepared to do just that the next time something like this happens to me. The next time?! You ask in horror. Oh yes, because it's happened to me before. And it will probably happen again.

The good news is that next time, I will be ready for it.

The Traveling Rosary

It's not much to look at. I'm looking at it right now, as I write this. It's a brown, corded rosary. I don't even remember where I got it from or who gave it to me (if you are reading this and it was you, please let me know!!). It looks plain, nondescript. It's the Traveling Rosary and it is very special to me.

Last year while I was working in France, I had the amazing gift of visiting Lourdes. For those of you who don't know, Lourdes is the location in Southern France where Our Lady appeared to a peasant girl named Bernadette. The miraculous stream that Our Lady directed Bernadette to dig in the mud is still there; over the years, it has sunk further into the ground. There is a basilica built over it and you are allowed to walk through the grotto she stood in during her apparitions.

It was pouring rain when I visited Lourdes and, not having an umbrella, I was soaked to the bone. But the good thing about the rain was everyone was off trying to find shelter; I was already wet so I didn't care and got to experience a good deal of Lourdes without the throbbing masses of tourists being present. You aren't really allowed to stop when you are walking through the grotto. There is a place to pause and pray outside but they keep people moving inside so everyone has a chance to see it. Being that there were significantly less people than usual going through the grotto, I went through twice. I noticed the people in front of me touching holy card, papers with prayer intentions, rosaries, statues and any number of other religious objects to the walls of the grotto as they went through. The second time I went through the grotto I was ready with my rosary - my brown, nondescript rosary I had picked because it was the only rosary I owned I was sure I couldn't break - and I held it against the walls the entire time I was walking through. I held tight to that rosary the rest of my time in France, determined not to lose it before I got home.

I enjoyed having this special sacramental and praying with it but God had other plans. A month or so after I got home, the father of my godson had a heart attack. They were able to bring him back but it was touch and go for awhile and even after he was stable, they weren't certain how extensive the brain damage was or how much of a recovery he would make. I brought my Lourdes rosary to the hospital during the first weeks after his attack and gave it to his wife. It was hard giving it up and I certainly never expected to see it again but I knew that family needed it more than I did.

Just over a year later, this morning after Mass, my friend walked out of church with her husband - the one who had suffered a heart attack - walking beside her. She stopped me and said she had my rosary. I had forgotten all about it but I was thrilled to have it back in my hands again.

I have a feeling this rosary might not be mine to hold. Instead, it might be "mine" to lend; getting it back only to pass it off to the next person in need.

I am okay with that.

Bring me your sick

I had a recent tangle with a dull knife and came out on the short end of the stick. 6 stitches and a tetanus shot later, I am released back into the world to try and function with only one hand for 10 days. And of course, there are things that need to be done like laundry, dishes, trash being taken out and....grocery shopping.

Now, while I was at Patient First getting sewn back together, the doctor who performed the procedure was telling me all about that one time when he sliced his hand open in the exact same place I did, on the side of a metal collander, of all things. 

The nurse who gave me my tetanus shot had no injury story to share (poor her) but she was very interested in how I had managed to cut myself in such a way. (My cut is diagonal, deep, and vaugly resembles a candy cane or hook. I am not posting a picture here because I doubt anyone really wants to see it. I imagine I will be getting a lot of questions as soon as it heals a bit more and I don't have to keep it wrapped up.) 

The radiologist who came in to wrap some gauze around my hand after I had been stitched up told me about a whole plethora of injuries including, but not limited to, shattering her wrist falling off her own x-ray table while changing a light bulb. 

The cashier at Kroger (where I went when I was forced to leave the house because there was no food) told me about her heart attack, broken ribs and several other injuries, adding that she should probably just wrap herself in bubble wrap before leaving the house. 

The lady behind me in line had a story about an injury to tell me as well.

So did the cashier across from us.

So have some of my coworkers.

The list is, quite literally, endless. I have had this injury for barely three days and already I have heard many stories of injury, stories of pain and loss. It's like the gauze wound around my hand is a homing beacon, like people see it and think There is someone I can share my story with. There is someone who will understand me. But only the physical. And that really got me thinking.

I will admit, leaving Kroger yesterday, I had a moment where I was really annoyed people kept telling me their gross, detailed injury stories. Call me a sissy but I don't enjoy gory details. I don't enjoy gore in movies either, for that matter. Anyways, I was frustrated leaving Kroger because I knew over the next seven days, people would keep seeing my hand and keep coming up to me and telling me of their aches and pains. - and I would not just have to listen, but I would have to sympathize, to empathize. Could I do it? Even as the words I can't crossed my mind, I knew they felt all wrong. It was the wrong response. I could. And I would. And then I had an AHA moment, right there in the Kroger parking lot and almost got hit by a car because I stopped in the middle of the road.

I pray in my daily offering, in my rosary, in any spare moment throughout the day for Jesus to draw me close to Him and make my heart like His.

Jesus, meek and humble of heart, make our hearts like unto Thine! 

Jesus doesn't shy away from people's physical deformities or injuries. Heck, He's kind of got this habit of hanging out on a cross, broken and bruised and exactly like a homing beacon, His arms stretched wide with love. People look at Him on that cross (at least, I know I have) and think, There is someone I can share my story with. There is someone who will understand me. There is someone who knows both physical and spiritual discomfort, someone who can relate to me. I was being cranky about people treating me the way they treat Jesus. I was being irritated with people for seeing Jesus in me, when this is what I pray for every. single. day. Wowwwww. Um, I'm sorry God? Sorry for being so darn ungrateful when You answered my prayers because I was too caught up in myself to see how perfectly and beautifully they were being answered. I felt like a fool.

I know I do the same thing with people's spiritual aches and pains. I am impatient with people. Selfish, even. I wish they wouldn't tell me the things they do because I can't help but to take their own spiritual aches and pains on as my own; I can't help but to take them to prayer with me and ask God to heal these people. About seventy percent of the time when I request prayers from y'all, it is for someone else's troubles that are weighing heavily on my heart. Troubles I know I can't fix (where the heaviness comes from for me because I want to be able to fix them!) but Jesus can and I know the more people that bring these troubles to His attention, the better the chance they have of being resolved and the person we are praying for gaining some modicum of peace.

I am newly resolved as of yesterday to be a little less offended and a lot more grateful when people mistake me for Jesus in day to day life. It is an honor, one I don't deserve but that doesn't mean I can't try to be worthy. 

(Catch me, I'm) Falling

It is the duty of every professed blogger to write about things they feel they should share with the world or things they think God wants them to share with other people, even if they aren't necessarily excited about doing so. This post falls into the latter category.

Telling people about an encounter with God always leaves me a little breathless with butterflies inside, slightly scared about the reaction I might receive and suddenly doubtful as to whether it really was as incredible and awesome as I thought it was. What if it was all in my head? is the question that plagues my mind whenever I want to tell people about the very real God who exists and is working miracles in my life. But that fear is a temptation of the devil, an attempt to keep me silent. So help me defeat the devil and read a cool story about the awesomeness of God.

Prologue

This story actually has a little bit of a back story. The day before this story happened was the day our half of camp was doing the high/low ropes courses, mostly located a short walk from the main buildings. They divided up the girls and guys; girls did high ropes first while guys did the low ropes and then we switched after lunch. The high ropes involved a lot of trust building and team work; the low ropes were involved again around trusting in the people around you, but also in communicating with your "community" (the people in the group with you that stood for your community back home), about how you needed them and what you needed from them.

We did a trust fall. There was a platform one of us climbed onto while everyone stood on the other side, waiting to catch whoever was falling. A series of commands had to be said every time. The "faller" had to ask Are you ready? and everyone else responded Ready!, then the faller had to say I trust you, to which everyone else responded Trust us, fall on!, which brings us to the last and possibly most important command of all. The faller would then say Falling! and then fall. If they didn't say falling, we didn't know when they might possibly fall backward off the platform and there would be the possibility of us dropping them. We carried off the trust fall without a hitch, not dropping a single person. After we completed the rest of the low ropes courses, we headed back to the chapel for a small group session before cleaning up for Mass later on.

During the small group, our summer missionary (Angelina) asked the girls to share a spiritual highlight of the day; a lot of the girls mentioned the trust fall and how it had made them feel. When it was her turn, Angelina brought it up too; she hadn't done the trust fall with us (she was overseeing it to make sure everything went smoothly), but said she loved talking people through it, seeing them overcome their fear of falling/lack of trust in their partners and most importantly, seeing the way communication impacted how all of the low ropes activities went for our group. She had this habit of being profound when I least expected it and this day was no exception.

She repeated the various commands she had had us say and emphasized the last one before telling the whole group how important communication about falling was. She told the nine teenage girls sitting around her that she, personally, was bad at communicating when she was falling, that she tended to tell people after she had already fallen and by then it was sometimes too late for friends and family to help her when they could have if she had been more open before. My community can't catch me if I don't communicate that I'm falling. 

Are you ready? - Ready!
I trust you. - Trust us, fall on! 
.
.
.
Falling!

The Story of My Three-fold Miracle

It was early Friday (like 7-ish-am) morning in a small chapel in the mountains in Northern Georgia. (Do I still have your attention? Good.) Birds were chirping, sunshine was pouring through the windows and Jesus was there, present in the Holy Eucharist, as I prayed during the holy half hour that the summer missionaries had every morning, followed by morning prayer. I had been curled up on the floor in one of the pews - I am one of those people who likes to approach God with my head covered and my feet bare, preferably as close to the ground as possible - praying and trying to summon the strength to be ready for the day. I was chaperoning a group of youth group kids for a week at a Life Teen Camp and I was feeling emotionally and spiritually drained. Being around large groups of people I don't know didn't help either. I am an introvert which means on some level the entire week was a terrifying ordeal for me.

Morning prayer started and I pulled myself off the ground to a standing position. The missionary sharing my pew with me was already lending his breviary to someone else but he looked around and got another one of the missionaries to lend me their's so I could follow along. I prayed the psalms aloud, listened to the readings and tried to convince myself God could hear me. I knelt and sang in that chapel, surrounded by some of the kindest, friendliest people I had ever met who all believed in the same things I did, feeling completely alone. I listened to the people around me state their various prayer intentions out loud and asked God where He was in my life at that moment. Because I could feel nothing except an empty void surrounding me.

My question got answered by the guy on the opposite side of the chapel from me, two rows in front of where I was sitting. I didn't recognize the guy - there were two hundred and fifty people at the camp that week I believe, not counting the people who ran it - but I am going to remember him for the rest of my life. He spoke out clearly, stating his prayer intention: I pray for everyone with depression and anxiety, that they would feel Jesus' arms around them and know they are loved. (Note: I don't remember the exact words of the second half of his intention because I was so stunned, but this is pretty close to what they were.) I was astonished. I actually caught my breath, which I am sure the people around me heard. God spoke to me through the mouth of someone I never knew, never met and will likely never see again but He heard me in my moment of need and answered me. It was the first part of my three fold miracle. Thought the story was over? Wait. There's more.

Fast forward to that night and I am sitting at parish pow-wow with my fellow chaperone (Luke), the kids from our church and the summer missionary (Angelina again, y'all) who was assigned to our parish for the week. At the end of the day we asked the kids to share a highlight from the day and spiritual highlight if they had one. We were going around in a circle, stating what our favorite parts of the day had been. On my turn, I felt a prompt from the Holy Spirit, telling me to share what had happened earlier in the chapel with my group. I didn't necessarily want to. I wanted to keep my miracle to myself, between me and God, but I am so glad now that I listened to that voice in my heart.

Opening up to people is never easy. Telling people about your weaknesses and struggles is always difficult and opening up to teens is not usually something I am ever comfortable with doing. I stepped out in faith, shakily at first, not making eye contact and probably talking way too fast for anyone to understand me, telling them about my ongoing struggle with anxiety and depression, how I was feeling that morning in the chapel and finally how God had used someone I didn't know to speak life and love to me and let me know everything was going to be okay and that He was there listening. My burning desire to let the kids see how beautifully God can work through people overcame my fear of talking about myself as I told the story and I stopped shaking in my shoes as I finished. We were moving on to the next person when Angelina interrupted, saying she had something to add and that's when I got my second part of my little miracle. She said in the six weeks she had been going to morning prayer, it was easy to guess who was going to pray for what and that she had never heard that prayer intention until that morning. For the second time that day, I was speechless. If I had disregarded that voice in my heart, I never would have known that and the second - and third! - parts of my miracle wouldn't even exist. I thanked her for sharing and we moved on to the next person's highlight but for me, that night kind of stood still, that moment replaying over and over in my mind.

The next morning, I got the third part of my miracle. My partner in crime and fellow chaperone for the week was sitting next to me during morning prayer, and for his prayer intention, he prayed for everyone who felt alone. (Again, I don't remember every single word, but I remember how they resounded in my heart.) My community can't catch me if I don't communicate that I'm falling. I communicated, opened up when I normally would have stayed silent and God worked through two people (Luke and Angelina) who I hardly knew to continue my little miracle for me, a miracle that started with a guy I will never know the name of.

The whole experience was incredibly humbling and encouraging. I thank God I was able to accept His invitation to be vulnerable so He could show me the beauty in sharing about my weaknesses. I shared it with a good friend when I got back and then with my manager the next day and then I realized that despite my shortcomings as a human being and as a story teller, this story is too good to keep to myself and God wants me to tell people about it. Thanks for reading <3

Weaknesses

To share your weakness is to make yourself vulnerable; to make yourself vulnerable is to show your strength.

 Criss Jami

(Pause. Open a new tab on your web browser, go to youtube and start playing "Beneath Your Beautiful" by Labrinth ft. Emeli Sandé. And then read this post.)

Hey y'all. Rachel here again (yes, on my own blog. Whaaaat.) with some more talk about my weaknesses and vulnerabilities. It might seem like this is all I talk about because I am the textbook human distaster; it is hard for me to let you see beneath my exterior. Which makes it hard for me to truly love each of you as I should, as Jesus calls us to.

I have had the priveledge of having bad things happen to me; it sucks but it puts me in the rare position of being able to empathize with just about anybody. To care about everyone, whether I want to or not. I cried on the way to work last week after seeing a motorcycle accident, praying for the families of everyone involved; because I know what it is like to be in that position. Because I've loved and I've lost.

I'm not really one to talk about myself. To share my struggles. To let people in. My walls are there for my own protection yes but more importantly, they are there to protect the people around me. I am always scared something will creep out of my dark places and hurt someone I love. The role of being the strong protector is an easy one to sign on to; the role of being a weeping, broken, ordinary human being is not.

It is hard for me to understand how contradictions like my vulnerabilities being my strength is even possible. But anyone knows in this crazy thing called life, you have to play to your strengths. And to do that, I have to make myself vulnerable. Not by flaunting my scars, but maybe by letting you see them a little more frequently. By letting you see that I am hurting too. By showing you what makes me me.

I feel an incredible pull towards vulnerability this year; last year was the year I faced a lot of my fears and felt stronger by the end of it. Now the Lover of My Soul is calling me to let go of that sense of strength, dear as it is to me, and abandon myself to Him through my weaknesses. I can't do it alone but hopefully with Him filling in the gaps I can do an acceptable job. Hopefully. My confidence is in Him rather than in myself and that, too, is an acknowledgement of a weakness that makes me stronger than I would be on my own.

As always, dear friends, thank you for being with me on this journey of life. Thank you for letting me see beneath your beautiful. For showing me your scars. You being open with me is inspiring and encouraging on such a deep level it is hard for me to find the words to express it.