HopefulLeigh

The Weight and the Wait

The weight settled so gradually, I no longer know when it first arrived. My period of unemployment after graduate school is a blur of Before and After. At first, I confidently proclaimed, “God has a plan, it's all going to work out.” As the months passed by without change, my confidence grew quiet and unsure. Did God have such a plan for me? Did He even care?

A month after graduating with my Masters in Social Work, I headed to Thailand to volunteer with Cross-Cultural Solutions for three weeks. A mini-Peace Corps experience, one of the best experiences of my life. I went because I'd never been out of the country and didn't know when I'd have that much free time again. One last hurrah. Little did I know...

 

Tanya Marlow's God & Suffering series has been an enormous comfort to me. It's a huge honor to contribute there today. Head on over to read the rest and be sure to poke around Tanya's blog. She's a gifted writer and lovely soul.

The Intention of a Red Plaid Scarf

Two weeks ago I experienced a Vulnerability Hangover like none other after publishing The Morning After. The response was amazing and yet I needed to disappear for a few days after discussing something so intimate.

Ten days ago I shuffled through old cards and letters and came across one from my best friend, written after she'd visited me. I'd lived in Nashville about 7 or 8 months at that point and she encouraged me not to lose momentum. It hit me anew.

A week ago I realized two things. First, the next day was Valentine's Day. Second, I'd read 11 books in two weeks.

I'm no fan of Valentine's Day but last year I decided to view it as a day to celebrate all the love in my life. And it was good. I haven't worn much pink in ages but red continues to weave its siren song around me. I made a concession to the holiday and threw on a red plaid scarf, a hand-me-down from one of my favorite people. It seemed fitting to wear a scarf from a friend on such a day.

This is as Valentine-y as I can get.

It also seemed fitting to ignore the Valentine-inspired posts telling singles what to do and how to feel. I felt perfectly fine in my singleness and perfectly fine eating pesto and pasta and dark chocolate covered blueberries by myself. Of course, Damon from TVD didn't hurt either.

Five days ago I chatted with friends in Google Hangout and one asked me how I was doing and my mind went blank. These weren't friends to whom I could merely say "I'm fine." They know the things I haven't listed here. But how was I doing? I didn't know.

The bits and pieces of the last two weeks percolated and condensed to an answer: I'm stuck.

I tend to notice and accumulate awhile before processing what it all means, if it even needs to be processed in the first place. While I'm self-aware, I don't always notice internal changes right away. Reading so many books doesn't always mean Something Is Wrong, for instance. But when I reviewed the other evidence, I had to admit something was definitely off-kilter.

The last year or so has provided distinct assurance I am not the one in control. More than a few situations have arisen leaving me feel helpless. I've tried to be kind to myself and stay on top of meeting my needs. I've tried to address the gaps in my community and untangle the reasons why I'm skittish about attending a church I love. I've tried to focus on projects but so many weeks have gone by without even a passing glance. I've grown more insular in my attempts to heal.

Trying isn't always enough.

My SAD has returned in some small measure, even though we've had our share of sunny days this winter. There's a lot I can't do right now: go to church consistently, go to small group, focus on blogging and writing at the same time, balance old friends and new friends, or have more than one weeknight plan.

I don't hide my propensity for self-care but I'm still learning to distinguish when to pull back and when to push through.

Truthfully, I'm not sure about the way forward or if there even needs to be. I'm sitting here and taking stock and it's not all bad. It's time for new priorities and habits but the way there will meander.

But I can wear a red scarf on Valentine's Day and I can look for little opportunities to seize joy. I can stir a pot of Portabella Mushroom and Thyme Risotto while the rising steam bathes me in its aroma. I can sign up for an e-course about the spiritual practices of life and the kitchen. I can say yes to Africa.

I can meet a new friend for coffee and start a Family Dinner Night with my best friend's family. I can call my cousin to catch up. I can pray for all that is out of my control and all that is within my control. I can designate a night or two just for my dreams and inch toward following through.

I'm still reveling in the now; it just looks different right now.

Moment by moment, intention by intention, I will get unstuck.

  Out of focus seemed appropriate.

cream 3/4 length sleeve sweater, Gap

brown henley t-shirt, Old Navy

red plaid scarf, hand-me-down

earrings, Etsy

 

Linking up with Dear Abby Leigh for Dress for the Day

The California Cousins

Grandma and her beauteous granddaughters

 

I wanted to be like them when I grew up. I viewed Clara and Emily through awe-colored glasses, ever amazed by their wit, beauty, intelligence. They were only a few years older than me and they were my cousins. Mine.

 

Their parents divorced the year I was born. The girls consequently grew up on the East Coast, interspersed with time with their dad in Wisconsin. I saw Clara and Emily at Christmas and the other occasional holiday, some regular summer visits, too. We treasured being all together, this mass of Petits descending on my grandparents' house ready to eat and play and talk for hours.

 

I don't know how much I talked at family gatherings in my younger years. I wanted to soak everyone up and I also wasn't sure what I had to contribute. I was plain old me and everyone else was fascinating. There was no competition, no one making me feel “less than,” but I couldn't compete, especially with my dazzling cousins. Nor did I want to. I paid close attention to Clara and Emily's jokes and music recommendations and anything else they wanted to share. Maybe in hopes their awesomeness would rub off on me but also because time together was precious. I might not see them again for another six months or a year.

 

When my uncle remarried, the girls and a couple of their friends choreographed a dance at the reception. They stood on the steps outside the house and I don't remember the song that played but I can still picture them swaying and smiling on that humid day.

 

We're the only girl cousins and so for the many holidays and birthday parties Clara and Emily couldn't attend, it was me and the boys. Somewhere along the way, we grew up. Their visits became less frequent once they reached high school. I don't remember the last time they celebrated Christmas with us. Even so, I looked up to them. I still do.

 

They've been back to visit a handful of times this past decade. A family reunion, a quick weekend to say goodbye to our grandmother and then a week later for her funeral. They live in San Francisco and it's not cheap to fly back to the Midwest. They've missed out on the garden variety gatherings. Adam's wedding and my brother's, too. They couldn't come back for our cousin's funeral or Aunt Sue's, nor the funerals for so many great-aunts and great-uncles.

 

While home for Thanksgiving, Uncle Bud told me Clara, her boyfriend, and their baby boy were coming to visit the week after Christmas. We hadn't seen each other since Grandma's funeral 5 years ago. There was no way I'd miss out on the chance to see them; their visit would be my last hurrah before returning home to Nashville. Even better: Emily joined in on the fun, freshly back from Europe.

The first Saturday in January, the whole family (minus my brother and sister-in-law) convened at Grandpa's house. We ate and talked and laughed for hours. I snuggled almost 1 year old Henry any chance I could get. I talked with Clara's boyfriend about books and writing and, oddly enough, Scientology. (Look, I am strangely fascinated by Scientologists and I wanted a Californian perspective.) I looked around the room, overwhelmed by the love it contained.

And I caught up with my California cousins.

I'll always be a bit in awe of them. How could I not be? They are amazing women. But now I see our similarities. I see how I have just as much to offer and the way they look forward to seeing me as much as I look forward to seeing them.

We've all ended up forging our own path. What are the odds?

Clara co-owns her business The Wedding Party. She started out as an employee and then she and her partner bought it out. And they've made it work! I secretly dream of some day flying out to the store to pick out my dress or the bridesmaid dresses. She's an amazing mother. I loved seeing the way she and Wallie take care of their son.

Then there's Emily. She started working with a rock band. Did she know anything about the music industry beforehand? No, but she's figured out each step along the way. The band has wound up on some amazing tours and they've made friends in high places. I could listen to her stories all day.

Clara, I still want your cardigan. Don't forget.

As we sat across from each other, trading stories about work and our dreams, I marveled at who we are. There's no telling what all we'll accomplish.

Clara and Emily are two of my biggest fans. I never could have imagined this when I was little. I had no idea what I was capable of offering the world.

The day flew by far too fast. There's never enough time to talk, to be. One of these days I'll make it out to San Francisco for a visit. We'll look forward to the next gathering, whenever it may be.

The Morning After

The morning after my 24^th birthday, I woke up with a parched throat and fuzzy memories. I pieced together what happened between leaving the bar and hanging out at my best friend's house into the wee hours. I remembered the cute guy. Oh, did I remember him.

 

Flying high on free drinks and surrounded by a posse of those who love me, the friend of a friend caught my eye. Hours later, we ditched the movie playing in the basement. Innocent enough.

We kissed and then. And then. And then we almost.

And I had wanted it to happen. My body called the shots with a guy I barely knew. I hadn't had sex because I said no but because he did. After years of hearing about the one thing guys want and how women were the boundary enforcers, it turned out my self-control wasn't iron-clad. It turned out some guys were actually gentlemen.

The magnitude of what I'd almost done settled low in me, between a pounding headache and churning stomach. This wasn't the first close call but it was definitely the closest.

 

Just the day before I'd talked to my mom about how it was difficult at times to be a virgin but I was glad I kept my eye on the prize: a long-lasting marriage was more important than temporary pleasure. My parents had waited, I knew I would wait. It was simply how things were meant to be. We've always talked openly about sex. While my mom doesn't always understand my perspective as a single woman, she never hesitates to listen.

 

Yet less than 24 hours later I absolved myself with little care. It shocked me to my core. That we hadn't followed through mattered little.

 

I tried to rationalize it in the cold light of day but I couldn't. No matter the trend, I wanted to wait to have sex until I was married. Wracked with guilt, I asked God for forgiveness. And then I wondered how on earth I was going to stay abstinent for who knows how long.

 

Up to that point, I'd bided my time. I thought I was the kind of girl who could kiss without consequence. (Here was the fruit of ignoring that nagging feeling.) I thought I knew my limits. This was a reality check.

 

Nothing prepared for me this. Not signing a True Love Waits card at age 14, youth group sermons on modesty, discussions with my mom about waiting until marriage, or discussions with my friends who didn't care they hadn't waited.

 

I craved admiration and affirmation from the guys in my life.  For so long I'd believed if I couldn't find a boyfriend, I could at least have fun, even though my heart was not made that way. My sexuality was defined around male attention received or desired. I listened to my insecurities instead of God. I started to see how off the mark this was.

 

I was ill equipped to piece together a theology which spoke to the matter of sex and singleness. I didn't agree with Joshua Harris or the emotional purists. Nor could I get on board with a more permissible sexual ethic, no matter how hard I tried. I know my heart too well. Where was the middle ground?

 

Instead of purity culture, I wish we'd been told, "This may be difficult at times. You won't be "ruined" if you don't wait- and especially not if the decision was taken away from you due to abuse or rape.  Waiting won't guarantee amazing sex with your spouse but sex in the context of marriage is God's best and here's why. And by the way, you're more than this decision."

 

They told me True Love Waits and I am waiting but not because they said so. This season has taught me about what I need and how I've compromised.  It's given me the space to develop a realistic view of marriage and healthier expectations of marital sex. Celibacy and chastity are about more than sex. It's about intimacy, realizing I do have self-control after all, and learning about my sexuality apart from sex. It's making the decision for myself, not anyone else, to reserve sex for marriage because I believe it's God's best for me.

I am not the poster child for virginity or even singleness. I am not a paragon of virtue. While celibacy has its place, it's not a spiritual gift. It's a discipline and like most disciplines, I look forward to seeing these efforts pay off some day. But if marriage isn't in my future, this will still be worth it. I'm more than my virginity, after all.

We're tempted to universalize individual experience. Are we beholden now to those who didn't wait, now consumed with regret? To those who say the celibate are repressed and sex isn't that big of a deal? To those who waited and judge those who didn't? Why does this conversation circle back to "how far is too far" without answering the cry of our hearts? Why do married people set the "rules" for singles' sex and sexuality in the first place?

What is the purpose in reserving sex for marriage? The Church has missed the mark in showing us a better way. Regardless of our sexual pasts, we enter relationships with hang ups and misplaced expectations. Some of us wait, many do not. And still I long to hear why.

I am a woman. Not being a wife or mother does not make me less of a woman. My sexuality is not defined by those roles. Nor am I defined by my virginity or my past. I am a unique blend of beauty, character, and imperfection. I am enough. I have tasted my power, I have chosen chastity, I have learned what lies behind these desires. There's nothing passive now in this decision to wait.

But this is just me. This is the path best suited for me. I did not always choose it. I understand why many go another way. I've often longed to do the same- no one ever said this would be easy. I don't know what this will look like in my next serious relationship. As with everything, we'll figure it out together.

There is no condemnation here. Simply a plea. Stand beside me, encourage me. Challenge me but don't judge me. Even if you didn't make the same choice, even if you think you'd never make the same decision. 

 

No matter what I have or haven't done, I am worthy of love. And so are you.

For the last year, I've known I needed to tell this story. For one, we need to hear more from those who are single and waiting. It hasn't been the right time until now. I'm grateful to the brave voices who have encouraged grace and freedom this past week. I expect I'll be sharing more in the coming weeks.

The Box I've Created

Two wooden boxes alight the hope chest next to my bed. My eyes glance past them daily, rarely stopping to consider their treasures, and I suppose that's the point.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The hope chest, a Kramer original, bears old journals, autographed posters, and books to pass down to future children. Every few months, I'll clear off the top to retrieve a journal. I surround myself in bygone days and then store it away again. Every time I move, I prune the contents further down but much of my past life remains. The incarnations of who I've been. The nostalgia of it all.

Today I opened the two boxes and poked around their insides. Pins from Comiskey Park, various elections, patriotic ones for 4th of July, funny pins made by friends. They tell me little stories from the past decade. There's Thai currency, reminding me my time there was real and someday I'll visit again. Funny mementos from high school.

I don't know why I hold on to so many things but I can't bear to throw them out either. My house speaks of hand me downs and gifts and memories, memories, memories. A growing chorus of friends and family accompanies my day through pictures on the wall and the decades-worn couch. I'm no hoarder though. I contain the tangible in chests and boxes.  Good or bad, it's all in there. I try not to keep the things I want to forget but we don't always have a choice.

The other box belonged to Grandma; it became mine after she died. Her cedar chest is in the office but this box stays close to me. Its contents are more complicated. Senior pictures- I've lost touch with half of those friends. Pictures of Aunt Teresa the year before she died. A St. Francis medal. Memorial cards of the ones I've loved and lost. Even a picture of a former hospice patient.

I've created a coffin. I hide the trinkets and dose myself with them periodically. I don't know why I keep these items near and far. I don't know why I keep the memorial cards at all. Those deaths are seared in my memory.

For now, I put it all back. I tidy, I look, I remember. I shake off the constraints. I breathe. I begin.

 

Linking up with the incomparable Amber Haines for #concretewords