NEW YEAR'S

Oh, New Year's resolutions. So easy to make, so difficult to keep. This year, I'm not going to try juggling like I did in the fourth grade. Or "never thinking a mean thought again" like I attempted in the fifth grade. Good idea, but that one was just. Don't try it at home. And then there was becoming a master chef like I dreamed of in the seventh grade. So crazy, but you know what? These weren't stupid resolutions. At least, they didn't seem to be at the time when I made them in my ever-curious, never-fully-in-reality head. They all were born of good intentions. But I was simply too uncoordinated or too human to fulfill them.

So this year? You probably expect me to say something about New York City. About going there more or being there for some big event or perhaps even living there (due to college) in the coming year. But I'm not.

Here's my real one:

I'm obsessed with observing people. With noticing how they work, how they act, how they talk, how they walk, how they think, how they feel. Especially when they don't really know anyone is watching. Creepy, right? But it's FASCINATING. Thus, it is my goal this year, 2013, to help more people become infatuated with noticing, with observing, with soaking in, with peering, with perusing, with contemplating. For that reason, I am going to start a people watching club. I've talked about it before, but mostly as a joke. However, I've decided that if it's done with class and innocence and a little bit of curiosity, I don't see anything wrong with actually doing it.

I feel as though it's the closest thing there is to seeing the world without ever purchasing a plane ticket or a passport. Hop on board if you'd like.

The Fault in Our...Selves

I just finished the best book of my life. The funny thing is, I have this perpetual tendency to deem the book I've read most recently "the best book of my life." Even so, this one is definitely in my top five. The Fault in Our Stars. By the brilliant, uncannily well-spoken Mr. John Green. And as much as I would thoroughly enjoy writing a brief but duly beautiful review of this faultless work, I'm not going to do that. I'm not going to ransack even a moment of what could potentially be a life-altering, new-perspective-impelling experience for you, as a prospective reader. Or more accurately put, as a prospective indulger.

What I am going to do is zero in on a quote that I found particularly alluring. You see, I have this theory that John Green is perhaps the most quotable author of our era. Of course, there are undoubtedly dozens who would emphatically and ruthlessly argue with my statement. But I'm just going to throw this one out on the table. I'm usually an extremely open-minded person. But in regards to this argument, I know for a fact that I am right. Sorry; that was rude. But I digress.

Let us back to the quote at the beginning of this post. Oh, the sweet, unbearably valid words. I'll just break down my interpretation for you. In this world, it is our natural inclination to want to leave a mark, to create a legacy, to outlive our lives in the hearts and minds of hundreds and thousands and millions of people. We are arbitrarily set on a pursuit of showing the world our immense value, and yet, in the process, we relinquish our hold on the love that actually matters, on the recognition that truly counts. Indeed, just as John Green points out in this book, we focus on being loved widely, but not deeply. We are so consumed by "making it big," by becoming a household name, by being named a hero. And I'll admit that I am one of the worst offenders. I often focus on the mere quantity of my impact rather than the quality of my impact. I mean, it's not totally wrong to yearn for fame and renown. But it is totally wrong to let them become your reason for living. Look around you. I guarantee that there is at least one person who loves you beyond reason, who sees what you do and says, "That's what I want to do. That's what I want to be," who knows the unthinkable promise you hold, and in turn, holds fast to you. And my advice? Sustain this; uphold this; never take it for granted. You may not be known vastly and widely. But you are known lovingly. And trust me, you couldn't - and shouldn't - ask for more.

A difficult lesson, but a lesson nonetheless.

Jingle Blog. (This title is in no way indicative of the content.)

Christmas. For those who know me best, it's quite apparent that I kind of like this holiday. Actually, I am head over heels in love with it. I dream about it every day of the year. I feel like I'm on top of the world every time the mere thought of Christmas enters my mind, which isn't too often. Only like 10 times a minute. I drool at the thought of the day. Not really; that would be nasty. But almost. Needless to say, Christmas is perfect. In each and every sense of that beautiful word.

But today I had the opportunity to see that this is not the case for all people, as our present-clouded, filthy-rich, "the-value-of-Christmas-rests-in-the-value-on-the-price-tag" minds so often attempt to convince ourselves that it is. Not everyone anticipates Christmas as the greatest time of year. Not everyone dreams about it. Not everyone has a Christmas tree to be rockin' around. Not everyone can say, "I'll be home for Christmas." Because that home doesn't exist. You see, today I worked at an inner-city soup kitchen. There were hundreds of people there who had nothing but the thin filthy tatters of "clothing" upon their backs. They had no reason to anticipate the big day to come. And you know what? They were the most joyous, visibly blessed people in the world. There were men without teeth who had the fullest smiles I had ever laid eyes on. There were children without toys who played with great ease and happiness, simply because they were in a warm place for the first time in days. There were bone-skinny people who had the warmest hugs and the biggest hearts I've ever encountered. There were others who could be smelled from ten feet away and yet still exuded the sweetest, most contagious air of peace and beauty. Yes. It was perhaps the most picturesque scene of my life. Amidst the rugged exteriors shone the most pristine of interiors. And that's Christmas for you.

That's Christ for you. He was nothing. He didn't have anything special in His outward appearance. He came as a lowly baby. Yes; He was indeed nothing. And yet He was everything. Dare I say it again? That's Christmas for you.

So live gratefully. Recognize the fact that if you're reading this, you have a computer or an iPad or a smart phone or something else. And if you have one of those, then you have far more than you need. So, by the commutative property, it's safe to say you, as a reader, are so unbelievably overly blessed. But don't feel guilty. Do something about it.

And most of all. Celebrate gratefully. Eat gratefully. Unwrap gratefully. Sing gratefully. Laugh gratefully. Relish gratefully. And take heed of the fact that you are blessed beyond reason. Gratefully.

Merry Christmas.

P.S. Shout out to the boy who was overcome with happiness when he was allowed to take an extra chocolate milk today at the soup kitchen. May blessings abound.

Exam Studying Postponed. Other Things Are More Important.

I just finished perhaps one of the greatest, most eye-opening conversations of my life with an incredible friend of mine a few minutes ago. We, both strong Christian women, got to talking about religion a little bit, what it's all about, what it may or may not entail. Indeed, before I begin here, I must boldly proclaim that I am an unshakeable believer in Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. I hold fast to Him each and every day of my life; He is my rock; He is my solace; He is my fortress; He is my hope; He is my guide; He is my best friend. There you have it. 

So, there we were (my friend and I), talking about this idea of faith and about our reason for living and about our pursuit of Christ - and then, about how heck this beautiful, seemingly perfect relationship with a selfless Savior does not appeal to everyone, why so many people are turned off by the Christian church. And then it hit us. WE are doing it all wrong. We, as the church of Christ, are doing it all wrong. We spend so much time trying to play up every potential weakness and difference and "wrong-doing" of those outside the church, as if, somehow, that might draw these people in and prompt them to surrender their lives to Christ. We fight battles that do not need to be fought, battles that could see their end with even a mere a twinkling of love's promise of beginning. And I hate to break it to you, but this is so unbelievably, grossly, devastatingly wrong. And as much as I wish I could change the perception of unbelievers and motivate everyone in the church to focus more on the people themselves than on their lifestyle choices or backgrounds or current beliefs, I cannot. But no way am I defeated. No way am I leaving it at that. No way will I be ashamed of something that I want everyone to experience for themselves.

You see, I'm not ashamed. Frankly, I know what I believe, and I know for a fact that it does not always line up with every last teaching of the church. And that's okay. It's about loving Christ so much so that He permeates every aspect of your life. Thus, judging is absolutely futile. It gets you nowhere. It's about recognizing the fact that you are loved beyond your wildest imagination, and in turn, letting others - regardless of choice or background or lifestyle - feel the exact same way. No way, no how is there such thing as being too accepting. That's called being like Jesus. It called altering lives - for the better. And it is a beautiful, mind-boggling, earth-shattering, hand-trembling thing that our finite minds are not meant to comprehend. And each and every day, I am becoming more and more okay with that.

P.S. Shout out to Jesus, the guy who loved everyone.

Learning to Love Learning

I have always tried so desperately to convince myself that I do not love learning. After all, an uncontainable love of learning could potentially make me a bit nerdy, and, frankly, I am already treading far too close to that line as it is. However, I am discovering more and more that I have this strange quality where the thoughts of others are simply inconsequential in my grand scheme of things, and boy, am I ever indebted to this strange quality of mine. You see, I used to live in perpetual fear of the scrutiny of others and the incessant desire to be accepted. Turns out, this didn't really work out for me, so I've taken a different approach towards life, an approach quite the opposite, if I do say so myself. Now, I'm not afraid to say that I love learning. I am deeply, passionately, madly in love with learning. Alright, maybe that is a bit much. Wait, no it's not.

Learning is breathtaking. I can barely catch my breath as I’m sitting here just thinking about its limitless possibilities. Yet, this is not to say that I love each and every thing that I am forced to study and learn within the walls of my microscopic high school. Call me crazy, but I don't necessarily want to scream "YEAH, THIS IS SO NEAT," every time I learn a new mind-boggling, kind of grossly complex lesson in calculus. In fact, sometimes, I want to be sick or break something. To put it simply, I love learning, but I'm not a freak. No; that was kind of harsh. What I actually am trying to say here is that we all have certain things that spark our interests, that leave us so far on the edges of our seats that we will most likely fall off sooner or later. And that's when true learning takes place: when we plummet ever so freely into the unknown, into the curiosity-inducing, into a world where familiarity and obscurity feed off of one another. And this is life. Without learning, life itself is unbelievably pointless. I believe it was Winston Churchill who said, "It's what you learn after you know it all that really counts." In other words, we do not grow out of learning. It is a lifelong treasure that even the most reluctant of geniuses must admit to still practicing. And undoubtedly, thoroughly enjoying.

For me, the most beautiful learning comes in the form of writing. I can write and write and write some more, but I will never become a truly perfect and universally-adored writer. That's unheard of; it's not possible. And that is what I like about writing. As I learn more about its alluring craft and brilliant components, my readers can learn right along with me. In watching me grow, they too can spring to new heights. Yes; I like that very much. I mean, let’s imagine for a moment that I could create my own dream school, overflowing with none other than all of my dream courses. They would be vastly different from the “standard” school, but they would not necessarily have to pertain to writing alone. At least, not all of them. That would be unrealistic. Rather, it would go a little something like this:

Course 1: Writing Outside and Making the Life of Nature Exude From the Pages So Much So That They Are Dripping. Literally.

Course 2: Writing Inside By Something Inspiring Like a Warm Fire

Course 3: Learning to Let Jesus Christ Rock Your World and Turn Your Life Inside Out and Outside In and Here and There and Everywhere, Preferably

Course 4: Writing Poetry In Such A Way That It Makes The Readers Tremble And Question Whether They Are Trembling Out of Joy or Passion-Saturated Empowerment, or Maybe Something Else

Course 5: Script Writing for Renowned Shows Like Saturday Night Live or How I Met Your Mother

Course 6: Writing Carefully Crafted Works for Friends and Loved Ones Because You Are Terribly Inept At Saying How You Truly Feel

Course 7: Reading Every Classic Novel Ever Written, Just For Kicks and Most Likely For a Tremendous Literary Snack

Course 8: Discovering the Secret to Making Every Person Around You Feel as Though They are the Most Precious, Beautiful, Extraordinary, Gifted Thing You Have Ever Encountered in Your Entire Life

Sorry for the extensive course titles, but I figured the names could speak for themselves if I went about it this way. If I could set up the perfect classroom setting, it would be completely void of any classroom whatsoever. The classroom would be that huge tree in the park or a crowded cafe or a bustling studio or a pleasantly simple window seat or a large and quaintly awkward family gathering or the smallest hut in a third world country. Those sound like the most incredible classrooms to me, the only true classrooms in all actuality. Indeed, I would be happiest if learning was no longer a thing that happened within walls. Yes; if learning happened only when these walls came crashing down.

P.S. Shout out to the person who asked for a shout a pretty long time ago. You are loved.