Bucket List

Yes, I'm one of those people. I have a bucket list. I've had it for several years now. Just for funsies, I thought I'd share it. Here it is, the items in no particular order, including items I have completed:

1. Go to Africa (done)
2. Participate in a pie fight
3. Go to Burning Man
4. Swim with sharks, cage optional
5. Wear on my own honeymoon the same red dress that my mom wore on her honeymoon (done)
6. Publish some writing
7. Write and direct a play or short film
8. Walk somewhere Jesus walked
9. Stick little red dots on the noses of the deer on deer crossing signs
10. Pee in one of those one-way-mirror-enclosed bathrooms in a crowded place
11. Stand on one of those transparent walkways that jut out over a canyon or out from the side of a tall building
12. Pet a tiger
13. Ride an elephant (done)
14. Get a tattoo (done, and done, and done again)
15. Drink champagne in a fancy dress at a fancy New Years Eve party

I'm sure it will grow as time goes by and I think of more things, but that's what I've had written down for a while. If anyone wants to help me do any of those undone items, you know how to get ahold of me (and if you don't, I probably don't know you and would be significantly less likely to engage your help. Sorry; I don't do pie fights with just anyone).

Schnapps, God, and Ocean Documentaries: A Brief Commentary

Tonight I made my drink a little too strong, but I drink it anyway. Hot chocolate with Kahlua and peppermint schnapps. The looseness inspires; lubricates my thoughts. They say that writers should write daily, so I’ll write as I watch nature documentaries and talk to myself, oohing and awing at the mysteries of the ocean deep. Creatures that can change the texture and color of their skin on a whim; bioluminescence and propelling water syphons. And it occurs to me that some of the most amazing creatures are the ones that most people can’t get at; ones that no one even knew existed for thousands and thousands of years. Yet there they were, there in the dark, living and growing and evolving just for God Himself.

And it occurs to me how arrogant it is to assume that creation was made for mankind. No doubt much of it was, in part. No doubt much of the brilliance was put in place as a signpost to direct us toward the Creator and the paradise that will one day marry the earth, and to fill us with beauty and awe. But I believe that much of it was made just for Him, to love and enjoy and watch. So much has been unseen for so long; so much remains unseen. How much are we missing, how much will we continue to miss until the day Heaven meets Earth? Those things do not exist in vain. As God delights in us, He delights in the rest of creation of which we are unaware.

I watch this ocean documentary and I am reminded of the Leviathan as it is mentioned in Psalm 104:26. Not only majestic, not only monstrous, but merry and joyful, reflecting the gladness of God. Psalm 104 speaks of the ocean, and in verse 26, it says, “There the ships go to and fro, and the Leviathan, which You formed to frolic there.” That’s the New International Version. The New Living Translation says, “See the ships sailing along, and Leviathan, which You formed to play in the sea.” New American Standard translation: “There the ships move along, and Leviathan, which You have formed to sport in it.” Aramaic Bible in Plain English: “In it the ships travel; this is Leviathan which You have created to be merry in it.” King James, International Standard, NET, and many more; in all of them Leviathan plays, or romps, or frolics, or makes merry. And in all of them that was their purpose: “Which You formed to…”

Biblical scholars might argue; I don't know. Maybe it really means something different from how I'm interpreting it just now. But this is what it says to me: God delights when creation rejoices, and creation was made to rejoice.

I've finished my drink. To all a good night.

Fallout

I am sixteen, and they tell me I’m obsessed. All I want is to be dust-small, paper thin. I’m not and yet my edges still seem to cut people. My mother cries sometimes.

I am sixteen I envy the mushrooms in the yard; they thrive on the leftovers of life. I try to eat the leftovers in the fridge, but bite by bite I spit them out into the toilet. I do not thrive.

I am sixteen and I feel the cold gnawing at the bottom of my stomach and I hate it and I love it; I love it because I hate it, and it’s me who gets to decide. I’m sixteen and the power of self-denial is intoxicating. I deny the gnawing for so long that I stop feeling it. I have conquered.

I am sixteen and I run. I run six miles every day. I get shin splints. I run. I get a stress fracture. I run. I wheeze and cough and cry. I run. I love that with each step I am burning myself down and down, each day occupying slightly less space than the day before. I am in control. I run.

I am sixteen and I am so tired.

“Do something nice for the part of your body you hate the most.” My counselor says. “Make it feel pretty.” So I get my navel pierced and wait to like my stomach better. I suppose it helps a little.

I am sixteen and I have gone 60 days without anything sweet. On day 61 I eat the hard, creamy chocolate guilt. I feel sick. I eat more. On day 62 I hate myself, and all I eat is some lettuce with red wine vinegar, and then only because my mother is watching.

I am sixteen and my brother makes me half of a sandwich when he sees I did not eat lunch. Usually content not to confront me, even he is moved to action by the way my bones poke up under my skin. “Please eat it.” He begs. “You need to eat.” It is so sweet of him that I eat a few bites, but when he leaves I give the rest to the dogs. They follow me around a lot now; I am always giving them food. They leave no evidence. Nothing in the trash for my dad to find when he empties it; nothing to clog the toilet. I am sixteen and I have learned these things; I have become clever in the ways of secret self-destruction.

I am sixteen at a potluck at church, holding a bowl of soup in my shaky hands. “Look, she’s eating something!” I hear the whisper a few seats down the table. I ignore the comment. I weigh ninety pounds and still I pretend that no one can tell I have a problem.

I’m seventeen and I stop running. I’m too tired. I gain weight. Isn’t that recovery? It feels like failure. But I am so tired. It happens. I cannot stop it any longer. I close my mind’s eyes shut tight; grit my teeth and let myself grow.

I am seventeen and I begin liking little stories; stories about how people woke up and made it through the day. What they thought about, besides what they craved and what they denied themselves; besides unattainable goals and forbidden things. I like stories where things are ok. Not all the time, maybe, and not exceedingly happy, but mostly ok.

I am eighteen and I am ok. Not all the time, and not exceedingly happy, but mostly ok. I throw away the jeans I’ve grown out of. I know that I will never fit into them again, so why let them take up the space? My counselor calls it acceptance. It feels more like surrender. I gain more weight than I would like, but I am ok.

I am nineteen and it is a rock in the back of my brain—a constant, subtle weight—it is white noise in the background of my whole life. But I am able to ignore it now, and that is more freedom than I’ve had in a few years. I live.

I am nineteen and I feel I am coming up out of the ground, breaking the surface after years of tunneling. The light is bright and disorienting. I am confused by the freedom, the wide open spaces; the choices that are mine—that have always been mine but I thought they weren’t. Taking them back makes me nervous. What do I do with them now? My reference points are dismantled after years of crashing back and forth between gluttony and starvation; I must re-learn them. I must re-learn how to eat. It is clumsy. Usually it takes conscious thought, but sometimes it takes no thought at all. Sometimes it is smooth sailing; sometimes it is an equation to solve.

I am nineteen and the equations grow easier, in time. Not because they have become any more simple, but because I’ve improved my psychological algebra. I miss when one plus one was two and I never had to solve for X, but at least I’ve learned how. Maybe algebra is what it takes to thrive.

I am twenty and I solve for X and I move on and I live.

I am twenty-one and it is a thorn buried deep in the sole of my shoe. Most of the time I can barely feel it; only sometimes when I step just right.

I am twenty-one, and I step carefully.

I am twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. I live. I solve for X. I will always solve for X, I think. But I live.

I live.


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In Defense of the Bikini

It’s summertime, which means that in Christian circles, there’s a lot of talk about one-piece swimsuits vs. bikinis. There’s a lot of talk about “modesty”. At some point this summer, the Wednesday night youth group separated the girls from the boys and they each had their lectures: Girls, cover up. Boys, don’t look at the girls.

In their own way, parts of Christian culture have sexualized and objectified girls as much as secular culture has. Both cultures view women’s bodies as sex objects. The only difference is that while one culture shamelessly drools over them, the other fears them and frantically scrambles to hide them from view. Both approaches are wrong. We all know what is wrong with that first one. But what about the second? By continuously telling women and girls to cover themselves or else the men will lust, you are telling them that their body is mainly a sex object that needs to be hidden from men. And by telling them that their bodies need to be hidden from men (especially when you tell them that they are a “stumbling block” and that they are “causing their brothers to sin”), you are implying that their bodies are bad—even sinful. What is that teaching young girls? I can tell you from personal experience that it is frightening, confusing, and guilt-inducing to be told as a young girl that your existence is the cause of someone else’s sin. This view teaches women and girls to hide. To be ashamed.

As an adolescent girl I had a deep desire to please God (contrary to popular belief at the time), and through this kind of teaching I came to assume that God wanted me to hide my body, and that if I didn’t, I was an ungodly girl. I spent most of puberty with my arms crossed over my chest in attempt to hide the development of my evil breasts. As a naturally busty girl, I was faced with a specific problem: nothing looked “modest” on me. I was told in one particular youth group meeting that if a shirt stretched at all across the bust, it was too tight and thus immodest. But with my body type, unless I wore one of my brother’s baggy band t-shirts, everything stretched at least a little. My unruly breasts swelled uncontrollably underneath every outfit I wore. I simply couldn’t hide or reduce them, no matter how hard I tried. This made Sundays very embarrassing for me. I felt like every man in church was staring at my breasts, and every woman was judging me for not hiding them better. I felt like the floozy of the church. It wasn’t until I was a little older that I started realizing a couple of things that were very freeing. I’m definitely not the first to realize or write about these things, but I’ll help pass on the freedom.

1. God made my (and every woman’s) body on purpose. We are made in His image, we are molded by His hands. Our bodies are made to be rejoiced in, not feared and hidden. I can be proud of my curvy woman’s body that God designed. I realized that, as long as my attire is inoffensive and appropriate for the occasion, I could stop bending over backwards to disguise my form and hide my skin. I could stop measuring inches of fabric and pulling up the necklines of all my clothes. I could stop worrying constantly about whether that bit of cleavage that showed when I bent over was causing some man to lust. Because…

2. A man’s lust is not my problem. He is responsible for his thoughts, not me. The only thing I am responsible for is being socially appropriate in the attire I choose. Men are capable of self-control. They are not drooling cavemen, floundering in a lustful puddle that grows deeper with every half-inch of skin I show. Men are not helpless against lust. They can control it, curb it, and take responsibility for which thoughts they choose to let their minds dwell on and whether or not they objectify women in their thoughts. Because that is what lust really is—feasting in one’s mind on the sexual objectification of a fellow human being. “Lust” does not mean attraction or even sexual arousal. Those are natural responses that our bodies and minds were designed to generate. Lust is dwelling disrespectfully on the sexual aspects of a person while forgetting that they are a human being with depth and thoughts and feelings; lust is when a person exists in your mind for nothing more than your sexual gratification (or when a married person mentally indulges in desire for someone other than their spouse). A man can control his lustful thoughts. He is responsible for himself and his sin or lack thereof. This is not my burden to bear; I carry enough of my own.

3. I realized that true “modesty” is an attitude, not an outfit. Humble grace and freedom of God-given personality; no striving for attention, no putting on airs. Real modesty has nothing to do with how much skin is showing.

Ultimately, I want to enjoy my body, how it looks and how it feels; how I feel in it. What makes me feel free? What makes me feel beautiful? I’m not saying that we should all go to church dressed like strippers, or to a funeral wearing booty shorts, with the excuse that “it makes me feel pretty”; I’ve mentioned multiple times that attire needs to be appropriate to the social setting. But by restricting myself to certain clothing in order to hide my body from the gazes of men, I’m treating myself more like a sex object than if I would be if I simply chose something that was both self-expressive and occasion-appropriate, like a bikini at the beach.

(That’s not to say that everyone should wear bikinis. If you are uncomfortable wearing one, by all means, don’t; that would be the opposite of living freely and expressing your God-given personality. But realize that those of us who do decide to don a bikini come summertime are not worldly or sinful or causing others to sin, or desperately flaunting our bodies for attention. No doubt some girls have that motive, but not all of us. Some of us are just living freely, unburdened by inflated teachings about “modesty” and “lust”, and misplaced blame and responsibility).

3 Little Relational Things I've Learned Lately

I’ve been thinking in the last few months about conflicts in relationships (of all kinds), partially because of my own experiences and partially because of the experiences of those around me. There are a few things that have occurred to me, and here I am, just processing. This is probably stuff that lots of books and other blog posts could tell you; it’s probably even stuff I’ve heard somewhere else before. But things become clear in a different way when you experience them more closely; when they are no longer abstract.

One thing I’ve realized: Long arguments with loved ones aren’t always all bad. I’m not talking about a tooth-and-nail fight here, one with sarcasm and raised voices and hurtful words. There’s rarely anything good about those. I’m talking about when two people are working to deal with a problem. It’s hard. And there’s no way to get around that in a lot of ways it sucks. But as the conversations go late into the night, or the emails are multiple pages long, remember that this person cares enough about you and what you think to go through the pain and frustration of this discussion, trying to reach some sort of resolution with you. Maybe it would help a little to remember that next time.

I’ve learned some stuff about forgiveness, too. Sometimes you get hurt, and, as much as we hate to admit it, sometimes you do the hurting. Whether you mean to or not; whether it’s through unconscious insensitivity or a purposeful angry jab. We all have, and we all will again. I’ve wondered sometimes why asking for forgiveness is so much harder for me in practice than theory. I don’t think it’s a pride thing, in the way that people usually mean it; in other situations I don’t have trouble admitting I was wrong. So why is it so difficult? I think it’s because it is one of the most vulnerable places you can be. Talking to someone about the pain you’ve caused them, and, in a way, putting your redemption in their hands. All at the same time you’re facing inadequacy (your inability to be the kind of person you want to be), the relinquishing of control (the outcome is no longer in your hands) and the possibility of rejection (while knowing that the other person would be within their rights to reject you). Inadequacy, lack of control, and rejection. There’s not much else we fundamentally fear on an emotional level. But this is what I think: I think that that kind of vulnerability is necessary to forge a truly meaningful relationship. Hurting someone is never desirable; neither is being hurt. But once it happens, the bonding and shared humanness that can come with an accepted apology brings freedom that is worth the risk of the question, “Will you forgive me?”.

The last little lesson is stuff about “fairness” and “selfishness”. When you’re very focused on the first, the second is an inevitable byproduct. You don’t have to allow someone to take advantage of you, but you should give freely of yourself what you can, no records kept. And then, don’t feel guilty about the times when you need someone to give to you; it’s not too much to expect a loved one to extend you some grace. That’s what we should do in loving relationships: maintain a constant, natural ebb and flow of giving and receiving. Sometimes more of one, sometimes more of the other, but always free-flowing between the involved parties. No conditions, no restrictions, no begrudging. Just grace.

That’s pretty much it, besides how delightful it is to make someone you care about laugh. That’s a good one, too.

I Thought I'd Grow Out of Rainbows, Too.

Last night I dreamed I saw music. Pale, swirling twisting tendrils like whitewashed wrought iron, caging me in safety as I lay on my bed. But when I woke up I thought of scary movies. And life. Lately I’ve been a little afraid of life, and intimidated by the vast expanse of things I don’t know. It is moving forward, life is, and a certain level of practical-mindedness is necessary. Not that I am unused to practical concerns. But sometimes I worry that in all my efforts to learn and grow up I’ll lose the sentimental romanticism that I’ve enjoyed as part of myself since before I can remember. Surely there is a place in adult life for whatever it is that possesses me to indulge in my own private candle-lit ceremonies, to dream of mystic cultures and customs, to climb out on the roof under the stars and hum tunes in minor keys. Surely there is room to satisfy my deep longing for adventure and magic? Or are those things to be grown out of? Honestly I’m a little embarrassed to write about my love of such things. At this point in my life it seems there are better things to worry about than the frivolity of enchantment.

Like scrambling to learn everything about life within the next five months. Or at least far more about it than I know now.

I don’t want to drown in practicalities. I want to sparkle. To glitter in elegant contrast with my surroundings and glow with the mystery of something ethereal. I like to sparkle literally, too. Chains around my neck and wrists, rings around my fingers, needles depositing crystals in my flesh and I am star-studded, twinkling in the nearest light. Sometimes I have to hold back; I tend to like too much of good things. When I was a little girl and we made sugar cookies, mine were always piled high with frosting and sprinkles. That hasn’t changed; last year when we made them at Christmas, mine were still globbed with icing and sugar. I go overboard with things that are meant to be subtleties. I always kind of thought I’d grow out of that. Maybe not.

I thought I’d grow out of rainbows, too. I haven’t, but I have grown in to a love of more neutral tones as well. I can’t decide which I like better. I like so many conflicting things and sometimes I think that’s a problem. But then sometimes I think it’s just appreciating the beauty in everything.

Lately I’ve been missing God. Not that He isn’t near; I really just haven’t been keeping up on my end of the connection as much as I used to. I’ve been focusing more lately on what I believe, which is good, but I haven’t been focusing as much on how I go about believing it, and I think I’ve been missing a connection. I seem to be forgetting that I don’t need to have God all figured out intellectually in order to connect with Him wholeheartedly. I’ve been analyzing the subject more than I’ve been engaging in the relationship, and both are so important that one feels lonely without the other. To me, anyway.

I feel sheepish sometimes, about my desire for an emotional connection to God. As if it’s a less mature procedure of faith. But maybe that’s where it can belong-—the romanticism, the enchantment, the mystery I’m afraid of losing from life. In a relationship with the Creator. Maybe religion can sparkle, and maybe it’s supposed to. Maybe that's silly. But it's an idea I'd be sad to grow out of.

The Proposal

I had a blanket wrapped around me on top of my coat, so I was cozy though I could feel the air’s crispness on my face. The stars were beautiful, as always, my hanging diamonds in the blue-black sky. He came around to face me and slipped his arms around my waist. The starlight had turned us to ghostly outlines of ourselves, our angles washed in a thin blue light; our hollows blended by the shadows like charcoal, artfully smeared. Heads bent to touch foreheads, we stared into the shadowed places we knew each other’s eyes to be.

“My girl is like the sky,” He began. I smiled as he continued, “When she’s dark, the stars shine through her…” A rhythm of silver words came then, soft and slow, weighty and enveloping. Rounded words, tinted-glass words; words containing brilliant light within a shroud of solemn dignity and grace. Velvet were his articulated thoughts, deep and rich and inviting.

I nearly interrupted, opening my mouth to ask where they came from, but thankfully he continued on and I was silent.

“…the Father of Lights rains stars down after, for He knows she likes sparkly things.” He concluded.

In his hand something glinted faintly. For a moment I stood staring, unsure of what it was. I don’t remember if I said anything the moment I realized it was a ring. I remember my heart leapt; I remember putting it on my finger immediately so that I wouldn’t lose it in the dark. I was speechless. I felt as if it were a star dropped from the sky and onto my hand, like in his poem. My heart bounced off the walls of my chest and he knelt down. Thoughts like a hundred pinballs ricocheted around inside my head. Is this really happening? This is too good to be true. This is really happening!

Then he asked, “Elise, will you marry me?”

“Yes!” My voice was high-pitched and excited; my stomach flipping, my heart in my throat. The blanket fell from my shoulders as I tried enthusiastically—but only half-successfully—to hug him while he was still kneeling. The logistics of a proper hug had escaped me in my desire to be closer to him. The man I love—my fiancé—rose to his feet to wrap his arms around me, and the night blazed with the concept of forever.