Smelling good.

Let’s just picturing me running a race. It probably wouldn’t happen since I don’t really enjoy running most days, but let’s all picture it together.
I’m running a 400 yard thing. I don’t know what you call it, but it’s 400 yards. So, I start at the gunshot, run at a solid fast pace for the first 325 yards, then I realize that I only have 75 yards left, so I might as well walk.
How stupid would you think I was?
This is the picture I’m trying to keep in mind as I close the door on my high school years. It goes against all logic for me to do my best for the first 3 years and 8 months, then give up on the last 9 days, right? If anything, I should be buckling down, studying harder, being a better influence at school because I know that it’ll be over before I know it. And I never want to look back on these nine days and wish I could re-do them.
This is what I keep telling myself as I do flashcards and study calculus up the wazoo. This is why I can’t walk around with the air that I’m so ready to be out of here. This is why I need to spend more time with Jesus tomorrow morning.
Sometimes I think of myself as an article of clothing. At the beginning of the day, after I drink my coffee and spend time with my beloved savior, I smell great, like our incredible fabric softener. Then, after a few hours of school and people that sometimes wear on me, I start losing my fresh smells. I get some smears on me and the fresh scent isn’t spreading to the people around me my anymore. By the end of the day, not only do I not smell fresh, but I smell bad. I’m only fit to be put in a hamper alone. I go from being perfuming to polluting.
I need to stay fresh. I need to learn to keep refreshing my God aroma throughout the day so that I don’t get stinky. I need to rely on God to keep me smelling of Him.
Oh Jesus that I could smell like you tomorrow.

A celebration of similarities: me & t-sweezy.

You knew it was coming if you know me.  Because if you know me, the probability that you have, at one point in our relationship, told me that I look like Taylor Swift is pretty much 100%.  It might have been how we met.  Or it might have been something you realized later on when someone else pointed it out.

We’ll do a side-by-side comparison pictorially.

So, maybe you can’t see the resemblance, but I have at least 500 testimonies from random people at retail stores, 80% of my friends, coaches and players at volleyball camp, my dentist’s office, babysitting employers, small children, family members, teachers, two little girls at Mall of America, my chiropractor, and my hair stylist to confirm the similarities.

The funny thing is that I feel bonded to her because of it.  If people ever say that they don’t like Taylor Swift, I feel personally insulted.  Then I have to remind myself that though I do like most of her music, I am not her.  And even though nearly every day (not an exaggeration.  really) someone begins this sentence, “has anyone ever told you…?” and I can easily complete it in my head, I am not the country songstress.  I know this because I look in my checking account and don’t see 6 digits.

Some of her more adoring fans have let me know that I am half an inch taller than her.  And that we have the same color eyes.  And when I lead worship during chapel on my guitar, they say, “It was like Taylor Swift came for chapel!”  This may be partly because I have a sparkly guitar strap.  The even more crazy fans tell me that I resemble her in my body language, my expressions, and the way I talk, which was definitely not intentional.  I just wanna know why they study that kind of thing… obsession, anyone?

Anyways, it happened.  And now I want to meet her and see what she thinks.  I want to look her in the eye and talk to her and see if I feel like we are identical twins separated at birth (which has been suggested to me.  then I remind them that I look remarkable like the rest of my family.)  I’m sure this will never happen, but it’s been fun to dream about.

In one of these scenarios, we stand and stare at each other for a few minutes, confused and a little shocked to see someone who looks so much like us right in front of us.  Then it just gets awkward because I know all about her (mostly because people like to tell me what is current in her life, assuming that since I resemble her I need to know what she’s doing.), but she knows nothing about me.  I’ve never actually met someone famous and gotten to talk to them for an extended period of time, so I have no idea what I would say.  Hi.  I look like you.  And we’re almost the same height.  And I bet lots of short people have gotten mad at you for wearing high heels and standing next to them, too.  I like sparkly dresses, too, but I don’t have any since I dunno where I would wear that.  High school isn’t really the right occasion.  I know a lot of your songs on guitar.  I feel strangely connected to you too.  Call me crazy, but I think we should be friends.  

Anyone wanna call Ellen and set up a meeting?



Stop and go and in between.

One of the best features about Pearl (my phone) is her ability to get me anywhere I need to go.  I may have mentioned before how directionally impaired I am – I know which way to go, but not right when I need to go that way.  It’s usually right after I pass the exit/turn/driveway that I realize it was where I wanted to be.

Funny how there are so many driving parallels to life.

I noticed something about myself today as I was trying to find my way to my hair appointment from my nannying job.  When I know where I’m going, I hate red lights.  Not many people like red lights, so that’s probably not surprising.  That feeling when you’re about 100 yards away from a light, seeing it turn green, then by the time you get there, it’s red.  Then you have to stop.  And sit.  And then when the light finally turns green, you’ve gotten on this cycle of hitting red lights, so you spend another two minutes at the next light.  And then another two at the next one.

It’s a horrible compounding system of wasted time.  Granted, I’m glad that we don’t just have to hope for the best when we go through intersections.  I’m grateful for the order that it provides.

On the other hand, when I don’t know where I’m going and Pearl is giving me directions, I’m grateful for the red lights.  It’s time to catch my bearings, read the street signs, make sure I’m not going onto a one-way the wrong way or something.  It’s time to pause.

I sometimes forget that the forced pauses – the red lights – are good.  That when I can’t do my homework because it’s at home and I got stuck somewhere else with time on my hands, it’s okay.  There must be something I need to think about or pray about.  Or maybe I just need time to sit and think by myself.  I’m such a champion of efficiency when I have a to-do list (except if cleaning my room is on the to-do list… then that’s an exception) that any unplanned break is an annoyance.  It’s a wrench in my plan that was going to help me get my homework all done by the time Bones came on.  It was going to enable me to go to bed at 9:00.  Whatever the lost benefit, it must have been something I didn’t really need.  Maybe I just needed that moment of peace.  Time to take a deep breath and remember that I wasn’t meant to hold my anxiety in.  I wasn’t meant to function on my own.  I wasn’t meant to bear burdens that I have no idea how to handle.

Or maybe it’s raining outside, and I just need to open the windows and let in the fresh, wet smell of renewal.

Ah, renewal.