today I learned that I have been using the word "intimate" (v.) incorrectly.

And now, I am on the hunt for the word that means what I thought intimate (v.) meant because I like it.


Today I have been working steadily for many hours because my task is important to me. Even my conversations have been short and my lunch was spliced with a to-do list item. I kind of like that I'm not panicked in a space where I historically would be. Something is [good/different].

Tomorrow will be a big day for me with work. I hope it will be a thing.


What else is there to write about? I did that thing again where I waited too long and then I was out of practice and then I just had to write about feeling weird about blogging to break in. (And then an avalanche follows, I suppose.)


Today I'm surprised at how much more excited I am to finish the canon of Holy Scriptures (and that within nine weeks).

I've been fishing about a fair bit this evening for work and trying to skim through with one eye half-closed the portions of the New Testament and Old Testament later than where my bookmark currently sits because the insight, parallels, etc. are jumping off the page at me. Everything needs to be prefaced with "Spoiler Alert!"


Sheesh. No wonder people hungered for a Messiah.


I feel a little silly about it but it seems today is the first day I believe every preacher/speaker/believer who said you need the Old Testament to really know the New Testament. What a thing.


Today I regret not expressing my true feelings when someone rolled their eyes and scoffed at filling up a baptismal tank for just one candidate. Yes. Just one. Just one person professing faith in Jesus. Just one errant sheep that a shepherd left the rest of his flock to track down. Just one re-created heart. Just one transformed life. Just a smidgen of death-to-life action. Probably not worth a couple hundred litres of water.

Yes.

like I'm blindfolded, the blood circulation to my hands has been cut off,

and I'm unable to tell you the object that's been placed into them,

I don't know what I feel. 

It's great. It feels like a lot of work. It often seems impossible to get it right.

"One day", perhaps? If that "one day" doesn't come, I suspect I will be more than devastated.

Wondering if I experimented with doing exactly what I felt would help when feelings became overwhelming, if I would be checked in to some kind of facility. I don't mean dangerous things, but probably very odd things. Maybe that would be a good start, for all I know.

Sometimes it helps to say things out loud. Other times I wish I was better. I wish I had a real life to live, one with real passions and focus. I wish I was better. I wish writing this post wasn't surreal. I wish I could see God better. I wish I did more. I wish I weren't so selfish.

so... 

   I guess life is precious, then.

I feel coiled right now.

I feel in limbo and weirdly waiting or poised. Something is next. Sleep should come soon. School hols schedule has given me room to choose my bedtime like a night owl. I've missed it but, as usual, I pay for it.

I'm a few days away from zombie mode so it's probably good that routine returns with the morrow.

Tomorrow actually smells a bit exciting. I can almost feel the raised ink on the paper between my thumb and index finger as I ready to turn the page.

I feel a little bit of peace in a good spot somewhere deep down. I think in the morning, as things have sifted a little from this full day, I might feel elated. I might also feel dejected but I do think the poisedness will give way to something strong. I'll take whichever.

On that note, I should probably put myself to bed before deep sadness can find me. I could be OK!

(Oh, also: God is good.)

Side-note.

Well. This is going to be more difficult than anticipated.

Earlier today I was shopping for some belated birthday gifts for the boys. It was weird because in the past, gifts for them have been planned and purchased well in advance. The this year my mind has been elsewhere and our relationship has been a bit different.

But I was at the mall today and as I was brainstorming and browsing I started feeling raw sadness right behind my sternum. 

This is going to be more difficult than anticipated. 

And so I showed up this evening, wanting to drop off the gifts and say a little hello. I suppose I haven't seen them in eleven days. 

I thought it would be a short visit and that I'd be gone before their dad got home from work. 

As I was shopping, I prayed over the gifts. I'm just too sensitive; I like getting it right. I wanted it to bless them and not to be thrown on the floor after a four-second evaluation.

And their little smiling faces behind the door after I knocked, they were sweeter than I remembered. I forgot how I miss them. 

The choruses of "aw, sweet! "and "what'd you get??" were music to my ears, yes they were. Yes, I was glad they didn't catch my doofy, borderline sentimental grin. This is going to be harder than I thought.

They showed me some other Christmas gifts they'd receieved, some running flips they could do onto their dad's bed, and so eventually I took my coat off. I guess I could stay a little while longer.

And then J asked if I would stay for dinner. He called his dad and the voicemail started with "Jesskah got us these cool--" and he listed off most of the gifts and finished with "so can she stay for supper?" as if it was an extension of his (J's) gratitude.

Dad called back and was agreeable to the idea. In fact he was going out tonight so, "could you stay and watch us?" J turns to ask pleadingly. "Yeah, sure," I nod, happy I have no other plans to break and happy they'd rather I was there than not.

At my response, B does a huge fist-pumping silent "YES" which means a lot. Despite all my failures and shortcomings, they actually might like me. This is going to be harder than I thought.

So the dinner and evening plan is set. Check. Then J initiates a clean-up of the house as dad is home soon. They're further motivated to finish the tidy because now that there's adult supervision and a sliver of daylight remaining, they can play hockey out back. I'm happy to go. Usually I dread the request because in my view, hockey + cold for no reason = an entirely unappealing way to spend time. But today, I haven't been asked in more than two weeks and I know they could use some fresh air and I love them. So I'm happy to go.

We're out for less than twenty minutes before dad comes home and that is, somehow by the grace of God, just fine. I actually wondered today if he isn't harbouring frustration and annoyance toward me, as I've been sensing for the last month or two. That would be quite a relief.

Throughout my entire visit, which spanned about four hours, I was thanked for different parts of the gifts by each boy two or three times. They didn't thank me when I handed them the bags, they didn't thank me when they opened them, but they thanked me as they thought of the gifts, or used them. Color my heart warmed. I'll translate the "thanks" to their being blessed--thank You, Lord.

Each gift had four parts and they loved all four. Before I left, it was all played with, eaten, or donned--and shown proudly to dad. I mean.... Lord. You know my heart. You know how... yeah. Thank You.

I didn't mean to but I stayed long enough to tuck them both in. B's "I'm ready!" hollered from down the hall surprised me. I thought he had outgrown that kind of thing with me. The two of us were all smiles in the ninety seconds I spent sitting on the edge of his bed. My sternum tickled a little again, considering that this could be the last tucking in.

Then J and I played cards and watched The Simpsons.

WHAT.

A little friend after my own heart. I can't write how peacefully delightful that hour was. And how much it re-affirmed that less will be better. Less will be richer. Less will be deeper and more meaningful.

This was also affirmed as I noticed the initiative they've learned to take with household chores and other responsibilities.

This was also affirmed by dad's generally bile-free attitude toward me.

This was also affirmed by J's intriguing questions before bed, showing that he is probably a deep thinker. And the questions were about my life which makes me want to hope he may want to know more about me because he's glad I'm in his life. The first question made me wonder if he knows about the big change that's coming but if he does, I'm all the more glad I hung out with them this evening.

Notwithstanding,

  this is going to be more difficult than anticipated. 

The conversation is booked for tomorrow evening and the trigger must be pulled. 

Lord, please give me strength and wisdom. 

Lord. 

  Please make it work. Please be Lord.

(Ugh. The most excellent way it may be but love definitely makes things hurt more.)

I didn't know what to do last night when I woke up from a ridiculously long nap.

So I got into my pyjamas, tidied up a bit and still couldn't decide. I journaled a few pages, read a bit of Deuteronomy, and still wondered what I would do.

Then I thought about popcorn and television. It felt like a Saturday night and I wondered if I could keep the darkest shadows away by doing things that were all play and no work.

I wasn't exactly sure how I felt but it was close to balanced-ish. While thinking about what I might do--and sleeping was of course an option, given that it was nearing midnight--I crawled into bed under my hundredteen covers.

Then I grabbed a book from my "you should read this" stack on my bedside table to make sure I was being productive while I was thinking about how to be productive. And then I read the entire book of poetry, cover to cover, in one sitting. It was neat.

It made me miss reading. It made me think reading was cool. It made me miss art. It made me miss university. It reminded me of how I've shortchanged myself with education and artistic exposure. It seemed right for the time and it seemed appropriate to keep the book in my hands til I was done. It made me work my reading muscle, particularly through the entries that contained offensive bits and then lasted longer than I would have liked. It made me laugh out loud! It made think of at least four different friends that I'd like to show particular entries to. It made sense to me on the whole. It delighted me. It took me til 2am to finish. It made me wonder how much editing and proofreading is too much before you've killed a poem. It made me wonder how poetry is received by the widest audiences. It had entries that were so delicious I want to read them again more than the others and to even post it on my wall. A couple entries even made me feel validated for how I view and use language. I wonder if I will ever meet the people who are like me like that, the people who don't need me to explain myself. Words. She used all but a handful of words I already know and yet she compelled me, page after page. Art is so funny. Poetry and prose amaze me.

Other things

Yesterday evening, around 17.45 when I was fed up with chasing the feeling of being "productive", I went to the library to take a short nap on the couch. I set my alarm for eight minutes.


I started thinking, letting my thoughts sift and filter themselves. Having been listening to "you're a worthless whore" for most of my day, it made sense that when I had stopped for probably the first time that day, one of my real thoughts would be, "When did I decide I was worthless?"


This was a new question to me. It actually felt like a pre-epiphany or pre-light bulb so I did my best to hold onto the thought and explore it. But, before I could even assess that it was hold-onto-able, my face had contorted and breathing pattern changed. Yes, I was going to cry.


I thought it through and it made me sad. Then I thought about my outer circumstances, how it was that I was sitting curled up in a ball in an empty building with all the lights off (to conserve energy but it does make a different impact) and nobody knew I was there and nobody knew what was going on and nobody was going to just show up and help me. It made me sad. I am growing a little tired.


I continued exploring and the Lord made some pieces connect that helped me get some comprehension (this is what I seem to covet the most lately, just understanding what's going on) but that also made me cry harder. He pointed out that though this has become my norm, it's actually not...normal in some way. It's not normal or good to be like this. It's OK because my hope is in Jesus. But, as I reflected on hearing the day before how someone else (who is not even a close friend) had left the party to go cry in the basement by themselves, and how my heart sank in that moment, wondering what could have been so wrong that she had to go isolate herself and be THAT SAD alone, I felt a different kind of sadness for myself.


I don't mean to be self-indulgent nor to have a pity party. I mean that it was good for me to re-acknowledge that this is not normal, that something is wrong.



I would have stayed in the library because I like couches but my nose was running too much and the tissues were in my office. The last four steps before the threshold to my room were plodding stamps. It was weird. I think I might have felt the kind of dread that comes from being worn out from something and knowing you have to do the dance all over again--and knowing there will be more all over agains yet to come.

A new round of tears came and my whole body felt tired and sad and uncomfortable. I wanted to lie down and stand up and sit and I couldn't do any of those things or none of those things. And then the phantom hands returned because what would a rough time be without them??


I started thinking about how I would need to pull it together because people would be showing up within an hour for rehearsal. That made me feel worse. I would try to sort out what in particular was hurting and then I would return to how I needed to stop soon and it would make me cry even harder. I think it was the thought of masking that was hard to grapple with. Lately my Dr Jekyll has developed a thick shell. I'm starting to feel like my former self that had a sturdy knee on the throat of my suppressed self who was decaying under hurts and trauma that it couldn't face. 


Truly, I don't want to go back to complete identity split. It has made my days easier (no one asks; I don't tell) but it makes the nights about ten times worse.



Yesterday was hard for me. It was hard for me to feel like someone was groping me and I couldn't stop them, to feel like I was trapped in my own body and so desperately wanting to shed it, to feel like I was alone but like there were friends who would have been happy to take my call, and to keep remembering I needed to pull it together to face the people who would show up soon.

And when the crying got bad enough and the rehearsal drew nearer and nearer I decided I would call. I tried to put aside the frustration of not knowing what I would say. I tried to rehearse my answer to the "what's wrong?" or "what's going on?" that would come but it was hard. I decided that I would instead say, "I don't know what to say but I thought I should call." Something like that. And then hope the conversation could continue past that point.

My last big push into tears came when I asked, seeing the ingredients for a chai lattè on my shelf and feeling it was that kind of day and that kind of moment, "Dad, will you make me one of those?" I didn't think about how I was asking, it just came out. I wanted the comfort from a hot drink and I wanted my Father to make it for me. And it made me cry more because it was like His tender, doting YES came loudly and swiftly--almost like He overlapped my asking. Almost like he had already pulled the mug out and put the kettle on.

Something in that moment was the last big push toward making the call. I felt like help and comfort from others was something I was ready to receive for that time. 

I had been praying aloud for most of this time but when my friend picked up, I was a little shocked by how strained and watery my voice sounded. And now I could hear my sniffling and wiping though that had been going on for half an hour as well.

My "hi" was very small and engulfed in a kind of sigh. Someone was there.

I was very pleased that she was immediately able to discern the nature of my call. I guess when I usually open calls with loudness and a silly name, this start would be obviously different. I then wondered how I could drum up enough something to keep her on the line. I wondered how to make it so the call wasn't a waste of her time. I wondered how short I could possibly keep it. The pressure distracted me and I fumbled through the first couple minutes. 

I told her a few things that had happened, that were bothering me, that I was trying to understand. And I found the "yeah"s and "mmhmm"s highly comforting because they were real. She was present. She was trying.

She didn't have answers but she offered some insight. I talked about the hyper-realness of me not being able to let people in and how terrible that seems and she didn't view that as an opportunity to stick a presumptuous foot in the door (thank You, Lord). 

She let me talk and it was good. Then it was time for rehearsal. I kind of wished the evidence wasn't all over my puffy face but I didn't really need to hide. 

The lattè was horrible. But that couldn't be helped since I was working with powder and a stovetop, not leaves and a proper espresso machine. It still brought me great comfort. And I wasn't alone. And our corporate worship was great. And I didn't feel like a terrible Music Director who never gets anything right. Thanks, Dad.

I forgot that I cleaned my desk yesterday.

But I totally did and it was a rather climweldian surprise today.


Last week someone told me it would be sad when I left Crestwicke (our local church congregation).  I didn't really hear [read: imbibe, digest, accept] all of the sentiment but from what I could skim off the top, I was appreciative. I think I smiled and nodded and that could have been fine.

But, really thinking about it, I added, "I don't know how to think about that day." It's one of those cases where simple language and awkward grammar have to do the talking for me.

And after it was out of my mouth I felt a little shocked at how far that means I've come. I remembered how it was about two-and-a-half years ago that I was so fed up I was making up reasons not to go. I even gave a deadline of one year to see things turned around. (And the Lord, who is so weird, changed my heart about seven months early. In fact, He started changing it about eleven months early but we won't talk about that.)




It is very weird to think about where I was, how I was itching to go, how I was often seething about how appallingly unbiblical we were in our actions and attitudes.



And now... the thought of leaving bothers me so much that I don't think about it for more than a few seconds at a time. As in... I can't think it through. It's a little bit [read: 100% completely] like this is my family. Of course I know how the upper-case-C Church works but it will still surely be difficult to leave Crestwicke and leave Guelph. I cannot believe I'm saying that, given that we're actually far from being healthy as of today.



But--
  the
  Lord
  does
  stuff.


Yes, He does; selah and amen.



(This is not at all the blog post I had in mind when I sat down to type. In fact I was supposed to be doing work but someone opened this Blogger site on a new tab and made me start typing. Weird.)

it's not quite like that.

Things are a little bit different when I'm alone. I'm sitting in my darkened office again and the tears are coming out pretty quickly. I keep trying to pick up the phone but I don't. And then I write what's happening on the Internet, as if that will cut it.

I can tell it afterward but I can't break through in the moment. And so the cycle continues.
This didn't help at all.

[exhale with a smile]

Ahhh.


Last night was my first full night's sleep since the 23rd and
I 
  feel 
    great.
I feel quite grateful to have one fewer monkey on my back.


The office is now empty and I have a coffee and bagel on my desk. My socks are warm, my Chucks are comfortable, my to-do list looks pretty (I used markers because why not?), and my God is glorious.


Hmm.. that's probably the most presumptuous first-person singular possessive article of all time, eh? My God, indeed!


Before I left the house I was actually feeling stressed about how much there is to do, more stressed because I had allowed myself to sleep in. But now... but now when I'm making my to-do list with plenty of diligence AND grace, it seems OK. Also having no one else in the building is freeing me up. (I don't even have to close the door in order to think!)


I consider New Years celebrations. I'm thinking about tonight, today, tomorrow, and how our calendars work. I'm thinking about who the Lord will shape me into in the next twelve months (if He gives me twelve). I'm not going to make fine crystal resolutions but I do want to take some time to meditate on (even daydream about) the woman of God that 2014 could morph me into.


This ambitious streak in me, I daresay it's timely.


I'm thinking about I Peter and about the sermon series our local church will be led through in the coming months. I've had dormant excitement about this series since I was told about it months ago, that excitement was roused when I was given a brief outline of the first two sermons a few weeks ago, and then since last Thursday when I started putting the services together, it seems like the sermon series and the text and what the Lord will do to/with/in/through us is my seventh thought every day.


I'm so excited.


And the first sermon in the series, the one preached two days ago, it was the craziest combination of perfectly fulfillingly delightful, and incalculably torturous teasing. I AM SO EXCITED. [Those words look dumb. "So" is appallingly overused in this culture. But they're the words I have!]


It made me so happy that this opening sermon (almost a prologue) was preached on the last Sunday of the year, not the first. I like that it had a palpable "what's to come" feel to it--which of course also tied in perfectly to the content of the sermon, that we are not who we should be yet but by God's grace we are not who we were.


Oh, selah.


It's going to be a good day. By God's grace it'll be a good year. I'd better get to work!

I think better with my door closed.

(How about you?)


I feel good today. I just came from breakfast with my sister and I'm excited about my work week. I feel OK. I like the color of the shirt I'm wearing. Maybe it's salmon.


I feel relaxed and ambitious. Today I will probably eat many frogs. Today will probably be the day I get in to looking for work and other important life-big things. Hmm.  I'm like...threatening to burst with good.... somethingness. I'm going to try to funnel it all into my Church music work because let's be serious. Excellence is a thing.

I would like to write a blog post

but I'm not sure what to write.

It's been so long since I came here and I've written so many blog-like emails and letters recently that I seem to be tapped out.

I've been given some really fun gifts for Christmas and I like how loved it makes me feel. I liked re-opening and re-looking at them when I got home Friday after three nights away. Re-opening the gifts and properly processing them was one of the few indicators I've seen since Friday that I really was ALL there with my family over the holidays. Yes, all the unanswered text-messages and all the unprocessed things that came flooding in as soon as I dropped off the car I'd rented, it was a lot.

I wasn't thinking about work, I didn't journal, I didn't write more than one or two emails per day--and those were emails about the trip.

I like that I was given gifts which show how people know me. A journal, six pairs of earrings, some fun music things, coffee shop gift cards, and a book about grace--they stand out in particular.

The music things interest me. Two mini percussive instruments and two oversized paper clips with a treble clef on one and an eighth note on the other. WEIRDLY... weirdly, weirdly, weirdly the paper clips are building in me some kind of creative ambition. I looked at them, the instruments, and some socks with a keyboard printed on, and thought, "I could be a real piano teacher soon."

Maybe I don't mean a handful of students for a few hours a week. Maybe I mean it would be nice to have more room to express myself musically. I looked at the little gifts and was reminded of how much of my music passion is suppressed so I can get through the day.

But then I think music isn't Kingdomful enough, not for my heart. I think I'd always rather fit music in around whatever else I do. I could have it suppressed and pinched and less if it means I'm on the front lines in another real way.

Music makes me happy. I love my job. I want to be creative. I am creative. I will always have creative touches in every vocation I have. But, oh, to be let loose??

Could I be paid to spend hours a day crafting art? Crafting pieces of writing? Shall I be an art-er by trade whose Kingdom work is done in every waking moment, vocational and not? Who am I? Who shall I be?

I'm interested. I'm eager. I'm cuspy.

I want to have big ambitions. I want to work hard. I want many things. (I hope at least one of them is good.)

"Therefore let all Israel be assured of this: God has made this Jesus, whom you crucified, both Lord and Christ."

When the people heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and the other apostles, "Brothers, what shall we do?"

Peter replied, "Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off--for all whom the Lord our God will call."

skewed.

Power outtages are funny things! I like the challenge of finding the maximum normalcy within the newly imposed bounds.

Today I was able to get some real work done without my computer, the photocopier, or artificial lights. Made me happy to be so un-limited. Grateful also for this freeing me up a bit the next two days. 

But I always find it funny that moment I realise I've forgotten that something needs electricity to run or that something doesn't need electricity to run.

Today it was that I had to ask myself whether I could still use the hole-puncher. And I laughed at myself.

It's gorgeous outside.

I picked up the phone a hundred times. I called a hundred times. I reached out a hundred times, explained a hundred times, and felt a little better a hundred times.

But we didn't actually talk 

because you didn't pick up.

I didn't actually call;

I haven't touched my phone.

I just can't do it.

Lately I have found myself stripped of the willpower to ask for help. I steep in sadness and try to speak to the Lord about what hurts. I can't find the words. I sit and I spiral, thinking of the people who would take my call and would be strong for me.

But my iPhone, from across the room it looks like an expensive, rubber-encased portal to something even more uncomfortable. Last night I could barely look at it.

Eventually I cry and call it a draw.

These are the days I would relapse. These are the days I feel pressed, alone, confused, frustrated, and pent up enough to engage my coping mechanism because it brings relief. I hate it and I might be able to explain why it's terrible but I'll never say it doesn't yield temporary relief.

These days I can't do it because my heart's changed. But I know this territory. I know this "something needs to come out or I'm going to lose it" feeling that leads easily into a relapse because it's how I express. I can't say it so I enact it. 

And boy, does it feel good. Start to finish I'm glad I finally feel something I understand. It's only when the adrenaline runs out and the disconnect ebbs (usually the next day) that I start to feel worse, to feel remorse, and to wish I was free of the cycle.

And so now, without this option for relief or release (it simply doesn't figure in my mind) I feel even more cagey. My go-to escape hatch has been boarded up. Is a bad outlet better than no outlet? I can't tell. 

maybe we will linger

I wonder about more than I can say-

always

it rolls out, it moves

I try to pen it all but I miss

it's staring me in the face,

sitting on my chest,

pinning my hands, 

flooding my brain,

keeping me up,

tiring me out;

it's killing me.

it's killing me and I'm explosive--


straight-forward shot,
a beam, a canal;
a shot, straight ahead

it's stuck and shaking


out
out
out