Happiness Looks a Lot like Sorrow

There really is nothing to say. I have had a rocking good weekend, but it always seems like the things that should make me feel good...well they don't. They make me feel fishbowly. And I think back over every word I said, every move I made, and criticize the curlingiron outta myself. And I mousetrapping hate it. Hate, hate, hate it. I beat myself up over the stupidest of inconsequential things, then beat myself harder over beating myself up in the first place. Sometimes I want to sink into the ground and just have the air compressed out of my chest so I can't feel it anymore. I hate walking into a room alone. I hate fending for myself in conversations I didn't necessarily choose. I despise myself for wanting things I hate with good reason. I was doing so good today, for the first time in weeks. Back at square one.

Cuttingboard.

Like I said...there really is nothing to say.

Those Days are Gone Forever

I came on here with the expressed purpose of writing about the disaster that was the bookends of my weekend, but I think I will save that until the very thought no longer makes me angry. For now I will only touch on the in-between parts...you know, the stuff for which I was actually in Whistler.

The Pastor's Convention was not exactly what I expected. The first night we were there, they were honouring pastors who had been in the ministry twenty-five and fifty years. Fifty years! And there were quite a few in each category. It was incredible; when we talk about finishing well it is rare to be able to put a face to the ideal, but here we were in the presence of men and women who were walking it out. One couple in particular was so sweet, so loving towards one another, and yesterday I had the privilege of sitting with them during our sessions. They were so encouraging and supportive; I didn't feel like I had to pretend to be anyone for them, as they were delighted to talk to me exactly the way I am.

It was painful, too. It was so hard listening to such phrases as "passing the baton" and "raising up replacements" when I have never experienced it for myself. Any "legacy" I may have created for myself that I could have passed on to another was stripped away in a flash (no pun intended) in the Spring. On the other end of the stick, I have also been privy to leaders who have just such a legacy and cling to it with all their might; I have never had someone above me who wanted to pass on anything to me except what they considered to be superior knowledge. As each pastor was given a baton to pass on to someone as a sign of succession or just the passing along of wisdom, I felt a deep sweep of sadness and the most inexplicable jealousy. I do not know what to think of this most recent perceived slight. In the past I believed that if I was not given a mentor or someone who would take it upon himself to raise me up, it was because God wanted to do it Himself. Now I just wonder if there is something seriously wrong with me that no one ever commits to mentoring me longer than several days or as a passing comment, and pastors laugh at me whenever I say what it is I feel called to do with my life, either outright or silently with their eyes.

As one small plus which I am sure no one expected, least of all me, I have come to have a deep respect for this denomination...almost bordering on love. Crazy, I know. I may not agree with all their theology or all the expressions it may take, but something is definitely different.

So...where do we go from here?

Burning Up...and Out

This past weekend was Rockridge Round Two. I met new people, hung out with a new set of bathroommates, and, thankfully, was in a general state of "just okay" because I didn't have a hundred million memories hanging over my head the way that I do when I walk the paths of this haunted campus. God touched me in a way that I've never felt before; He was finally able to obliterate the wall I had set up between Him and my heart for supposed safety, and was able to show me that the greatest safety is in the comfort of His arms. I gave up a lot to Him, and I threw away all of my excuses, now rendered useless by absolute Truth, for why I should not be the woman He created me to be.

Sometimes it still hurts. My own Great Sadness still trickles out of the past and muddies my vision with its lies and "what-could-have-been"s. My focus used to be on the past, then shuffled to the future to ease the heartache, and is now desperately clinging to the edges of the present in the hopes of finding peace. But peace never came from holding on; it's in the letting go that God can bring peace to my heart.

Facebook never fails to give me a good slap, Skype brings the futile desperation of holding back tears, and my uncracked window reminds me of days that will never come. Sometimes I think I hold on so that I have something to draw from in moments when I need to feel human or want to express myself through writing, but other times I think it is simply because if I really do let go and let God come in and completely heal my heart (not just bandage or stitch it up, but actually heal), then I won't have the Sadness to cling to. Without the sadness, am I really even Me anymore?

This year will be a good year. There are wonderful people, fantastic classes and the hope of a possible future at this school beyond the next several months. I know, in my head, if I let go of last year that this year has the potential to be just as good, if not better, but my heart can't quite grasp that yet. I'm getting there, though.

I've finally realized that sometimes you lose the good things in life to make room for the great things.