Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Portrait photography!









So this Sunday the whole photography kit-and-caboodle traversed downtown
to visit Garrett Nudd. Mr. Nudd does some high end wedding photography and
(also) happens to be an SAU alum, so therefore we're in with the in-crowd, if
you know what I'm sayin'.

Here are some of my shots of Aimee. More to come!

Thursday, September 10, 2009

*clickety clickety*


COLLEGEDALE, Tenn. Rosemary Smith pauses to contemplate the death of a friend, while her husband, Paul, takes a cat nap in their Morning Pointe residence, September 10, 2009.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Things that make me feel special

I have this pervasive fear. It is a fear which rattles me to the very core; it is a fear I have battled for seven years. This fear can find me in blithe conversations--this fear can break into my intrinsic behavioral patterns and dissuade me from normalcy--leaving paranoid, awkward actions in its place. This fear and I have gone head-to-head through long rounds of tears and prayers, yet sometimes it still sticks like to me, like silly putty to my brain. Sometimes I CAN'T SHAKE IT.

I fear that I am bothering people just by being me.

Blame it on a two-year period when I felt, and was told, on a regular basis, that I WAS bothering people by being me. That I was weird. That I was crazy. That something was wrong with me because I was different, unconventional, or colored outside of the lines--however you want to put it, it stuck. Sticks and stones disproved.

So the other day, as I was having a conversation over dinner with one of my best friends--I was asked why certain people hold a place of adoration in my social circle. I gave an answer which surprised me.

"They each do something very different that comforts and speaks to an inner fear or vulnerability; something that stops it, dead in its tracks, and it is no more."

What were these things? My subconscious rose to consciousness and lucidity occurred. I was particularly excited to listen as I categorized each action before my very ears.

1) A consistent "you're not bothering me."

I was told, once, bluntly (in an intuitive stroke of inspiration) "I don't want you to ever feel as though you're bothering me by talking to me or sharing your thoughts. You're not." BAM! Before this was uttered I didn't realize how very much I needed to hear it.

2) An, "I love you just the way you are."

I am very insecure about my epidermis. I'll just say it. My skin isn't the seamless porcelain vibrance that you see in magazines. It is battered and worn, and hides under layers of makeup, which I cling to like a comfort blanket, shield, or buckler. I am terrified of waking up some future morning with an unsuspecting husband, who consequently look overs, and goes "aaaahhhh!" in response to the above. Also, my hair does not behave as it should in the a.m.

Perhaps this sounds neurotic, but I can promise you it causes grief. I worry about this due to the aforementioned deeper worry--I suppose I fear that I will disappoint someone, just the way I am. And once, while a dear friend was visiting, he woke up to visit with me before leaving to hit the road. I woke up straight from a sleeping bag and visited with him before he took his leave. I adored his presence and conversation, but felt that my visage must be giving him horrible inconvenience, paining him in at least some little way. So I apologized.

"I'm really sorry. Look at me. I'm a terrible frump."

And whatever it was, however he knew, he stopped me. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Don't even worry about it. That's not even what this is about. It's about this: us talking and having nice conversation. I like this."

I felt sheepish, silly, apologetic for letting my inner fear show--but I glowed appreciatively. I couldn't keep it inside. He had instantaneously not only identified, but quieted, one of my fears. I felt so happy...just the way I was.

3) A check-in.

I have a dear friend who writes to check in on me. We don't communicate as often as I'd like, due to the haphazard busy-onslaught of life, but this friend makes it a point to write every few months to check up on me. To give me an update, to send words of encouragement, to check in; to seek and inquire about my life. I feel cared for beyond compare.

4) A question. Or two, or three.

I think the recipe for a decent love potion is as follows: Ask questions, and patiently wait for the answers. Think about the answers, respond, and ask more questions. Make it a point to do this one on one, in all genuine-ness, in a calm and quiet manner. Take 'love' potion however you wish, but it is a dead on filial and agape elixir; perhaps eros, too. I have a dear friend who practices this trait, and it never fails to make me feel valued.

I sat there, out at dinner with a friend, subconscious fully satisfied after having found lucid words in a concrete sentence, and I realized that each of these actions, in their own way, either directly or indirectly addressed a very important part of who I am. The part which I attempt to hide, the part which is in such desperate need of repair.

And when we stop to fill another's need, well, others will probably write blogs entitled "things that make me feel special" in grateful appreciation and accolade.

Or not.

But in the chaos theory of our multi-faceted, baggage ridden personalities, little things can mean the world. I think filling a need is the epitome of Christ-like-ness.

So thank you.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

HOWL!

I read the Franny half of Franny and Zooey this morning. Nothing like J.D. Salinger when you're trapped in bed and need something good to read--so I picked it up. For the first time. I seem to pick up literary soul mates a dime a dozen--characters with whom I relate, decently, if not entirely--but Franny is one of them.

You wanna know what's on my mind? Read Franny. Cause she's got it; you know, it. That essence of something that's been on my frustrated, melancholy mind for the past two weeks (and maybe more). Eating away at me. Causing lament. Tears. Read it. Do it. You will see.

The descriptors of collegiates:

"The rest were standing around in hatless, smokey little groups of twos and threes and fours...talking in voices that, almost without exception, sounded collegiately dogmatic, as though each young man, in his strident,conversational turn, was clearing up, once and for all, some highly controversial issue, one that the outside, non-matriculating world had been bungling, provocatively or not, for centuries."

"A section man's a person that takes over a class when the professor isn't there or is busy having a nervous breakdown or is at the dentist or something. He's usually a graduate student or something. Anyway, if it's a course in Russian Literature, say, he comes in, in his little button-down-collar shirt and striped tie, and starts knocking Turgenev for about half an hour. Then, when he's finished, when he's completely ruined Turgenev for you, he starts talking about Stendhal or somebody he wrote his thesis for his M.A. on. Where I go, the English Department has about ten little section men running around ruining things for people, and they're all so brilliant they can hardly open their mouths--pardon the contradiction. I mean, if you get into an argument with them, all they do is get this terribly benign expression..."

"I know this much, is all," Franny said. "If you're a poet, you do something beautiful. I mean you're supposed to leave something beautiful after you get off the page and everything. The ones you're talking about don't leave a single, solitary thing beautiful. All that maybe the slightly better ones do is sort of get inside your head and leave something there, but just because they do, just because they know how to leave something, it doesn't have to be a poem, for heaven's sake. It may just be some kind of terribly fascinating, syntaxy droppings--excuse the expression. Like Manlius and Esposito and all those poor men."
Lane took time to light a cigarette for himself before he said anything. Then: "I thought you liked Manlius. As a matter of fact, about a month ago, if I remember correctly, you said he was darling, and that you--"
"I do like him. I'm just sick of liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect."

"...just so tiny and meaningless and--sad-making. And the worst part is, if you go bohemian or something crazy like that, you're conforming just as much as everybody else, only in a different way."

"I'm just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else's. I'm sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It's disgusting--it is, it is. I don't care what anybody says."

And here's why the Salinger means something to me:

I'm so sick of bats. I'm sick of *fwack* smacking *fwack* people around with my words in order to *fwack* prove something. I'm sick of that context! I'm sick of opening my mouth to defend myself, justify myself, run down some godless resume of 'why you should be my friend, or stop to consider anything I say,' before I can say anything. I'm sick of having to run others down in order to be able to run at all. I'm sick of proving. I'm sick of labels. I'm sick of classifications. I'm sick of nearly everything and I just want GOD.

I guess that's why I relate well to Franny. She passes out from all of these things pressing in on her and her desire to 'see God.' She wakes up and tries again.

And though I don't think you'll find me in a bathroom stall chanting the words "Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me," and thinking that in and of their repetition, I will be able to see God--I know that it's more than that--I AM sick of everything else and I just want to see God. I resound with that.

And it shouldn't be this way, you know? I don't want to chase people down. I don't want to judge. I don't want to typecast or pigeonhole. I'm sick of showing off for attention, I'm sick of name dropping, so I've STOPPED PLAYING when I think about it. I've made a conscious effort to just STOP.

But when you stop playing that game, when you stop it, (whatever this whole game of Survivor-laden battle-field Earth is) other people still play it on YOU. Defense mechanisms state that you flinch back with your bat again... BUT NO!!!!

I just want to be SEEN. I want to be sought out, and I don't want to have to hand out fliers to pump up my attributes and sell myself in order to garnish attention. I want someone to have a genuine interest in me as I do in them, and that will be enough. No more: "Do you like the same music as I do? If you do, you're cool." No more: "Have you read the same books as I have? Cause if you haven't, you're inferior." God knows I have no problem conversing or sharing--but uniting VALUE and WORTH and PLACEMENT and RANK to these things? Bull(youfinishitout).

It's so easy to play the game. It's SO easy to play the game. I have been and am guilty as anyone you please.

But there IS NO GAME. It's all crap. It's all nothingness. Sounding brass, clanging symbols. Filthy rags. An endless striving after the wind.

And it's nice to compare and share interests and figure out how well you fit with someone else--it's fine to be close to others or to feel understood--but in the heinous, haughty, arrogant way we can play it out?! At what cost are we deciding our in-crowd?!

And I'm not just railing on some sect: Not just jocks or freaks or geeks or the churchy-churched or richie riched or elitists or future farmers of america--I mean EVERYBODY who proports to state who's in and who's out.

I want to love people the way Christ loves other people, no strings attached.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Tunage!

Here's the deal, friends, here's the deal:

God is AWESOME.

Next Saturday night a friend is taking me to see BILLY JOEL and Elton John in concert. Most musical buffs will nod in acquiescence to the epic-ness of such an event--but here's the nitty-gritty: When music is important to me, it is VERY important to me. It becomes a sountrack to my memories--happiest moments glisten to choruses, mundane tasks are brought up by backbeats, times of sadness are punctuated by poignant lyrical compositions. The artists and their passions live as vibrant characters in my mental vernacular--John Lennon and Jim Croce are close friends, available at all hours of the day to soothe, comfort, empathize and energize.

But Billy Joel? Billy Joel is #2 on my all time MUST SEE concert list--he is surpassed only by Sir Paul McCartney--due the the fact that if I had to give up a finger or a toe to grab a seat at his concert--I'd at least THINK about it. Paul is top of the tops on my must see.

So back to Billy--knowing that certain songs will forever evoke mental flashes of chinese-food runs, sobbing whole heartedly over lost pseudo-love, trips to Texas for the summer--windows down, Billy up--it'll be like going home. Seeing a friend. Reveling in sounds which transcend time, gender, careers, castes, age--sounds with which I identify--I find small pieces of myself reflected in words and melodies--songs which form an anthem to a life: I am thrilled.

Not to mention Elton John, with Your Song and Tiny Dancer--both songs have meant a great deal to me spiritually--I'm STOKED, friends. Stoked and blessed and grateful.

WAHOO!

P.s. And for fun, see the following. Tag yourself if you wish!

"Once you have been tagged, write the top 12 songs you cannot live without. Yes, we know this list will change every day. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged, including the person who tagged you. To do this, go to "notes" under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 12 songs, tag 25 people, then click publish."

**Note: Angela McPherson says: This is nearly impossible without blood, sweat, and copious tears. I will not take the hours and hours it would require to measure each of my beloved songs against one another in matters of musical/lyrical composition, personal/ memory value, or historical/pop cultural significance. It would be a frustrating and heart-wrenching endeavor. If you know me you know I ain't lyin'. ;)

Therefore! Here is a list of 12 songs I cannot live without...TODAY. This is not all encompassing, nor does it account for "all time favorites." Disclaimer stated.

1) “Jesus Jesus,” Noah Gundersen
2) “Furr,” Blitzen Trapper
3) “Holland,” Sufjan Stevens
4) “Dig a pony” The Beatles
5) “There’s always someone cooler than you,” Ben Folds
6) “Society,” Eddie Vedder
7) “Full Moon,” The Black Ghosts
8) “The Trapeze Swinger,” Iron & Wine
9) “Tune Out,” The Format
10) “Hoppipolla,” Sigur Ros
11) “You are the best thing,” Ray Lamontagne
12) “Me and Julio Down by the School Yard,” Paul Simon

Honorable mention) "Beautiful Child," Rufus Wainwright.

The end!

Monday, February 16, 2009

Excitement mounts and exceeds boundaries!

Just one look. That's all it took.


Let Us Reconcile from patrick toney on Vimeo.

These are my dear friends Tommy, Patrick, and Bruce, of Garage voice. This music is so good that I could backflip with internal exuberance over it's quality, spirituality, and message. This music is taking the gospel to all nations, genres, ages, highways and byways. This music is cool, friends, in the truest way that cool can be--it is a reflection of the face of Jesus Christ.

I love them with all of my heart. Tomorrow--tomorrow. THE ALBUM TOMORROW!

Sunday, February 15, 2009

The Eros Error

"Wow. This is the first Valentine's day, in a few years, that I have not spent disgruntledly biting the heads off of chocolate bunnies and crying."

I shared this weighty thought with a friend last afternoon while passing out carnations at the Morning Pointe retirement center. She laughed at the satire--I laughed that she thought it was satire--and happily went about the business of socializing with my "buddies."

I had a day full of love yesterday--and nearly forgot, entirely, about the eros variety of such a sentiment.

I woke up with a phone call to my Daddy. I call him at frightfully early hours every Saturday to inquire about the location of bible texts for use in my Sabbath School class. I could use Google; but that would require more contact with my computer (and with my feet on the floor outside of my bed!) than with my father--and he doubles as a right proper concordance, anyway.

I wasn't on the phone for two minutes before my mother could be heard from the background, yelling, "Happy Valentine's Day, Angela!"

Then came church at Connect--with my new Sabbath School class about finding identity in Christ. We talked about fish and Peter and "do you love Me more than these?" God's proposed this question, I've answered yes, and I've had a sticky-glue peace inside of my soul all semester. Church, then, is a wild celebration of this peace--the song-service was so moving I wept.
"Your love is extravagant, your friendship is intimate."

Upon coming home from church, I looked on my laptop to see that a valentine had been delivered. Not just any Valentine, mind you, this was a Happy Feet valentine--with one of Robin Williams' macaroni penguin cronies pontificating that I must "let it out!" this February 14th. X's and O's were scrawled all over the card, in meticulous yet shaky penmanship, and it was signed "Andrew Hicks." I should have known. Andrew and I had a lunch date earlier this week in the cafeteria. I think he might like me. In fact, I know he likes me. I purchased his ice cream. Andrew is four years old. :)

(I think I should also mention that this valentine doubled as a tattoo, thus setting the standard very high for any future valentine applicants.)

Then came Morning Pointe and The Great Carnation Debut. I have a secret: I hate carnations. I think they are the ugliest and least aesthetically pleasing flower on the planet, bearing a striking resemblance to withered cabbages on stems. However, most people seem to harbor no such ill will against these flowers, and I had been racking my brain for a good long time as to what I could do to say "I love you!" to retirement home residents. Make cards? For 60 people? Time consuming. Bake cookies? I'll be honest--I can't bake worth a flip. Nothin', nothin', nothin'--and then God gave it to me: Buy a bunch of carnations and say "I love you." So we did. Me and whoever felt like joining--"whoever" ended up being quite the crowd. The copoius hugs, kisses, and good conversation we received from the residents made my heart run over. Plus, I picked up Valentine #2--Mr. Burns. Not from The Simpson's, friends, from Morning Pointe; and he's just as much of a character. We flirt shamelessly. ;)

I stayed so long at Morning Pointe that I drove back to the dorm at a quicker pace than most Collegedale Police would appreciate--but I had to round off my Valentine's mission. This mission was to "Celebrate single-ness with my Dolphin," who is consequently and sometimes known as Alyssa Foll. Dolphin is Valenine #3.

Our great and mighty plan was to go to the Macaroni Grill (Pengin throwback, anyone?) with two other dear girlfriends--each "couple"matching, with Alyssa and I sporting semi-scandalous red dresses. (I only say this because it is fun to say "semi-scandalous" in regard to one's self. They weren't scandalous at all, really.) So we went out. We ate. We took in a wildly-blatant chick-flick (Confessions of a Shop-a-holic: a stark allegory about the evils of credit-card debt. And a gorgeous British man. I digress.) We thoroughly enjoyed each other's company.

I stumbled into the dorm room at 11:55. I looked in the mirror to take one last glance at the bright red dress, the curled hair, and the precice makeup. "Someday someone will appreciate all of this," I heard my thought-process say. No! No! Don't go there! What was this? I had experienced a "high" day--a lofty day of Valentine's goodness. How could my thoughts then turn so...girly? I shuddered. "Ah, wretched (wo)man that I am! Who shall deliver me from this body of death?"

Then God butted in on my thought-process. I appreciate it when He does this sort of thing.
"Aren't you happier now than you have been in a long time?" He asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Haven't I filled you up today?"He asked again.
"Yes," I said.

He then reminded me of my three valentines: Andrew. Mr. Burns. Dolphin. Then came the rememberence of my parents on the phone. Of church. Of Jesus Christ. I had all kinds of love.

"Do you believe this?" He asked, a third time. (Congruent with the Peter/fish reference, incidentally)
"Yes!" I said again, for the third time.

"Then get up and dance," He said.

Now, I don't know if God has ever told you to dance, but I said "ok!"

I kicked off my shoes and frolicked around my dorm room--red dress, curled hair, precice makeup, and bare feet. I tried every style I could think of: Ballet, Jazz, Chalston-esque-swing, African tribal, theater company chorus line--anything, completely letting go of myself and every incumbent inhibition. It was glorious.

I ended up exhausted, smiling, and thankful. I ended the day dancing with Jesus.

We have a God who has given us all kinds of love--and I'll be honest. Sometimes the eros error makes me decapatate chocolate bunnies and expend some of my saline reserve. But I am happier now than I have been since my reconversion. I have re-discovered my first love "with a vengence," I say. With passion, with spark, with fire, with dance, and with three Valentines to boot.

I have a life filled with Storge, Philia and Agape love--and I am content to be in love with the love which Christ has given to me.

So until those good-looking British men make the scene with penguin tattoos, Eros, I say, can wait. I'll be dancing around my room with God.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Colored lights

Dear friends and loved ones--(which is, essentially, the same thing, right? Cause if you're a friend, doesn't that automatically make you a loved one? I think so.)

...I am writing a book. A real book with chapters and eventually pages and an ISBN number all its own, I pray. I've had a burden on my heart for a long time to write a book. Not just about me. Not just about pop culture. Not just about religious disciplines. About all of the above combined, flipped, and swirled around in this thing we've got called humanity. About how all of life; all of it--sex, drugs, rock n' roll, movies, academia, religiosity, relationships, money, power, good looks--every element stands as the human outcry for GOD. All of our human brokenness combined and turned-about paints the picture of Jesus Christ--reaching out to a longing world.

Anyway, all this to say that I've just finished the first draft of a chapter. This is the first chapter I've completed, as such, from mere thoughts, freewrites, or blogs--to something substantial.

And I'm about to post it for you to see, pray over, and lend feedback (if you would be so kind.)

I've thought about this in many ways--"Should I post it? I mean, it will be "copyrighted" one day. Should it be floating on a blog? "

"It's not finalized. Some of the ideas are still in progress. I may have missed something. What if it is still disorganized?"

"Is this going to be seen as some attention cry of "look at me" or "I'm trying to be a writer!"?"

.................Well, about all these things I have prayed, and God has said, "You don't write because it's yours, anyway. You write because it's mine, and you want to use your writing to reach others for me. So don't be afraid to share."

Since God has spoken, I have listened, and wish to humbly share this with you. I also crave your prayers, feedback, or thoughts on anything of pertinence. With all my love, I give you the chapter I call: Colored Lights.

Summer Nash sat, crying, in the foyer. She was nearly inconsolable for an hour and a half. What was I, as her babysitter, to do? After picking up her and her two older sisters from school on a Wednesday
afternoon (as is our custom) I had suggested the benign activity of decorating the Nash home for Christmas. Simple enough, you say. I agree. Except, I had not taken into account the 5-year-old mind, and it’s passionate response to one thing: Christmas lights.

Summer Nash is a beautiful little girl. She has big, dark, saucer-like eyes, which vary in “big-ness” depending on her internal excitement level, and the conversation topic discussed. She has dark hair, cut into a
smart-looking bob with sharp bangs and angles, highlighting her overall plucky nature as if by default. She has a ready, willing, half-grin full of baby teeth—a smile which she shells out at whim, lighting up her entire face by degrees.

She has a massive vocabulary for her young age—her father being an author and a professor—and she cannot hold still for an instant. If she is sitting, she will wave her arms. If she is standing, her entire body
will move in time and tune with the emotion of her conversational subject. She moves about in flourishes, like a ballerina wanna-be—walking to and fro from the kitchen to the living room is a performance matter—she points her toes and elongates her little hands and arms with concerted grace.

She’ll sing songs. She’ll dance dances. She’ll imagine elaborate scenarios in which the living-room couch is a ship and mops-and-brooms make fine paddles, “mate”. She’ll dole out orders as easily as she will smiles: You are a mother, a ship mate, a shop woman, whatever she decides, and just so, if you please. “It is a good thing she was born last,” her mother says with a grin. “She needed a few people to be subservient to.”

Everything about Summer Nash leaves you standing in her presence with a wide smile, shaking your head in amazement. The word “uninhibited” has nearly reached it’s highest form in this 5-year-old protege—except
that she’s recently discovered the world of peer-approval, so a delicate balance is being struck between being what she is, naturally, and what she believes she should be—funny, serious, composed or full of spunk. She, as the youngest, competes wildly for attention—her most used phrase, “watch me! Watch me!” is said with such genuine enthusiasm, that any notion of young conceit give way to a little girl just longing to be told “you are beautiful. You are important. You can have my full attention.”

I relate well with Summer Nash.

So on that day of Christmas décor—with three eager girls and me, lugging boxes far bigger than I down from an attic too high for my comfort—we unpacked the fated lights. Strands and strands of lights. Beautiful
lights. Mainly white lights—and one little strand of colored lights.

I had barely noticed as Summer’s sister, Morgan, pulled out the strand of colored lights with which to decorate her room. I was busy hanging ornaments. Summer noticed.

“Angela, aw thew any mowe colowed lights?” (Summer pronounces any “r” sound as a “w”.)

“Oh, I’m sure there are, sweetheart. Let’s have a look.”

We went over to the box of lights, which sat at the bottom of their foyer staircase, and a diligent search ensued. Summer was particularly intense in her persuit as we rifled through the tangled strands. White lights. White lights. More white lights. I tried to stall as a look of dismay crossed her face.

“Thew awn’t any mowe colowed lights!”

“Sweetheart, I’m sure there are more. They’re probably in the attic.”

My efforts at stalling were apparently transparent. Tears welled up in her eyes and her voice started to quiver with distress.

“No, no, I saw them awl and thew awe no mowe colowed lights!”

Oh no. Babysitter panic. Distressed and crying child. Sirens sound: “Danger, Will Robinson!”

I stood in a momentary jolt of mild terror, and Summer’s wheels started turning. Her saucer-eyes grew big with the thought process, and her next words came in the harried tone of accusation.

“I know what happened to them. Mowgan took them!”

Sibling strife. The alarm and warning sounded louder. I had to act quickly.

“Oh, honey. Morgan is just decorating her room. We could decorate your room, too! Do you want to use the white lights?”

She looked at me as if I just asked the question equivalent of “wouldn’t you like to watch a quilting show on PBS?” Tears fell in great drops on their wooden floor.

“But white lights are great!” I attempted, “They’re sophisticated and grown-up and they’ll make your room look like an ice castle! Wouldn’t you like that?” (By which I meant, “please, please, stop crying!”)

But cry she did. And continue to cry—even though I extolled all the virtues of white lights known to man. And these cries of hers were deep cries. Deeper than a temper tantrum. Deeper than a spoiled brat’s lament. These cries came from the bottom of a seemingly broken heart—and I couldn’t understand why.

“Sweetheart, they’re just lights!” I let out, after having tried to reason with her for quite some time. Her sisters ran to and fro, continuing the decorating process.

“Just leave her be,” her older sister said. “She just does this sometimes.”

This was a seemingly adequate explanation, but what was I to do with this small human being, crying bitterly in the foyer, with huge eyes and impressive vocal inflection? Her tiny little hands made choppy, strong gestures as she continued to present her case. “But I need them!” She kept saying. “I
need those lights!”

I considered options—like time outs or more rational talk time, but both of them seemed wrong, somehow, in this case. I couldn’t explain it. Finally, in desperation, I dropped to my knees in front of her, took her
hands (to quiet her movements) and said, “Sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s really okay. What’s wrong?”

It was just then that Summer’s intellectual side came out amid her heaving cries. She looked me right in the eye and said explained,

“You don’t undewstand. I need thowse Cwistmas lights. Mowgan has this fwiend that visits hewr woom. If she comes to visit hewr woom and sees the colowed lights, then she’ll like Mowgan’s woom more than mine! All Mowgan’s friends like hewr mowe than me! If she has the colowed lights, they’ll weally like hewr mowe than me!”

My heart reeled under the weight of what she had just said. I let out a near gasp-and-laugh and protested wildly that such a thing could not be true.

“Yes it is twue!” she said, and cried all the louder.

All that wrapped up in colored lights.

And as if things couldn’t get any worse, she looked up into my face, and these words came out in equal parts of plea and scorn: “You could go to the stowe and buy me colowed lights—if you wanted to! You could get in
the cawr and dwive to the stowe and buy colowed lights! Can you? Will you? Let’s go to the stowe!”

But I couldn’t. I had the charge of three little girls until their parents got home. That was my job. That’s what I had to do. That’s what was best for them at the moment. Try explaining that to a 5-year-old. Her emotions
hit the fan.

So Summer Nash sat, crying, in the foyer. She was nearly inconsolable for an hour and a half—equating colored lights with all that was important to her and her little life at the moment. I couldn’t punish that, I
understood that.

I acted like that all the time.

In A Streetcar Named Desire, Marlon Brando’ s Stanley Kowalski talked a lot about colored lights. It was his code word for sexual interaction and gratification. “..and you loved it, having them colored lights goin’.” Sexual gratification, was, arguably, what was important to him and his life at the moment. At the climax
of the movie he was left, at the bottom of a staircase, crumpled, sobbing, using choppy, strong gestures as he continued to lament his case, screaming, “Stella! Stella!” He stood there and equated colored lights with all that was important to him. He had nothing if he didn’t have the colored lights. ....

Colored lights could mean crying out to a wife for sexual gratification. Colored lights could mean a little girl crying out to win friends and gain as much status as her sister. Colored lights could be anything with which we equate worth, value, personal gain or importance.

When I cried out for colored lights, I wasn’t addressing a babysitter or a spouse, but I was addressing the One in charge of my keeping. I begged for colored lights nearly every day, as I looked up at God and said, “You just don’t understand! I really need this relationship, job opportunity, vacation, piece of clothing, pair of shoes, or [insert anything here]. I have nothing if I don’t have the colored lights!”

The problem with “colored lights” is that they address a deeper issue—I equate colored lights to mean my
value, my opportunity, my acceptance, my worth; so in a way, the colored lights are valid—and not valid, all at the same time—because I don’t merely want the item, relationship, or opportunity. I want
something more. I want my deeper need gratified—but I don’t think of it that way. I think of attaining the colored lights instead of the white lights. A little or big achievement or possession is set, somehow, on par with attaining everything good in life. Everything I want. Need. Deserve. On the flip side, not to attain that means, in some way, to forfeit everything I want, need, or deserve. Colored lights suddenly become
very important.

It doesn’t end there. How many times, after making colored lights out of wants, needs, or trifles—do I look up at God and say, with both pleading and scorn: “You could do it, God. You could give me what I want. You
could give me my colored lights—if you really wanted to.” I doubt God’s goodness. I doubt His care for me. If He really loved me, He’d start doling out the colored lights.

In his book (insert title here) (insert author’s name which I am currently forgetting) says that when we envy, what we are essentially saying, “God owes me something.” I’m not willing to make that statement
verbally, audibly. It would be blasphemy, heresy! God owes me something? No! I owe him everything. In Him I live and move and have my being. Yet how many times do I look up and imply that He’s a cheapskate
holdout?

I should pause here to clarify one thing: I’m not about to say that the desire for a good relationship, a good education, a good job, good friends, or even a good pair of shoes—is a bad thing. I like a good pair of
shoes. I’m saying that when I am left, crumpled, at the bottom of God’s staircase crying “Stilettos! Stilettos!” and clinging to my colored lights for dear life, there is a problem.

And just like Blanche, Stanley’s wife, came strolling down the staircase gloating in her control over him, this colored-light problem can control me. This problem can consume me. This problem can make me a workaholic, study-a-holic, party-a-holic, choc-o-holic, boyfriend-a-holic, anything-a-holic. This problem can make me say that God owes me something. This problem can make me doubt God’s very love for me. This problem can leave me crying in a foyer for an hour and a half. This is a problem indeed.

The whole world begs for colored lights every day.

And for argument’s sake, say we get whatever constitutes our colored lights? In the end, what do we have? A strand of electric cords, bulbs, and small amounts of glass which could shatter if we step on them. Mere Stuff.

Stuff that has got to be plugged in to be worth something. Strands that must be connected to something bigger than what they are by themselves—namely, merely, colored lights—in order to really do any good. Colored lights address the deepest issues of our heart, but they, in and of themselves, do not provide the
solution to them.

Colored lights are a cry for help.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

24 seemed to be a socially appropriate number.

I was not tagged to write a note regarding 27 random facts about myself. A
few friends have done as much recently, and who am I to be left behind?
However, I've decided that since I will turn 24 come my next
day-of-birth, since there are 24 hours in a day, since there are 24
elders in Revelation, and since Kiefer Sutherland's prestige clock just
keeps on tickin', I'm going for ...you guessed it.



Please read below should you enjoy quirky introspection. ...and I will tag others!



1. I am an ENFP, according to the Meyers-Briggs personality test.



2.I eat salads plain, meaning only vegetables--no dressing. I detest
dressing of all varieties, save lemon juice and olive oil. I also
disdain ketchup. Yick.



3. I have a love affair with the elliptical machine. If I work out, I
really work out--3 to 5 miles at a shot--but only on the elliptical. I
am an exercise machine monogamist.



4. I adore words. Mainly multi-syllabic or out-of-the-way words that
one doesn't hear very often. More syllables, please! .. I suppose an
argument could be made for simple speech, and I agree, in part.
However, I use large words not to feign importance, status, or
brilliant mental acuity, but to convey multiple thoughts/feelings with
single words--or two or more, when they form lush word-picture
combinations.



5. I've always thought that being left handed was sexy. I don't know
why. I made a concerted effort to transform myself into a lefty when I
was a child. It didn't work. I am considering another college-try.

-Note regarding "sexy": There are a few things I've found very sexy "in
my time" that may not mean much to others, but I find they are worth
mentioning: 1: Once, a friend and I were talking outside in blinding
sunlight. He was wearing dark aviator glasses. He took them off in
order to look me in the eye. Wildly Sexy. 2. Once, I walked into a room
where a friend who is very good-looking was surrounded by equally
good-looking counterparts of the female gender. He stopped, mid
conversation, looked up to say hello to me (by name) and grin. Wildly
sexy, again. I DO NOT WANT TO DATE EITHER OF THESE MEN--but I think
"sexy" to me, means doing something to make someone feel valued,
noticed, and appreciated. FEELING COMFORTABLE ENOUGH IN YOUR OWN SKIN
TO MAKE SOMEONE ELSE COMFORTABLE IN THEIRS. Ta-da! ...but then there's
that thing I have for guys in plaid. And the fact that anything raw or
blatantly passionate in everyday life is entirely "sexy." Ah, well, I
guess it ALL doesn't fit neatly into a thesis.-



6. My least favorite song is BJ Thomas' "Hooked on a feeling." Once I
had a horrid dream that my mother left my father for a red-headed
surfer, and I sang said song at their wedding--while doing a
poster-board presentation on why she and my dad should get back
together. (It was in the early 90s. We didn't have power point then).
It's funny, now...but it was so jarring initially that hearing the song
STILL makes me nauseated.



7. Sometimes I get mental "flashes". It's not entirely difficult to
explain if you've seen the NBC show, "Chuck." I'll hear a name or see a
person, and an onslaught of mental images will involuntarily come into
play. There is a certain professor who says everything with a hard "e".
When I see his face, I "see" (in my mind's eye) a big, blue,
Sesame-Street like letter E coming out of his face.



8. At some point, I will use the phrase: "Sorry about all of the
gravity!" in everyday conversation. I save up phrases I like--to use at
appropriate times.



9. My favorite scent in the whole entire world is Chanel's Coco
Mademoiselle. My least favorite scent is ANY form of Axe body spray--I
firmly refute all of the commercial's claims.



10. My soul thrives off of finding kindred spirits. Some people go to
beautiful, scenic paces and say that they find a small piece of heaven.
Me? I go to friends of like mind, pursuits, tastes, or hearts. Nothing
fills me quite like association with quality people--I nearly cry upon
a) meeting them (which may look strange) or b) leaving them. Goodbyes
are not my favorite or forte--usually because I give so many hugs that
(I'm sure) others are ready for me to retire.



11. I have been called a pop-culture junkie. However, I see it as
something deeper than your average celebrity/song/movie/trend:
To me, it is humanity striving and reaching out toward God. I hear the
ache, the struggle, the wrestling with the human condition. It becomes
a very precious allegory to me.



12. When I was a child, I had biblical characters as imaginary friends.
Queen Esther, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego lived next door. I also
had a "crush" on King David.



13. My penchant for crushes on literary or fictitious characters continues to this day.
Also, those REAL characters far past my own time period: James Dean,
Gordon Waller, John Cusack (I could argue for that one, however).
Something strikes a chord, and then they live in my mental vernacular
forevermore. :)



14. If I want to learn something on a certain subject, my habit, since
childhood, has been as follows: Go to the library, clean out the
shelves, and leave with all books on the matter. Picture an 11 year old
doing this--also, learning the hard lesson of double-bagging in the
parking lot. The Arthurian legend, method acting, interior decorating,
personality analysis, cryptozoology, celebrity biographies, dance steps
(don't learn to dance from a book--though I can still waltz)... you get
the idea. One book is never enough. 19 books are standard. Dad used to
"ground me" by saying I could only check out 5 at a time.



15. If I had copious amounts of money at my disposal, I would travel,
travel, travel, travel, and travel. Then, I would travel some more.
This is mainly why (f I ever) envy those with money--not because of
power or status, but because of opportunity to travel.



16. If I had to listen to one band for the rest of my life, it would be
the Beatles. If I had to listen to one genre of music for the rest of
my life, it would be "oldies," though that's rather all encompassing.
To nail it down to a decade, I'd take the 60s.



17. I've always felt a bit out of sync with my own time and
generation. I relate more readily to those of my father's generation.
I've always felt, dually, both un-cool, dorky, and out of place--as
well as entirely cool, special, smart, and valued. NOW, however, I've
settled into my own skin and love just...being me. :)



18. I was the pastor of a non-denominational church for three years,
from age 19-22. This is why I majored in Theology last year. (It's a
minor, now).



19. I am working on writing my first book. :)



20. I've recently found that I consider myself to be "grown up." A
woman. I've made friends with this idea--it is me, it is my own. I am
an adult.



21. The best thing I've done thus far in the new year is to take
devotional time in the mornings AND evenings. I feel as though I am in
a womb of peace.



22. I find myspace/facebook playlists to be an emotional barometer to
the soul's condition. Listen to my playlists and it will speak volumes
about who I am or what I am experiencing at the moment.



23. I feel the weighty power of prayer--praying for others is, honestly, one of my favorite things to do.



24. I start telling others I am a year older than I actually am once my
birthday is around 3/4 months away. I've already pontificated that I am
24 in conversations--without even thinking about it, really. How do you
correct that one gracefully, friends? "Wait, sorry. I just lied. I'm
actually 23, but apparently impatient."