Exhibit A: Terrorist attack on dying broccoli plants

We laughed about it for a while before going about the rest of our day, but the image of the groundhog pillaging our garden remained in my mind. It made me remember the verse in Song of Solomon that says:

“Catch for us the foxes, the little foxes that ruin the vineyards, our vineyards that are in bloom.”
Song of Songs 2:15

Even though it was a groundhog and not a fox that encroached on our garden, which is not a vineyard, the imagery is still plenty vivid. Where the vineyard is a metaphor for a marriage that is in richly blooming, the foxes represent the snares that eventually ravage and ruin the marital relationship. Foxes are difficult to catch because they are sly and cunning, and it makes me think of the sly and cunning things that couples often let slide because they either aren’t paying attention or making enough effort to protect their love. Ultimatums, petty complaints, sarcastic remarks, a simple eye roll, a decision made without consent, a small white lie — these are a few of the things that come to my mind.

I’ve learned many things in my first (and counting!) year of marriage. For starters, R. is more idealistic than I, eager to accomplish as much as possible in one day where I enjoy being a realistic recluse and burrowing in quiet thoughts and activities. R. is definitely the cleaner one and is very detail-oriented when it comes to cleaning the house — which oddly drives me nuts yet makes me very grateful for the results. R. responds to text messages more than he’ll respond to me yelling from the kitchen about dinner being ready. Some of the more important things I’ve learned include the fact that R. is very even-tempered, which sometimes makes me feel like my temper is more closely aligned with the rage of a small child whose toys were just taken away. Also, R’s ability to be kind (one of his finest attributes) makes my attempts to be nice look really wimpy. Of course there are things that I do better than R., like cooking and listening to people’s problems and making things sound or look pretty. But if we were discussing character flaws, mine would appear more obviously than R.’s any day. Part of this may be due to the fact that I’m naturally more hormonal than he is, or it may be because I tend to express myself dramatically and impulsively… or both, I don’t know. I’ll just provide an example.

R’s parents and friends came to stay at our house last night in order to catch an early flight out to Hawaii for their vacation this morning. Being the kind and generous man that he is, my husband graciously offered to drive them to the airport at 4:30AM this morning even though he had to be at work by 7:30AM. If you knew how valuable sleep is to R., then you would understand that this was not a small sacrifice for him, especially since we only returned from a vacation on the West coast not too long ago. Nevertheless, at 4AM this morning, R. woke up after a brief sleep. The very first thing the man does is to pepper me with kisses to wake me up. What did I do in response?

I smacked him. Not on the face or anything, but my eyes were scrunched up and my instinct was to reach over and smack whatever was there because I was NOT happy to be up at 4 in the morning. I’m pretty sure I grumbled and said something stupid, too… but yea, to my shame, the smack happened.

A few thoughts are running through my head as I recount this story for you, like… what kind of woman DOESN’T want to wake up to a showering of kisses from her husband in the morning? Of all the reactions I could have had, I opted to smack him? Didn’t I just stand on stage at church this past Sunday and sing some song about waking up early in the morning and celebrating the light?? Yikes…

Needless to say, after R. left to take his parents and their friends to the airport, I was left alone for a bit to process my very early morning. By the time 6:00AM rolled around, I was awake enough to realize that my actions were blatantly indicative of my selfish heart. I began to remember the many times I’ve woken up to a peppering of kisses and playful “I love you, Stinky”‘s from my husband and the countless times I must have responded with a groan or grumble. I began to remember the times I let a sarcastic remark slide off my tongue only to realize later that my comment was out of line as well as the moments R. remained positive, encouraging, loving and patient despite my litany of complaints; and the incalculable times R. has told me again and again just how much he loves me no matter how little compassion I had shown towards him that day.

It is mysterious to me how God chooses to use the imagery of marriage to illustrate His constant pursuit of our hearts in relationship with Him. Where I am sinful in my grumbling, ungrateful attitude, selfishness and pride, God’s grace overflows. God demonstrates His love to me through my own earthly husband who is not without imperfections but rather, filled with grace to love. Remembering God’s promises to sanctify me through marriage compels me to chase the foxes out of my and R’s vineyard. It is funny to me that something as small as a hungry groundhog could remind me to rebuke the metaphorical foxes that I sometimes let into my marriage. But I guess lessons that are learned sooner than later are what counts.

R. and I celebrated our 1-year anniversary a few weeks ago. My mama, whose wisdom has substantially shaped my life, said to me: ”Things will get much harder eventually. There will come a time when they are almost too difficult to bear. Remember in those times during your marriage that God has given you an extraordinary bond with your husband and delights in sharing that connection with you together. That is your strongest weapon.”
Later that evening, as R. and I re-watched Jack Bauer uncover some national security conspiracy (again) while munching on popcorn, I piped up: “I’m so glad we have each other for the hard times in life.” To which R. responded, “We haven’t gone through anything hard yet. But when we do, we’ll do it together.”

I guess for now I’ll just work on chasing foxes away.

I can’t say that I currently feel any true exuberance about the fact that I now have my master’s degree. What I would like to be feeling at this moment seems to be eclipsed by the immense relief I have about not ever needing to go into work again, as well as a general feeling of exhaustion. In retrospect, I was a little naive about the way higher education works, and I paid for my ignorance in several ways. When I was a junior in college, my career aspirations were high. Life happened, and by that I mean I met my husband and my plans eventually changed. When I began my graduate program, I was 99% sure that I wanted to pursue a Ph.D. upon finishing the program. My first year of graduate school breezed on by; I secured the assistantship of my dreams, I received plenty of affirmation and encouragement from faculty to begin publishing my research in order to work my way into a potential Ph.D. program, I found the academic material easy and I managed to plan a wedding and buy my first house with R. while maintaining a near 4.0 GPA throughout the entire year. But I was not prepared for the events that were to come during my second year of graduate school. Furthermore, I was not at all expecting my second year of graduate school to be one of the most difficult years of my life.

Frankly, I do not know where to begin recounting this past year of graduate school. There are portions of my year that I am still processing to this day; I have written about 20 drafts, all unfinished, all unpublished, about my experiences these past several months. I still don’t know if any of them will be finished. All I know right now is that my last year of graduate school has left me feeling as though I have been run over by a ruthless mack truck driver… and somewhere in between all of that, I still feel anger, guilt, hopelessness, bitterness, apathy, prejudice, and a blanket lack of interest in others.

It’s ironic that I now have a master’s degree in therapy – but the way in which I obtained it has left me in need of my own therapeutic release. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, as have many other hobbies of mine. I guess I’ll be a much more frequent blogger now, and maybe somewhere in all of the posts I write I can begin to make sense of the events that have happened in the past 12 or so months. With that said, I will begin my first full day of emancipation from graduate school by creating a list of things I would like to accomplish as part of my own therapy this summer.

• Oil paint. The wooden easel and numerous tubes of oil paint my in-laws got me for my college graduation two years ago have been collecting dust. There’s nothing like creating a palette that soothes my mind.
• Literature. I’ve read nothing but clinical stuff and theory for the past 6 years of my life, and I’ve forgotten how much I love Emily Dickinson and Toni Morrison. It’s time to hit the public library.
• Mama time. Ever since R. whisked me away last June, I’ve seen less of the most important woman in my life and spent less one-on-one time with her. I need more of my Mama in my life.
• Songwriting. I wrote songs back in college and actually had the chance to perform them several times. My friend Tyler encourages me to keep writing songs every time he’s in town from touring and I haven’t ever forgotten his persevering inspiration to me.
• Short storys. I actually created a second blog (not yet disclosed to the public) for the sole purpose of writing short works of fiction. Hans Christian Andersen and Ernest Hemingway motivate me incredibly.
• Comic novella. Since I was little, I enjoyed imagining and drawing casts and casts of characters for my own novel. My dreams actually came true in 5th grade, when my friend Connie and I created this huge anthology of adopted twin girls (oddly also Asian and 10 years old) whose goal in life was to save all the puppies in the world and prevent their older sister Bethany and their mother from dating the wrong men. I’d love to write/draw one someday.
• Mini chef. In graduate school, cooking became not only a necessity (to keep R.’s tummy happy, of course) but also my therapy. There was nothing more satisfying than wielding my Wusthof to hack the resistance out of any slab of meat or vegetable on my cutting board after a frustrating day. R. is convinced that the more terribly my day went, the more delicious the meal (strange correlation, no doubt). That aside, I registered for some neat cooking gear for my wedding that I have yet to use, like my tagine (bought especially for cooking Middle Eastern cuisine). So far on my summer menu list: cooking and handling live lobster, crown roast, and endeavoring rabbit, if I dare to be so bold.
• Yoga. My good friend Em convinced me to try a few of these classes with her after my wedding to help me de-stress. I was skeptical at first but found that not only did the stretches really release the tension I tend to carry in my upper back, but that it was something I could do decently well. Good timing for bathing suit season!
• Clean. It sounds odd, but R. is the cleaner one in this marriage. Now that I don’t have the pressure of writing paper X or paper Y, I guess I can take time to dust the curtains… and dust the furniture… dust in general… okay, vacuum, sweep, wash, rinse, maybe everything…
• Talk to my plants. Right now, our raised garden beds are our “babies” what with the ample amount of spinach, strawberries, broccoli, and green peppers that are sprouting all over the place right now. A very wise friend once said to me that plants grow better when you talk to them, so I think I might just try that a bit this summer. Actually, what I think she meant was to just spend more time taking care of them, like weeding them and oh, I don’t know, watering them here and there.
• Girlies. There are a few women in my life whom I’ve neglected to spend time with due to graduate school (and the general exhaustion that comes with it… gosh, I make it sound like I’m pregnant… which I’m not…) and I’d really just love to see them again.
• Memorize. Scriptures say to write the Word of God on our hearts and on our minds. The apostle Paul tells us to wear the Word on our necks like a necklace to always remind us of our place in this world. I have been reminded over and over again of the lack of Truth in my life… and would greatly benefit from remembering God’s Word daily.
• Musicalize. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and learned a piece. This is very sad for me to type, as I have not been without a “piece” since I was 3.
• Teacher. I plan on building my home studio this summer. R. is helping me with creating some solid business cards and a legit website to help spread the word.
• Volunteer. No matter where I go, my heart will always be for women’s issues. There are many women’s shelters and organizations for women in DE that I would love to become involved with.
• Pray. That’s that. Just… pray.

So that’s it for now… I know it’s quite an expansive list (and mind you, it is always growing), but knowing myself and the behaviors I revert to when I feel defeated or overwhelmed by life, I am hopeful to see where I will be by the end of the summer. Feel free to check back now and then to hear what’s been going on. Here’s to freedom!

It has been a most difficult year.

Some of you may be wondering why, particularly since I seem to have it all — the perfect husband who willingly listens and dances to all of my Katy Perry music and is magically cleaner than I, a beautiful house and home, a photogenic family and what seems to be the ideal life. What could I possibly have to complain about? Writing about my personal struggles during a time-frame eclipsed by global disasters like the tsunami in Japan and violence in Northern Africa seems very selfish. While it is true that to the majority of the world, my issues may seem infinitesimal in comparison, I don’t think bottling it all up would be a good thing either. So here it all goes.

For starters, this is my first year of marriage. Don’t get me wrong, R. and I are blissfully happy and we can already see ways in which we have both grown because of marriage — but who am I to say that it hasn’t been difficult? Marriage ain’t a picnic, kids… especially when you decide to become a first-time homeowner (and learn how to maintain all that house business). Next, my graduate program got disestablished. Thankfully, this decision did not affect my funding. However, it did cause several professors to leave, which directly affected the amount of resources available to those of us who are graduating this year. Not to mention, the university’s decision to cut out the only college counseling master’s program available sends a lovely message to the public at large about how the university really feels about taking care of its people. In addition to my program being cut, I have gone through “transition upheaval” at my assistantship placement with 3 different bosses in approximately 7 months. It’s hard enough to adjust to a new manager, especially if you were particularly close to your first manager, but it’s even harder when your next several bosses begin to accuse you of trying to undermine the university and its mission, not to mention talk about you in the third person, nameless category of “The Grad Student” when you are standing right in front of them. Talk about being downright rude… I do have a name, you know.

So you catch my drift… it’s tough enough to balance life as a newly married graduate student, but when that is paired with feeling unwanted by your university as well as feeling powerless at work, it just makes for a rather rough ride. To top it all, my relationship with God has just been at a standstill this year. I have plenty of empty journal pages and dusty Bible covers to prove it.

Lately, I’ve been hearing a lot of “what’s next?” questions from others. Everyone wants to know where, when, and how I will begin my career; where did I apply, to whom did I send my resume to, etc. Usually, I smile and say that I’m working on it, and that I’d let them know when I find a job. But what I really want everyone to know is that I am tired of trying to act like everything is normal, like I will have a typical job after I receive my master’s, that I will be moderately successful like the rest of my normal cohort… because the truth is that in the middle of feeling like I’ve been discarded by my university and perpetually walked-over like a doormat at work while trying to figure out what it means to be a wife, I’ve gotten a little lost.

Lost.

It’s a scary thing for me to admit. I am a high-achieving woman and feel as though I need to be strong all the time. There have been very few times in my life where I have openly admitted that I feel lost — struggling with depression in high school, getting out of very intense and hurtful relationship in college — and now this. In fact, it’s been such a scary thing for me to think about that it has taken me all year to finally piece together my thoughts and emotions and write this post. To be honest, it didn’t really click until last night.

Two days ago, I decided to sign up last-minute to participate in our church’s annual Chili Cook-off, an event that is meant to bring families from all over our church together to be in fellowship together while sampling and judging various chilis and soups. Though my church had advertised this event for several weeks, I did not sign up initially because I wasn’t able to attend the event due to a night class. But two nights ago, my wonderfully servant-hearted husband offered to deliver my chili to church in my absence and participate for the both of us. I called the folks supervising the event and proceeded to make my best chili recipe.

Now those of you who know me know that I love to cook and that I come from a family of fiercely talented cooks. Well, namely my mother, but her cooking was so famous that people request her dishes by name and have stopped going to certain restaurants because she just makes it better. Needless to say, I have quite a bit of pride in my cooking flair, something that I did not discover until after R. and I began dating. As I prepared my chili for entry, I began to get excited… what if I won? What if I broke someone else’s long-standing record… would that mean I am destined to be a chef? Soon enough, my preparations for the chili cook-off became much more than just making a stew for friends to enjoy (which is what the event is REALLY about)… instead, me entering the cook-off became a matter of worth and identity. Somehow, me winning the cook-off meant that I wasn’t really lost in life, that I really could do something well, and that I wasn’t this unwanted, powerless, stressed out woman who comes home every day feeling like she gets stupider by the day.

After I prepared the chili, I stowed it in the fridge with instructions for R. on how to handle the chili when it came time for him to deliver the goods to church. I called him at 5PM yesterday, right after I finished at work, and asked him how the chili prep was heating up. Our conversation wandered here and there until R. said he had to leave in order to be at church by 6PM. I kept my eye on the classroom clock for the next 3 hours while I sat through presentation after presentation, wondering when I would get that phone call informing me that I had won. I played mental games with myself, letting myself believe that I couldn’t possibly win, and then letting myself get excited about the possibility of winning. Participating in the chili cook-off was no longer about community and fellowship for me; rather, it had become a test of my competence and value as a woman.

My professor decided to let us out of class early. I gathered up my belongings with lightening speed and bolted out the door while speed dialing R. on my phone. He didn’t pick up the first time but called me back eventually as I was walking towards my car.

“Hello?” R. said.
“Hi,” I said, not saying anything more to hopefully encourage him to tell me that I had won.
“Well…” he began.
“Well????” I said, not able to quiet my suspense.
“Well,” he repeated, “we didn’t stand a chance to begin with.”

NOT the response I was hoping to hear.

“…what?” I said, thinking that I had heard wrong.
“Apparently everyone is supposed to get there a little earlier; by the time I got there a little after 6, all of the ballots had been distributed and the chilis and soups were labeled,” R. explained. Something didn’t click in my head… this couldn’t be.
“I don’t understand,” I said slowly, “I called to make sure that we followed all the rules, and no one mentioned anything about arriving earlier than 6!”
“Well, apparently everyone got there a little early, and they didn’t have a ballot prepared for your chili,” R. said. He could tell that I was getting upset, and proceeded to explain. “They didn’t have a spot for you, so they labeled you a second number in the soup category, and when the time came for everyone to judge, people got confused as to why there was a chili entry in the soup category and why there were two of the same numbers… it was just confusing and people didn’t understand what had happened,” R. said, “but I think you definitely stood a chance if it had not been for that confusion.”

I was livid — I had asked specifically about the parameters of entering the contest, and for sure they knew I was going to participate.

“Why are they so incompetent?” I asked angrily, “they KNEW I was entering, and they didn’t even prepare for it! I asked about getting there early, I asked about everything! Why did they have to mess this up?!” I felt betrayed. This had been my chance to prove that there was something I could do right in the world.

“Honey, people made a mistake,” R. said gently, “if it makes you feel any better, several people voted yours as their top choice — but with the mixing of the numbers, there was no way yours could have won… without the confusion, you would have definitely been in the top three.”

I was speechless with frustration, hurt, and anger. I couldn’t help but think that if someone else hadn’t messed up my chances of winning, this wouldn’t have happened at all. I felt stupid for entering and taking the risk, and I felt angry at everyone. But mostly, I was angry with myself.

“This competition is just rigged,” I said bitterly.
“It isn’t supposed to be a competition,” R. said, “it’s about having a good time.”
“Well I wish I didn’t enter and I’m not going to do it again next year,” I replied, as though I were a small, pitiful child throwing a tantrum on the floor.
“Forget this, I’m coming home,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye.
“Hey — I love you a lot,” R. said. I couldn’t bring myself to respond to him, so I just said, “I’ll see you at home.”

I simmered in the car all the way home. By the time I opened the door into the house, I was just mopey. Somehow, not winning the chili cook-off just made my flaws and insecurities look and feel astronomically bigger than usual. My pride was definitely wounded.

As soon as I stepped into the door, R. enveloped me in a hug. I felt like a rag doll, just limping in his arms like I had no bones. Instead of calling me out on my pettiness, poor sportsmanship, lack of humility, lack of love, lack of everything — R. just told me again and again that he loved me.

And that’s when it hit me. I have spent the past several months reacting to the feeling of being less than I actually think I am that I have completely forgotten that I am accepted and loved just because God is love. My dissatisfaction with where I am in life has been completely and wholly a response from actually believing that I am unwanted simply because the university says so; believing that I am powerless simply because my bosses say so; believing that I am incompetent simply because I feel so in the new and untested realm of wife-dom. My priorities have been so skewed and it took something small and insignificant like a church chili cook-off for me to realize how little my identity has to do with what I am or am not capable of doing and how much my identity is based on the truth that I am simply loved by God.

In understanding this, I now realize that my graduate program has no hold on me, and neither do my employers. Moreover, while I am in part a wife to R., I am so much more than just a wife. I confine myself to these defined categories because I am often scared to allow myself to believe that I am so much more than what I feel on a daily basis. I am simply loved — not because I can cook a mean pot of chili but because I carry in me the same substance of Christ.

I now humbly accept the fact that my worth and value is not wrapped up in something small like a pot of chili, and that God’s grace in letting me “lose” has opened the gates for me to understand His love in a deeper, and yet more simple way.

And boy, it sure feels good to say that.

“More tea, monsieur?” she asked. The gentleman smiled courteously at her. The smooth lines on his face indicated that he was barely more than 30 years old, but the waitress could not help but feel as though he was somehow much older.
“Please,” he nodded. She smiled in return, and, collecting his empty cup, ducked out to fetch the beverage.

She returned quickly, as all good waitresses do, with a large pitcher of water that had just been boiled. He watched the steam rise from the stainless steel carafe as she deftly poured the liquid into his mug. When finished, she glanced past the lit candles and bouquet of flowers at the empty seat across the table.

“Waiting for someone?” she asked, thinking it was unlikely for such a nice gentleman to come to the bistro alone. After all, the bistro was famed for being a lover’s nook.
“Ah, yes. I am expecting someone,” he said warmly. There was a brightness in his eyes, as one gets when he thinks of the one he loves. The waitress took note of this devotion in the gentleman’s eyes and knew that whoever she was, she was blessed.
“You must really love her,” the waitress said.
“More than she’ll ever know,” he replied without missing a heartbeat. Something about the way he said this made the waitress feel a chill down her spine. Catching herself, she suddenly remembered that she was due in the kitchen to pick up orders for another table.
“Well I will be pleased to meet her when she arrives,” she said, indicating her exit. They exchanged smiles once more and the waitress disappeared back into the backdrop of the restaurant.

The man brought the hot tea up to his mouth and drew in a sip. It was a soothing blend of chamomile and mint; refreshing and calming all at once. He set the cup down in its saucer and cleared his throat, scanning the restaurant. The bistro was a quiet and intimate place to meet. The classical music was never too loud or shrill, and the servers were polite and welcoming. The food was simply sumptuous. There were lovers scattered all across the restaurant; some were gazing tenderly into each other’s eyes, and others were merely allowing silence to voice their unspoken longings and sentiments. The gentleman drank in these observations as though they were a good wine. A spectacular thing, he noted, love is.

The man was so absorbed into his thoughts about love that he did not notice the waitress appearing at his table again.
“Monsieur? Have you thought about what you would like to order?” she asked, motioning to the closed menus by his napkin. Stirring from his reverie, the gentleman turned his head at the sound of her voice.
“Oh yes, I have decided on the fish,” he said. The waitress nodded in agreement.
“And for the lady?” she said, looking up at the empty seat across the table. The gentleman wasted no time in responding.
“She usually requests the pork tenderloin but tonight, perhaps she will like the seafood bisque,” he said. There was no hint of doubt in his voice. He must know her so well, the waitress thought to herself.
“I will return with your entrees,” she said, and once again, sweeping away.

After the waitress left, the gentleman glanced at his watch — just about half past seven. She had agreed to meet him exactly at seven o’clock, but he was a patient man. He was willing to wait.

A few moments passed and the waitress returned with a silver tray, on which the two dishes were placed. She set the fish in front of the gentleman and looked uncertain about the bisque, as the expected guest was not yet here. The gentleman caught her confusion.
“Olivia should be here soon; you can leave it here for her,” he said. The waitress complied.
“Olivia,” she repeated, “what a beautiful name.” The gentleman, who had not touched his food, smiled.
“Yes — a beautiful name indeed.” The waitress suddenly felt awkward — a feeling that good waitresses don’t usually experience — as though she had delivered the wrong dish, which she in fact had not done. However, the gentleman did not look in the least bothered by her questions. She quickly walked away from his table. But before she entered the kitchen doors, she turned her head to look at him. He had not touched his food, but rather, he was bowing his head in prayer. An interesting man, she thought to herself, then vanished behind the kitchen doors.

The gentleman lifted his head from his prayer and looked up at the empty seat across the table. Slowly, he began to eat his meal, savoring every bite. He thought about the last time he brought Olivia here to the bistro. She had fallen in love with the romantic atmosphere of the bistro; the pork tenderloin delighted her. They shared a most wonderful conversation that evening — the gentleman remembered every single word. Olivia had revealed to him her dreams and aspirations of becoming an elementary school teacher. She had been scared of disappointing her mother, who expected Olivia to follow in her footsteps and lead a successful career as a medical practitioner. He had encouraged her throughout the process, reminding her along the way that there were just some things that she had been born to do.

He thought about all of this with longing and warmth in his heart. He loved every single one of his conversations with Olivia and wondered whether she felt that way too. It wasn’t before long that he noticed that the fish he had been eating was gone, and that the seafood bisque was no longer steaming but quite cool. The waitress, never missing a detail, walked over to his table. She saw the now-cool bowl of seafood bisque and looked over at the gentleman’s cleanly finished plate. A sinking feeling began to set in her heart.

“Monsieur? Are you finished with your plate?” she said, tentatively, this time. The gentleman set his napkin gently on the table and nodded.
“Could you please take the bisque as well and save it for her later? I am sure she will be hungry when she arrives,” he said politely. He was still hopeful, the waitress thought to herself, trying hard not to give him her opinion. Forcing a smile, she yielded to his request.

Eight o’clock, the gentleman’s watch reported. He asked for more tea and asked the waitress to let him sit for a while longer. Without a word, she nodded and left for the kitchens. By half past eight, it became clear to the waitress and to the rest of the bistro staff — all of whom had heard about this man’s perseverance from the waitress herself — that Olivia was not coming. The kitchen and wait staff collectively agreed to keep their services running for this man for as long as he insisted on sitting there, out of sympathy and respect. Even when other guests at the bistro began to leave around nine o’clock, the staff still held onto hope.

At ten o’clock, the wait staff began to clear the tables and blow out the candles gracing the tabletops. They performed these tasks slowly and meaningfully so that the gentleman, who was still sitting at his table, would not be disturbed. The gentleman took note of the wait staff’s intentions and was inwardly grateful. However, when eleven o’clock came about, the owner of the restaurant became slightly agitated since his workers had already been working overtime. Just as he was about to accost the gentleman and ask him to leave, the gentleman sensed that he had overstayed his welcome and stood up. He collected his jacket and hat and nodded to the owner.

“Thank you for your hospitality. I am leaving now.” The gentleman gestured to the flowers he had brought with him earlier that evening.
“These are for the kind waitress who served me tonight,” he said. And then he was gone.

———-

Olivia opened the car door and with one stiletto heel stepped out onto the pavement, teetering a little and still giggling with her friend, who was with her. One of them almost lost her balance while climbing out of the passenger side of the car.

“That was the best night of my life!” gasped Lilly, Olivia’s friend. The women giggled as they said goodbye to their driver. Olivia and Lilly made it to the front door of their apartment arm in arm.
“I am so beat,” Olivia said, casually tossing her clutch to the floor as she made her way into the apartment. Lilly took off one heel after the other and clambered into her room.
“Meeee toooooo,” she said, collapsing on her bed. “See you in the morning, Liv.”

Olivia walked into the other room — her room — and began to get ready for bed. Her heart was elated after having spent the evening with the new soccer coach at her school. She smiled to herself, remembering the way he had held her when they danced together in the bar and how he had complimented her on her smile. Sighing, she fell onto her bed and decided that she would deliberately stop by his office after school tomorrow before soccer practice began.
Turning, Olivia reached for the lamp on her nightstand. As she began to turn off the light, she noticed a small Post-It tacked to the Bible on the table.

7:00PM, devotions with Jesus.

Olivia furrowed her brow — she couldn’t remember when she wrote that note. Perhaps a twinge of conviction after the pastor’s sermon that past Sunday compelled her to write the note down. Exhausted, Olivia dug herself deep under the covers, turned off her lamp, and drifted off into sleep.

Even though I don’t live in Pakistan, where Christianity is outlawed, or in China, where the only theism accepted is atheism, I often feel targeted and stereotyped for believing in God during a postmodern era of thought and education.

In our master’s program, we are taught to be sensitive of trigger words such as “fag,” “retard,” and “bitch.” My classmates and I spend a good bit of time in our classes talking about how we can best respect one another during class by listening and responding with only the best intentions. None of my classmates would ever call someone a “fag” or “bitch;” none of my classmates would ever describe something as “retarded.” But several of them swear with Jesus’s name. If they hear something on the news that disturbs them deeply, suddenly it’s okay to exclaim “JESUS CHRIST!!!” loudly in public. When given a thick chapter of reading to accomplish by the following week, suddenly it’s okay to mutter “Jeeeeesuuuuuus….!!!” under your breath. It’s also okay to say “Goddamnit!” and laugh at yourself because you just realized that you forgot your wallet at home or locked your keys in your car.

No. No, it’s NOT okay, I think in my head, my heart hurting because Jesus is someone I love. But I stay silent, because I am not strong enough to speak up, because I am not sure I want to be ridiculed for my belief in something someone else considers “Catholic school crap.” But it hurts. It really does.

It’s happening all over, in all sorts of families, not just young people moving back home but also young people taking longer to reach adulthood overall. It’s a development that predates the current economic doldrums, and no one knows yet what the impact will be — on the prospects of the young men and women; on the parents on whom so many of them depend; on society, built on the expectation of an orderly progression in which kids finish school, grow up, start careers, make a family and eventually retire to live on pensions supported by the next crop of kids who finish school, grow up, start careers, make a family and on and on. The traditional cycle seems to have gone off course, as young people remain un tethered to romantic partners or to permanent homes, going back to school for lack of better options, traveling, avoiding commitments, competing ferociously for unpaid internships or temporary (and often grueling) Teach for America jobs, forestalling the beginning of adult life.

I highly recommend to every 20 or 30-something who stumbles upon my humble little blog to read the article in full; it’s very educational. According to the article, two-thirds of 20-somethings spend at least some time living with a romantic partner without being married, and the median age for marriage is progressing closer and closer to 30 for both men and women. In addition, the five milestones which sociologists have repeatedly defined as the “transition to adulthood” — (1) completing school, (2) leaving home, (3) becoming financially independent, (4) marrying, and (5) having a child — are no longer qualifying milestones that accurately define an adult. Granted, there are an abundance of reasons why these five milestones no longer serve as an authentic measure of adulthood. For example, there is less of a rush to marry because our society tolerates premarital sex; it is much easier for a young woman to prioritize her career options and delay motherhood, not to mention the plethora of contraception and assisted reproductive technology should she wish to stall her pregnancies; as well as a general avoidance of commitment in both men and women.

It is strange for me to read an article like this and not look inward. Before I reached my twenty-third year, I had already crossed out four of those milestones. When I was twenty, I would never have imagined myself reaching the “threshold of adulthood” at such an early age (don’t get me wrong, I hardly feel like an adult… most of the time). I would have laughed if you told me that I’d meet my future husband in a few months and begin dating him by the end of the year, and I would have peed my pants if you told me that he would propose a few days after graduation.

My friends were extremely excited and supportive when they learned that I was engaged. Even my parents were thrilled. But there were those who looked at me in disbelief and shock — some were even downright negative. I heard responses such as, “why would you even want to get married now?” or, “you are so young — you haven’t even grown up yet!” or yet, “hah — just you wait. I’ve been down that road once and I got out of it when I finally came to my senses.”

So, the question stands: why did I get married? Before Ryan came into the picture, I was perfectly content as a single person. In fact, I wanted to delay marriage for as long as possible. I planned on applying to law school and getting a degree in International Law. I wanted to work overseas to fight child trafficking in Southeast Asia. I wanted to live on my own and know that I alone could make a name and place for myself in the world… no man could possibly be worth my time. I wanted to travel, to see places, to be financially secure and feel empowered. I had already experienced my share of romantic experiences — and the most recent one had failed. What was in the commitment of marriage for me, an intelligent, capable, and mobile young woman who wanted to take on the world?

I did not get married to cross out a milestone in my life. I did not marry for love, though Ryan and I love each other deeply. I did not marry for financial security, though I confess — his income is exponentially greater than what I could ever make. I did not marry because I badly wanted to become a mother. I did not get married to be happy. I did not get married to fix our relational issues. And no, I did not marry Ryan because I wanted cute hybrid White-Asian babies.

I got married because marriage is crazy. The concept of marriage is insane. The joining of two utterly different souls. The piecing together of a puzzle that only reflects an imperceptible fragment of paradise. The idea that two humans can live together for 50+ years without killing each other in the process is crazy. You and I both know how ugly we are at our worst… the monsters that emerge from the abyss of our souls when someone even just rubs us the wrong way. Yes — marriage is crazy.

But what is crazier than marriage as we know it is the author of marriage and the reasons for which marriage was made. In marriage, you level with your spouse. You hold up a mirror to their face while they hold one to yours. You cannot escape your flaws, your iniquities, the consequence of your mistakes. In marriage, you are held accountable for every spoken word that hurts; you are held accountable for the deeds that distance you from one another; you are held accountable to challenge and to forgive. But most of all, in marriage, you are held accountable to love. Not just to love, but to love like crazy… to love radically, to love hilariously, and to love insanely.

I’m not talking about a love that relies on checks and balances, or you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours. This is not the kind of love that has an agenda for reciprocated affection or physical return; it is not the kind of love that is consummated in passion and quenched by pleasure. It is a love that is refined by fire, chiseled by hammers, long-suffering, selfless, and humble. It is the kind of love that is meant to resemble the true Love that conquers all — the Omnia Vincit Amor, of all loves in the universe. Crazy, intoxicating, incandescent love beyond our senses. God’s love.

God alone enables me to live this marriage right. I cannot make it to even tomorrow without hurting or failing Ryan in some way… it’s wired into my blood, humanity’s destructive tendencies and all of sin’s culprits in the world. But because God loves me like crazy and enables my feet to go to the heights, I am able to love like crazy and make sense of how I, a next-to-nothing twenty-three year old, can live this marriage right.

I don’t have the Peter Pan’s syndrome. I am not an emerging adult. I want my life to be a life full of crazy love — always pushing me to be as authentic and genuine with my fellow immortals on earth as possible. You can continue to tell me that I’m crazy for letting myself be “institutionalized,” for allowing a patriarchal society to “ruin my life.” You can continue to call me crazy for getting married at such a young age. In my opinion, it’s better to be loved like crazy by a God who is crazy about me than to live my youthful years as one of the Lost Boys (or Girls, in my case).

Marriage is not a solution. It is just one of the ways in which I have decided to live my life with crazy love. I hope you find your own desire for crazy love as well.

We all adore Lucy. She spends time with all of us in the morning, right before she gets ready for class. Lucy gives each of us a sense of purpose. I mean, living in a cardboard box on some shelf in a random store just isn’t the way it’s meant to be for appliances like us. Without Lucy, our existences would be meaningless.

She’s stirring now. Stretching her arms above her head, Lucy reaches for the clock sitting on her nightstand. Clock and I are good friends — we both share one common trait: our functions serve to tell the truth. Though noble and purposeful, always having to tell the truth is not an easy quality to have… Clock tells me about the number of times he has been scoured at, frowned at, sworn at — just by the fact that he openly shares the truth on his face. I empathize with him. It’s not easy to always tell the truth.

Lucy is sitting up now. Although she slept soundly for at least 7 hours, she still looks exhausted. There are bags under her eyes — hazel, Mirror says, always between a bottle green and chestnut brown. Toothbrush tells me that she got in late last night — something about a party at a nearby frat house with her two friends, Liz and Nicole. She got in so late, Toothbrush says, that she didn’t even touch me. Suddenly, I felt myself get a little colder inside. Telling the truth today… would not be easy.

She is walking into the bathroom now; I can see her daintily painted toes. We all know that she keeps her toes painted because her nails are more brittle than ever. Clipper says he barely has any work to do because her nails are paper-thin. Lucy sets her hands on the sink and looks at herself in the mirror.

We all wonder what she sees when she looks into the mirror. Of course, Mirror himself swears by all the mirrors in the world that our Lucy is perhaps the most beautiful girl to have ever walked the earth — her high cheekbones, lightly-set dimples, and cheery smile are sure to be the best, he says, not to mention her perfect 5’6″ frame. But instead of smiling back at herself, Lucy furrows her brow, steps back, and reaches her fingers to her waist to pinch herself. She looks down at the tiny bulge of skin between her thumb and index finger and draws in a deep breath. Before I know it, she steps carefully on top of me, fists clenched, and lips pursed. The moment of truth came quicker than I could have helped.

She lets out a long breath before looking down at me.

114 pounds, I read. Five more pounds then yesterday, she thinks. I know she is thinking it. A surge of anxiety rises up in me… I’m sorry Lucy, I cannot help but to tell you the truth… but for what it’s worth, I think you are beautiful, the most beautiful girl in the world. Please don’t hurt yourself Lucy…

Lucy is angry with me and everyone else knows it. Everyone else also knows that I cannot lie. I cannot lie, Lucy, I live to tell the truth — please don’t cry. Lucy is crying now, running her hands through her yellow ochre-stranded hair and crying. We all lie motionless, scared for her and feeling helpless.

Suddenly, Lucy stops crying. Her face is stony, void of emotion; a blank expression has replaced her look of distress. She steps off of me and walks swiftly into her bedroom. Bending down, Lucy reaches into her tiny dorm fridge and takes out a half-finished quart of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, a leftover sub, and egg salad. With gusto, she begins to scoop huge spoons of the ice cream into her mouth while heaping in spoonfuls of the egg salad and taking bites from the sub. We are all fearful for her; she acts as though she has not eaten in weeks. Nearly choking between bites from her food, Lucy tosses the empty contents of her impromptu binge aside and runs into the bathroom again. She collapses at the toilet bowl and begins to retch.

For the next several seconds, we all cringe in pain at each heave she makes. Once, twice, three times, four times — she vomits into the toilet, retching so violently that her hands shake in effort to pull her hair away from her face. From the sounds she is making, we think she is trying to purge all of the pizza she ate last night as well. Finally, she stops. There is sweat on her brow. She is gasping for air.

We are all quiet. We are all thinking. How did this happen? When did Lucy began to lose her way?

Slowly, Lucy gets up. She flushes the contents of her binge and purge away from the rest of the world. Her phone begins to ring in the next room. She moves into the other room and picks up her phone. Hello? she says.

Oh, hi Liz, she says. Lucy puts her hand up to her forehead and closes her eyes.

I’m fine, Lucy says. Yea. that was some party, wasn’t it?. Uh huh.. I don’t think so, he’s not really my type. No… I don’t have time to with classes anyways. Yea. Yea, I’ll be at work tonight. Really, Liz, I’m fine. I’m great. Okay. See you tonight. Love you too. Bye.

Lucy hung up the phone and began to get dressed. I never noticed how much more fragile her shoulders looked than they did now. She applied some makeup to her face and ran her fingers through her hair. Somehow, her hair seems more limp now than it did when she was sleeping. Grabbing the books off her desk, she took one last look around the room and noticed the conspicuous evidence of her earlier binge. She looked at the clock on her nightstand, scoured and made a face, and kicked the trash under her bed. I’ll deal with it later, she muttered. And, then, lingering for only a few more minutes, she was gone.

I wish I could tell Lucy how beautiful she really is.

1. “Just The Way You Are” by Bruno Mars = “O Praise Him” by David Crowder Band
2. “Irresistable” by Beyonce = “With You” by Chris Brown
3. “Battlefield” by Jordin Sparks = “Awesome God” (public domain)
4. “Hey Soul Sister” by Train = “I’m Yours” by Jason Mraz
5. “Alejandro” by Lady Gaga = Vittorio Monti’s Czardas = “All That She Wants” by Ace of Base … EPIC FAIL
6. “Like The Sea” by Alicia Keys = Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1
7. “Lead Me To The Cross” by Hillsong = Rachmaninov’s Vocalise
8.  ”Revelation Song” by Jennie Riddle = “Word of God Speak” by MercyMe
9. “All By Myself” by Celine Dion = Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2 … EPIC FAIL
10. “Could It Be Magic” by Barry Manilow = Chopin’s Prelude in C Minor
11. Things that sound like Pachelbel’s Canon (with a little help from Rob Paravonian):

“Graduation” by Vitamin C
“Let It Be” by The Beatles
“You Are My All in All” (public domain)
“No Woman No Cry” by Bob Marley
“Hook” by Blues Traveler
“Cryin’” by Aerosmith
“One Tin Soldier” by Coven
“Basket Case” by Green Day
“We’re Not Gona Take It” by Twisted Sister
“With Or Without You” by U2
“Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia
“Sk8ter Boi” by Avril Lavigne
“Welcome to the Black Parade” by My Chemical Romance

12. “Beverly Hills” by Weezer = “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” by Joan Jett
13. “You Had Me” by Joss Stone = “Bootylicious” by Destiny’s Child
14. “Butterflies and Hurricanes” by Muse = Rachmaninov’s Prelude No. 5 in G Minor
15. “There You Go” by Pink = “No Scrubs” by TLC
16. “She Hates Me” by Puddle of Mudd = “Summer Nights” from Grease
17. “December 1963 (O What a Night!)” by Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons = “Trading My Sorrows” (public)
18. “Baby Baby Baby” by Justin Bieber = “Last Christmas” by Wham! = “Stand By Me” by Ben E. King = EPIC FAIL
19.  ”Look What You’ve Done” by Jet = “Come Home” by OneRepublic
20. All Nickelback songs sound the same.
21. All Chris Tomlin songs sound the same.
22. Beauty and the Beast’s Castle Theme = Saint Saens The Carnival of the Animals – Aquarium Movement
23. Theme music from Disney’s Up = Ravel’s “Ma Mere l’Oye” (Conversation between Beauty and the Beast)
24. Seven Pounds love scene music = “The Crisis” by Ennio Morriccone from The Legend of 1900

Seriously… this is why musicians who create original music are the best.

“Let us not become weary of doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”
– Galatians 6:9

You will see. In the end, the people who remain standing are those who chose to be grand oaks of righteousness planted by the riverbed rather than those who opted to attain quick growth through means of duplicity and falsehoods — those whose roots were too weak to penetrate the soil. When that day comes, my roots will be strong and deep, and yours will be brittle and dry.

Paper-chasers. Bureaucratic tyrants. Gold-diggers. Philistines. Hypocrites. You will all see.

Many people think I’m too young to be getting married. They tell me that it’s impossible for someone as young as I am to know whether I’ve finally found “the One.” They tell me that I don’t know myself well enough to commit “till death do us part.” They encourage me to stop being naive and immature — and to screw my head on right and continue to enjoy my freedom as a young and mobile woman.

And then there are others who tell me they envy my life: I have a strong, kind-hearted, handsome and stable man in my life who is crazy enough about me to want to spend the rest of his life with me. They tell me that I’m going to have the most beautiful children in the world one day. They tell me that, if they were in my shoes, they’d choose motherhood over graduate school in a heartbeat. They tell me I am lucky to be an engaged woman this Valentine’s Day.

Valentine’s Day.

A little more than four years ago, my first love and I said goodbye to each other. It wasn’t one of those “I will always love you” goodbyes that left the door open at the end of the dark hallway. It also wasn’t one of those goodbyes where we held each other through the pain. It was abrupt — severing, gutting, searing, nauseating — final. We were both torn. When Valentine’s Day rolled around that year, I moped. It was awkward and shameful being newly single. It felt as though I was incapable of being loved. In desperate need of encouragement, I forced myself to write an email to other girls who were very near and dear to my heart. I felt much better after writing the letter and forgot about it soon after.

Not too long ago, I received an email from a dear friend of mine whom I have not spoken to in years. She had been one of the original recipients of the email I wrote in my Valentine’s Day desperation nearly four years ago. In her email, she recalled the words I wrote to her and the other young women. She quoted my own words back to me:

(written on February 14, 2006)

In the interest of the near-religious American celebration known as Valentine’s Day, here are some darn good things to remember about boys:

Choirs of angels don’t appear in the sky at their birth. Doves don’t come down from the sky when they are baptized. If tempted to eat when they are ravenous, they will most likely eat. They can’t turn water into wine. They can’t make the blind see. They can’t make the deaf hear. They can’t make the mute speak. They can’t make the crippled walk. They can’t raise the dead. They can’t do a thing for us when we’re bleeding. They can’t cast out demons. They can’t cure the diseased for good. They can’t make the rainclouds nor the seas listen to them. They definitely can’t turn 2 fish and 5 loaves of bread into dinner for 5,000. There sure aren’t coins in the mouths of fishes when they go fishing. They can’t curse trees and make them fruitless forever. They can’t be resurrected three days after they die. And they sure can’t save the human race from our depravity and wretched sin.

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of great things boys and men have to offer us.

They can make us feel like a million bucks. They offer us rides. They open the doors for us. They buy us flowers and chocolate. They write us cute cards with the writing skills no one else knows they have, except for maybe their moms. They make songs for us with the singing skills they’d never fess up to having, unless maybe at gunpoint. They can have the best humor. They can be oh so clever. They have the smile, you know what I mean. And their eyes. They can be considerate. They can be loving. They can be caring. They can let us know we are beautiful. They can let us know we are valued. They can protect us. They can speak up for us. They can defend us. They can pray with us. They can pray for us. They can give us wisdom. They can give us insight. They can listen to us when we need them to. They’ll walk us places at night. They’ll make sure we get home okay. They can be relaxing when we’re too tired of other girls at times. They can make us want to be a better person. They have charm. They have life. They are taught to be providers, they are taught to lead, and they are taught to be strong for us physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

The point of this email is neither to bash on boys nor to downsize their significance in our lives. The point of this email is to point out that no matter how many wonderful boys and men we all know, none of them can ever match the kind of love and significance our Father in Heaven provides for us through Jesus Christ, the ultimate Lover of our soul:

“But now, this is what the Lord says – he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. I give Egypt for your ransom, Cush and Seba in your stead. Since you are precious and honored in my sight, and because I love you, I will give men in exchange for you, and people in exchange for your life. Do not be afraid, for I am with you; I will bring your children from the east and gather you from the west. I will say to the north, ‘Give them up!’ and to the south, ‘Do not hold them back.’ Bring my sons from afar, and my daughters from the ends of the earth-everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made.” — Isaiah 43:1-7

So whether you are in middle school or high school, college or out of college, a girlfriend or single, engaged or married, re-married or divorced, or widowed, please stop for a few seconds and read on. Before you are any of the things I have just listed, you are first and foremost, a beloved daughter of the Holy God. He is your redeemer, He is your Provider, and He is your EVERYTHING. If you forget these truths like I do at times, if you get wrapped up in being with someone or not being with someone, take the time to go to Jesus. What a beautiful Lord we have! Life isn’t about whether or not we end up with someone. Actually, life isn’t about us at all. So whatever stage you are at in your love life right now, remember what the Lord has done for you… how He has redeemed you from your old self and how He has blessed you richly, and called you His daughter. I love you all very much — thanks for all of your encouragement and wisdom and perspectives, for your experiences and struggles shared with me. Have a happy Valentine’s day to the praise of our Love, of our God!

in His love,

g.

As I read through the missive, I was shocked by how much I needed to hear my own words spoken to me today. Here I am, a twenty-two year old woman about to marry the man I love in 132 days being reminded of Love in its most powerful form. Today, I needed to hear my voice when it was at its weakest: broken and vulnerable, uncertain and fearful. Sometimes, I wish I was as strong as I was when I was at my weakest. Please do not misunderstand me: I love my fiance and I cannot wait to call him my husband. But I am convinced that there was something my 19-year old heart knew back then that my 22-year old heart today — and I admit this with much chagrin — forgets… the indispensable, unshakeable, totally undeserved worth and value that I will forever have in the eyes of my Creator and the death He died for me on the cross is the incarnation of Everlasting Love.

Without God, my heart looks like swiss cheese.

So I write this to you in hope that what began as a desperation for love turned into a blessing can bless you as it blessed me today. And to the wonderful young woman who unknowingly made my day — thank you. I needed to hear those words today more than you know.

Now everyone go eat some nian gao and spring rolls for Chinese New Year. Chinese people don’t really like cheese, but that’s okay. The title is figurative.