Because I’m Likeable!

Jesus you are lovedIt’s just so good to be known by God. When I choose Him, He’s there. When I run from Him, He’s there. When I’m right, wrong, humble, arrogant, kind, mean, sure, unsure, persistent in my walk with Him, or wavering from His ways… He’s there. He is always there.

Not because He has to be there, not because He’s somewhere up in the sky waiting for me to mess up, but because He is the very definition of love and it’s His pleasure, delight, and desire to simply be near me. He’s near, because He is finds me likeable and loveable.

Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
If I settle on the far side of the sea,
Even there your hand will guide me,
Your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
And the light become night around me,”
Even the darkness will not be dark to you;
The night will shine like the day,
For darkness is as light to you….
…. How precious to me are your thoughts, God!
How vast is the sum of them!
~Psalm 139~

Weekend Wrighting – Burnt Popcorn

Prompt: Describe a memorable event, positive or negative, and how it felt to you, but do not name the feeling. Instead, tell how it felt in your body (damp hands, metallic taste, tight throat, wobbly knees, etc.).

I filled the pan with a little bit of olive oil and turned the stove top on to medium.  I was excited about my new learned skilled of making popcorn on the stove.  I turned around to measure the kernels.  As I measured, I heard a quite puff sound coming from behind me.  I didn’t think anything of and continued pouring the kernels.

I turned around and almost spilled the kernels everywhere.  My eyes widened, my stomach IMG_0398dropped, and my head felt  light and dizzy.  Flames were shooting up and out from the small pot.  My heart raced as I threw open every cabinet door looking for the matching lid.  I eyed the baking canisters that sat underneath the cabinets in hopes to find the flour.  I rolled my eyes and let out a loud grunt.  Why weren’t any of them labeled?!

I fumbled around as I grabbed a lid and slammed it over the pot.  My heart beat faster and I let out a panicked cry as the flames shot out from around the sides of the pot.  I grabbed the handle of the pot.  So much adrenaline was pumping through my veins that I didn’t feel the fire singeing my skin.  I ran on my tiptoes as fast and as carefully as I could.  My free hand was sweating and shaky as I tried to open up the back door.  I guided the blazing popcorn quickly to the ground and let go of the burning pot.  I felt the color returning to my face.  I sighed heavily as I relaxed my body against the side of the house.

I closed my eyes for a second as I waited for the flames to distinguish.  My eye brows were pinched together as I thought of how I was going to hide this mishap from my parents.

#oops

The Last Day I Saw My Dad

dadIt’s funny how life deepest questions and statements always pass through my mind at the most random times. Often two or three in the morning. Why couldn’t I think about these deep thoughts at 9 in the morning when the sun is up and I’ve had a cup of coffee? I suppose I don’t get to choose the when.

I was thinking about my dad. This time, about three years ago, was the last time I saw my dad alive. I went to D.C. to visit him during my fall break from school. It wasn’t much of a fun filled visit as Dad was in the hospital for the whole week, but I was glad to see him. We didn’t talk much. Sometimes that visit makes me cry more than the day he died. It was then that I saw my dad as a human. He was supposed to be the strong, witty, courageous, compassionate, life giving, encouraging, and corny joke tell dad I always knew.

That time he wasn’t. He was really sick. Cancer was invading his body.

I watched him do normal actives, which were a challenge for him to do. I watched as his eyebrows met, scrunched in the middle and then rose when he asked me for my help. It was a mixed sense of sadness and honor in helping him.

I haven’t written much about the details of my dad’s death until now because it made me cry. I hate crying. My face get red, my eyes swollen, and I cry ugly. I’ve heard from everyone who’s lost a parent, “You never get over the death of a parent.” Not best form of encouragement, but it’s true. The truth isn’t a bandage to cover up the wound, it’s more of an ointment to help it heal.

Three years later, I’m grateful for the truth.

The last day I saw him, I watched him nap on the couch. I would stare long as I sat on pins and needles waiting for what seemed like eternity for his chest to rise and fall. I had never felt so scared in my life. I was scared he was going to die at that moment.

I hope that one day, whether I’m healthy or not, that I’ll have someone who loves me enough to watch my chest rise and fall. To care for me the way my mother selflessly, lovingly, and courageously did for my dad.

I’m not sharing my story for offerings of “I’m sorry for loss,” or cause people to pity me. I 533964_10100473527060328_24317715_ndon’t want your sympathies or pity, they’ve never helped me in the past and I’m sure they won’t be aid to me in the future. Sympathy and pity is really to help make those not affected feel better about the situation.

Empathy, however, is a welcomed thought.

I’m writing this in hopes to the find the ones who’ve experienced loss.

Sometimes, it’s nice to know you’re not the only one. You’re not alone in your sorrow. You’re not the only one who wants a do-over. You’re not the only one who’s watched life slip away. You’re not the only who feels like it wasn’t enough time. You’re not the only one who is surviving. You’re not the only one who feels helpless.

Those who have had a life taken away, you’re not alone.
That’s the truth.

Yes, Maybe. Yes.

Photo on 10-1-14 at 12.33 PMI’ve been wanting to share more of my fiction based writing at least once a week on this dandy little blog, but I’m finding that it’s sometimes hard to share the things I write.  Sharing my thoughts and opinions are one thing and often the easiest to share.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s because I know there will be people who agree with my stance.  Maybe it’s because sharing an opinion is like putting a tangible border around myself.  It’s creates a frame and allows people to see me within those barriers.

But to share my imagination with people is like removing those borders, taking myself out of the box, and release the unknown parts of my brain to people.  I have a whole universe living in my head that’s full of ideas and possibilities, characters, choices, themes, plots, scenarios, births, deaths, life, love, danger, safety, feelings, rises, falls, and ultimately, the exposure of the human heart.

Excuse me… the exposure of my human heart.

It’s difficult to let it go and not think, “Can I write about this situation?”  “Can I tell bit of my story through a character?”  “What will people think?”  “How will people see me?”

“Is this OK for me to write?”

“Is it OK for me to expose how I feel?”

The answer is yes.

The answer should always be yes.

Maybe it’s hard to say “yes,” because I don’t take myself seriously?  Someone asked me the other day if I was a writer.  I responded and said, “Well, I like to write.”  My faithful friend butted in and quickly said, “Yes, she’s a writer!”

Maybe my “yes” would be bigger if believed in what I’d like to be… what others can clear see.

My “yes” may be be small, but maybe it was meant to grow?

Maybe.

I think so.

Yes.