If you think we killed chivalry, for crying out loud, give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation!

I have heard rumblings of discontent among males.

"If you want me to hold the door, don't give me a dirty look, like I don't think you can do it."

"She won't LET me pay for dinner. I was reaching for my wallet. I promise."

"She put her coat on before I could even find it to hold for her. It's not my fault."

Yes, gentlemen. I'll admit. We ladies can be a wee bit forceful at times. In fact, the rumor has been batted around that "chivalry is dead," and the rumble from the men I've talked to is that feminism* is what killed it.

Which is complete poppycock.

If all it took were some opinionated women to kill chivalry, then chivalry must have been a pretty weak specimen.

Yes, there will be ladies who sneer at your kindness and compassion. There will be those who look at your helping hand with disdain. And there will be those who will interpret every kind, thoughtful, chivalrous gesture as affront to their competence as a human being. And I know that can't be pleasant. But you must know that behind one of these commanding women, stand ten who love chivalry. We will light up when you open the car door, when you shovel our driveways, scrape our windshields, and walk us home in the dark. (And yes, with revolving doors, the man goes first.)

We're not namby-pamby, vanilla girls. In most cases we're competent, spicy ladies... who still love knights in shining armor.

All this to say:

Plan the date.
Pay for it.
Open the door.
Hold up the jacket.
Shake our fathers' hand firmly.
Chit-chat with our mamas.
Don't sit out front and honk when you're picking us up.

And please be patient with us if we seem initially unsure, or confused by your courtesies. They are often a rare commodity. But don't worry. Our surprise and confusion won't last for long... soon your chivalry will be the reason for a smile, and a sparkle of happiness.

If abrasive feminism "killed" chivalry, then let true masculinity give it a shock back to life.



*I am condoning "feminism" very narrowly in this post. I'm a "first wave" feminist. (i.e. I believe women should have the same rights as men when it comes to politics, landholding, and jobs.) There is, however, a branch of feminism whose flagrant delight in emasculating men is abhorrent. They are sexists. Period. But we'll save that rant for another post. I don't think this argument is dependent on the type of feminist any lady may happen to be, but I thought I should probably expound for clarity's sake.


**This post is not a reaction to a negative event, but rather a way (albeit a rather upside-down way) of appreciating the men in my life (aka, my father and brothers) who are remarkably skilled at recognizing the strengths of women, while simultaneously protecting them. Thank you, dear ones for your chivalry!)

Submission. Defined.

Good 'morrow, gentle ladies! This post is specifically for you. Or perhaps I should say this post is for me, and hashing it out for all to read is incredibly helpful. I'm not a natural "thinker" or philosopher. I've never been labeled the "contemplative type." But by talking, by writing, by being forced to place my convictions into coherent sentences, I am able to approach something akin to intelligent thought. I hope.

For the past year I've been digging through the role of women. What does the Bible say, what does our society say, what do Christian thinkers, my mentors, and my friends say? For, whether we like to admit it or not, our definition of womanhood will define our choices and shape our lives. Recently I've started examining the men's role, because that (obviously) also has a strong bearing on how we, as ladies, act, but I'll venture into that realm after it's simmered (i.e. been studied) more.

Today I'm venturing into the realm of "submission." Don't curl up your modern noses at the term which oozes with connotations of inferiority. I know. I've been there, sometimes I still visit there. In our culture, "submission" denotes a hanging head, down-cast eyes, murmurings of assent. It summons up beliefs that one may not, or cannot use one's brain, have an opinion, or pursue one's talents passionately. Some may picture a 1950s family. I did.


To argue such a view of submission, one would have to transfer those same beliefs, not only to women, but also to men, for we are all told to submit to one another "out of reverence to Christ." (Ephesians 5:21) Submission clearly means something else, for the Christian walk is not filled with sniveling, brainless followers.

At least we hope not.

I would purport the following definition of submission:

Submission is a willing support of anothers godly interests and choices in the place of your own, with a conscious effort to enhance their service and abilities through the vibrant and passionate use of your gifts.

Let's unpack it, shall we?

"Willing support" indicates that you are not being coerced into submission. Your strength is supporting. And this is supporting without begrudging. It is "willing." I would argue that this often requires more strength than leading. A lack of willing support doesn't necessarily stem from strength, but rather from pride and selfishness. (James 4:1,7)

"Anothers godly interests" highlights the fact that submission to human authority should never be placed above obedience to God. (Deuteronomy 11:1) Should your authority's desires and choices be contrary to the scripture, or cause you to sin, you are not obligated to submit. But I used the words "interests and choices" because I believe the vast majority of strife in marriages is not caused by clear, black and white issue, but rather by an unwillingness to do something you just don't like. And while (in theory) it would be nice to have a husband whose one goal was to make you happy, there will be times when a choice is just a preference- no morality attached. And ladies, he's allowed to pick something that doesn't make you jump up and down with glee. Once again, it's at these moments when strength is not in the ability to battle, but rather in the ability to graciously not get what you want. This requires humility, another frequently abused character quality of our times. (Philippians 2:1-11) It's easy to say, but doing this "in place of your own" preferences and desires is incredibly difficult. Of this I am quite convinced.

My favorite aspect of this definition, however, is the final phrase which says you should do all this "with a conscious effort to enhance their service and abilities through the vibrant and passionate use of your gifts." This is an aspect of submission that I think is frequently overlooked, but it's what we were designed for. We are designed to help. (Genesis 2:18-24) We, as women, are beautifully gifted in a multitude of areas. I look at the women around me and am astounded at the love, insight, wisdom, kindness, generosity, and compassion which I see (in addition to skills in management, finances, design, art, and intellect). Look at each of those character qualities. How powerful they could be in the life of a man, should they be used to aid and abet his ministry. Submission is not a squashing of your talents, but rather the constant, selfless exercise of these gifts to enhance and strengthen your leader. How Christlike is this focus! And how perfect for the design of women... Think of the women who have shaped Biblical history: Sarah, Deborah, Elizabeth, Dorcas, Ruth, Esther, etc. What variety! Rich, poor, young, old, single, married, different eras, all with a variety of situations and problems, and yet, each defined Biblical womanhood with their separate strengths and abilities. What a wonderful challenge to seek to use our gifts and abilities to enhance and serve others! And let's face it, we, as women, do very well with challenges, so it's nothing to balk at.

So, bring on the challenge of submission! Invite this unconventional use of your gifts, and revel in the delight of service.

That's submission. Defined.





*I recognize that this post leaves many questions unanswered, and perhaps many feathers ruffled: What about when you're single? What about women working? What happens when your submission is abused? etc., etc. Trust me. I understand the limitation of the post I just made. However, take it as it is: a definition, not an exposition. I will touch on additional aspect of femininity and masculinity in future posts. Rome was not built in a day, you know.

Dreams Come Alive

I love this place. The brushing wind, the puddles of sunshine appearing through white puffy clouds, the white stone beaches with clear, cold waves breaking. Mackinac Island. Our family has been coming here for ten years. The old, dilapidated house where our adventures began is now a bustling, renovated success. But we discovered it, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I look upon the other guests as intruders. This is our summer home.

People always ask why we keep coming back.

When I'm away from the Island, I can never remember. But on the ferry ride, as we are tousled and tossed by the Michigan wind, the water gets bluer, the island gets bigger, and I remember. This is where my dreams live.

There is a place where all my dreams seem possible. When I can open up my notebook and believe that I can make a living writing. Where I can read good literature and believe that I'll someday write good literature. Where I can sip coffee, laugh with my family, peddle down hills, feel the sun on my face, the wind whip my hair, and believe that my life will come together. It will all work out. That it's a good thing to be alive. To live and dream.

So, I spent a good part of today curled up, writing, reading. I played lacrosse with my brothers, drank coffee with my mom, and dipped my toes in the pool with Julie. Martha and I talked about traveling the world. Dubai sounds interesting and Brussels a possibility. Erika and I debate vocabulary, and my father alternately laughs and encourages my inept bike peddling up the Grand Hotel hill.

The horizon is hopeful. My mind is teaming with new dreams and the rebirth of old aspirations.

I love The Island...

Lost in the Cornfields... Lonely for the City

I graduated.

I'm done.

And I don't have a job.

Granted, my job search suffered as my externship wrapped up. Working 10-12 hour days isn't exactly conducive to interviewing, but it still wasn't fun to tell everyone, "Nope! No idea what I'm doing!" when my compatriots had their lives perfectly mapped out.

This week I've interviewed for multiple jobs and applied for even more.

I'm not excited.

I was determine to leave this little town, the surrounding cornfields, and the complete lack of whole foods grocery stores. I am not a country girl. I'm scared of chickens, I love to wear heals, and I've always had a fascination with designer couture. I've applied for probably seventy-five jobs out of state in prominent cities. Haven't heard from a one of them. I applied for four jobs in state. Every single one has called me back, conducted interviews, and begun preliminary salary negotiations. Apparently I'm staying in the cornfields.

I don't want to do this. I never wanted to do this. My siblings are flying to the four corners of the globe, and I'm staying here. I've had nightmares of vacationing at age 32 with my mom, dad, and Julie-Bop. Just us. Everyone else out living their lives, and I'm just excited that Walmart is finally carrying organic milk.

What if I never click my heals along the New York sidewalk, apartment shop on the Magnificent Mile, or learn how to surf the sand-flecked waves of the Golden State? What if I stay in the cornfields forever?



A little, practical voice in the back of my head tells me that I can change jobs, I can move later, I can switch career paths. But right now the road stretches before me with no exciting bends.

One long, flat, Indiana road.

This gray-blue mood is probably the result of too many late nights, rejection letters, and the passing of my unconditional cheerleader (I love you, Grandma!). I understand that God will teach me many things. I love sunrises over those emerald fields. I delight in cuddles with Julie and coffee with my mom. I see the good things here... But right now I'm just a little lost, a little blue, and a little bruised and tender. My plan didn't pan out, and now I have to accept God's (much better) plan. That's a lot harder than it sounds...

Especially when I'm surrounded by cornfields.

Because of the memories... not "In Memory of"

On August 9th, 2010, my darling grandma went home.




From the first day I can remember, through the last day I knew her, my grandmother struggled to breathe, struggled to move, struggled to live. But she never struggled in loving her big, loud, "Americana" family. Never in her struggled did she forget Christmas presents for all, cheese balls and home-made noodles at each family get-together. She never let the struggle eclipse her kind words and gentle presence. She was always unconditionally proud of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

My grandmother doesn't fit in the "famous" people of our time. She lived quietly, she raised her four boys alone, she worked, she loved, she died. But the consistent grace and love which accompanied each of these actions is more amazing because of the lack of accolades. Glorifying God and loving others are her legacy.




I love you, Grandma. I can't wait to see you again.

"Because I love you...

As an almost (29 days!) speech pathologist, I work with a lot of children whose issues extend beyond their ability to say "s." I never knew I would work on social skills, inter-personal communication, and basic courtesy as a speech pathologist, but it's probably one of my favorite parts of the job.

I have a little client right now who never likes to lose a game. In fact, part of therapy has now become helping him cope with losing. (Which entails me winning, which is okay with me...)

My third week of doing therapy, we played a game in which you could earn power to ruin your teammate's chances of winning. You would slam this little rubber fly down, and they would lose all their points. Well, the little guy I was working with won the chance to slam down the rubber fly.

But he wouldn't pick it up.

He started shaking his head, "No... no... no..."

"It's okay. You can do it. Take away my points! You'll win!"

"No... no... no..."

"Come on! Pick up the fly! Don't you want to take away my points and win?"

"No... because I love you!"

My heart melted into a puddle. This little man, who loves to win, didn't want to take away my points because he loved me. Completely, totally, irrevocably made my day. I'm still smiling, many days later.



(I eventually convinced him that slapping the fly would be a good idea, and he giggled while we slapped the fly together.)

Song of the week!

I have a sneaking suspicion that the main reason I love this song is because of the brass section and the cat walk on top of the freezers... it's like a dream grocery shopping trip!

Illusions and Pre-Mature Homesickness

My dear reader. I speak now, on this day, to the gross injustice of illusions-- illusions which cling to our past, and mist over the future with perverse unattainability.

Don't shrug your disinterested shoulders in mocking dismissal. You know what I mean. Do you remember being five, when the Chucky Cheese commercial flipped on, and children ran screaming by with fist-fulls of tickets, beaming parents, high-fiving? That's an illusion. No parent is happy to be at Chucky Cheese.

In jr. high when everyone else was struggling under illusions (or delusions) of an eighth grade boy who would actually ask you to dance, I was reading eighteenth century literature and struggling with the illusion of bumble bee-free luncheons on a limestone terrace. Both are illusions. Bumble bees love cucumber sandwiches, and eighth grade boys are still oblivious to eighth grade girls.

The first day of school, canoeing, coffee house dates, camping, and shopping trips in NYC... most illusions in life are glorious shells of the real thing. (Okay, the shopping in NYC was pretty spiffy...)

Now I'm in the midst of brand-new illusion bashing.

The single city girl.



Pretty. Confident. Dressed to the nines. She floats cooly along. Well-informed, engaged in her culture. Aloof from the hum-drum, ant-like existence of the working class. She somehow achieves her dreams without breaking an uncomfortable sweat. She's not scared. She's not brash. She gets things done. She loves life. She parties, she shops, she flies home on vacations to kiss babies and exclaim over new home improvements. She has a chic studio, and a roof top that's perfect for parties.

She's an illusion. Probably my next illusion to be shattered...

I'm about to be this girl.

And I'm not confident. I'm not dressed to the nines. I'm incapable of calmly and cooly floating through anything. I'm very ant-like, I will probably toil in a hum-drum way for the rest of my life. I'm terrified of making ends meet. I'm confident I will be anything but successful. I'm terribly scared. I don't have a wonderful job which will let me have a studio, parties, and a shopping habit. I don't have a job. Period. I love my family. I like mid-western happy provincialism, and moderate, shoulder-shrugging politics. I haven't even left yet, and I want to run home.



Life, devoid of the illusion, is scary...

Today's Song

When I heard this on the radio, I didn't even know that the artist (Ryan Star) was using the song as a platform for the current economic climate (and the subsequent challenge in job hunting), but I fell in love with it any way. The one line I copied down was "She likes New York at night."

And it's true.

I do.

Scared of being Transplanted...

Over the past few months, I have made feeble stabs at job-hunting. I say "feeble" because of the small number of applications and my lackadaisical follow-up attempts. I've never seen anything that made me jump up and down, squealing, "Oooh! I want to be a speech pathologist THERE!" Of course, this could be due to a long-sneaking suspicion that I don't really want to be a speech pathologist, and as a result, my laziness kicks in, and I'd rather go to barbecues than Monster.com...

But I don't think that's the biggest issue.

The real problem is that I am FLIPPING OUT. I am terrified. I don't want to move. I don't want to sell my house. I don't want to explore a new city. I've always said that I wanted to do those things, and part of me still wants to, but not like this.

I never really dreamed that this day would happen alone. I knew it was a possibility, but in the thousands of happy scenarios I played out in my mind, I was rarely, if ever, going it alone. Family is my anchor and my safe spot, and I always assumed that if I couldn't take my family with me, I'd take someone who was my "new family." I wasn't going to do this alone.

But now I am.

And I know it will be wonderful (because my God is good), and I know I will learn, and stretch, and grow (because that's my God's all-encompassing plan), but right now I'd rather just sit in the sun, pool-side, and ignore the looming discomfort transplanting always brings.

So, I would covet your prayers as I wend my way through these last 30+ days of my graduate program. I'm bored. I'm terrified. But I'm almost done. And I'm not particularly excited about finding a job.

Quote of the Week:

"You are a dating retard."


(my exceptionally loving, usually tactfully understanding dad)

Why I Want All Boys

Vacation Bible School is my favorite. Although I dislike Indiana's nasty humidity, and am not convinced that craft time is entertaining, I love children. This year I am a Kindergarten leader of the "lime green" group. We promise to be a very entertaining bunch, and I believe this is due to the fact that we are predominantly male. Tonight served to solidify my desire for all boys (should I ever be a "mommy").

At snack time one of these little boys (a future all-American linebacker, I'm guessing), wiggles around, looks up at me, and says,

"Miss Courtney! You're my girlfriend."

I eyed him skeptically. "No, Bryce, I'm not. You have to ask me, and I have to say, 'yes.'"

His brow furrowed at this unexpected complication. "Hmm... well, then. I guess I'll just have to marry you."

I shook my head soberly, "Well... I'm sorry Bryce. You're not done with school. When you're done with college, call me up."

"Yeah!" piped Bryce's neighbor, "My mom said that you shouldn't get married until you're done with college. That's when she got married. Before that, it's not a good idea. That's what my mom says."

Bryce nodded thoughtfully, "Yes, that's a good idea, but you see, I'm not going to college. I'm going to Batman school."

Both I and his neighbor produced exclamations of surprise and interest.

"Well, not really Batman school... Actually, I'm going to learn how to be a Goblin and chop people up with a helicopter." Concerned, I asked,

"Oh my! Bryce... does this mean you're going to be a bad man?"

"Oh yes. Yes, Miss Courtney. I will be a very bad man."

I shook my head sorrowfully, "Then I'm afraid I can't marry you, Bryce. I can't marry a bad man."

Bryce exhaled in frustration. He furrowed his brow, looked me up and down, and said, "Oh, fine. I'll be a good man for you, Miss Courtney."

"Thank you, Bryce."

"And now you will kiss me."

"Call me when you're 23, Bryce. Please finish your nachos."

My week at a glance

This had been my prior exposure to tracheostomies.




This is more like reality, well kind of. I actually couldn't find a good one of "reality"... This one needs "copious, creamy, pale yellow secretions" bubbling at the entrance, with the whole tube being buried in neck fat and flab as the patient gasps for breath, looking confused and fragile. I actually wish I could see a trach like this one below. My poor patients...

Introduction to acute long-term care... and secretions.

When I started this major, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Last semester of my senior year of high school someone told me that I would be a good speech pathologist. I had no idea what a speech pathologist was. Minimal research showed me that they worked with special needs children and had great job placement. Practicality won out and I abandoned my dream of English education and politics to pursue a degree in a field that would justify my mutual fund being washed down the tube of education.

In my first college course I was told I needed a master’s degree. I was shocked. But I could handle it.

Next I learned that we worked with people who couldn’t swallow. “Dysphagia” requires an up-close and personal look at saliva (an irrational phobia of mine). I was disturbed, but I could handle it.

Neuroanatomy was an area I had never even dabbled in. But my major requires a cursory knowledge, and I picked up a minor in psychology through a variety of neural courses. I was surprised, but I could handle it.

Grad school application, anatomy/physiology, stressful labs, sheep brains, biology petrie dishes, the GRE, babies, geriatrics, cleft palates, acoustic analysis, and piles of paperwork. I was continually surprised. But I could handle it. In fact, I grew to enjoy the sciences, the neuroanatomy, the biology, reveling in the pursuit of “hard fact,” dicing up research articles, pointing out their inadequacies and constructing their practical purpose. I was, in short, a nerd. But I could handle it.

Nothing prepared me for today.

My supervisor, who is conducting me soothingly through the world of special needs toddlers and adorable babies, is on vacation. I don’t get a vacation. (Of course not. I’m the unpaid student. Why would I need a break?) So I have acquired a new supervisor for this week. This supervisor works on floors in long-term acute care. The patients on these floors are on trachs or vents, severely disabled, and definitely NOT pediatric.

I have never had to control my facial muscles to such a degree for so long. Do you know how many secretions can ooze from the human body? I thought I did. I didn’t! Things wheezed, goop bubbled, and I had to chart these things with words like “thick, yellow, viscous, and copious.” As I watched my supervisor work, all I could think was that I needed to shower, and could never work in this place.

Then came a tiny, frail little lady. Her pain had been uncontrolled and dose after dose of medications were not helping. I went to the bathroom, dampened a washcloth, and sat down beside her. As I gently wiped her face, her tired eyes, her wrinkled forehead, she sighed contentedly. Some of her tension dissolved. The woman was so incapacitated by the medications, that no therapy was even practical. But after those few minutes, I didn't have to control my gag quite so much.

Because hurting people are hurting people, no matter what kind of gunk they may be oozing.

To Classic or Not Too Classic

Outside, the rain is barely loud enough to patter over the whirl of the washing machine. Having no money,working with spitting babies, and owning only two pairs of scrubs, results in frequent laundry whirling this summer. The humidity is smudging up against my window, a fan flips quietly above me, and at my left elbow is a pile of untouched fiction. Tonight was library night.

I'm not pleased to report that I'm a library snob. I have this sneaking suspicion that every librarian thinks exactly as I would, if I were a librarian:

"Really? Six romance novels? Someone hasn't had a date in months... Is his life really so starved for excitement that he only reads mysteries?... This person has checked out nothing but paperback, 100-pagers. Guess who doesn't have reading level above the fourth grade."

Yes, I know. I'm a horrible person. And there have been times when I've snuck a skimpy, 4th-grade level novel in between my Dickens and Chaucer, however, for the majority of my life, I've reveled in the "classics." I love their sentence structure, the vivid vocabulary and tangential descriptions which loop back around to relevance (Dickens doesn't always do this, consequently I do not always approve of Dickens). A little bit of my world shattered when I found that Sir Walter Scott described all his heroines the same way ("eyes like diamonds, teeth like pearls"), but for the most part, my allegiance has held steady to the ancients. In high school I had a tutor for English (something about two engineering parents being at a complete loss of what to do with me). She made me read some modern classics (i.e. "To Kill a Mockingbird," "Cry The Beloved Country," etc.), but every now and then she would put down a paper, look at me sternly and say, "Courtney. Did you read Jane Austen this weekend?" Apparently, when you read only eighteenth century literature, you begin to write like eighteenth century literature.

So reader, I have a confession. Lying here, in a tempting pile, are an assortment of books which probably can't even claim the term "emerging classics." The theme of this library trip was "books-which-aren't-happy-with-where-Jane-Austen-ended." I've turned up my literary nose at such items in the past, but always with a sneaking interest. I have now caved to this interest. What person, after falling completely in love with characters, doesn't grieve a little when the author writes "The End"? (The one exception to this would be the Elsie Dinsmore series which drags on for 60+ inane books, the only interesting characters being the "sinful" errant children. The readers of this series must cry "uncle!" long before the final book in order to preserve their sanity.)

I can hardly wait to curl up on my couch, licking a popsicle and reading without needing a thesaurus. I now bid you adieu, dear reader. I'm about to imbibe some fluffy, girly nonsense to the tune of rain drops and the washing machine.

Dear (perhaps long-gone) readership,

I have neglected you shamefully over the past several months. My brand-new propensity to bottle up my thoughts, my stories, and my daily frustrations is a novel sensation for yours truly. Prior to this new habit, I had an age-old propensity of hurling massive portions of incoherent words at a blank screen, hoping that in the hodgepodge of attempted literature, a coherent thought might emerge.

In short, writing was my coping mechanism.

It's not any more.

I'm torn as to whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. It swivels towards "good" in that I no longer feel as though my emotions must first and foremost be expressed in writing, pushing many other literary attempts to the side as I batter my thoughts out. However, it's "bad" because I'm neglecting to write entirely, as life's noise no longer inspires word hemorrhage.

This past week I began my second clinical externship at an undisclosed-for-privacy-issues hospital. I am absolutely and completely in love with it. Which is good, because (as you know, dear reader) I haven't loved much in my major in the past two years. Blips of joy were occluded by nagging, criticisms, nit-picking, and a constant sensation of microscopic scrutiny when it came to all things clinical. Today, after two hours of therapy, my supervisor told me two things to do better. JUST TWO! Where there was previously an hour of correction and reproof-- JUST TWO! My last few weeks at my prior placement had a similar amount of correction (i.e. a miniscule amount).

I was SHOCKED.

And pleased.

Maybe I'm finally ready to be a speech-language pathologist?

I will work harder at my writing. Promise. I miss it dreadfully, and I would keep writing today, but... I've also shockingly abandoned vacuuming lately, and I can ignore the clutter no longer.

Peace

I am a (fairly) bright, bubbly person. I lack the persistence and memory to brood. At our birthday dinners, Mom makes us each go around and say one thing that we appreciate about the birthday person. I remember one birthday in particular when everyone kept saying, "She's so cheerful!" "She's so sun-shiney!" "You're always so happy!" (I was slightly discouraged that that was the ONLY thing anyone seemed to appreciate, but that's a ridiculous response.)

In short, I'm happy. Almost always. I don't think it's a sign of merit, I just honestly don't have the energy or perspective to get angry or depressed.

Well, that was then.

This is now.

My first semester of graduate school I was a mess. Some blog postings reflect this. (For example: "I hate graduate school! I hate graduate school!") But even that was filtered. You couldn't see me lying on the floor, crying, screaming, hyperventilating in panicked frustration. I was MISERABLE. My circumstances, from that point on, never changed. But my attitude adjusted (thanks to some wise counsel and a loving God), and I was able to regain a certain level of sunny contentment.

Until recently.

My life is not what I planned. And snap baby-o, when I plan, I PLAN. I am about to graduate with a degree I never wanted (Masters of Science), a career I can't decide if I like, and a very vacant ring finger, that I was hoping a diamond would be inhabiting by now. I started college with a five year plan that had me married, in a career I loved, with a man I was willing to give it up for (when babies came).

There are no babies. Not even a pacifier on the horizon.

There is no man. Not even a chance of a man. No one. Nothing. Not even someone to develop an unhealthy crush on.

Instead, there's a six year education, a demanding profession (which I don't like 50% of the time), and a house all to myself.

Just me.

And I haven't been handling it very well. I don't like it when my plans don't pan out. I get upset. I never knew that before. Most of my plans have worked.

God has been gracious as I (for the first time in a while) have done battle with my thoughts, seeking to actively be aware that my God is both sovereign (He KNEW this would happen), and sufficient (I have Him. I don't need everything my plan promised.)

I can trust Him. He will work everything for His glory AND my good. There is never a separation of those two goals. His plans never "fall through."

And God has been good. I've fought more in the arena of my mind than ever before. I understand the term "spiritual warfare." And I now know that it can happen in quiet, unseen places. (Like my thought life.)

And God has given me victory. I believe truth. I'm not bubbly just yet, but I know God is good. And that is sufficient. I'm not giddy, but I know God is trustworthy. I'm not happy, but I'm at peace.

And hence I'm writing again! Perhaps some funny stories will over-flow to my readers soon!

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. (II Corinthians 1:3-5)

Today's Song...

ARRRRRRRRRRGH!!!!

COULD I BE MORE IRRITATED!?!

If I even knew what to rant about, I would... super, super angry, frustrated, annoyed.

I could just swear.

And take up boxing.

And then I would become violently profane.

It's probably a good thing my vocabulary is limited and my physical aggression is confined to yoga and plyometrics.




ARRRRGH!

MY GOD'S ENOUGH!

Surely God is good to Israel,
to those who are pure in heart.
But as for me, my feet had almost slipped;
I had nearly lost my foothold.
For I envied the arrogant
when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.
They have no struggles;
their bodies are healthy and strong.
They are free from the burdens common to man;
they are not plagued by human ills.
They scoff, and speak with malice;
in their arrogance they threaten oppression.
Surely in vain have I kept my heart pure;
in vain have I washed my hands in innocence.
When I tried to understand all this,
it was oppressive to me
till I entered the sanctuary of God;
When my heart was grieved
and my spirit embittered,
I was senseless and ignorant;
I was a brute beast before you.
Yet I am always with you;
you hold me by my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
and afterward you will take me into glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.
But as for me, it is good to be near God.
I have made the Sovereign LORD my refuge;
I will tell of all your deeds.


(excerpts of Psalm 73)