The Secret

I love Christmas.  I really do love it.  I love the music and the movies and the decorations.  I love the food and the smells and the cold weather.  I love the spirit and the excitement in the air, and I love the church services and the reason behind it all.  I love the twinkling lights and the wrapping paper and the joy that seems to resonate with people of all ages.  I love the memories of Christmas past and the hope for Christmas future.
I love it all, but I have a secret.
For me, when it comes to Christmas, there's a certain innate loneliness that lies beneath the whole season, making itself known with pangs of melancholy and bittersweetness, rising up when I least expect it.
I wrote this in my journal four years ago, but the same ideas pretty much ring true today.

This is a season that is all about family and loved ones and togetherness.  It is filled with soft lighting, blazing fires, warm drinks, and special memories.  I just wish that this year this season of warmth would not leave me out in the cold again.  I just want to be a part of the group.  The group I speak of is the group that has someone special to share things with and someone to curl up in front of the fire with and someone to stay warm with.  In the summer it's easy to 'barhop' and run from here to there all over the place, but in the winter people generally stay in one place, and I guess I just find myself wishing that my one place could be somewhere filled with real warmth, more warmth than you tend to find in a bar, movie theater, or restaurant.
It's not that I'm depressed or upset or anything, really, but I just wish things were different, I guess.  It's kind of like this:  I've been alone for so long that I have just sort of accepted the fact and tried to make the best of it, but, for some reason, today I started to entertain the idea of actually having someone to share not only special times but all the times with, and it just made me wish that maybe this year I'd get a present that didn't come wrapped under the tree.

What a gooby, melodramatic twenty-year-old I was.
I know some of you may be thinking that I'm not alone, for I've got my friends and my family; and I shouldn't be sad, for this is a happy time.  And you would be completely right.  But you know that's not the kind of alone I'm talking about.  And, as for being sad, it's not an all-the-time thing; it's not even a most-of-the-time thing. 
It comes in moments. 
Moments when I just can't help but wonder what it might be like and envy those who take it for granted.  Little moments that make me catch my breath sometimes:  a sappy commercial; a glimpse of a couple walking hand in hand; the snatch of life seen when passing a lighted window on a winter's night.  These moments are fleeting, but I can't pretend they're not there.
Are there others like me, or am I the anomaly?
It doesn't really matter, for this I believe to be true.
All the moments that make me stop short now will be the moments that mean the most one day.  My feelings now will help me remember how important the little things are and remind me to honor that importance.  I will appreciate 'then' more because of the way I look at 'now.'  
Or, well, at least that is my hope.
God's taking care of it, that I know for sure, just like He does everything else.
Sometimes lots of times I get distracted, but it all comes back to Him.  He is the reason for the season, you know. 

Write This Down

Yesterday I turned in a pretty interesting project for one of my classes. It was a cultural genogram, in which we looked back at our parents and grandparents to see how our cultural definitions had come to be established. The project had several different parts we had to complete, but the coolest part by far was the self portrait. We could use any medium or mode of expression to comvey an accurate picture of who we are.
It should come as no surprise to any of you that this assignment was right up my alley.
Of course, my original idea was my go-to for pretty much any and all assignments dealin in self-expression--writing. I thought about writing a poem or some unique play on words; I just wanted to do something different, though.
Then it hit me.
If you know me well, you either already know or would probably guess that I am an avid journal-keeper. These days, my blog is my primary journal (although there are a few stories, details, names and emotions that I don't broadcast here...), but I've been putting my "innermost thoughts" down on paper since the fifth grade. And, as if that's not crazy enough, I still have every one of those journals. (It's okay if words like "packrat," "hoarder," and "absurd" just popped into your head.) Therefore, what could be more obvious than looking back through those journals and seeing what emerged as my story. I decided I would take several direct excerpts from my journals throughout the years to make up the puzzle pieces of my self portrait.
So, Saturday I hunkered down on my couch with a blanket and my journals. I quickly remembered that I used to make myself write everyday, whether or not I had anything to say. Granted, that proved a little monotonous, but it was surreal to read a play-by-play of a typical day in the eighth grade. The things I found in those journals blew me away. I was engrossed in my former self, and many, many of the people I've come into contact with since the time I was eleven made appearances in those pages.
In one day, I sat down and looked at the cycles of the last thirteen years of my life. I laughed at how sillly I was, cringed at how naive and unrealistic I was, and marveled at how much I have changed. So many things became so clear, and I never expected that to happen. My junior high insecurities and self-loathing jumped off the page; my repetition of college mistakes played like a cd on repeat; the divide between who I was and who I am became as wide as the proverbial Grand Canyon.
I realized how hard I was on myself; I realized how the times I was having the most "fun" were the times I liked myself the least and respected myself even less; I realized how much I have grown and changed without even knowing it. I realized I have the strength to be myself, and I am proud of the person I am. I know I'm not perfect and I struggle with insecurities, but now I am honest about who I am and how I feel. Beyond all of that, however, I realized the things that are the most important now are the things that have always been the most important: my faith, my family, and my friendships. I hope I continue to grow and evolve, but I know these things will remain true, remain important, forever.