it’s time for something rather serious

I think sometimes that I forget that God is a god of empathy - I forget that He is a god that feels sorrow over our pain. I think this is unusual, or rather, it's not the classical portrayal of God. He is typically portrayed as all-knowing, all-understanding. All-righteous and terrible. And He is those things no doubt, but I think to me, at least, the thing about Him that strikes at me me the most is that He cried. He knew the suffering of being mortal. He had compassion to those in need. He felt pain and anguish. Inversely, he knew friendship and the love of those around him. He knew joy. He experienced happiness. And frustration. And exhibited patience. And anger. And I even think, at times, he may have even been a weeee bit sarcastic...

Jesus was human. He experienced feeling and emotion. He's not distant. Not remote. He felt sad. Abandoned. Betrayed. Weak. He felt everything negative I have ever felt. He seeked to be the lowest of those low. To serve those who most people forgot.

Sometimes I think about this and it literally brings me to tears.  I don't understand it and then again, I totally do. And it's this concept - that the creator of all things would willingly experience all things; both good and bad and appreciate them both - that throws me for a loop. It's an act of intense intimacy - feeling what others feel. Seeing their trials and making them your own, when you don't have to.

I just have to remember that sometimes. The living, breathing God that was and is and will always be - He's not remote. He's not punitive or harsh. We complicate things. I complicate things. But my God is a God who feels. Who is not above human emotion. Who immersed Himself in it. Felt it. Lived it. Deliberately sacrificed everything to have a relationship with us. With me.

I take rest in that.

well…this is unexpected

So I'm graduating in three weeks. No, really. I am. Whenever I've said this to people, I've gotten "are you sure?," "you're always graduating," and/or "it's about time" or some variant thereof. Thank you, friends and family, for your vast and unwavering support. It's been appreciated these past nine lonnnng years.

I'm applying for a job next week as a substance abuse prevention specialist. Yea, prevention specialist. What is particularly ironic about this is that I really hated all of my prevention courses but the job itself that I am gunning for is a perfect blend of many jobs that I've always wanted and/or have had and enjoyed. It'll require me to work in conjunction with the local school district and juvenile justice center providing education and skill training for at-risk children ages 7 to 17, along with doing individual, group, and family prevention counseling in addition to crisis intervention. A more comprehensive description is located here. And yes, that is the same company that I worked for as a house manager for the detox center, though it's a different division. Score one for familiarity.

The only downside is that the listing for the prevention specialist located in my county has been filled already - the only opening for this particular position is in a small town about 45 minutes to an hour away depending on how fast one speeds, so I'd be commuting. As a silver lining though, they have not been able to fill this position since December 01, 2009 because of this and so I imagine I'll look pretty good.

As an aside, a small portion of this job will require me to be that somewhat pitiable individual that you probably encountered through the grades of 4th-12th who talked to you in assembly or health class about the dangers of tobacco, beer, and the evil marijuana while painfully attempting to connect by using outdated slang terms or scared you by helping plan a highly over-dramatic Shattered Dreams event at your school that all Texas teenagers are inevitably exposed to and forget within a week.

I just asked my brother if he remembered having to sit through a rendition of such an event and he just launched into a 30 minute tirade about paramedics showing pictures of dead bodies ("The guy next to me kept on making jokes and I couldn't stop laughing"), random intercom and video interruptions during class talking about fictional people dying due to fictional accidents ("I guess it was supposed to be serious but it just pissed me off because they'd all of the sudden come on and scare the living crap out of everyone when we were in the middle of something"), a live re-enactment of a car crash on the football field complete with stage blood and on-site response by fire trucks, police, and paramedics ("I hope there were no real emergencies, because I think half of the city responders were dealing with the fake one"), a fake funeral ("It was in the gym and afterwards I went up to the coffin and opened it because I thought it'd be funny and the teacher yelled at me"), and personal recounts from people who lost loved ones to drinking and driving ("One lady just lost it and started sobbing and it was really awkward").

Yeah. Woo hoo.

So. Here's to asking for prayer about graduation, job applications, and maybe learning new slang and not sounding like tool while using scare tactics on school children.

writers are liars

I'm pretty tired of writing poetry, I've decided. It's ironically tiresome to pretend to be emotionally burdened in ways that I am actually not. I'm not a writer and this poetry class is exhausting.

My boyfriend took me to the museum not too long ago and they had this exhibit of wood sculptures that made me jealous that I do not work with my hands. I'm not sure how people make wood look MORE like wood or make it not look like wood or even manage to make a bowl seem artistic when it's just a simple bowl, yet it's not. I've never been able to do this and it frustrates me sometimes.

The weather is getting warmer and that means disc golf and telescopes and cookouts and kite flying and nights on the patio with him and hookahs and First Friday Art Trail and playing sports I am inevitably bad at. These things make me excited and I can feel the seasons changing. It makes me antsy - like the eve before a really big trip with friends.

I'm going to redo my site. I've just decided this as I've been typing this entry.

I am optimistic and artistically impulsive and happy. These are all good things.

detritus cycle

Standing in her debris,
I remember when I left home for good.
I was seventeen
slender, lithely moving
through the maze of boxes and bags,
piled high and obstinately saved
"to keep memories in"
my mother said, in response
to the adult caseworker's inquiry
as I slipped out the door and far away
from my mother's compulsive needs.

Ten years later, she left a history in rust
patterns and stains along the wall -
waterlogged clothes and rodent droppings.
I count them slowly,
noting the arc and the bend
of organic decay has an artistic degree.
Nothing has changed, including the small
portrait of our nuclear family
hanging hidden behind stacks of rubbish
and suspiciously clean.

So unlike me,
she could never let anything go.

1983

Twenty-six years later
I’m still a reminder
of aeroplanes and one long summer night.

My mom used to tell me stories of her youth
like her aging was my fault.
“I’m sorry,” I’d say
in the conjuncture
of conversational silence and the background sound
of the blaring television and automobiles
that I was not on or in,
(I wished I was)
while she feigned
careful apathy at the day’s news.

I still can’t get the story
about back-alley abortionists
practicing their trade
on the desperate and destitute
out of my head.