In elementary school I played soccer. The smell of the grass, the dew leaking into my new cleats, my socks squishing with every step. My long hair in a pony tail swishing the middle of my back as I ran. I never fit the oversized rec shirts we played games in... so when they were tucked in they hung out from under my shorts sometimes. Shin guards, the ball spiraling toward my foot, the adrenaline as I took aim. The joy in watching the ball soar away from my territory. Defense. Capri sun and cookies after a long game, and jabbering all the way home. Every year a different team...
Swimming was a terror. I never learned until sixth grade. When they bussed us over to the middle school I was petrified from the moment the chlorine slapped my nostrils. Wet floors, wads of hair, disgusting. Changing hurriedly, goosebumps. Sitting on the ice cold bleachers waiting for swim tests. Waiting to make an utter fool of myself as I half-drowned my way to the other end. But I needed the exercise, so I joined the rec swim team. Gasping for breath, water up my nose. Goggles foggy. Sweating in the water... my body heat sloshing against me in the cool water. I dive in... my goggles flip inside out, pressing against my eyes.
Green, blue, red... I must keep going but the chlorine stings. The smell of conditioner and braided hair. Dry mouth. Cold.
Despite my terror of swimming, in 8th grade I joined the school swim team. I could never swim freestyle. When no one was looking, I would do breast-stroke kicks in the middle of my 50s, trying to keep up with everyone else. Swim meets with my dad the swimmer... and the excitement on the starting block. Coming up for the first breath in a race to hear my teammates shouting my name, helping me pace myself but driving me forward. Adrenaline pounding in my head. Two hand touch to stop the clock. Climbing out with no idea how I did... wiping the rivers of water from my face.
In the summers I play tennis. The satisfying pop of a new can of balls, the smell that tingles my nose. A muffled bounce... squinting at my brother from across the court as we imitate our Hungarian coach. The twang of the strings as I hit the ball slightly off-center... it approaches quickly. The ball meets the sweet spot and goes rocketing off while I feel like a pro. Sunscreen and bug-spray mixed with propel. The distant voices of other players on other courts. Dodging forward to tap a ball lightly over the net... my opponent just a distant mark across the court.
I don't consider myself an athlete. I've never found my niche. I tell everyone I'm just not competitive. I began to believe it. But then I went to a Grace soccer game. I watched Michigan play Ohio State. I screamed and cheered at a Grace basketball game, and slowly I'm realizing something different. I'm beginning to realize that I'm actually ridiculously competitive. If I truly begin to invest in the game, if I truly care about the players playing... then I am loud and obnoxious and the most extroverted I could ever be. I'm realizing that I don't allow myself to get invested because I don't want to be disappointed. I'm realizing that I actually love sports, even if I'm not an athlete myself.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Not Alone
Perhaps the most powerful lie is the one that says we're alone. No one cares. No one understands. No one has experienced what you're going through. No one struggles with that. You're alone. Alone.
Living in a dorm full of beautiful, talented, smart, funny women, it isn't too hard to find myself comparing... comparing my success, my talent, my beauty to the fifty other women I live with.
The obnoxious thing about comparing myself is that there will always be someone more beautiful, more talented, more athletic, smarter, thinner, kinder, funnier, and wiser. Someone more grounded in truth, someone more giving, someone more patient. Someone who has more self-control, more discipline, and more love to give.
Comparison is draining. It leads to rivalry. Unhealthy competition.
Rather than simply loving people for who they are, I become blinded by analyzing what they look like, how many friends they have, or how much I wish I was them. As I analyze, I become more and more insecure, uncomfortable with who I am, and frustrated at my own insecurity.
Comparison itself is swallowed up in the lie that no one else is insecure. That everyone else is perfectly content being who they are, and I'm the only person with a desire to be someone else for a change... with someone else's abilities, strengths, friends, or looks.
This used to be me. And then the voice of truth tore down these lies. I realized that I am not alone in my comparing, my insecurity, my desire to be different. The very people I look up to the most feel insecure in the same ways I do...
I wish I could describe what it's like to sit in a room full of the girls you go to school with, eat in the dining hall with, live in the dorm with. And to see these girls admit to their struggles on an anonymous survey. And to have that survey passed back out to other girls in the room. And as each statement is read out loud, those who hold a survey with that answer marked as a struggle... stand up. As I sit on the ground looking up at the sea of legs standing strong, unwavering representing the struggles in that room....the same ones I wrestle with.... the lies come crashing down. I am not alone.
Living in a dorm full of beautiful, talented, smart, funny women, it isn't too hard to find myself comparing... comparing my success, my talent, my beauty to the fifty other women I live with.
The obnoxious thing about comparing myself is that there will always be someone more beautiful, more talented, more athletic, smarter, thinner, kinder, funnier, and wiser. Someone more grounded in truth, someone more giving, someone more patient. Someone who has more self-control, more discipline, and more love to give.
Comparison is draining. It leads to rivalry. Unhealthy competition.
Rather than simply loving people for who they are, I become blinded by analyzing what they look like, how many friends they have, or how much I wish I was them. As I analyze, I become more and more insecure, uncomfortable with who I am, and frustrated at my own insecurity.
Comparison itself is swallowed up in the lie that no one else is insecure. That everyone else is perfectly content being who they are, and I'm the only person with a desire to be someone else for a change... with someone else's abilities, strengths, friends, or looks.
This used to be me. And then the voice of truth tore down these lies. I realized that I am not alone in my comparing, my insecurity, my desire to be different. The very people I look up to the most feel insecure in the same ways I do...
I wish I could describe what it's like to sit in a room full of the girls you go to school with, eat in the dining hall with, live in the dorm with. And to see these girls admit to their struggles on an anonymous survey. And to have that survey passed back out to other girls in the room. And as each statement is read out loud, those who hold a survey with that answer marked as a struggle... stand up. As I sit on the ground looking up at the sea of legs standing strong, unwavering representing the struggles in that room....the same ones I wrestle with.... the lies come crashing down. I am not alone.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Loved
Few days bring such a mix of emotions. Some girls curl their hair, paint their nails pink, and make sure they wear red... the more hearts the better. Others bitterly avoid wearing red at all costs. They break out the baggy black sweatshirts and glare at the roses that line the counter-top, waiting to be delivered to the expectant girls of campus.
And then there's me. Not bitter. Not covered in hearts. Just blessed. Because Valentine's Day for me has never been about singleness or dating. It has never been about others defining who I am. It has never been about longing for roses and teddy bears and chocolate.
Valentine's Day to me has always been about the love my family has for each other. I remember excitedly waiting for Daddy to come home... he would bring a bag of Jelly Bellys, flowers for Mommy, and a cute stuffed animal. Mom would make a fabulous dinner... we would eat by candlelight. I remember the magic of the glow of the candle softly illuminating our faces as we peered at each other between bites of mashed potatoes and chicken. Afterwards we would play a game, and as I crawled into bed I felt assured of the love my parents had for me, and also assured of the love my parents had for each other. Valentine's Day was a day of security... knowing that I had a place in my family where I would be unconditionally loved. And so Valentine's Day does not shake my self-confidence, my self-image, or my heart. Rather, it fills me with joy and confidence in my family.... in true love... that goes beyond the shallow manifestation of chocolates, Spongebob valentines, or pink and red cupcakes.
I realize that not everyone approaches Valentine's Day this way. I realize that many see it as a painful day. A reminder of singleness... of a broken heart... of feeling inferior, unnoticed, and lonely.
It is tempting to allow others to define how we view ourselves. If we're not coming back from Alpha desk armed with a bouquet of roses surely there's something wrong with us... if we didn't get asked out... if we didn't get extra attention from a crush... then we are most likely going to be spinsters forever.
Lies.
And so even though sometimes it seems like roses sure would brighten up the room, I refuse to allow others to define my worth based on pointless things.
I got to celebrate today with my roommate, my hallmates, and with the ultimate Lover of my soul who will never disappoint, never hurt, never forsake... who will always cherish, who will rejoice over me, and whose love is more than enough for me.
And then there's me. Not bitter. Not covered in hearts. Just blessed. Because Valentine's Day for me has never been about singleness or dating. It has never been about others defining who I am. It has never been about longing for roses and teddy bears and chocolate.
Valentine's Day to me has always been about the love my family has for each other. I remember excitedly waiting for Daddy to come home... he would bring a bag of Jelly Bellys, flowers for Mommy, and a cute stuffed animal. Mom would make a fabulous dinner... we would eat by candlelight. I remember the magic of the glow of the candle softly illuminating our faces as we peered at each other between bites of mashed potatoes and chicken. Afterwards we would play a game, and as I crawled into bed I felt assured of the love my parents had for me, and also assured of the love my parents had for each other. Valentine's Day was a day of security... knowing that I had a place in my family where I would be unconditionally loved. And so Valentine's Day does not shake my self-confidence, my self-image, or my heart. Rather, it fills me with joy and confidence in my family.... in true love... that goes beyond the shallow manifestation of chocolates, Spongebob valentines, or pink and red cupcakes.
I realize that not everyone approaches Valentine's Day this way. I realize that many see it as a painful day. A reminder of singleness... of a broken heart... of feeling inferior, unnoticed, and lonely.
It is tempting to allow others to define how we view ourselves. If we're not coming back from Alpha desk armed with a bouquet of roses surely there's something wrong with us... if we didn't get asked out... if we didn't get extra attention from a crush... then we are most likely going to be spinsters forever.
Lies.
And so even though sometimes it seems like roses sure would brighten up the room, I refuse to allow others to define my worth based on pointless things.
I got to celebrate today with my roommate, my hallmates, and with the ultimate Lover of my soul who will never disappoint, never hurt, never forsake... who will always cherish, who will rejoice over me, and whose love is more than enough for me.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Legacy
It's only been three years since I've graduated from high school. Sometimes that seems like ages ago: I've changed a lot, I've experienced so many new things, I've made new friends... And other times it seems like it was just yesterday when I stood on stage there... smiling at all the people I love from my community, filled with the joy of performing.
And then, I'm stooping to look at a poster of the performers... and I'm asked a most unsettling question: "Oh, you've heard of CHO before? Were you in it?"
I didn't quite know how to answer that. CHO was my life in high school. Has it really been that long? But yes, clearly. And then I wonder... what did I do with my life in high school? If three years later people don't even remember I was in the group...? Sometimes growing up is fun... and sometimes it's just unsettling.
As I sat in the dark, sold-out auditorium watching a group of youngsters play the songs my fingers know so well... I realized that even if I'm no longer the center of the stage, the joy of fiddling that we worked so hard to pass on to younger students is still thriving.
These kids, these seniors, are the very ones I got to work with as middle schoolers. These freshmen I've worked with for years... I got to play a part in passing on the love of the fiddle to them. Watching my students become the new up-and-coming stars thrills me... the kids I got to show how to hold the violin, how to play these songs. By no means do I take the credit... but it fills me with such joy to see them experience the same CHO that shaped me so much.
The past six months or so I have been pondering and musing about my passions. Somewhere in the hustle and bustle of school, friends, work, family, traveling... I have forgotten to add one of my greatest passions to the list: teaching kids music... Hearing their progress week by week. Sharing frustration with them, problem-solving, motivating them to practice (the hardest thing), and finally celebrating with them over a good performance. As I watched the line of fifth graders playing Twinkle... some shyly, some confidently... My foot tapped gently, my fingers tingled, my heart came alive.
And then, I'm stooping to look at a poster of the performers... and I'm asked a most unsettling question: "Oh, you've heard of CHO before? Were you in it?"
I didn't quite know how to answer that. CHO was my life in high school. Has it really been that long? But yes, clearly. And then I wonder... what did I do with my life in high school? If three years later people don't even remember I was in the group...? Sometimes growing up is fun... and sometimes it's just unsettling.
As I sat in the dark, sold-out auditorium watching a group of youngsters play the songs my fingers know so well... I realized that even if I'm no longer the center of the stage, the joy of fiddling that we worked so hard to pass on to younger students is still thriving.
These kids, these seniors, are the very ones I got to work with as middle schoolers. These freshmen I've worked with for years... I got to play a part in passing on the love of the fiddle to them. Watching my students become the new up-and-coming stars thrills me... the kids I got to show how to hold the violin, how to play these songs. By no means do I take the credit... but it fills me with such joy to see them experience the same CHO that shaped me so much.
The past six months or so I have been pondering and musing about my passions. Somewhere in the hustle and bustle of school, friends, work, family, traveling... I have forgotten to add one of my greatest passions to the list: teaching kids music... Hearing their progress week by week. Sharing frustration with them, problem-solving, motivating them to practice (the hardest thing), and finally celebrating with them over a good performance. As I watched the line of fifth graders playing Twinkle... some shyly, some confidently... My foot tapped gently, my fingers tingled, my heart came alive.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Despite my To-Do List...
It has been a beautiful week. Not because of Tuesday's seven hours at the library. Not because of Wednesday's 4 hours of sleep. Not because of huge projects started the night before (not typical for me...). Not because of long classes that require play-doh and coffee to stay awake.
But because of truth. Because of obedience. Because of surrender. Because of a week filled with so much grace. Of friendships that fill me, swell me, renew me. Because of Tuesday's ice cream break with a friend. Because of Wednesday's growth groups... the sincerity, the honesty, the walls coming down. Because of Thursday's children's books, laughter, and 1 am talks.
And because of Friday:
Hilarity in an 8am class, crunching carrots to stay awake, analyzing children's artwork and writing.
A chapel that helped refocus
Visitors toting red Grace bags: if they only knew how much this place has changed me, shaped me...
Subs with one of my best friends
Deep conversations with both of my bosses... instead of analyzing comma placement
A muffin, sharing truth, and learning with a friend... when we both almost canceled on each other
Encouraging someone I never thought would need the encouragement... and who has encouraged me so much.
A package from home filled with my favorite things and the familiar handwriting of my mom
Chinese dinner with people who love cultures....
Standing in a circle... nearly everyone with an accent
And asking the blessing for the food... each in our own language
Spanish, Korean, Albanian, Hungarian, Filipino, Chinese, English...
Storytelling: weird foods, misunderstandings, and body language
Struggling to eat with chopsticks... but finally eating
Relaxing with friends... talking, remembering, rejoicing in growth
Laughter in the hallway, happy birthdays, and climbing into bed with the Word.
But because of truth. Because of obedience. Because of surrender. Because of a week filled with so much grace. Of friendships that fill me, swell me, renew me. Because of Tuesday's ice cream break with a friend. Because of Wednesday's growth groups... the sincerity, the honesty, the walls coming down. Because of Thursday's children's books, laughter, and 1 am talks.
And because of Friday:
Hilarity in an 8am class, crunching carrots to stay awake, analyzing children's artwork and writing.
A chapel that helped refocus
Visitors toting red Grace bags: if they only knew how much this place has changed me, shaped me...
Subs with one of my best friends
Deep conversations with both of my bosses... instead of analyzing comma placement
A muffin, sharing truth, and learning with a friend... when we both almost canceled on each other
Encouraging someone I never thought would need the encouragement... and who has encouraged me so much.
A package from home filled with my favorite things and the familiar handwriting of my mom
Chinese dinner with people who love cultures....
Standing in a circle... nearly everyone with an accent
And asking the blessing for the food... each in our own language
Spanish, Korean, Albanian, Hungarian, Filipino, Chinese, English...
Storytelling: weird foods, misunderstandings, and body language
Struggling to eat with chopsticks... but finally eating
Relaxing with friends... talking, remembering, rejoicing in growth
Laughter in the hallway, happy birthdays, and climbing into bed with the Word.
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