be true to yourself?

Today was long, in the best sort of way. Friends are returning to town, and I had the pleasure of seeing more people I love in one day than I perhaps saw all summer. (This is not to diminish my love for the people I saw this summer! It's not the amount of love--it's the amount of friends.)

At the last social event of the evening, I was describing my day to one of these wonderful friends, and realized how incredibly different each of my interactions had been. I went to church and lunch with a very sweet, close girlfriend who also shares my faith; we had a fun but passionate discussion of what we learned this summer, and prayed together. Then I went to the grocery store and ran into a bunch of my super-smart, ridiculously-ambitious friends from first year, and we got into a spontaneous discussion of classes we want to take while standing in the organic foods aisle (yes, we are nerds). My roommate and I then attended a small gathering but classy gathering where they served wine and iced tea; I enjoyed a delightful dinner at my (married!) friends' house with barbecue and beer; and finally ended the night at a packed party that was, surprisingly and happily, very loud and happy but not too crazy. (Crazy parties are somehow never fun for me; I just spend the whole time worrying someone will hurt themselves.)

Each of these interactions was very different, but each was equally enjoyable. Earlier in the day, while walking to event #3, my roommate was musing about whether we are different people depending on whom we are with. (Forgive the lingering preposition.) It was interesting question that I haven't really thought much about, since so many middle school youth pastors, health teachers, and posters in the hallways reminded me, "Be True to Yourself." Adapting to different groups of people was acquainted with a falseness, so that I would be ashamed to admit I am different with different people. And some of that sense of falseness, I believe, is right--I should be ashamed of the times that I have relaxed my morals or values, or just been afraid to say something harmless but that is true of me ("I like french fries and think organic food is gross") because I am afraid of the opinions of those around me.

But I wonder if maybe the lesson was established a bit too far in middle school. God has made each individual complex--so complex that no one person or group of people will ever "call out" all that is "me." Could it be that being "different" around different groups of people actually allows me to express more of myself? I may not be completely able to love both junk food and poetry, praying and partying, at the same time with the same person (although I will say that I think there is nothing wrong with people who both pray and party--albeit in moderation--and more people should do so!), but those are all a part of me and having a variety of friends allows me to express that. Also--is it totally wrong if I am not only expressing different bits of myself, but actually changing within my different relationships? I have married friends who have told me that they gradually become more and more like their spouses; I don't think this is because they are being "untrue" to themselves, but rather that as they grow in their love for one another their selves actually do change, hopefully for the better. (When I mentioned this to my roommate, she wondered if we should start looking for mates not who match us well now, but who we hope we will become more like in the future!)

Despite being such a creature of habit, I am grateful for these occasional reminders of the incredible variety in my life, in the form of the people who surround me. I hope that I occasionally call out in them a beautiful piece of how they were created that may not be fully expressed in all of their relationships. How precious is that? I feel a little post-modernist saying, "There can be no self except in relation to others," because that's not totally what I mean, but I do want to appreciate a bit of the fluidity of "self"--and maybe tear down one or two of those middle school posters.

everyone should do this

When I was in high school, my English teacher recommended that we all read The Great Gatsby once every decade of our lives. She said that it spoke to you each time, but in entirely different ways, and it was amazing to her to see how differently she responded to it at age 30 as opposed to age 20. I never particularly planned to follow the advice, seeing as how I hated The Great Gatsby. (Is that like heresy for an English major to say? I can defend my position if I'm ever asked to.)

However, I have now followed her advice completely unintentionally--well, almost. My book is not The Great Gatsby. It is called Stepping Heavenward, written in the 1860s by a Mrs. E. Prentiss, and it is a novel-written-as-a-journal, the spiritual autobiography of a young woman from the age of 16 until death. I read it once when I was in middle school with my best friend Katie (who I think loved it mostly because the narrator's name is "Kate"); once the year after high school when I was living overseas, because my aunt sent it to me in a care package; and I just noticed it on my bookshelf and picked it up to begin reading again, since it's a fairly quick read and I was looking for a short book to hold me over until school starts. It only occurred to me afterwards that I read it at two other "significant" points in my life--the start of adolescence (and all the insane questioning going along with that) and my first year living on my own. I am going ahead and counting this as another "significant" point in my life since it is the start of my last year at college, and I am definitely feeling a great deal of questions coming on.

The more I have read, the more I have remembered of how I felt about the book and what I related to the previous times I read it. The first time, I remember I was mostly excited at the narrator's vivacity and outspokenness, since I have always been probably a little too loud. And I think I was excited that she was a girl--I'd like to argue that not enough serious books (ie not Babysitter's Club) are written with women as the main characters. I also related to all of her initial questioning about what it meant to love God, what it meant to be good, and why all of that was so hard. I do clearly remember, however, that by the end of the book, I was completely terrified of this "mature" narrator who I thought I could never relate to as she dealt with issues of life, death, sacrifice of personal dreams, and hope in the midst of all that with such peace and grace. I think it only undid my initial comfort that "someone else" related to all of my confusions and questions, since I was still stuck in them and the narrator was meanwhile growing out of them at a speed of about 10 years/hour.

The second time I read it, I was more amused by 16-year-old Kate, and less frightened by 40-year-old Kate (although still equally bewildered at how she got to where she was so quickly). On this reading, I will at least say that while I am still amazed by and desirous of the older narrator's maturity, I've found myself not quite as depressed to discover that I am not there yet. This, I believe, is progress. It helps, of course, that I feel more advanced in all of my questions than my middle-school-self felt; it is delightful to realize that even though there are days when I feel like I am right back in 8th grade, growth has been occurring even without my feeling it all the time, and thus I can hope to continue to grow. I hope someday to be able to live with the grace that is described by the older Kate. But it is also freeing to recognize that I am where I am, and I do not have to be perfected yet--God has brought me here, and will continue to work in me, but is being patient and so very loving toward me in the meantime.

Obviously, it's fairly easy to draw parallels to your own life and growth when you're reading a book about an entire life and growth throughout that life. It also helps me in particular that this is a spiritual autobiography. But my guess--because my English teacher said so and she seemed to be right about a lot of things--is that it would work with any really good piece of fiction. Just feeling how you relate to the characters and themes at different stages, I would imagine, could speak volumes about how you are relating to yourself and the world around you at the same stages. I used to almost feel guilty about re-reading any book regularly, since there are so many books in the world to be read and I will, sadly, never get to all of them. But I think I may have to make this a habit with a few special books, now that I have stumbled across it. And I think you should too.

it's alright to be little bitty

I've mentioned that I'm new to this blog thing. I guess, in light of my recent efforts (or lack thereof), I should also mention that I may be bad at updating regularly, although the time stamps on my posts probably speak for themselves.

I had a moment today of pure delight. I was sitting on my couch realizing that I had completed nearly everything on my "to-do" list for the day--and it was only 1 pm. This seems like a small thing, and it is in the grand scheme of things. I even laughed at myself and felt a little foolish for feeling so gleeful. But I think that I too often let the small things pass me by, instead of taking a moment to appreciate them for the gifts that they are. The title of this post is the chorus of a country song that makes me laugh, and it's taken slightly out of context, but I'm using it to justify my tribute to these little things that have delighted me most recently:

--receiving a hug from a normally unaffectionate toddler
--being wrapped up in a soft blanket early in the morning
--sitting and talking with a friend for hours, losing track of time and not worrying about where either of us had to be next
--listening to a thunderstorm and watching the rain pelt the window
--having photographs of people I love hanging over my bed
--reading a friend's story and appreciating her innate talent
--having another friend's cat curl up in my lap unprompted and begin purring
--driving with the windows down and feeling a cool breeze
--reading poetry written hundreds of years ago and realizing it still inspires me today
--cooking a healthy-yet-delicious dinner (I almost didn't believe it was possible!) ;)
--reading and praying through Psalms
--looking over my room and realizing that everything is (for this brief moment!) organized and in its proper place
--drinking a very well-mixed Diet Coke from a soda fountain on a hot day (only other addicts can understand that really can bring delight!)

happy father's day

This morning, I woke up to a soft hand gently brushing hair off of my forehead and a voice quietly whispering in my ear as the speaker cuddled up next to me. This, of course, all sounds highly romantic (ok, maybe a little sketchy, but we'll pretend "romantic" for a moment) and my idealistic, daydreaming self of only last night would have thought so too. But out of the dreamy haze emerge the more pertinent details: the time of "morning" was actually before the sun rose, the hand belonged to the 4-year-old I was babysitting, and the voice in my ear said, "I'm starrrrrving! Come fix me breakfast!" Not at all romantic. In fact, I had to realize that I will never be able to experience an affectionate moment with anyone who is waking me up. I think this girl is cute and I was completely concerned with caring for her while her mother was out of town, but I can tell you that my first thoughts as I "came to" had absolutely nothing to do with happiness, peace, or her welfare.

I recounted this story to my father later, including the part where I gently suggested (ok, grumpily grunted) that she go back to bed, and her response of sitting on the couch outside my door singing, "I am hungry, I am hungry, lalalala, hungry hungry hungry." He informed me that this was exactly something I would have done as a kid (whereas my brother, the more direct of the two of us, would have merely stood and breathed down my dad's neck until he got what he wanted.) I then wished him happy father's day, hung up the phone, and decided that I needed to record this moment for the next time I think I am ready to have kids.

And just to drive the point home, I'm sleeping until 10 tomorrow. Happy Father's Day.

let's try this thing

Confession: I have always made fun of people with blogs. I have always made fun of blogging in general. I have always secretly suspected it is a sign of the downfall of society. I am also the type of person who orders the same thing at a restaurant every time I go in.

But...I am having to humbly admit that I might have been wrong about this whole blog thing. I have also always had an intense desire for and love of communication (although my listening skills still need work!) and I enjoy writing as a form of creativity and communication, but have let it slide in recent years. For both of those reasons, and because I suspect that only my mother will ever read this, I'm going to try the whole blog thing. It may fail. Or it may not. At least my mother will appreciate hearing from me more often.

I chose my title not because of the movie--I have actually never seen it, although it's on that list of movies that I keep meaning to rent and never do. I chose it because I've always loved the myriad of images that phrase brings to mind. "Rain" evokes sorrow and childish delight, drowning and baptism, cleansing of the old and birthing of the new; "singing" I love because it is a beautiful and oftentimes incomprehensible response to the world we live in. (Singing is also often loud, as am I.) And I think the metaphor of "singing in the rain" sums up all that I could hope to do with my writing--offer sometimes beautiful, sometimes joyous, sometimes merely loud responses to a world that is sorrowful and struggling and also being redeemed.