Reflections on this eve of graduation

The future is no longer, I am here. I have arrived.

I made it through university, all four point five years, single. I have no fear of that, no fear of living my life with Jesus and, perhaps, a dog. I have been part of glorious communities of men and women who have carried me through.

I am unsure of what the future holds, where I will go, what I will do, how I will survive. I am not continuing my (formal) education in Psychology. I do not want to be a counselor. I do not (any longer) want to get my PhD. I know that this will be a struggle, as many of my friends are attending or plan to attend grad school, and I know so little about the degree I already (almost) have. I wonder if I will continue to struggle with feelings of academic inadequacy, even not being in school any longer.

I filled out a survey for BGSU, in which they asked a few simple questions. Do I have a job, am I looking for a job, Have I been offered a job? My answers, no, yes, no. But the yes, I’m not looking for a job in my field, no. I’m looking for a place to dive into, people to serve. I’m looking for my tribe. And I could not write that in any of the survey bubbles.

I am excited to close this chapter of my life. I know that life is scary after graduation, that people tend to get a bit depressed a few months after they graduate college and “real life” sets in. But I’m not worried. If all else fails, I have Jesus. So I’m not worried. I know that as I visit family over Christmas I’ll have to answer all the questions, and I’m not looking forward to it. I am a people pleaser and I don’t look forward to telling them things they won’t like. But I am not worried, for myself. 

I know it will get hard. Goodness, it already has. You don't have to be in any special part of life to experience the hard. But I'm excited. Jesus. 

JESUS. 

I didn't come up with this, write it prettily or anything, but I like it.

Almost midnight and freezing

It's almost midnight and the heat is broken. The temperature is slowly but surely slipping down the 60's... we'll call the landlord tomorrow.

So what else to do, but blog?

I haven't written words in quite a while, and I've noticed that the blog is getting a lot more traffic than it used to, which I'm honored by. Who are you, new friends? :) Thanks for coming over. I hope you're comfortable here, and if you're ever not, I hope it is the sort of discomfort that is useful, that makes you think.

I bought a ring a few months ago and I always wear it now, wedding ring style, but I'm not married or engaged, or "promised" or dating or even the silly, newfangled, "talking." A few people have asked me what it means and I've decided to write it down. It's easier that way.

You know how sometimes people get meaningful tattoos? It's like that. It's for me, but the world will inevitably see it. This ring is not a symbol for the world of what I will not do; it's a symbol for Jesus of what I will do for Him. A reminder to myself and a promise to God. If He wants me to be single for the rest of my life, I am happy to be that for Him. If He wants me to get married and have four children, I am happy to be that for Him. If He wants me to live in Ohio for the rest of my life, I will do that for Him. If He wants me to move to the desert, I will do it. A reminder to myself that I do not answer to myself.

Yeah.

It's cold in here. I'mma put on my mittens and go to bed.

May you

There's an emptiness around you.
May you have sweet sleep, and dream of the One I call Jesus.
May you be filled with the knowledge of Him,
of His love and the way He sees you.
May you be full, whole, and sleep.

Try Number Two

The Years the Locusts Ate

The first year tasted sweet, late spring sunsets, and crisp. It crunched beneath our wings, a pebble in giants’ hands. The second year was almost as sweet, the first candle lit to fill the darkness. It wasn’t our fault; we followed the wind.

It wasn’t our fault; we need the desert to survive like you need your God. The third year crunched delicious, the last of your crops crumbling behind our feet. The fourth year, the dark overcame your homes, tasted burnt and tired, hopelessness like fruit wrapped in plastic. It wasn’t our fault; we followed the fire.

We woke after the rain. We danced like warhorses, an army in perfect step until your stars shook from the sky, your faces paled with terror, your sunlight and dust tasted the same.

It wasn’t our fault, sent for your repentance and our delight, in earthquakes caused by our jealous wings and the sound of quiet tremblings in heaven. The years became sour, and it wasn’t our fault. We followed the wind.

We ate until the moon shattered in the desert, until your hearts could no longer bend, until you traded children for sour wine, until you fell, chasing pleasure instead of freedom, until death crept beneath the roots and into the stones, ravaged your minds and filled you with fear.

We grew full and spewed stench in all directions, to the northern army and the western sea, full of your cries and your wails for relief that would not come. After we finished our feast, we moved on with the wind, you stayed, your hearts stuck in the crevice of aimless wandering, a panting flame lost in the desert. Your cities full of ash and boredom, unemployment of the mind and waiting for the sought after restoration that would not come.

It wasn’t our fault, we followed the fire.

school assignment- first draft

The Years the Locusts Ate

The first year tasted sweet, late spring sunsets, and crisp. It crunched beneath our wings, a pebble in giants’ hands. The second year almost as sweet, the first candle lit to fill the darkness. It wasn’t our fault; we follow the wind. It wasn’t our fault; we need the desert to survive like you need your God. The third year crunched delicious, the last of your crops crumbling behind our feet. The fourth year, the dark overcame your homes, tasted burnt and tired, hopelessness like fruit wrapped in plastic. It wasn’t our fault; we followed the fire. We woke after the rain. We danced like warhorses, an army in perfect step until your stars shook from the sky, your faces became pale in terror, your sunlight and your dust tasted the same. It wasn’t our fault, sent for your repentance and our delight, in earthquakes caused by our jealous wings and the sound of quiet trembling from heaven, designated destruction for our bellies. The years became sour, and it wasn’t our fault. We followed the wind.

Plain

Plainly, I want to say that I adore the sound of eggs cooking in a skillet on a Saturday afternoon and this big blue dress, and there is a bubble burst of sunlight along my peripheral eyelashes, and I want to say that your confession shattered me like a glass vase on concrete, like all the daisies fell out and the water trickled through broken glass into a stream down the road and were forgotten, uncared for as you ran to escape the shattered sound you'd heard so many times. Plainly I want to say that I want to be the way the sun illuminates colors and makes them bright, I want to be like fresh, crisp morning winter air that greets your sleepy lungs, invigorating boost of day. And I want to be valuable like the sunset, undeniable purpose and beauty. And I want you to be the stars that clasp together the sky to keep night friendly, that keep the night beautiful so morning can rest. And I want you to be tall grass in the morning, greeted by the enthusiastic sunrise and dew. Plainly, I want to say that the years have been released and you can be the stars. I'll be the sunset.