a metaphor

Mending is not easy.

You see, you can’t mend people like you do clothes. A good seamstress can make it appear like there was never anything wrong. But with people, there’s always a mark left over, no matter how good the stitching is. That’s just how life goes. There’s always something left over: a loose thread, a seam, a reminder that something that was once whole was broken, then put back together. Sometimes the breaks are small, so small that only you notice them. And some are huge gaping holes that redefine the entire exterior, sewing you back together in ways that you never imagined.

Mending hurts.

A tear, even a big tear, can be over in an instant. You can fix a torn sleeve or a pulled hem in no time at all. Maybe an hour, maybe less if you really know what you’re doing.

But you can’t do that when you’re mending people. You just can’t. It doesn't work that way. Because when you rip apart a soul, it takes a long time to fix. Maybe a year. Maybe a lifetime. Maybe never. The bite of the needle moving in and out, in and out as it binds two raw edges back together can burn long after the rip was made. But we can’t stop. We still we have to mend.

When a shirt is ripped and not repaired, it becomes useless. It lies in shreds, and if it’s lucky, it might get turned into rags for cleaning. When a heart is ripped, if it isn't mended, it too turns to tatters. It languishes and disintegrates until is stops being a heart. And it turns into the rags of a heart. And when the heart goes to pieces, so does the person.

So you must mend. You must take up the needle, thread it, and begin the painful process of stitching. Maybe for years. Maybe for a lifetime. But you must stitch. You must mend.

But mending is not easy.

And sometimes you might believe you're not a good enough seamstress.

But you are.

So you must mend. 

Because mending is not easy.

xo.pa 

A buffet.

If you really are what you eat, then I would be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

For some reason, these are always the ingredients I have on hand. 

My grandma would be a mysterious, pungent something that comes out of a wok or cheese with crackers. My best friends from high school would be cheap Mexican food at two o’clock in the morning or pumpkin anything. My best friend from college would be anything deep fried from the south and homemade bread. My brother would be Root beer and angel hair pasta and Otter Pops in the shower, my sisters would be tacos with green peppers. My mom would be a gallon of diet coke, and my dog would be a piece of toast because he’s too snooty for Alpo now.

I picture all of these different foods on a table with my peanut butter and jelly. The people in my life would undoubtedly make one of the most disgusting meals in history; the kind of stuff that, when combined, teenage boys wouldn’t even eat. I wonder if I should replace my complementary foods with caviar and escargot, or perhaps some glazed duck and an arugula salad. But escargot won’t go tping with you the way Mexican food does and glazed duck would feel completely out of place driving down the back country toads with the windows down and music way up. Sushi won’t hike mountains and climb fences the way deep fried chicken will. And wine won’t laugh with you the way that diet coke does.

I like my misfit side dishes. If I were surrounded by any other foods, I would feel self-conscious, wondering if my skin was the wrong color and if the peanut butter makes me look fat. With all the people in my life, I’m free to be a simple PB&J.






xo.pa

a wondrous gift is giv'n

The mystery of faith.
That was the phrase that I took away from a friend in Mesa weeks ago.

The mystery of faith.

He uttered the words in but a moment of silence.
I don't remember what was said before and I'm not too terribly sure what followed. It was almost an afterthought. Four small words he said for himself. A little pause before he reached across the table for his Book of Mormon. And yet, while their utterance was a soft and quiet event, the whole of my body heard them.

The mystery of faith.

Faith is murky territory. Covered and difficult and absolutely revelatory. Faith being a thing that is not absolute. That cannot be divided into halves or even eighths. That cannot be traced linearly or made sense of logically. That is to have a perfect hope in the unseen and intangible and unknown. But faith being the thing that leads to the light. 

The mystery of faith. a leap. and another. and more after.
Perfect in its absolute imperfection. 

There was something else there too. A second phrase hidden in a popular song--another phrase that I have sung countless times before that day in church choirs and around the piano at my grandpas house. But that day I sung the lyrics in my head to help compensate for the heat of the Arizona day. How silently, how silently the wondrous Gift is giv'n. Perfect words sandwiched in the popular tune of little town of Bethlehem.

How silently, how silently. 
The wondrous Gift is giv'n.

How Jesus entered the world, how God sent His only son, how the very thing that split time in two--into a distinct before and after--how silently and absolutely, unequivocally important it was that He needed not to enter with a bang and flash, but with the small cry of a child, born to a mother and father, in a manger outside of an inn that was just too full.

How silently the Gift was giv'n.
The mystery of faith. 

I often sit down and write when I'm lonely--because loneliness is, as it turns out, a thing--and what is reflected in my words is that I'm sad. Not lonely, but sad. And the people I share my words with hear that I'm sad. And I can understand that. I understand the confusion of the two things and then their inevitable worry. I know that because they are the ones who watched helplessly, outside my barbed walls, as I lived through it all. Alone. And I imagine, with relative certainty, that it was sometimes far worse for them than for me. Because I let them watch. 

My sister is my go to girl. She complains that I'm always complaining. She's right. Often, I am. She worries that I'm sad. Mainly because she knows and can see through the walls. I try to explain to her that I haven't found anyone to share the part of my life inside the walls. Not a romantic relationship, but just a healthy one. So she's my go to girl. I don't yet have someone to tell all these things to, so she's it. And I abhor that she has to listen. So I'll write when she doesn't want to hear it. 

The mystery of faith. And a leap after that. 

Two years ago, I sat on the stairs of 27 Palace Court London. It was a townhouse one block west of Hyde Park and for months I called it my home. Because that's what it was. The day was particularly dreary when my good girlfriend Dem sat down beside me on the damp stairs plastered in leaves and cigarette butts. She cocked her head, placed her arm around me and asked what was the matter. . . 

It was a sad event. Because I deflected. And lent only evasive responses. And then watched as the barbs cut her hands as she searched to find a way through. The two of us meeting on the stairs became the chat of strangers more than anything else. Because a good friend can become a stranger when imaginary barricades are involved. The broken and fractured conversation. The two minutes of which I can say nothing other than a sort of panic took hold and I wasn't terribly kind.

You know, Per, it is really hard to be your friend sometimes. 

I--I just.....

I tried to formulate some sort of explanation for the deafening silence between us and my dropped jaw. I had nothing. She placed her hand on my hand and looked deep into my eyes for a few long seconds. And then I watched her Hunter galoshes slop in the rain as she carefully walked away. 

There was no explanation. Or even an excuse. Because it is generally acknowledged that people are sometimes hard to love. Even me. And she was right. 

How silently the wondrous gift is giv'n.
Perfect in its absolute imperfection.

Later, trying to explain the immediacy of the sadness of that event, I wrote in my journal, well, the thing is, that once upon a time, at the end of the day I gave up on faith, and I need it to live happily ever after, after the manner of happiness. So where do I even begin?

The mystery of faith. 

The people who live through these things with me always worry that a little blue, a little low, a little lonely, is the commencement of a very long and slippery slope. And I understand the fear because it's a lot like drowning. It's a constant and persistent and impossible filling of the lungs with heavy water. It's dark and difficult and murky. But you know how I got over it? I learned to swim. To press my legs hard and long toward the light. And once you learn how to swim, you always know how to swim--and so that particular dark body of water holds minimal fear. 

Depression does not scare me. It comes and goes. And the loneliness and the anxiety are not who I am. I have a beautiful, burning life with a few drowning moments. But don't we all? 

 I just think that it'd be nice if the person who lands on the other side of the wall doesn't worry about it in the same way others have. Because I'll swim out of it. And I do love that the person is there. Because it takes away the loneliness.

All the smiles from the lighted shores, tell me to take counsel with myself. To which I want to say that the counsel cannot help me deconstruct these mended walls. Because it was that same counsel that built them. That counsel will not share in the belly-ache laughter. And it won't help me calm myself when I'm instantly anxious and can't catch my breathe. It won't go on spontaneous adventures. It will not tell me that I'm reacting completely appropriately. It will not hug me. It will not wipe away the tears that rest on the curve of my cheeks. 

Loneliness is murky territory. 
The mystery of faith.

I want the silent-kind-of-love. Love that is absolutely and unequivocally important that it does not enter with a bang or flash, but by slipping into the cracks of an everyday life. The bond of being needed and loved. Like a mother and her daughter. The trust. Faith is what gets us to love. That revelation--that absolute pure light at the end of all the murk--that is love. 

And so faith is the journey. It is the life. It is the day after day. The trust. And it can be a tremendously lonely thing. Because it is sometimes unclear and sometimes unfair and footing is often lost.

And so the mystery of faith is a road that is traveled alone.
But when the dark gives way to the light, well...
how silently the wondrous gift is giv'n. 









xo.pa

infinity

Warning: This is sort of sticky. Full of sap. 


Some gal friends and I went to the movies last Friday night to see the newly-released Fault in Our Stars. You know, the infamous rave over John Green... 

Tear invoking, for sure. But not nearly as much so as the book. It's always that way, isn't it?
My eyes got all misty when Hazel, the main character who's slowly dying of cancer, shares these words with her boyfriend, Augustus, at his funeral preview. Because he's dying faster. And they've stuck with me:

I am not a mathematician, but I know this: there are infinite numbers between 0 and 1. There’s .1 and .12 and .112 and an infinite collection of others. Of course, there is a bigger infinite set of numbers between 0 and 2, or between 0 and a million. Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. | John Green

They've stuck with me because something clicked in my head. I understood. I understood how something that is infinite can have a definite beginning and definite end. 

One of those somethings is the atonement of Jesus Christ. The infinite atonement. Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. This's the biggest infinity in the Milky Way (and remember to give thanks for the funny things in life, like who ever decided to call our universe the Milky Way). 

The atonement.

Whenever they said that the sacrifice of Jesus Christ was "infinite" I didn't understand how something with a beginning and an end could be just that. Infinite. But it's the same as the infinitesimal numbers between 1 and 2. 

Jesus' sacrifice is infinite. And infinity covers everything. 

With Jesus, we have the biggest infinity. 

Don't take it for granted. 

Trust in Him. 
Know that He's there.
Know that He cares.
Know that He's already won for you.
And He always will.

Always. 

xo.pa

Best. News. Ever.

then, when we think
that we'll never smile again
life comes back


God is for real, you guys. He hears me all the time. And He answered all of my prayers today. 
The neurologist gave me good, solid news. 
(hallefreakinglujah)

I went into the appointment thinking that I'd be placed on so-and-so drug and we'd just go from there.
But, no. He told me that during my test I'd experienced three episodic spikes. And he also said that he wanted to keep me off all medicine. My body responded well to the tapering off and he thinks it best to remain drug-free. And I agree. 

I wreak of happiness. 
Because my life's come back to me. 
And my smile is blinding. 






 xo.pa

milkshakes are worth having twice.

I got this phone call today from my brother. he's good to me. really good to me and knows what to do better than any boyfriend ever has. it's kind of sad, but I'm grateful for that.

he called me while I was doing what we have always called research--which is really just therapeutic writing, but research resonates much better than that.

hey, per. what's up?
just research.
you want me to bring you a milkshake or something?
*sigh* yeah.

the thing is, is that he never knows but he always does. and that's why he's so great. (sorry ladies, he's not a single man.)

it was one of those days where i forgot to forgive myself. this is exactly what he taught me--he taught me to forgive myself. because i'm no good at that.

he said forgive yourself the nights you forget to wash your face or set an alarm. forgive yourself for completing that math homework last year with a less-than-passing-grade. you did what you could and sometimes that is good enough. he said when you wake up in the middle of the night and accidentally eat all the Toblerones in your top drawer that you brought back from Europe and were saving for a really shady time, forgive yourself. forgive yourself when you have nothing nice to say about anything. humans sometimes think like that. forgive yourself for the times you spent with the guy you don't have many good things to say about. he was unkind and he is not your fault. forgive the nights you cannot sleep--sadness or an unnamed force pressing heavy on your chest. forgive the mistakes of the last several years. so you made them. okay. enough. move on. forgive yourself for actually loving yourself--the scars all over your skin, the sharpness of your tongue but the softness of your heart, the the curve of your hips and to hell with a society that suggests you should not. keep some secrets closer. forgive yourself that you did not choose an easier path. and forgive yourself for the sadness you caused those around you. the broken-promises. the things that went unsaid. fear was prominent and gnawing deep. forgive yourself. you did not give enough thanks and you were damn hard to love. forgive yourself. forgive the anger you feel. feel the anger and then look at it with kinder eyes. soft eyes. forgive yourself for not handling it all better, for feeling like you let others down. forgive yourself. you did what you could what you had and the only way you knew how. and the road is not yet finished, so why try to rush the whole thing?

so celebrate. celebrate the fact that your road has twists and bends and adventures and some major departures. celebrate your story and the blemishes in it. the blemishes in your skin. sure, go ahead and buy yourself some of that expensive Clinique serum that promises it makes those fine lines in between your eyebrows and underneath your eyes disappear. but when the day comes that those fine lines don't fade so easily into the background, celebrate. look up and give thanks. humanity is visible on you. and that is worth a celebration. you will be loved more for this. you will love yourself more for this. and please, send that love into the world and let it fill you up. open up your heart and live ferociously. begin to live and work and fight and play and love with an unparalleled ferocity. love with all the kindness in the world. set fear aside. keep your shoulders back, your chest out, and your chin up. you have all the armor that you need. see with wide loving eyes and always laugh. always, always laugh.


thanks, scot, for the milkshake.




xo.pa

l'hopital

Top Left: Sister Missionaries. Jones and Loveland.    Top Right: Self portrait.      Bottom: My wonky brainwaves and me.  

You guys. I was classified as a FALL RISK.

Seriously? A fall risk? Me?

I tried to ignore it, but they put those words on a bright yellow band and fastened it around my wrist denoting that I, indeed, am in what I suspect to be 28 point font Arial. There was no denying it.

I mean, my whole life I've been clumsy. The kind of clumsy that finds you in the grocery store carrying all the ingredients for lasagna in your arms and then all of a sudden you find yourself face flat in a mess of cottage cheese. The kind of clumsy that has you hanging out the side of a SUV by a seat belt because you accidentally fell out of the car before you could unbuckle yourself. And the kind of clumsy that has you fall while walking down the sidewalk, not because your foot stubbed a raised crack of concrete or because a tuft of grass magically grew, but because you are really just that clumsy to trip over nothing. That's me.

I was in denial over this whole thing. But in my defense, it's one thing to be clumsy (even if it's the can't-go-anywhere-or-do-anything-without-falling kind) and totally escalated to be medically classified as a "fall risk."

There are things that come along with this title, other than a little shame. 
Things like padded side rails. An alarmed bed in case the patient tries to sneak away.* And the constant over-care of a few too many nurses.

Let's not forget the good in my situation. An unlimited supply of diet Coke with pebble ice continuously served at my command. Yes, please! 


*She walked in the door and her eloquence and wholeness found themselves right next to me. How are you girl? You doing good? She has a knack for making herself feel comfortable and letting other feel comfortable, too. The chat lasted no more than ten seconds before she sat on the end of my bed. And the instant her fanny touched my luscious white sheets alarms went off. We're talking border line fire truck sirens here. She popped up so fast saying Was that me? No, it couldn't have been me. Was that really me? What did I do? 

Nurses rushed in. Three of them. And that's when we found out my bed was alarmed. It was the highlight of my hospital stay. My brain waves were ALL. OVER. THE. PLACE. then. Nearly gave me a seizure from laughing so hard. 






xo.pa

monday musings

The truth is like a lion. You don’t have to defend it. Let it loose. It will defend itself. | St. Augustine

I am practicing being kind instead of right. | Silver Linings Playbook

The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them. | Ernest Hemingway

Wrong turns are as important as right turns. More important, sometimes. | Richard Bach

The very least you can do in your life is figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof. | Barbara Kingsolve




[xo,pa]