Chapter 4.

The paisley wallpaper seemed faded when paired with the dim light, softly trickling from beneath the shade of the lamp in the corner. A soothing melody echoed in the background. Sometimes I could make out Parisian phrases, other times I couldn’t hear a thing.  

I was laying there, somehow in an emotional daydream. I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know what to do, all that I wanted to do was feel. I wanted to feel every bit of him. I wanted to feel his skin, feel his heart beat, feel his hand gently drawing circles about my arm. I wanted to feel his mind. And I wanted him to feel me, too. 

I looked up at him, eyes wide, begging him to see. I wanted him, in that moment, to see through my eyes past my mind and into my soul and cure all my aches and pains and brokenness and anxieties and frustrations and wants and hopes and dreams. I stared at him, bearing my existence, which no words seemed just to describe. 

An honest, gentle, angelic warmth of a smile crept about his tendered face. All his lines seemed softened by the light, and I fell and rose with each inhale and exhale. 

“I’m in love with you,” he said. I could feel my cheeks flush, and a flurry began in my stomach. I questioned, within a seconds worth of time, every bit of reason, every nook and cranny of my heart that had been hardened and blackened and blued. I trembled, I reeled, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around the enchantment that after two weeks someone could love me. 

But he did. 

He said he did. 

I muster all of my strength, and again, beckon him to search me. I feel fragile and lay my head down on his chest. 

“I’m in love with you, too.”

We both laid there in silence, and I wondered what he was thinking. Maybe he was envisioning the future. Maybe he thought he just made a terrible mistake. Maybe he saw, two years down the road, a tired, haggard man who was angry, resistant, and exhausted from his game. Maybe he was just reeling in the moment. Maybe he was thinking how much he loved me. Maybe he was content. 

“Promise you won’t let me go,” I said, breaking the silence. 

He didn’t understand where it was coming from, I’m sure. He looked up at me, just as he always had done, and said, 

“I promise, I won’t.”

I was afraid, even in that precious and pivotal moment, and I couldn’t figure out why. I had a feeling that things wouldn’t be easy, a hunch that the ride we were about to embark on would be a tough one. I was ready to be married, I was ready to be a wife, and I was ready for the work, compromise, and dedication that would come with that. I was afraid I’d want to escape or come up with some easy excuse as to why we weren’t working. “We’re just not right for each other.” “It’s me, not you.” “I just need time to figure out who I am.”

I was tired of excuses; I was tired of running away. I wanted him and I wanted a relationship and I wasn’t going to give up – and even if I should try, I’d want him to not let me. I’d want him to not give up, too. 

Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.

I was awake.

I had laid there, lifelessly, for what felt like years. I begged my eyes not to open, pleading insanity and began hoarding my sheep. If only I could stay like this. If only I could drift away, into a wide, open, breezy pasture that saluted one sole tree, looking content, and far off in the distance. I'd count sheep all day, I thought. Nothing but counting would matter - 14, 15, 16 - I imagined them in a line, waiting patiently as ever for their shepherds duty. All that the sheep wanted was a number, and all I had to worry about was giving them one - and that was easy. I would begin to know them by heart - the way number 9 walked, the way number 21 was rather sensitive, the way number 17 always wanted to be number 1, the way number 1 felt a huge weight of obligation, of being first in line. The way number 6 looked to me for comfort, nuzzling its face into my side. The way number 13 played, eyes wide and happy, the way 12 would protect me, the way 8 would sigh, the way 19 would call to me, the way 4 would reach for me, the way 2 would love me.

Time went by and my sheep became my life - I had purpose, and I cherished each of them. I was always watching, ready to relieve, to restore, to reinvigorate.

Then one went missing. I looked everywhere - I begged and begged the other sheep to help me look, to bring it back, but they consoled me instead, and promised the one would return. Days go by and I feel frantic as if I'm slipping from my little world of perfection.

I'm now missing two.

I try to forget and move on. The other sheep meaningfully proposed dreams and ideas and theories that I could cling to, and so I did.

I began to feel better. The sun was out most days, and I could get along just fine. Counting wasn't as easy as it used to be, especially after the first two losses, but I managed and started focusing on new things. I wanted to explore, I wanted to commit, I wanted to pursue. I started looking at other pastures in my off time, and some of the sheep came with me. They nodded in agreement as we went from one scene to the next, acknowledging and approving.

We finally made it back to our field to find the remaining sheep waiting. I was relieved they were still there, and was overflowing with hope and trust. I was excited, and clambered into my hut for sleep. I was exhausted.

My enthusiasm overflowed into the next morning, and the next, and the next. I planned and planned and went over all of our possibilities until my creativity was shot. I was connected to my sheep, I felt them, I heard them, and I knew them. And they were connected to me.

Slowly but surely, however, one by one went missing. At first I tried to accept the reality, that I would love the remaining sheep with all I had in hopes that they too, wouldn't leave, but I couldn't easily shake these obvious voids. I dearly missed those that had been lost. I helplessly reached for the others to send out a search party, but again, I was only met with words. This time they were cold and I felt as if I had failed them. They had high hopes for a shepherd who could count well. That's all they ever wanted, was just to be counted. Nothing more, nothing less.

I cried out to them, begging for forgiveness and to let me try again, but they walked away and out of sight. I collapsed to the damp ground from the morning dew, and my body began to tremble. I was alone, and I wasn't enough.

I didn't just want to count and I didn't just want to give numbers.

I wanted it all to mean more than just that.  

My eyes opened.

The dull, white, and unbecoming ceiling was an oxymoronic slate above me. Though years of paint had gone up on the interior walls, the ceiling had been neglected and always remained the same. I stared straight into it, and found that its outward appearance was a great deception. It had so much to tell me, but sat there silent, instead.

I give myself a few moments to become readjusted. I gently roll to my side and push up and greet the sun cascading before me. My hair is a mess and I've been in this sweatshirt for days.

I clamber out of bed, down the hall, and into the living room.

There's a fire going and I smile at Dad's non-verbal form of affection. I grab a cup of coffee and blanket and curl up beside it. Mom and Brother are busy both in the kitchen and in the other room, and my soon to be Sister greets me from the door. Family and friends both write, call, and take me away, and I can't help but feel their warmth - not just for me, but for my sheep, as well, and what they mean to me.

There's a reason why He's called a Savior - that even when I could feel so dejected, defeated, beaten, and broken - I feel the safest on my knees, where I can only look up. I suppose it's a place we all need to be sometimes.


And what a place at that.


 

Not To Scare You Or Anything.

I like to say that I'm ready to be married.

I like to say that a lot.

And, for the most part, I think a lot of female colleagues I've talked to are in the same boat, which I'm sure is quite startling to the XY club.

I'm ready to be married, in a sense, to find my partner and get to the good stuff: learning, battling, and growing in faith. It's exciting to me, to share a life with another individual, the good, the not so good, and the thoughts and ideals in our mind that we like to keep packed away. I'm ready to trust. I'm ready to believe. Moreover, I'm ready to create a life with someone who will walk beside me. Not in front, nor behind, but beside me, and take it one lovey-dovey* day at a time.

I have it all planned out.

But knowing my Father, and His great sense of humor, will come at me from left field - completely polar to what I was expecting. I like to say I'm not looking. I like to think I'm not looking, but deep down my peripheral vision has the creativity of a seven year old. I'm sure it has something to do with the estrogen.

That's the beauty in plans, though. You make them, yet the probability of those desires coming to be is a complete mystery - just how I have a list of qualities I'm (not actively, of course) looking for: he must love cats, drool over Egg McMuffins, and share in my chai addiction. However, years from now, I'll probably be exchanging vows with a dog lover, fast-food hater, and a calorie-counter king**.

You never know what you're going to get. But that's the most enchanting realization, I suppose. At the end of the day, I do know what I want, but I don't know what's best for me. And that's where the light shines through: my King who knows me inside and out, action from reaction, thought from craving, from want, from need, from hope, from truth - sees me in my undoubtedly overwhelming transparency. And with that solidified notion, I uninhibitedly surrender. And wait.

And I keep telling myself that, "I'll just know when it's time," but as each day goes by I wonder how even that is possible.

How will you just know?

Is it like God slaps you*** and says, "Here, look, it's him" with doves fluttering about in a divine nature? Is it through tireless dating? Is it through our standards being met and the individual exceeding those?

These questions position myself to becoming increasingly aggravated at my own ill-supported-by-any-concrete-evidence ideological fantasy, so I stop.

I think there's a healthy balance between the two: actively searching and waiting. What I do know for certain, though, as Luke covered in Acts, is we, as women, should be keen on finding a man who is seeking God's own heart, and continue to trust in Him wholeheartedly - with or without a significant other. And with that, I think everything else will fall into place.

And you'll just know.

CourtReplies

* My primary love language is affirmation, then touch. Be prepared hubby, be prepared.
** I'm just sayin'.
*** In a genuine, I-love-you-unconditionally kind of way.

Any Way You Want It.

Aristotle was a stately man when dealing with rhetoric and poetics, combating the puristic Sophist beliefs of virtuous (and might I say distasteful) discourse. Little did he know, though, that since the 4th century BC, the 21st-ers have taken it to an all new extreme.

What classifies an honest man?

Society today has learned to manipulate any, if not all, modes of communication in an attempt to save face, in an attempt to get face, and in an attempt to hide the it's-two-in-the-morning-and-I'd-like-to-go-to-sleep-even-though-we're-in-Vegas face.

After a quick trip six hours down the I-15, the grammatically correct trio made it to the City of Sin, and might I say it continues to uphold its reputation, if the "Girls, Girls, Girls!" men on the corner didn't already scream the notion enough. You wonder how many people, especially here, are telling the truth, even with the most elementary of interrogations.

"What's your name? How old are you, really? How many kids*?"

But in turn, how many people can actually be trusted? Even sharing your first initial causes worriment to some, afraid of a reenactment of Scream-meets-The-Hangover. But then again, there's the mass social networking tool of Facebook, where I'm more than positive that it's the largest stalking agency to date. So on a comparative level, Vegas is just a flashy, nude version of the website, and I'd like to think that both contain strategic false impressions.

I'm not ragging on the town, however, should that be the ideological assumption made, because a lot of good came out of a place characterized by a lot of bad. A friend had stated prior to the trip that company triumphs even the most mediocre of places, and he was right. Meatloaf is more than just a loaf of meat, kissing a smoker isn't always like licking an ashtray**, and gambling two dollars was as disheartening as predicted are all things I've recently learned, along with taking a step closer in understanding just what it is that I want.

While away on our vacation, I was going back and forth on a job offer in Alaska. During the interview, the woman asked me several expected questions, your typical figuring-out-if-you're-not-a-creeper inquisitions, and then stopped me at one.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

At first I let out a laugh. I didn't know how to respond, and on top of that, didn't know how I would frame the statement in such a way to entice her attention.

I stuttered a bit, and finally blurted something out along the lines of, "Is this a trick question?" I have always been asked what I wanted to do with my life, and it seems as though the response consistently changes. How could any one person give a surefire answer? I decided to give it a shot.

"At the end of the day, I want to be enjoying what I'm doing, and doing it well."

I'm not sure if that's what she wanted to hear, but I hoped she'd appreciate my strong taste for honesty. Aristotle was surely shaking in his grave at my discontinuance of rhetoric, yet as more and more time passes, I'm figuring out that being me is all I have to give, and with that comes a little bit of sarcasm, a little bit of laughs, and a lot of realness.

I'm real, and it's comforting in knowing that, even in the 21st century.

Although flashing lights and glitzy (abhorrent) glamor draws you in, Vegas spits you out with a bit of insight, believe it or not. I suppose this means that what happens there, doesn't necessarily stay there.

Viva!

CourtReplies

*And how old - very important question.
**Not from personal experience.

I Blame You, Steve Jobs*.

This morning I realized - rather - this morning I finally admitted the factually annoying notion into my conscience that technology blows.

We as a society have become so dependent on the non-human. Forced to rely on hard drives and always seeking further distanced communication, the electronic gods seem to be against me (or maybe it's just my hormones, but I'd like to think else-wise).

It's interesting how much of an effect said technological objects have over us. For example, I was told I was getting a call last night. I waited. And waited. And waited. And got tired. I decided to send a text message instead, stating that I was going to bed and hoped all was well.

I waited for a reply back. And waited. And waited.

Then fell asleep. I woke up this morning, seeking some sort of notification on my phone. Negative.

Within that time span of about 9 hours, I couldn't help but become disheartened. I couldn't help but become upset simply by an inanimate object (or is it?) staring at me with nothing to say.

Turns out, calls were made and texts were sent, but I unfortunately didn't receive them, all the more reason for myself to be justifiably frustrated. Which, in turn, induces even more discontentment due to the manipulative emotive hold the iPhone has on me.

I'm not quite sure on how to break this pattern, especially since phones have become revolutionary, so much so that majority of individuals own at least one here in the United States. Businesses would surely face tremendous losses, humanity would go ape at the mere conception of having face to face interactions, and the world would cease to exist as we know it**. I suppose I could try to not use my phone for a week, but then other means would be relied upon - gchat, skype, email, only adding to the possibility of malfunction, miscommunication, and furthermore, disappointment. And the vicious cycle ensues.

"It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity."

Cheers.

CourtReplies

* Head of Apple. I blame you for all my problems.
** It's called sarcasm. Forty years ago there were no cell phones, life was personable, individuals survived, and might I add it was more prominent for women to be housewives.

No, Thank You, I Take It Black, Like My Men.*

I like guns. And I'm realizing more and more my lack of femininity.

True, I enjoy being pampered, my dream job encapsulates being a housewife, and romance is my middle name, but there are a few things that continue to overpower these gendered norms, and projectile-firing weapons is one of them.

My morning routine consists as such: roll out of bed (optional), shower (optional), brush hair (optional), make coffee (required), grab gypsy bag and head out into the day. These habitual activities can take anywhere from 10 - 30 minutes maximum, and I pride myself in the you-look-comfortable-and-not-all-that-put-together-but-it's-impressive-for-the-time-spent-on-it appearance. In fact, I wrote a post** a while back on this matter if you'd prefer a bit of a reflective analytical cogitation***. This, according to several individuals I interviewed on the concept****, is a trait normally found within the masculine realm, along with my preference for dealing with arguments.

I'm simple minded, and with that, the fluffy, encoded messages someone tries to send me when they're upset (or even for elusive suggestive remarks, for that matter) don't work. I'm not sure if I just block it out, or choose to take your colorful discourse for what it is - yes, you really are ok, and no, you're not just saying that yet hoping I grasp the notion that it's quite the contrary. Therefore, straightforwardness is my second middle name, as in, be up front, tell me what's wrong, and let's get over it. No tantalizing bush beating needed.

With that said, until my 21st birthday arrives in the next few months, I'll be keeping my fingers crossed for a nice Smith and Wesson .45ACP. As much as I enjoy baseball games, getting dirty, and staying up to date on the news, I still maintain satisfaction that I am a woman, and feel that a good balance of gendered mannerisms never hurt nobody.

I am woman, hear me roar.

CourtReplies

* From Airplane, the movie, to be politically correct about an apolitically correct statement.
** After I went back and read this, I realized how much my writing has changed since then. Probably due to the many complaints of my lack of readability, and my current inhibition to freely perpetuate my sarcasm.
*** Also note, however, I still managed to interject a subtle hint at firearm obsession*****.
**** This is a fictional attempt to support myself.
***** It's a healthy obsession, similar to popcorn.

The Dinner Party, Act 2.

I just got slapped in the face by the hand of disesteem, and let me be the first to say I did not like it.

I caught myself sitting in a glass house throwing stones, something that from a metaphorical-I'm-reflecting-on-the-subject-stance-now seems rather ludicrous (not the rapper). I realized that I'm a huge hypocrite when it comes to certain things. For example, I feel that I can have the last cookie and you cant, it's a-o-k for me to recite commercials word for word and it not be a sign of laziness, or the fact that my room's allowed to be disorganized and yours isn't.

When this ignorant thinking became exposed, my stomach fell - just like when you're on a roller coaster and keep your eyes closed right before and during a drop, it's that same feeling (but I don't particularly like this source of adrenalin). There is a good thing that comes out of it, though. Actually, two positive things: the first, I know how being buddy buddy with guy friends looks and feels to another person, the second, I need to have more self confidence. The latter is just for my own referential purpose, really, but I now know what I need to focus on and what not to.

My hormones are out of wack, so possibly this has something to do with my current mentality (get it? Men-tality). I'm happy, you're happy (right?), everyone's happy - so we should take the drops as they come, eye's closed and all. Be that as it may, life wouldn't be worth the ride without them.