Onward Bound

Have you ever had a first grader look at you sternly and insist that you "don't know because you're not even here ever!"? No? You're missing out. Has your mother ever mentioned something and when you exclaim, "I can't believe you didn't tell me that!" she murmurs, "Hm... did I not? I thought I did. I guess I forgot to call." Have you ever felt absolutely equally torn between the family who made you strong enough to leave and the one who has taken care of you since you've gone?

I have.

This break has given me so many things: Rest. Calm. Relaxation. Guilt-free Friday Night Lights marathons.
But most importantly, it's reconnected me to these people who used to be my moon and stars; it's reminded me how much they still are. It put me back in my rightful spot in the sky next to them. And just like that, it's time to climb down and go away again. And that, my friends, is no easy task.

The hardest part, I think, is not the actual driving away, though that will probably be harder than it's ever been before because this is the longest I've spent here since I left in the first place; it's the first time I really, really looked around and thought, "I don't really want to leave," though it's not because I don't love Tuscaloosa. That's the hardest part: I do love Tuscaloosa. And I will be happy to back. And it will only be a matter of days before I fall so seamlessly back into my routines there, before I'm walking the University's sidewalks just like I've been doing for the last 18 months. It will only be a couple of days before it seems like I never left at all, before my spot at this table becomes the places for stray papers again and they go about business as usual, too. And suddenly, there will be days without talking again, because, hey, we're all busy. There will be games that I miss because I can't get home and important decisions I make without their input because, when it comes down to it, I'm on my own now.

But now, while I'm here, sitting at this table, that's hard to believe. It's difficult for me to fathom getting in the car and driving away and going back to a life that doesn't involve them, a whole world that belongs to me alone. And while part of me wants to curl up and say, "Forget it. I'd rather live here forever," I know that I wouldn't be making them proud if I did that. I'm not the only one who worked my butt of to get me into college, and to back out now it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside to be at the dinner table again would be seriously disgracing everyone's hard work. And let's not forget that I do love Tuscaloosa. I love school. And I really, really love my family there, too.

So I will pack up all my belongings- all of those that multiplied ten fold since I arrived 34 days ago- and I will hug them goodbye, and I will linger. It will take me longer than usual to gather my gumption and get in that car. I will walk right out of their lives again and take up my place further north.

But I will be doing it with their strength, their blessings, and their love pushing me along. I will be doing it with them in mind.

And I'll be back.

The Semester I Really Learned

I started out with all sorts of ideas about how this semester would carry out. There was a sweet balance of "been here, done this" and "everything's so new" that day I moved myself in for keeps.I wasn't new at this; why, a year before I'd been shaking in my khaki shorts as my family hauled boxes and bags into 315 Riverside East. And still, the idea of living in an apartment with my best friends kept making me smile all day long. It felt so surreal. Words like perfect and freedom and laughter kept slipping themselves into my thoughts. And in the end, it was perfect and free, and people, there was a lot of laughter. But what else there was took me by surprise. It shocked me. It made me angry.

Basically, I'd never experienced the stress that such a large load of school inevitably induces. As the girl who showed up on test day in high school and aced it and somehow found her way into not one but two Freshman Compass classes (read: "Write an essay on the difference between high school and college") her freshman year, things like studying for more than one night before the test were foreign to me. But this year, I had whole weeks where I didn't move from my spot on the couch, weeks where I felt guilty for breaking for dinner because "I have stuff to do!" Weeks where I would find myself, mid-Biology notes, thinking about my Human Development test and suddenly, there would be tears that I would whisk away, hoping none of my roommates caught a glance. Weeks that I took out way too much of that stress on way too many people who never deserved a lick of it. And I regret that.

I pulled out better, shinier grades this semester than I ever have before, which affirms what I knew all along: if I put the work in, I could and would get it done. But I learned that I don't want to live in a world where being destressed is a foreign idea, where, more often than not, I feel guilty for taking dinner breaks. I took that lesson and learned and dropped a class next semester and signed up for yoga. I feel that I am guaranteed a less stressful existence in the start of 2011.

So, that is my spiel about that. What's up next is all the crazy wonderful bits that I got swept up in, as well.

August 2010

moved in, threw Joanna a rockin' Birthday dinner, started class, revisited Summer Snow, learned how to cook black beans

September 2010

Went to the lake for Labor Day 2010 (again), Fell in love with Alabama football (again), suffered Round 1 of tests, found out just how wonderful our balcony really is

 October 2010

Went to Lake Guntersville for Fall Break #1, remembered how liberating it is to (occasionally) skip class, carved pumpkins, became half of a Halloween costume called "Can and A Bowl"

 November 2010

went to an away game (Tennessee), went to the Harry Potter premiere, went to a square dance, went home for Thanksgiving, met my goal of finishing the Harry Potter books

 December 2010

I finished strong. And it was awfully hard to say good-bye.  

 At the end of it all, I learned a lot. I learned that allopatric speciation occurs when one species turns into two because of geographical barriers. I learned that widowed men remarry 5 times more often than women. I learned how to build a wrench out of shapes in a computer program, and I tried to convince everyone that Grendel wasn't really a monster. I learned that most of the time, you get what you put into it, whatever it may be. I learned that productivity comes in all kinds of different ways, and that sometimes, unproductive productivity is more important than dishes or homework. I learned that people are more integral to this life than anything else, save for Jesus, who is a person, anyway. I learned that eating together brings you closer to the people around your table. I learned that sometimes, you have to start the conversation. I learned that at the end of the day, I a bold, and that whoever is loving me has to like that sort of thing. I learned that running away because you're scared is a terrible reason to run. I learned that I'm more of a yogini than a runner, anyway. And in yoga, I learned, you have to breathe through the pain. I learned that a family never means "ideal." Instead, a family means "acceptance" and a family means "selflessness" and a family means "I'll hold your hand" and "Please, don't be perfect." And don't worry, I took that lesson to heart.

Spring 2011? Bring it on. 

He's a big kid now?

If you've been reading for more than 4.3 seconds, you'll know I'm a big fan of words and, by proxy, a big fan of letters. (And if you hadn't been a big reader, there it is. Now you know!) I like to write them and receive them, and hear about them, and watch movies about them (except Letters from Juliet. That was nothing to write home about.) Anyway, my baby is turning seven years old in a few days. Seven. years. old. My baby!

Okay, Taylor's not mine. I have not been hiding secrets about birthing humans, no. But I stayed with my brother quite a bit around the time Taylor was born, and when his boy was about seven months old, I moved in for keeps. Taylor doesn't remember a time when I wasn't there; to him, my presence was not only normal, but a vital part of our family. I've spent more time in Taylor's life than any of my other actual siblings- and man oh man, I loved every second. Taylor is in first grade, and I doubt the following letter will be reading material for him, but one day, I want him to be able to read. I want him to know that he made me happy and he brought me joy and that without him, my life is missing something.

Dear T-mac,
Let me start by saying, sir, that you are one of the most awesome people I know, and I'm including grown-ups in that. You aren't afraid to speak your mind, and because of that, you've constantly got us laughing. We love that about you! It's one of the wonderful things about watching you grow up, but that doesn't mean that your growing up isn't a little bittersweet.

I remember that when I moved in, having a baby in the house was one of the best parts. See, I'm a baby person. I used to beg to be allowed to take care of you- "Can I feed him?" "Can I give him a bath?" I even wanted to change your diaper! And at night, you and I would lay down in Mom and Daddy's big bed and I would cuddle you until fell asleep (For the record, we watched General Hospital together.) And then, you got older and taking care of you was something I was almost expected to do, and sometimes, I wasn't thrilled about it. I can't tell you how many times I turned down friends during the summer because I "am watching the kids." I have to admit, I wasn't always happy to be responsible for little people and every now and then, I resented making all those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

And then I moved away. I'd calculated all of the risks: I'd miss so much, so many. But Taylor, I hadn't factored you in. You'd always been there- the little baby in the orange bean bag, the toddler nestled on my hip, the adorable three-year-old with the lisp calling me "Schlindsley," the annoying four year old jumping up and down on the bed- the sassy six-year-old rolling his eyes when I told him no cookies before dinner. And I'd always been there, too: changing your diapers, giving you baths, tucking you in, letting you have cookies before dinner. I've been to t-ball and soccer and baseball. I've watched you as the Shepherd and on the swings. It's what you knew, my presence. And suddenly, we were apart. And I couldn't come.

I'll never forget coming home. You wait at the door, almost as if you might be waiting so that you could retreat at the sight of me, because honestly, you get a little angry that I go away so often. But instead, you fling the door open and meet me in the yard. And always, the first thing you ask is how long we've got. "How long are you staying? How long until you go?" It breaks me every time that you associate me with leaving, but I know one day you'll understand, because one day you'll pack up and go, too. And then you'll know: it wasn't always fun football games and parties with friends, that independence didn't just mean freedom, but that it's heartache and regret at what's being missed, at the memories that aren't being made and the little boys who are disappointed. (That's not to say it isn't fun- you behave yourself!)

There's a song- "Forever Young" by Rod Stewart- and that's a little cliche, I know. But oh my soul, it conjures your face every single time. It says a lot, but mostly, "Be courageous and be brave. And in my heart, you'll always stay forever young." That's all I'm saying here, little boy. I want big things for you. I know you're going places and you're going to be making people laugh on your way. And much of the time, when you run by me, I am so happy that you're this wonderful person. But every now and then, I catch the eye of the little baby who would snuggle me in the rocker, or the two year old demanding to watch Shane Falco one more time, and my heart yearns for that you. I hope there's never a day when I can't go back because that boy colored my rainbow every day and the he did it again.

Basically, love, you hold a part of my heart. I've always known that, but I didn't realize how much of it you actually had until I left it with you when I came to college. I'm sorry about all of the games I've missed, all of the movies I haven't watched with you, all of the stories from first grade that I haven't heard. Don't think for a second that you don't cross my mind, because you do: I often wonder what you're doing, how much you're hating football practice, how many m's you wrote today at school. You're the light that I know will meet me when I pull into the drive, a shine that I can't wait to encounter. You love me even though I leave because you trust that I'll always come back.

And I promise- I will.

Happy Birthday, you great big kid, you.

xoxo,
Lindsey

Because everyone likes pictures more than words.

 Casey gave Taylor a big smooch...

and he wiped it off. If he only knew that girls are always going to cry if they kiss you and you wipe it off, no matter how old they are.

(After this, Taylor frantically sang "circle circle dot dot, now I have my cootie shot." over and over until, I guess, he was assured that he didn't have any cooties.)

A photoshoot ensues...

So, not that many Christmas pictures, huh? No one took any. But we got great footage to blackmail Taylor with when he is older.

A Merry little Christmas, a trip to the beach, and a case of the cooties.

Merry Christmas to you! I know things have been super heavy (i.e. semi-truck weights, I know) and somewhat depressing around here recently, and really, I don't want you all to think my family is anything besides loving and wonderful and only slightly insane. So, I will let you in on my Christmas vacay.

Christmas itself- and the days leading up to it- were honestly quite superb. There was some stress when my dad put me in charge of part of his Christmas shopping (read: all of his Christmas shopping), and when, on account of he waited until the week of Christmas (yep.), I couldn't find some of the things requested by some of the people on his list (read: any of this things requested by any of the people on his list), and because I didn't want my family to suffer experience some of the horrible interesting gifts he sometimes selects (once, everyone in the family- I mean everyone- got one of those plastic animated aquariums that shows a rolling montage of the same fish when you plug it in), I scoured every store in central Alabama and came out alright. At least, I wore one smug smile when everyone ripped open the gifts and shrieked with genuine pleasure, instead of immediately trying to hide their true feelings about said "aquariums." But other than those action-packed three days with more shopping than any one only-sort-of-into-it shopper like myself can endure, things went smoothly.

We went to my dad's for Christmas Eve, and although Dad and I had to trek through Prattville (in the rain, no less) for the perfect charcoal grill so that the hamburgers would be Christmas-Eve-appropriate and that we had to go buy all of the meat/toppings/sides for said hamburgers (I know what you're thinking and I agree: Dad's New Year's Resolution should be preparing ahead of time, aye?), everything came together and worked out just fine. And plus, there were all those genuine smiles to light up the afternoon. Later, we went to the Christmas Eve service at church, where I got to watch one leopard-clad shepherd journey across the sanctuary to pay a visit to baby Jesus.

On Christmas morning, we slept until 8 o'clock (!). I don't know about you guys, but when I was a youngun, I seldom made it past, I don't know, 4:37 a.m., and I then sneaked into my big sister's bedroom and pestered her until she begged Mom and Dad to let me come down between the five and six o'clock hours. Anyway, Hailee woke up first and got me up, and we went in to wake up Taylor, who honestly wasn't all that pumped about deserting dreamland for Santa Claus, but he sure perked up after he saw the living room. It was a really lovely Christmas, and I can say that I honestly can't think of a single thing that I wanted and didn't get.

Moving right along (we're hurtling through this break!), to the day after Christmas, which is, folks, when the true fun began. Baby Jesus? A tree overflowing with nifty striped packages that have your name stickered to them? So many haystacks that your stomach starts to sound like Mr. Ed? Nope. Doesn't even compare to a family vacation. (Ahem, just kidding about the Baby Jesus part.) We headed out at 7 o'clock on Saturday morning.

Oh wait, you don't believe me? That's because it's not true. Chris, Lori, Hailee, and Taylor did indeed pull out of the driveway at an ungodly-for-the-day-after-Christmas hour, but not I. Oh no, people. I was riding with my sister, Laine. And who else should be riding with her besides a brand-new teenager, a toddler, and a dog? I'm guessing all of you are feeling jealous right about now and wishing you'd signed up for such a tantalizing trip. After several (and I mean several!) just-short-of-disaster kinks set us back three and a half (THREE AND A HALF.) hours behind schedule, we got on the road for a super duper eight-hour drive. Ah, Internet. Wish you could have been there, every single one of you. Really, though, it wasn't as bad as it sounds, if you don't count the brand-new teenager or the time we locked the keys in the trunk at the gas station or the time a book flew out the window.

When we arrived, we were met with more gifts and dinner and lots of welcoming faces. It was worth it. We hung out at a condo that seemed nice, but also offered us a few roaches new friends, and did things like watch Twilight for the 32nd time and put raw hamburgers on a grill that hasn't worked since 2002 (and then take raw hamburgers off said grill and instead "broil" them) and give cooties (Not me. I didn't give any cooties. I got some, though.)*

We came back today, after two days, and it really was some good quality family togetherness (you can't get more together than in a car. Unless, of course, you're not in a SUV, but are truly in a car.) The holiday proved to be low on stress and drama and high on happiness and excitement and haystacks, which is how I like it. I could've gone for some brownies at some point, but I didn't want to push my luck.

*I tried uploading pictures at this point to give you some cootie visuals, but, alas, Schnathan the computer wasn't going for it. I'll try again later if I find some patience lying around.

I had a whole post worked out in my head about how a baby changes everything (me? inspired by a song? get out!) And how I was feeling today, which you'll also find is rather commonplace on this blog of mine (me? talk about myself? get out!) Anyway, I took a bath because, well, my shower at school is so small I can...you don't even want to know. It's really small. And I came back into my room and glanced into the closet. Everything has been moved around so much because not only did I move so much to school and into storage, I transferred rooms to give Taylor the big room. And so, I guess these things fell out of a box or a bag or something, but I found some miscellaneous items on the closet floor, and the memories stole my breath so quickly that I had to sit. They were photos, and photo-lover that I am, (if you didn't know that, let me go ahead and admit: I am a total picture junkie. They just don't show up too often here because I'm lazy and don't upload 'em.), I had to thumb through them, and I had to get teary-eyed remembering. Most of them were of a weekend that Callie and I spent at the beach with our youth group, but since we're best friends, most of them are of the two of us. We're in the middle of the ocean. We're posing on the deck. She's blowing a putt-putt ball into it's hole; I'm smiling next to a boy who's got his arm slung lazily around me as we pause from our baskets of fried shrimp. Taylor is three years old, gazing into the camera with a birthday crown on his head. The trip was a lot of fun, sure, but nothing extremely memorable. And that's just it; I didn't take inventory, I didn't stop and write down how it felt to be 15, and I'm scared because I can feel the time speeding by me so. I want to write all of it down so that I can remember how it feels to be 18, 19, 20. But I don't want to spend so much time remembering things that were and feeling anxious about remembering now in the future that I totally miss right this minute. I loved that trip; I loved that time. Would I go back? No way! I love right now, too! I'm a completely different person now, and I think that's cool. I've lived and I've learned and I've matured and then I've realized I don't got nothing figured out!  But, still...the memories!

Moving right along. This weekend my dad asked me to do some of his Christmas shopping which quickly turned into all of his Christmas shopping (less than a week before Christmas. I'll let that speak for itself.) When I had to order things because IT'S ONLY A WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS AND EVERYBODY IS OUT OF EVERYTHING OR DIDN'T HAVE IT IN THE FIRST PLACE BECAUSE YOU WAITED UNTIL THE WEEK OF CHRISTMAS TO SHOP, DAD, he got kind of peeved and then I got super peeved. I mean, here I am, running all over God's green Earth to save his butt and make sure that everyone doesn't get animated fish aquariums from Belk as per 2007, and I order all my highly-demanding little sister's presents, and get them here by Christmas, and he is concerned about shipping, but insists she have things to open on Christmas morning. Newsflash, Dad: You have to plan ahead. Dad insists that things "work themselves out," and this attitude shows up whether he's buying Christmas presents on the 20th or heading to another DUI trial; what Dad doesn't realized is that people work things out for him, thus they appear to "work themselves out," but really, not much in this world just works out. Somebody has to pay for shipping, Dad, or else Emilee will be looking at pictures of her presents that are en route on the 25th. Anyhow, this is how I was really towards Dad, tonight; I was sick of shopping and wrapping and picking up his slack again. But this background explains why I went to his house in the first place: I had to pick up some more presents to wrap. Chris was making dinner, and I had a 20-minute time window to get there and get back. I let myself in, and the house was mostly dark and quiet, which is how it's been for awhile now. Dad was in his recliner, with a tv tray, complete with used plate and fork, to the side.,like that scene with Arthur in The Holiday. He had the saddest look on his face. It's name was loneliness, or maybe regret or hurt. I made small talk, and asked about his dinner- leftovers. He helped me get the presents to my car, and then he went out on a limb and asked me to stay. I looked at his face, at the hope in his eyes. Just for a minute. And then I turned.

"Chris is making dinner," I said. True.
"I'm supposed to be right back." Also true. He nodded like he understood, and I'm sure he did. But what I'm also sure of is that he went back inside and sat in his recliner, alone. He put his dishes in the dishwasher and turned the kitchen light out and went to bed, alone. I got in my car and instantly regretted leaving, and nearly turned the car around, except that I wanted to avoid the awkwardness that would come if I showed up again. Now I regret that. Dad's a pain in the butt most of the time. Dad's selfish a lot of the time. He deserves most of his loneliness and hurt and pain, and he has a lot to regret. He's pushed his family away and forgotten them when it mattered that he remember. He's chosen other things over us at nearly every opportunity. It's his own doing.

But what if I got what I deserved? What if all of us did? God did not call me to give people love when they deserved it, because I sure as heck do not deserve the love and forgiveness that I freely take everyday, that I live for and breathe and get by on. God didn't call me to let people wallow in their loneliness because, well, they did it to themselves. He called me to be the hope, to sit with the lonely and take away some of that pain. I can't change what I did tonight, but I can surely learn from it. I can use it to see how I'm lacking and to see how I can better mold myself into God's image. And I can pray for my dad, who's sleeping alone tonight.

"What would you think of me now? So lucky, so strong, so proud? I never said thank you for that."

It's a line from a song that got me thinking today on my drive home from Georgia. The whole song reminds me so much of my mother, especially that particular line. I get hung up on it all the time: how different I am from when she was here. It hurts so much to know that if my own mother saw me on a street or in a store, she probably wouldn't recognize me, and not because of anything dramatic. I've simply grown up. I'm not the little girl she knew. Being around other my friends and their mothers like I have been for the past few days always causes me to remember that my situation is so different, that my "mother" isn't my mother, and to dream up "what-ifs" as I'm lying there trying to conquer some sleepless night in an unfamiliar bed. So pardon me for approaching the subject again, for examining it closely and picking it apart, and for writing about it- I know it gets old.

But this song. It's really sort of spectacular, and it fell through my musical cracks, but I rediscovered it on a lost (now found!) cd while I was road tripping this week. I listened to it over and over, as I often do, meditating on the lines, and this one stood out. Of course it made me think of her- duh. But it wasn't just her- it made me think of my father, too, and for that matter, all of them. Each of my siblings has had his or her own share of obstacles, some brought on by themselves, some overcome, and some that are still around. Everyone but me- all of my issues either are or come from dealing with everyone else's issues. I'm not sure if it's the role I was born for, or I just saw this need when I was kid and rose up to fulfill it. I am the hope, the maverick, the  fighter. I am the one who defied the odds, who turned out right, who went to college instead of jail. It hasn't been easy; everyone else's problems have become mine as I struggle to prove them all right, because after all, I am the one who can and will be someone, and that's what they're holding out for. I know that it's my job to keep the peace and smooth the trouble away, all while giving them something to be proud of.

I'm sounding rather haughty, I know. But hear me out. This is the thing: this a real role in my family, and I got it, whether it was always meant to be mine or I was pushed into it by guilt and shame. But how did I learn? How did I know what to do, and what not to do? Who to trust, and who to run in the opposite direction from? What kind of person I should be instead of who was easiest to be?

I learned it from them. All of them.

I know I've said it so many times, but my mother was an outstanding person. I know I tend to look back through a lens that is tinted with longing and pain and "missing out," though, and she had problems. She succumbed far too easily, and hid it for far too long, and tried to be far too many things instead of admitting she couldn't. She stayed with my father when she probably shouldn't have and went on for years like everything was just fine when everything was all wrong. She should have found the strength to confess, to stop, and gotten everyone out of the whole situation, because that was her job, instead of the cooking and ironing and cleaning and carpooling that she took on. She lost herself in all of that, and I lost her, too, because of it. But there were so many good parts and good memories and maybe they outnumber the bad, or maybe I'm imagining, but it doesn't matter. But she taught me how to laugh and chatter and get along. And in her death, she taught me more than she could ever hope. Because I didn't succumb, and I didn't hide, and I did get out.

In the same breath, my father, in all of his selfishness, has taught me what it means to love. I've talked before about my father's  love for me, but I've realized that that's not for me to worry over. I wanted so much to form that ideal relationship with him, where he really is the parent and I really am the child, but it's never going to happen, and once I accepted that, I could get to forming a real relationship with him. And so, his mere presence in my life has taught me all about love and forgiveness. According to 1 Corinthians 13:5, love "keeps no record of wrongs." So then, I chose to love my father, forgetting all of the hurt he has thrown my way, or at least trying. I answer my phone when he calls and visit him when I come home and let him into my life. It's not easy or fast; in fact, it still carries a lot of tension and pain as I open those doors. Ignoring him was incredibly easy to do, but after awhile, I missed him. So, I'm doing my best, and I have to assume he's doing his, because that's what it means to love. Does he stills hurt me? Yeah. But that's okay. It's alright.

And all of them. All four of them- all my older siblings- had dreams, I suppose. They all forgot them or lost them or threw them away as they discovered things that made life seem easy: alcohol, prescription pills, cocaine, marijuana, theft, lies. Things that got them by for the moment and covered the pain for a little while, but all too soon, it resurfaced and they would need more and more and more of their chosen vices to stifle it again. Some of them have overcome, have beaten it, and my pride overflows when I think of it. Some of them haven't, but I have hope for them, that they can do it. Sometimes I just want to scream, "If I can do it, you can do it, because I have to do with all of YOU!" But that wouldn't help. now would it? I've tried to have relationships with them, but it adds toxicity to my life, and they use me, and that I won't stand for, because I am trying to become something here. But I love them all the same. They've taught me about perseverance and standing up again and that sometimes, you're just barely hanging on, and everyone is going to find themselves there. They taught me that you can let go and fall into the canyon, or you can pull yourself over the ledge, as hard as it may be, even if you might fall down again eventually. They've taught me to try. When i wasn't sure if I could do some of the things I've done, like move into acceptance over Mom, or forgive Dad and build a relationship with him, or even move away and enroll in a large university, I looked to the things they've done and said, "Okay. I can do it, too."

And so, I am me, and I decided to be this person, to say no to what nearly everyone else in my family has said yes to, but you should know that who I am is largely because of who they are and what they showed me. Their lives seem messed up to so many, examples of shame and wrongdoings, but I can see the beauty in struggle. They are wonderful, beautiful people, and I am so lucky and strong and proud because of them.

I quoted 1 Corinthians 13, the "love" chapter that every knows. But beyond the definition of love is another verse that delineates my life as I discover what being an adult is all about:


^"11When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. ¹²Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."


I'm learning to forgive. To love. And to learn.

I'm home.

Don't get nervous or disappointed or think, "Oh, we knew it wouldn't last long." It's just Thanksgiving Break. But because of canceled classes and Hailee's birthday, and despite a University of Alabama vs. University of Tennessee-Chattanooga ticket and a fierce glare from Jane as I threw my laundry in the trunk. I'm home for a whole nine days- four days longer than I'd planned. This is day one. But it feels so, so good.  Fully-stocked pantry, willing-to-pay parents,and a new car aside, my relationship is what makes these visits touch that place in my heart that induces some sort of smile I can't hide. It's not a boy, or a friend- nope. It's my parents.

When I lived here, I was another source of stress. Where was I  and who was I with and was I fed? And my goodness, how were they going to pay for college? I'm sure they still worry; in fact, I know it. But we have college paid for- at least for a few semesters- and I'm proving I'm responsible, and so they worry less. Or they show it less.

And so I come home to this: Let's just spend time together. Watch a movie with us. Go with me to the store. Do you need any groceries? We miss you. We love you. Goodnight.


It's an indescribable feeling, that one that comes when you know you're exactly where you belong, where all of the people around you love you and they're not going to hurt you. Have you ever been around people, maybe people you've just met or don't really like, and you have this urge to flee into the arms of the people you love? People who know you and adore you and protect you and oh my gosh, I want them right now because these people don't love me at all, not one little bit. They're not necessarily mean or hateful or rude, and by golly, they're actually nice, but they're not my people. I've felt that way a lot at college. Don't get me wrong- please don't- I've made wonderful friends and I'm not lonely, by any means. but every now and then I just miss feeling unreserved and loved and understood. And that's what this place gives me. It lets me know I belong somewhere, even if it's not where I think. It says, no matter where you go and who you meet, we're always going to be here. We think you're terrific.


I miss Tuscaloosa, and I miss my friends, and my best friend here is running in the opposite direction, but I've got these people. And although I will probably be ready to go home in eight days, I'm loving being loved right now. And I'm loving them right back.