to all the ones who have left

To all the ones who have left,

I still remember. 

I remember running into my room and laughing until our stomachs cramped, and then laughing some more even though we wanted desperately to stop. I remember best friend necklaces and shopping trips and shared sodas. I remember talking about our crushes, sharing inside jokes, e-mailing back and forth because we didn't have phones yet, and swearing we would be friends forever. I remember thinking that you were the one - you were the one who was going to stay, the one that would keep in touch, the one who would be different than everyone else. I remember when we talked less and less, when my attempts to reach out went unanswered, when eventually I stopped reaching out because what was the point anyway? 

I know most of you haven't forgotten me - sometimes I still get tagged in "who was your best friend in fifth grade" posts, "Throwback Thursdays," and Facebook Memories. None of you left me because of an argument, a fight, or any malice. You left because we slowly grew apart, and you moved on.  

I shouldn't be mad at you, because you didn't intend to hurt me. You didn't mean to leave a gaping hole in my heart that I tried so quickly to fill with the next person, who - spoiler alert - left me, too. You didn't know that because of my low self-esteem that I tell myself, "They left because you're worthless. They left because you're a bad friend. They left because they found someone better. They left because you weren't good enough." It's not your fault that I struggle with my mental health, and I'm not blaming you or asking you to take responsibility for my own problems.

I just wish you would've said goodbye so I'd have known it was over, instead of trying and trying for so long.

I wish you'd told me it's not because anything I've done - it's just hard to keep in contact over a long distance, you're a different person now, or anything really! Anything to fill the silence of my unanswered attempts to find you again.

I wish you hadn't left, but we can't change that now.

I wish I could forget you.

I wish I wasn't crying right now.

I wish you hadn't unintentionally hurt me.

I wish I was okay.

I wish I could forget you.

But I still remember.

 * * *

There's a strange little thrill that comes with the phrase, "You're my best friend" whether it's a formal declaration or an offhand comment; the special feeling that comes with knowing that out of all the humans in the world, this person has chosen you - you - to be their special someone.

The problem is, I don't have a best friend. Throughout the years, I have had many, many best friends. I know, I know - "You can only have one." But as someone who loves deeply and wholeheartedly, there are dozens of people in my life who I've been close to, invested in, and loved on and who have done the same for me. And yet, every one of these people have left. 

My father was in the military, so growing up, I moved around a lot. Many of my friends I lost because of distance. Others I lost because, well, I'm not sure why. In junior high, two of my three closest friends stopped talking to me simultaneously, I still wonder why, but I tell myself not to think about it. If you can't tell, letting go of the past is extremely hard for me. I am very loyal - it's one of my greatest qualities and also serves as my greatest weakness. I want to love on everyone and be there for everyone and I want everyone to be there for me and love me, but that's not possible or healthy. I also have an extremely good memory, so unfortunately I remember my high school best friend's favorite color (it's yellow), when exactly I gave each of those best friend necklaces to each respective friend, and why exactly my friend and I were laughing so hard that our stomachs hurt. 

Recently, I "lost" one of my closest friends. We're still on friendly terms, but I've deleted all of our text messages because looking over them was making me angry + bitter. Realizing that she might not be big part of my life or my future children's life is hard; I'm not going to lie. But letting her go also freed me - when she does text me or reach out, I will look at it as a lovely reminder of what once was. When we do see each other, hopefully we will be able to catch up and enjoy each other's company. But I'm not going to rely on her because we weren't able to keep up that closeness. It's the first time I've consciously made the effort to exit a relationship - well, exit isn't the right word. It's more like a change in status from from "constant" to "distant."

It hurts not because we've been close for years; it hurts because I've never processed all the other people who have stopped talking to me. It hurts because every time someone "leaves," I look back at everyone else who has walked away and subsequently see myself as unworthy of love. But that's not the truth: my worth is not defined by whether or not I have a best friend, a multitude of friends, or no friends. My worth can only be defined by who I am in Christ - otherwise every label I place on myself will leave me feeling worthless and unloved. 

My process for moving forward is first, allowing myself to grieve. It seems silly, to mourn over someone who isn't dead, but the friendship is gone - withered, shriveled, likely dehydrated beyond repair. Maybe someday, a few of the friendships will come alive again. Maybe they won't. Either way, it's okay.

And after I grieve, I'm moving on. Maybe it means deleting more texts; maybe it means taking some things to the thrift store. Maybe it means taking some photos down, or throwing away some letters. This won't be done out of anger or bitterness, but in a spirit of thankfulness and appreciation. 

I briefly visited the subjects of friendship in two of my previous blog posts, one about making my support system stronger and this one's for the givers, so you can see that it's a subject I've been ruminating upon for some time. 

Over the past few months, I've come to understand that the root cause of my sorrow is not people leaving me - it's the fact that I don't see myself as worthy of other people's affections, and discarding mementos or writing more blog posts is not going to change that. But I also understand that I need to let some relationships go, in order to make room for new ones. Because even though I've told J countless times, "I never want another best friend," I do want to love on more people, make new memories, and build more relationships. Maybe not today, but soon.

* * *

To all the ones who have left,

I still remember.

I love you.

Thank you.

Goodbye. ♥

I am sorry that I am not good enough.

Good enough – adjective, meaning “adequately good for the circumstances.”

If I could be anything in the world, I would simply want to be “good enough.” When I was growing up, I thought I was supposed to be a missionary in Mexico. Then I wanted to be a world-famous, bestselling author. (I still wouldn’t mind that.) But now I simply want to be a little bit above average, someone who is faring decently well under the circumstances of life.

Because the lies I tell myself are that I am not good enough. I’m not smart enough; most of my friends received scholarships and are in school. I’m not Christian enough, because sometimes I swear and I wear jeggings instead of jeans. I’m not good at school, because I failed school. I’m not a good worker; at my last job every time I tried to pursue management or advancement in the company I was denied. I’m not good enough for my father; J and I live from paycheck to paycheck, and I seem to fritter away my money on online shopping. I’m not good enough for my mother; I am not as conservative as she. I’m not good enough for my husband; I frustrate him by not listening to his advice, and we struggle sexually due to my mental issues.

But the incredible thing is that God sees His children as much, much more than “good enough” – when He looks at them, He doesn’t see their failures, inadequacies, their faults and their negative qualities. He sees the righteousness of Jesus Christ, who was far more than good enough.

The truth is, I chose not to go to college. Even though I didn’t receive any scholarships for above average ACT scores, I am still intelligent. My lifestyle is not defined by how others view or perceive me, but by my own personal convictions and decisions. I did fail school, but that is another story in itself. I am an incredibly loyal worker and my last job manipulated and took advantage of me. In the past, I have saved almost all of the money I have earned. My father is proud of me and does not look down on me because I am not as financially well off as perhaps he would like me to be. My mother loves me even though it might be hard for her to accept that we have different views about things. My husband is an incredibly patient man who constantly puts me first and loves me, even when it is challenging for him.

When God looks upon me, He doesn’t see someone who is simply good enough, slightly above average, just existing. He sees Jesus’ righteousness, someone who literally defines perfection.

So maybe the only person I need to be “good enough” for is myself.

letter to my love

I found this post, which I wrote a few years ago and never published. I thought it would be fitting to post now, since I've been writing about living simply.  

* * *

  First of all, I know you don't really like writing stuff in public. So I apologize for this. It just came to my mind and flowed out of my fingers and here it is. I hope you don't mind.
Less than a week into our relationship, we made a promise to each other: no secrets. We were to have complete honesty with each other. I don't always keep my promise, but I'm working on it. I've gotten better. Now I tell you almost everything, unless it's girl stuff. And sometimes I tell you that, too. So here we go, my confession:  sometimes I wish we could have nice things. Our relationship is everything I've wanted and more than I could've imagined. You are honest, hard-working, gentlemanly, thoughtful, and caring. You are willing to one day be my provider and leader. You don't walk away from me when I'm crying, and you don't leave me when I'm upset. You're in this for the long haul. You help me work through my many insecurities and fears instead of discounting them as silly or irrelevant. You reassure and affirm me even if it takes an entire evening. You show love to others too - your friends know you as reliable and loyal. You're open and truthful. Most importantly, you love God and desire to serve Him. I hope that I give as much to you as you give to me. I love you and everything about you. I confess that sometimes I wish that we could have nice things. Sometimes I wish that we could give each other expensive gifts and see the world together. Sometimes I wish we could have a nice house for our kids. And a fancy car for you, since I know you like them so much.  I've struggled with contentment for as long as I can remember. Often I still find myself believing the lie that having the next item or the next experience will give me the happiness I long for. But it's true that you can't buy happiness. No item in the world, no trip or event or experience will ever bring true happiness. It might bring a thrill for a few minutes, but it will soon pass to replaced once again by the familiar yearning for something greater. Sometimes I believe that about us - that if I could be a little prettier, or that if we lived a little closer to one another, or if we could buy nice things one day, that I will be completely happy. But Christians aren't called to be "happy" in our life here on earth. We are called to follow God and live His way no matter the costs. He has given me salvation, which is all I need to be truly content. Even so He has chosen to give me many other blessings, including my greatest blessing of all, you.  In the end I realize that I don't need nice things. We don't need to go to fancy restaurants to have a romantic date - we can have just as much fun sitting on the roof looking at stars or taking goofy selfies while grocery shopping. We don't have to buy each other diamonds and silk ties to show our love - acts of kindness and handwritten letters will do just as well. We don't need a big house someday - the genuine love that our family will hold for each other will be enough. I still want to go to Paris and New Zealand with you, but if we never get to go, that's okay too. Because I don't need to see the world when I know that someday I will be able to wake up and see my world lying beside me - because you are my world. I would not trade you for all of earth's treasures. I would not chose anyone else to be a father to my children. I would not ask anyone else to hold me when I cry tears of self-hate, frustration, or sorrow. I would not exchange the thoughtful gifts you have given me for any other things, no matter how "nice".  Because at the end of the day, I would rather spend the rest of my life with you, in our small home with a beat-up minivan, than anywhere or with anyone else.  ♥

a child pharisee

Growing up, I was called many things.    I was smart - I was good at school and was a grade ahead of my age group until I experienced health issues that caused me to miss a year of school. I could read before all of my friends, and I read at a higher reading level than my age.   I was also gifted in writing. I taught myself how to type and began writing my own stories when I was seven. New ideas continuously came to me, and I was very imaginative and creative. I was homeschooled and also enjoyed art, piano, and singing.   People thought of me as a "good" girl, too. I grew up in a typical American evangelical family, attended a non-denominational church, tithed 10%, and participated in AWANA.  I was known as many things - a child prodigy, a gifted young lady, a typical Christian child from a Christian home. Sure, I had my problems - I had a temper, and I was very emotional. But no one saw me for who I really was - a perfect pharisee.   * * *   It wasn't until my early years of high school that I glimpsed who I really was on the inside. Up until this time, I still believed myself to be a good church girl. I knew I wasn't morally good, but I thought I was doing a pretty decent job of living my life the right way by volunteering with children's programs, reading my Bible, and spending time with other Christians. I didn't cuss, listen to secular music, wear immodest clothing, or read romance novels.    One day I was talking to my friend who had bought a pair of short shorts. I thought I was being helpful by trying to convince her that wearing this particular clothing item was bad. When she ended up crying, I realized that I had approached the situation in a completely wrong way.   Prior to this point, I had looked down on so many people because their choices were different than mine. I judged people who had tattoos. I judged people who had piercings other than in their ears. I judged people who smoked. I judged people who wore short skirts. I judged kids and teens who went to public school. I judged young women who went to college instead of staying home. I judged people who "dated" instead of "courted." I judged people who read certain books or watched certain movies.    You see, I had gotten caught up in the rules that I had had growing up. I had made these rules my own as I grew older, but I didn't stop and examine who I really was inside. I thought that by following the rules, it meant that it was "all good" between me and God. I hadn't stopped to look at the most important part of myself - my heart.    * * *   What is the first and greatest commandment? Any church kid will tell you. "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind." It wasn't until studied this passage to teach upon it that I realized the significance of this statement.   I think that rules are important. I think that parents should make rules for their children and that adults should make rules for themselves. But I think, especially as church kids growing up in twenty-first century America, it is very tempting to think solely of the rules and not of the heart. The religious leaders were probably expecting that Jesus to name one of the laws in his reply - perhaps one of the ten commandments. But instead, Jesus' answer concerned the heart.    To truly please God, following the rules is simply not enough. Our hearts have to be right, too.  Growing up, I had followed all the rules my parents had made for me. I had everyone fooled - my family, my friends, my parents' friends - but I couldn't fool God. God saw me for who I really was - mean, judgmental, and more like a Pharisee than anything else. I held the rules to such a high importance that I forgot who made the rules in the first place and why they were important. I was trying to pluck specks out of other people's eyes while there was a glaring plank in my own eye.   To truly please God, I must love Him with my heart. And to truly love my neighbor, I cannot stand back and point fingers at them for what they have done wrong.   I understand that there is a time for exhortation and rebuke, and that is not what I am referring to here. I am simply referring to the legalism that many Christians seem to get caught up. In the do not touch, do not taste, do not handle, they miss the heart of what God is trying to show us. I know that was how I was as a child and as a teenager. My judgmental attitudes hurt many people.    * * *   I think rules are important. After all, when Jesus came to earth He did not discard the law; He came to fulfill it. In the same way, I do not write this in an attempt to negate the rules or to cause you to think less of them. But I think more important than the rules are the heart behind them - I think the key to keeping the rules, but not being legalistic is this: looking at the heart of the matter.    Like any parent, I hope that one day my children are smart. I want to see them succeed in school. I hope they are talented. I hope they are gifted.    But even more important than that, I hope that they chase after God with all their hearts. I hope the rules that they have growing up will help them form their own convictions and boundaries when they are older. I hope that they will understand that different families have different rules, and that it doesn't make one family worse than another. I hope they will understand that it's not enough just to follow the rules - your heart has to be in it, too. I hope they know that God makes His rules because He wants them to live His way, for His glory and also their own benefit.    If they know these things, I think that is much more important than whether my son chooses to drink alcohol when he turns 21, my daughter decides to wear a strapless dress, my kids read Harry Potter, or go to college when they're older. I hope that they will have formed their own convictions and will decide not to do some of these things on their own. I also hope their convictions are not made in order to simply follow my rules, but because they understand God's heart.  

the aspirations of a twenty-something

When I graduated high school, I was utterly convinced I had the rest of my life planned out - unlike most graduates, however, college was not in my future. In my graduation speech, I said that I would continue volunteering and being involved at church, learn how to do more things around the house (such as cooking), and begin a study-at-home medical transcription program.  Earlier that week I had landed a job at a fast food restaurant, and my best friend had asked me to be his girlfriend. There were a lot of life changes happening all at once, but like your typical, optimistic, naive young person, I was convinced that I would be able to face everything.
The next two-and-a-half years haven't exactly go as planned. Looking back at the smiling eighteen-year-old in a bright purple robe standing on a dictionary in order to see over the top of the podium, I honestly feel a bit cynical at times. I ended up working on average of 30-40 hours weekly at my job, which was a huge financial blessing, but also prevented me from starting my vocational schooling until earlier this year. I still haven't been able to learn much about housework and cooking even though in less than nine months, I'll be going to moving into an apartment with J - who is currently by fiancé, but will of course be my husband when we move in together - in a city over 400 miles away from home. While I completely adore my coworkers and they truly are my second family, the job itself has become emotionally draining. Being in a primarily long distance relationship for two-and-a-half years has also affected me emotionally. Rethinking many of my long-held beliefs and forming new, more Biblical convictions has also been exciting and also challenging. And of course, finally admitting to myself and others that I struggled with mental illness has been a journey that I am still partaking in. 
Over the past couple of years, I realized that I didn't know who I was. I know that's very clique-ish of me to say, and I don't mean it in a worldly sense - living a life of sin and no rules in order to discover the "real you" or searching deep inside yourself to find your supposed inner goodness. I know that I am a forgiven sinner in need of daily grace, and that my identity is that of a daughter of God. But I realized I didn't know what I wanted in my future, and that frightened and frustrated me. It was particularly challenging since J knew that he was supposed to be a pastor. I knew that I wanted to be a wife and mother, but I didn't know if I had a ministry or a special gifts to use. 
When I graduated in 2014, I thought I had everything figured out. Of course, I didn't. And I don't have everything figured out now, either - far from it. But over this past year, I think I have finally realized what I am meant to do. I could be wrong - God may have a completely different plan for me. But at the moment the people, situations, conversations, and events that God has allowed and placed in my life have led me to pursue counseling.
Ironically, in my junior year of high school, I had actually considered counseling, but I couldn't figure out the logistics. I wanted to be a Christian counselor, but I didn't particularly want to be employed by a church because I figured that any church that would be able to hire a counselor would have to be a very large church, which I didn't feel comfortable with. The other was to set up my own practice, which I felt would interfere with my primary role as wife and mother. Since I couldn't figure out a way to practically use that degree, so I decided it wasn't for me. 
It wasn't until earlier this year that I came to the realization that I wanted to be a counselor. When I told J over Skype, I couldn't stop smiling - I felt so peaceful about my decision. After a tumultuous couple of years, I finally knew what I was meant to do - be a wife and mother and a counselor. I finally had my avenue - being a pastor's wife, I would be able to help people in the church, but I wouldn't have to necessarily be employed by the church. 
I also decided that despite my original interest in "Christian counseling", I would like to pursue cognitive behavioral therapy. I want to be able to use my degree to help those in our church and also as an outreach to individuals who aren't saved. J and I also hope to adopt older children, and I thought that a degree in CBT might be helpful in those situations. 
I won't be going to school until J finishes his degree, which will be several years from now. Of course when we are at that point in time we will also have to consider the financial side of things, so I might not be going to school for a long time, but I am so very excited about the future. I have been thrilled about this decision for a while, but I have just begun telling people. I wanted to explain my thoughts and the journey of how I came to his realization. 
I know that someday I will look back at this post and see it as the writings of a typical, optimistic, naive young person, who thinks she can take on the world. I might even feel a bit cynical reading through it. But I hope that I will read it as someone who is a wife and mother and a cognitive behavioral therapist. I hope I will read it and remember why I decided to travel this road. I hope that when I read it, I will be a stronger and wiser person and that I will be a better person. And that I will know myself better than I do now. 

tribute to a friend

They say that funerals are for the living. For those that have passed on, the struggle is over. If they are a child of God, they have the ultimate victory. They are safe from the troubles and evils of the world and they are resting in the arms of their Savior. They are free from pain and death...they have won their fight, no matter how long or painful. 
The ones that they leave behind have to continue that battle. They have to keep living even when they don't want to. They have to keep going and keep believing because it's all that we can do. Funerals are for the living because it is now our turn to fight. Somehow we have to pick up the fractured pieces of our hearts, even though we know they will never be whole again. Funerals are for the living because we are the ones that need hope now. We are the ones that need strength. 
* * *
A little less than a year ago, I was at the hospital for my regular check-up and as usual, I was looking around in the hospital gift shop. I saw a pretty purple bracelet raising awareness for a particular kind of cancer. Not long after, my parents told me that the son of a family friend had been diagnosed with cancer. It was actually the same cancer as the awareness bracelet! Immediately, we prayed for him. My parents would share updates once in a while, but I didn't think about him too much until we found out he would be staying at a hospital near us and that since his family wouldn't be able to be with him all the time, he might be staying at our home in-between treatments.
I remember when my parents along with J and I first came to meet him at the hospital. I was a little nervous and hoped that he was talkative. Nathanael turned out to be a pleasant and engaging man, and I was relieved. Over the next few months, I visited him in the hospital a few times and we sent a few texts back and forth. 
Little did I know that we would become close friends. At the end of each of his chemo regimes and stem cell treatments, he would stay at our home to recover. Nathanael introduced me to $0.95 pizzas, read me the entire Wikipedia article about his favorite show, "I Love Lucy", and sent me so many selfies over Snapchat that I joked he had a female alter-ego named "Nathanula". He got along well with my bestie, calling her his "long-lost twin". Sometimes in the evenings he played my guitar while I played piano. (Other times he just banged on the piano while I was in the middle of a song). He loved my family's little dog, Mitzi. He made fun of my favorite music (and, to be fair, I made fun of his).
The first time we truly connected was a night that I stayed up late because I didn't have to work the next day. We sat in the living room talking about cancer, Jesus, and depression. After that conversation, I knew that I had a very special forever friend.
Another fond memory of Nathanael includes the time I broke my phone. Without being asked, he spent the entire day taking it apart, researching how to fix it, and calling the phone company multiple times for help. Another time we went out to a movie with two of my coworkers. Afterwards one of them let Nathanael ride his moped. The only problem was... the moped only had one working brake... and my coworker might've forgotten to tell him... until Nathanael was too far out of earshot.
No matter what, Nathanael was always there for me with a helping hand, a listening ear, sarcasm, or all of the above. I alternated between yelling, "You're such a butt!" and telling him I loved him. 
Though he was fighting cancer, he remained positive. He was a Christian and loved the Lord. He talked about maybe becoming a music leader. I remember seeing him off to his hospital appointment where he would find out if the chemotherapy was working. When he returned home with good news, I gave him a huge hug. I couldn't stop smiling because I knew everything was going to be okay.
After four and a half months of living with us off-and-on, Nathanael was declared cancer free. After he went home, the house seemed strangely quiet without the sounds of his video games drifting up from the basement. I could play the piano without interruption, but I missed seeing him perched on the sofa when I got out of bed each morning. I still bought our pizzas, but they were too big for me to eat alone. Nathanael and I didn't talk as much over the next few months. He was in remission and had a job (and a special someone). He got a car and shortly after was in a car accident (he was not very happy about it). Our lives seemed to be going separate directions, though I knew we would always be friends. 
Then we received the news that his cancer had come back. I didn't know what to say to him, only that I loved him. He chose an aggressive treatment plan, but complications arose when his body became infected. 
Nathanael went to be with the Lord on June 7, 2016.
He called himself "the little brother" that I "never wanted"...  I share this not to be disrespectful to his true family, but out of gratefulness for the opportunity to meet this incredible man. I only knew him for a year and lived with him a few months, so I cannot begin to understand the grief that his family and friends are experiencing. I simply wish to say thank you: thank you for allowing me to be part of his life, no matter how short. 
* * *
Funerals, remembrances, and epitaphs are for the living. When we gather to celebrate a life well-lived, it is a chance for us to say goodbye and somehow try to heal amidst the hurt. Those that have passed on and are with the Lord do not need the assurances of our love, the tearful memories, or the stories of times spent together. But we do. Because we are the ones left behind.
Yes, I miss him. I miss receiving selfies at 3am and knowing that my honorary little brother was only a text away. I am sad that I didn't watch The Fault In Our Stars with him when he asked me. I will miss singing with him as he played my guitar. But even more so, I am sad that he won't be able to watch his siblings and relatives grow up... that he won't get to go to college like he wanted and that he won't be able to have a family. I'm sad that I won't get to tease him about finally being an old man once he became middle-aged. 
Funerals are for the living because we are the ones who need them. Somehow we have to find meaning amidst confusion and hope amidst loss. Somehow we have to find a reason to keep going when it seems like we can't. Somehow we have to live worthy of those we have lost. 
Therefore I write this not so much as for Nathanael, but for the rest of us. 

a letter to my birthmommy

Dear Birthmommy,
I can't remember a time in which I didn't know about you. My adoption was no secret growing up - it was something my family frequently spoke about and celebrated. I knew that you had given me up because I was born in a country where little girls are not as culturally valuable as little boys. But being adopted never phased me - sometimes kids would see that my mom and I looked nothing like each other and say, "Do you look like your dad?" Or they would point out other Asian children and ask, "Is that your sibling?" but it didn't bother me at all. I confess that amongst my many adventures growing up, I didn't think about you too much.
It wasn't until I grew older that I began to truly appreciate you. When I read stories about forced abortions or birth control, I began to realize how hard and dangerous it must've been for you. And now that I am struggling with my own fertility (or the prevention of it), I think of you even more. I used to think I was nothing like you, except for the fact that we probably look alike. You were someone far away, in a different culture and country. I had never met you, and I probably never would. But I have to come to realize we are more alike than I once thought.
We both have lost something. You carried me for nine months, most likely wondering my gender. I made you feel sick, I made you throw up, I made you feel tired. I made you irritable and emotional. I bet I made you cry. Yet through those nine months you kept me safe as we fell a little more and more in love with each other. 
Then I was born, and you saw me for the first time. Maybe you held me. Maybe you cried. But in the end, you lost me, and I lost you. We spent nine months together, but you never got to hold my hand while I learned to walk, hear my first jumbled words, or listen to my laugh. Shortly after I was born, someone tucked me away in a cardboard box and left me where they knew I'd be found. 
You see, in a way I've lost my baby too. It's not the same; I know that. I can never have a baby, so technically I can never lose one. But something has broken in my heart that will never be the healed. Something is missing that will never be completely filled. I won't "get better" or "get over it" because although loss may lessen, loss is forever. 
But because you lost me and I lost you, together we were able to make something good. Because you gave me life, I was able to bring joy to a childless couple. Because you gave me up, I was able to make a husband and wife into a daddy and mommy. Somehow our loss healed broken hearts and filled empty spaces. Perhaps I've romanticized everything; maybe you are nothing like I've imagined. But that's okay, because I do know this - that you valued life, my life, enough that you let me have a chance.
You gave birth to me, but you never saw me living life. Someday I hope to do the opposite - raise a child that I did not give birth to you. Although I used to think we were very different, I have come to realize that that isn't true. Though our situations are not the same, we've both suffered loss, and we've both brought joy amidst sadness. We both have lost someone dear to us. We've both felt the pain of desiring something that we can't have. 
I still don't know much about you. I've simply come to understand and appreciate you more. I've learned to keep a place for you in my heart, because we are more alike than I once thought. Because Birthmommy, we share more than just DNA. 

life isn't beautiful

I am passionately pro-life, and nothing has changed. I still firmly believe in the sanctity of life, that we are created in God's image, and that every human has value no matter how small. But one thing that I have frequently said as a pro-lifer is that life is beautiful.
It isn't.
Life isn't just the good moments - the first kiss, the promotion, the birth of a child, the emotional highs... Graduating from college, sharing a special day with someone, experiencing a miracle, or feeling "on top of the world"... Because sometimes life is hard.
Sometimes life is the heartbreak, the loss of a job, the emptiness... Being heartbroken, watching a loved one die, experiencing financial difficulties, or feeling like God has abandoned you. We wouldn't call these things beautiful, yet we would be remiss on our description of existence if we were to not include them. Because being alive is the good and the bad moments and everything in-between. It is the first second of existence to our last. 
It can be tempting to lose hope in this thing we call life - the obstacles seem overwhelming, daily living seems so stressful, and tomorrow seems so far away. But I am slowly learning:
Life isn't always beautiful, but it is worth it.
The meaning of our existence isn't to aimlessly ride a roller coaster of emotions and life experiences. It isn't about leaping from one high to the next while trying to maintain a sense of optimism. It isn't even about finding our true love or living our happy ending. It isn't about the next promotion, the fancier car, or the bigger house. No, God has an even greater purpose for us than any of these things.
For a Christian, this life won't be the easiest, because this world isn't meant to be our home, no matter how comfortable we make ourselves. God offers us a grander calling than any we could make for ourselves. He offers a more fulfilling existence than any we could ever imagine. If you are part of God's family, you can hold onto this promise:
Life isn't always beautiful, but it will be.
"And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away." Revelation 21:4, NKJV

mommy's smile

Originally posted August 4, 2015

The other day an elderly customer asked me, "Where did you get such a lovely smile?" Of course, I went all blushy and shy and managed to say something like, "Uhhh...thanks! ...I was born with it, I guess?" But of course the simple compliment resulted in an interesting realization: my smile is from my birthmother. Last year I wrote a Mother's Day post to the three women who have each been a mother to me. Though each have earned their title for different reasons, I thought I'd use this opportunity to give a shoutout to my birthmom... ... for my smile. ... for my brown eyes. ... for my laugh. ... for my size 7.5 feet. ... for my perpetually "tan" skin (especially awesome in the winter) ... for my naturally straight teeth. ... for giving me a chance. ... for looking out for me. ... for loving me. ... for saving me. ... for risking her safety to give me this and more ... for giving me up ... for giving me life. Maybe I was an unplanned surprise. Or maybe you had to give me up, because you were waiting for a son who would be able to take care of you when you grew older. I don't know why, but I don't need to. It doesn't matter to me, because I already know everything I need to know: that you are an incredibly brave and strong woman who valued life enough to let me have the best chance. Abortion would've been easy, but you didn't choose the easy road. Instead of ending my life in its first few months, you chose life. Because of you I was able to learn how to speak, walk, read, and write. I was able to make a childless couple a family. I have been able to learn about God and His love and decide to live for Him. I've survived cancer, published a book, graduated high school, gotten a job, and fallen in love. All of this and more because you chose to give me your smile. So thank you, birthmommy. So many little boys and girls don't get that chance. 

wandering lost

Originally posted July 25, 2015

"Not all those who wander are lost."

I love Lord of the Rings. I've read the books, I quote the movies, I collect Tolkien-related merchandise... one of my favorite quotes is the one listed above. At first, I loved the quote just because it was Tolkien. But then I realized how much it made me think of myself, and through my senior of high school, it was basically my theme.

Nearly a year ago, I wrote a rather blunt post called, "Follow Your Dreams (Unless We Don't Approve of Them)" - about how I didn't feel called to go to college, but how I did have lots of post-graduation plans. I wrote, "Sometimes I think people are worried I'll become some sort of couch potato bum. But I'm pretty sure my parents won't let that happen to me. I hope to learn more about housekeeping and cooking; I hope to work on my latest novel; I hope to have time to disciple some of the younger ladies in my life; I hope to continue playing music on the praise team at my church, and much more. I won't be bored. So why worry about me?" I sounded so convincing, but as I wrote the post, I still felt lost. I had lots of plans and ideas, but I was still a bit apprehensive.

Not all those who wander are lost.

Hardly any of the things I wanted to do after graduation actually happened. Life kind of got in the way. I got a job, which has been challenging at times, but has also been a great financial blessing. And then of course I spend a lot of time talking to my person and investing in our relationship. :) But sometimes I still feel a bit lost.

According to Tolkien, sometimes it's okay to wander. Sometimes we have to try things, to experiment, to go on an adventure. We're haven't lost our way, we're simply exploring.

Lately I feel as if I've been wandering lost. I know I need to step out and adventure, but I'm scared to. So instead I stay close to what I know, repeating the same mundane tasks, and wondering why I feel like I'm doing nothing.

Maybe it's time to explore a bit. Maybe it's time to wander more purposefully. My anchors are, of course, my faith in God, my family, and my best friend. My anchors will keep my safe and call me home. But maybe it's time to step out in faith a bit and see what God wants me to do for Him.

a remembrance

Originally posted April 1, 2015

You were always there for me.

You were part of my life for as long as I could remember. At first, you were "my dad's [eccentric] friend". You popped over to take my dad on hikes and would entertain my family with tales of your many adventures. I loved hearing "Steve stories" and even attempted to retell them to my friends. 

You were always genuinely interested in me and my hobbies, and when you found out I enjoyed writing, you told me that if I ever needed an adventurous character, I could name him Nevets - your name backwards. I wrote a story about you that was later included in my book, Tales of Cunburra.

When I diagnosed with cancer in 2005, you wanted to help. You flew over to England to spend long nights at the hospital with me, entertain me, take care of me, and watch over me. After I was better, you came back again, this time to see the sights. You'd always wanted to see Stonehenge, so we visited and were nearly blown away by the wind. :) We spent several hours making a castle out of random things in my room, which meant a lot to me. I realized that you were more than "my dad's friend" - you were my friend. 

When my family moved back to America in 2008, you attended my musical performances and would frequently pop over for supper. You were there when I made my very first dinner (it was horrible, but you were very gracious), and you were the first besides my family to hear me play guitar (and you were the only one who knew who Don Mclean was). When I collapsed from cardiac arrest in January 2012, you were there for me again - you came and stayed at the hospital and comforted and encouraged my parents. 

You were kind of always there. Not just for me and my family, but for basically everyone you met. My story of how you loved my family is just one of many stories. It wouldn't take anyone who met you long to realize that you were one of the most genuine, caring, and beautiful souls they had ever (and would ever) meet. You loved God and you wanted to show that love to everyone you met.

When I heard that you weren't feeling well in May of last year (2014), we thought it was some sort of bad virus. I figured that in a few weeks it would be another of your stories to tell. I couldn't have imagined that you were in the middle of a massive heart attack. Then, of course, we thought that you'd get better. We knew there'd probably be a lot of rehab, but we would be with you every step of the way. It was going to be our turn to be there for you. 

I came to visit you in the hospital. I could've walked in the room, but I didn't. The man in coma lying on the hospital bed was not my Steve. I figured I'd wait until you woke up, until you were getting back to your normal self again. Then that evening, I received the news that you were going to be taken off life support.

I was heartbroken, and a little part of me is still heartbroken. You have always been part of my life, in big or little ways. I find little bits of you everywhere - a pipecleaner creation that you made just for me, a letter you sent, or a Christmas gift thoughtfully chosen. You were always there and I kind of figured you would be for a long time. I imagined you at my graduation and at my wedding; I'd figured one day you'd come over and entertain my kids with Steve stories. 

Sometimes I think I miss you most when something crazy happens at my work... and I wish that I could tell you my stories, because you'd listen thoughtfully...and then tell me an even crazier story of something that had happened to you! And I wish that my boyfriend had gotten a chance to meet you. 

But since you have been such a part of my life for so long, I know you can never truly be gone. The memories, the stories, and the laughter are still with us. One time, after leaving England to go back to America, you left me a note in your iconic all-caps handwriting which read, "GOODBYE KARA -- SEE YOU SOON." I know that if you could've given me one last note before you left for heaven, it would've said something like that. I am so thankful that you knew the Lord and that I will one day see you again. 

When you died you left behind hundreds of memories and tokens of your love... I shall treasure each one. You didn't try to change the world, but you changed the world of everyone you met. You made their world a little brighter, and little happier, and a little lighter. Whatever burden they were carrying lessened as you met them with your smile. Whatever worry they had faded just a little when you spoke with them. And whatever sadness they had felt diminished just a bit when the conversation was through. I miss you, and I miss the way you made the world brighter. But I'll see you soon.

Happy birthday, Mr. Steve.