silent reverie

Some people are "morning people" and others are "night owls".  I've recently realized that I'm actually both - or maybe I'm just not that into afternoons. I like the mornings because they bring a promise of productivity. And one of the perks of working three 12-hour shifts a week at the hospital is I have a lot of free days.  And on these days off, I always wake up with the desire to really do something special, to make something of myself, and to get one step closer to becoming the person I've always dreamed I would be. And then the afternoon creeps up on me.  I've cleaned my room, listened to music, caught up on my shows, and it's probably time I figure out what I'd like to eat for lunch! Before I know it, the promise of productivity begins to feel less like a promise and more like a deadline.  My optimistic vision for today is not exactly turning out the way I planned, and the more I putter around my house the more I find myself lo...

The room is quiet again; the small tentative wave of discussion once again receding in the wake of yet another outburst, another strange question, another meaningless ramble.  I look around the room and see faces in various stages of impatience and indifference and the thought comes to me unbidden: "I wish he just didn't come anymore." The last few months, our small group of relatively like-minded believers has been surprised by the arrival of people who are by every definition of the word "different".  We've seen them as a chance for our group to exhibit true acceptance and sincere love for people who are unlike us but need Jesus as much as we do.  However, as the months past, we found ourselves more and more at a loss as to how to connect to them, how to help them change and see true growth.  If they don't change or if they begin to make our other church members feel uncomfortable, what do we do?  How much do we risk in hopes that they will somehow f...

Three months ago, I arrived at JFK bleary-eyed and frazzled after a 2 hour flight delay, and walked into a lobby filled with my closest friends and family.  My bewilderment was quickly replaced with excitement as I realized exactly what was happening: Jesse was proposing to me.  As much as I knew that we were heading towards marriage, when the proposal actually happened I was still stunned and surprised.  I said yes, of course, and was immediately engulfed by joyous cheers and warm embrace of Blueprinters, childhood friends, and family.  The memory of all the unrestrained expressions of love and excitement for me still brings a tear to my eye. Like many newly engaged girls, I gazed at my ring for days and became an obsessive wedding blog follower.  What used to be casual browsing became a sort of eager and desperate search for more picture-perfect DIY rustic chic weddings that attract repins on pinterest like hipsters to thrift stores.  As if the more of ...

There, I said it! It's many other things as well; it's exciting, meaningful, uplifting, surprisingly fun.  But it's also hard.  However, I don't want to sit here and list the reasons why it's hard because 1. I don't want this post to become a buzzfeed article and 2. I know myself and the list can become a string of complaints and end up making me feel yucky. But I do want to be honest with where I am right now and why despite the ups and downs I've been through in being a leader in church I would still fight tooth and nail to make it to the meetings and throw myself into worship and give bear hugs to awkward teens every week (they love em, they just don't know it yet).  Right now, I'd say that I'm in a bit of a dry spell - I'm learning how to have a full-time career and be a full-time leader in a small church at the same time (I'm not good at math but I don't think you can technically be "full" time with two different...ti...

        Day after day I enter the rooms of men and women who have beating hearts and breathing lungs but are little more than warm corpses waiting for the end.  Their faces lined with anguish, mouths agape in a silent cry, hands bound in a last resort to keep them from hurting themselves.  These hands that were once warm and strong, eager to serve, work, create, and comfort are now only useful for drawing blood and measuring pulses.  Their blank eyes are shuttered windows hiding a retreated soul.  My job is to offer comfort to those whom comfort is a far-off memory, to apply feeble treatments for the onslaught of diseases ravaging their body, and to walk away from their rooms without becoming a shuttered house myself.  I can hear in the lunchtime small talk that my colleagues share my struggle to remain soft-hearted yet competent, compassionate yet harshly realistic, a healthcare provider yet a fellow human being.  As I listen ...

A few weeks ago I picked up a book called "Kisses from Katie" on my weekly (sometimes bi-weekly) Barnes & Nobles run.  It's an autobiography by a young American girl (the same age as me!) who did the unthinkable and moved to Uganda right out of high school and committed her life to serving the people there by adopting 14 little girls and creating an organization that would go on to feed, clothe, and teach hundreds more.  I'd regret reading this book in public  because I constantly found my eyes welling up with tears; I can't remember the last time a book (a non-fiction one at that!) stirred in me so much emotion. One of the many parts that really struck me and stayed with me, though, was how profound her mother's heart was.  The way it expanded and embraced the children who for all intents and purposes have been thrown into the darkest, cruelest corners of this world.  All at once she was inexplicably, irrevocably committed to loving these children whole ...