Oh So Indecisive.

I want a classy job, one that comes with an office with a view. It will be in a big skyscraper with a super slick marble floored lobby that my uber chic stilettos will make an awesome clacking sound on as I make my way to the elevator. I will wear pencil skirts and suits everyday, and do my hair in a really done up way. And there will be a lobby receptionist that will make fun of me and several of my colleagues by calling us clackers for the sound our shoes make. Oh, and I’ll bring home a six figure salary. No big deal.

I want to work in a bakery. I want it to be in a quaint little town in a really old building from the 20’s. I want to make works of art in it, that you can eat. I want little kids to walk in and be amazed. I want to smell like sugar for the rest of my life and get my hands messy with flour everyday. And I want to wear my converse everyday well into my forties.

I want to be a makeup artist. I want to have the edgiest of the edgiest haircuts always, and have fun colored highlights. I want to have a nose ring and wear skinny jeans. A lot. I want to be a magician, and my wand: fluffy eyeshadow brushes. I want teenagers to aspire to BE me. I want to be crafty and creative always. I just want to be artsy and cool.

I want to be a museum curator.

I want to be a journalist.

I want to be a housewife.

I want to be a teacher.

I want to be a missionary.

I want to have a profession in Young Life.

I want to be in the FBI.

I want to be in the military.

Most importantly, I want to know what the heck I want. I want to know what’s probable, and what’s going to be beneficial to me. I want to love what I do, but still be comfortable in my finances. I want to marry a wonderful man of God who will support me in whatever crazy decision I do finally make. I want to make friends.

I feel alone in a world swamped with people.

I do have friends. But I feel like I’m missing out on really great relationships. Friends that share my faith. Friends that do what I do and like what I like. People that won’t think I’m crazy for wanting Jesus as the focal point of my life. Friends that will keep me in line, and make sure Jesus is my focal point. And friends that will let me help keep them in line too.

Decisions, decisions.

Stanford Could Be A Blessing

Have you ever paid to have your car washed, only to have it rain the next day? And then you swear that it happens every single time you get it washed?

Have you ever seen a friend trip and fall down some stairs, and then everyone picks on her relentlessly because of it for the years to come?

Have you ever gotten a huge zit on your face the night before a big date or prom or a picture day? And then you exclaim that it is just your luck?

Or have you ever set your sights on a plan only to watch God begin to shut the door on it, and you run towards that door full force thinking “heck no, not this time” but it shuts just before you get there, clipping your nose?

The problem with these situations is not the humiliation or the disappointment, it’s just that we fail to see the events that turn out in our favor. You know, we torture our friend for years for being a klutz, because why? She fell down some stairs once? Have we counted the number of times she has successfully walked down a flight of stairs? No, nor do we recognize that and cease mortifying her with stories to new friends. And we blame God, and we get angry at him for closing the door on one of our dreams, but how many times has he opened doors for us?

We expect things to go swimmingly, that we’ll be ordinarily healthy, make friends, graduate, get married. But he has the power at any given moment to throw a curve ball at us. An illness to us or a loved one, a mental disability, to be the subject of bullying. Quite honestly, I’m surprised that he doesn’t throw those things at us more often. Especially after we throw a fit about not getting in to our dream school or after our boyfriend breaks up with us.

I can picture how I would handle the situation. “Oh. So you didn’t get into Harvard. Boo fricken hoo. You’re gonna go to Stanford now and meet your husband, but you know what, I’ll show you what real problems are like. Your hairdresser is going to mysteriously mistake the red hair color to be your blonde highlights today. And when you redye it back to blonde, it’s gonna be fried. And you’re gonna have to cut it ALL off. Good luck, Annie.”

Okay, maybe red highlights aren’t exactly the wrath of God, but you get my point.

When I was little, I had a Berenstien Bears book, and the moral of it was to count your blessings. I know your grandparents tell you that frequently. And you think you are grateful for what you have for the most part. But I think we all need to remember it the next time we fork out 8 dollars for a shiny car, and then wake up to a thunderstorm. It doesn’t happen EVERY time, it just happened this time. It’s not fun, but it is what it is.

And when God shuts a door in your face, remember the doors he has opened, and look for the one he will open next. Because Stanford’s really not that bad of an option.

Count your blessings, friend.

Just Pray.

Hi, friends. I’m having trouble with words today. I’ve been having trouble with words a lot lately. I have this awful awful problem of wanting to say so much in order to convey one point, and then I wind up only saying a little bit, and conveying a whole different point that was completely irrelevant. It’s happening in blogs and texts and conversations. And I really wish I could get a hold of myself, and just say what I want to, what I really feel. Coddling people’s fragile emotions is exhausting.

On the bright side, I feel good. It’s strange. But I’ve changed, in a matter of days. All because I redirect my thoughts, and pray more, and tell myself I’m lovely. Beth Moore said to do that, to tell yourself everyday that you’re lovely. And I do now. Maybe you think I’m weird because of that, I couldn’t care less. I am lovely. I don’t know if the word “lovely” is significant to you, but it’s one of my very favorite words. Has been for a while. And when I read that I should tell myself that I’m lovely, it hit my heart hard. *click* light bulb on. I get it now. I am lovely. And you can’t take that from me.

I feel so blessed for having this change in me, I don’t deserve it. I have done absolutely nothing to deserve God to let me be comfortable with my jacked up self. I dug my grave, made my bed, whatever, and I should have to lie in it. But the beautiful thing is that, I don’t have to. Jesus already laid in that bed/grave/whatever for me. And I think he’s pretty cool for doing that.

Praying and spending time in the word is a whole different experience now. I’m amazed, really. I’m not frustrated anymore, if you recall from a couple of blogs ago. I get it now, or at least, I get it more than I did before.

God is good. And sovereign. And I know for a fact that he’s smiling at me right now, because I understand. “Dear one, I told you you would understand. In my time, not yours.” That’s what he told me. I hear it in my soul as clear as I can hear What Not To Wear in the background while I type this.

Here are some things, if you’re interested, that I’d like you to pray for:

For me to continue to grow, and that I won’t lose this understanding. That I will believe that I am lovely everyday for the rest of my life.

For my pride. Oh for my pride. ‘Nuff said.

For Bailey Price and the Pine Cove team in Argentina!

Yeah, she’s cute. Bailey+Argentina-Caitlin=SAD CAITLIN. However, she and her team do need prayer for the awesome work that they are trying to accomplish. I think she puts it better than I do, so here are her requests for prayer:

“Please join us in praying that the Lord will use this trip and this camp in Argentina for his glory and his will.  Pray that we will be humble servants and that our selfishness and pride will not detract from our mission.  Pray for our safety and provision as we travel.  And pray that the hearts of Argentinians will be open to the gospel of Jesus as it is presented to them.”

I’ve been keeping up with Pine Cove’s blog about the trip, and they are lacking power and water. Which is a problem. So pray for that too. They’re having trouble getting through to the kids there, but are continuing to show them the love of Jesus, and I’m sure it’s beautiful to experience. Praise the Lord for his sovereignty, he will prevail. If not through this week with these kids, then later on.

Pray for the 21 days of prayer. That sounds strange. But it’s held at 6 AM every morning, and goodness knows that’s gonna be hard for me and most others that will participate. Please pray that I will wake up. Please pray that I will make it there everyday.

Pray for my help with forgiveness, and patience.

And lastly if you don’t want to pray for me or for Bailey, just pray. Because it’s good for you and it’s good for God. And it’s good for you and God.

Protected: Love Gives Me Hope

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I Feel Good

I feel. So much better.

I can’t explain to you what did it.

Or how it happened.

Just that it did.

I feel good.

Like I could call for a pizza, and not get nervous. Or put on the jeans that I worry make me look like a cow, and walk through a big crowd. Like I could sing in front of  a lot of people, and not care that I sound like a dying cat. I feel like I can have fun.

Maybe it’s just for today, or this week. Maybe I won’t feel this way again for a while. But for now, I feel so much better.

And I’m so glad that I do.

Rubber To Asphalt.

Panting.
Panting.

Harder.
Harder.

The drum of rubber against asphalt.

Again.
Again.

Arm up, arm down.
Arm up, arm down.

Panting.
Panting.

Faster.
Faster.

Too much.
Don’t care.

Rubber to asphalt.
Rubber to asphalt.

Her ankles ache, and her abdomen is sore, but she keeps on.

Rubber to asphalt.
Rubber to asphalt.

Her damaged knees beg her to stop.

“No, not yet.” She replies, ignorant.

Rubber to asphalt.
Rubber to asphalt.

Forward.
Forward.

There’s something so compelling and delicious about pressing forward after you’ve gone as far as you can go. The act of rebellion against your body stirs something in you that’s somewhere between euphoria and fear. You reach a numb level that allows you to continue on, but you have to push past the pain first. I love this feeling. Going past the point where you should stop, creates a greedy monster inside of me. It recognizes that I have gone past where I should have stopped, and it wants to see how far I can go. How far, exactly, can I be pushed? Where are my limits?

Do I have any?

The answer to that question depends on how far I’ve already gone, and how greedy that monster has gotten. There’s a terrifying place when I’ve gone much too far, that it doesn’t matter anymore. Limits? What are limits? I can be pushed too far? What? I have to stop myself before I get there. That state of mind is dangerous. Its ramifications are huge. I’ve had it happen before.

This is my form of purging; running.

Rubber to asphalt.
Rubber to asphalt.

Harder.
Harder.

Faster.
Faster.

My calves and thighs burn, and I smile. Pat myself on the back, maybe. Good work, keep it up.

As I’m diving deeper into my insecurities and figuring out exactly what it is that makes me tick, it’s easier to control myself. I react differently. I stop, I catch myself. I say a prayer, and I reenter the situation. Better, stronger. Secure. Almost. I’m getting there, I’m learning.

But I don’t think I can stop running. Running fuels the prideful part of my insecurity, which I know is kindof an oxymoron, but bear with me here. It’s been a habit of mine for a while now, but I honestly trashed it close to a year ago. A little more. But I’ve picked it up again. It started off slow, healthy. And here we are again, everyday. Running. Which doesn’t sound that bad, but you’d have to be inside my head while I’m running to understand.

I think running is so beautiful. The act in itself. Watching someone run might not be, and I certainly don’t look beautiful afterward. But running itself, is a beautiful act. I think I live in a slightly different universe when I’m running, like I really am running away from everything that bothers me and controls me and makes me feel so bad. It’s all gone once my feet, clothed in Nike’s, hit the pavement.

Rubber to asphalt.
Rubber to asphalt.

Panting.
Panting.

Stop.
Stop.

Get sick?

Nope, false alarm.

Continue.

Rubber to asphalt.
Rubber to asphalt.

Euphoria.
Fear.

Excitement.
Danger.

Terror.
Cloud 9.

Tears.
Joy.

Smiles.
Anger.

Rubber to asphalt.
Rubber to asphalt.

Done.

For tonight.

Dreaming of tomorrow.

Headphones out.
Shoes off.

Shower.
Reflect.

Feeling amazing.
Can’t stop.

There is nothing greater than a running high.
At least not to me.
At least not for tonight.

What a Fool.

I hate feeling like I’m the one that’s the fool in this situation. I hate being made a fool of. I think I detest it more than any other feeling in the world. It’s that pit of your stomach pain, almost a guilty feeling, that makes you blush and want to turn and hide your face from everything and everyone.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.” And if you were to ask me, I’d tell you I said no. I gave no consent. I resisted. But I suppose that I’ve been lying to myself if what she’s said is true. And I believe it to be. I just can’t imagine how I let someone get under my skin like this. I swore I wouldn’t. I used lots of precautions. And then? It happened anyway. And I’ve been made a fool.

I think the part that eats me alive the most is that YOU think me to be a fool. Because I don’t think that I am. I think it’s your fault. But you think I’m a fool, and somewhere in my twisted mind that makes me embarrassed and hurt.

Wouldn’t it be nice if I could be whole again? Assuming I ever was to start with. Wouldn’t it be nice if I weren’t so insecure? Wouldn’t it be nice if I would stop complaining all the time?

I’m still trying to move forward from my insecurity which is the source of most of my bad qualities. I’m trying to be the woman of God that I want to be. But tonight I’m frustrated (surprise, surprise) and I don’t know what to do with YOU. I haven’t a clue at all. Oh well.

Change #973

I wish I was like Morgan Stanford, full of good words that make you listen. And wisdom. Absolutely full to the brim, threatening to spill over with wisdom. Wisdom that whispers quietly and makes you think, don’t confuse this with knowledge; it’s not. It’s the application of knowledge to life. Which I seldom, seldom do.

I wish I was like Melissa Mooney. So full of grace and acceptance, two things that I constantly find myself in short supply of. Her unconditional love constantly makes me take a step back in awe. And then discipline myself, because shame on me for ever, ever, thinking I was a generous person. I’m the grinch compared to her.

I wish I was like Joey Pierce. Honesty is a compelling quality, but knowing when to shut your mouth is even better. I envy him that, because I never can quite depict when to open or shut my mouth, and I always guess wrong. Always.

I wish I was like Angel Cornwall. I find it extremely hard to be myself in all circumstances. To simply be Caitlin with no additives is foreign to me. But Angel is always Angel, no matter who the audience is.

I wish I was like Chad Golden. To have passions, and act on them. To not care what a soul on this earth thinks, because what does it matter anyway? It must be freeing and exciting. He knows the right things to say and the right questions to ask. Lord knows I never do.

I wish I was like the lady that dances during the worship service at church. So free to be herself about her relationship with the Lord. She’s a blessing to watch, and I’m positive that she’s a blessing to talk to. Maybe I’ll gain the courage to talk to her, next week. Always next week.

I wish I was like this guy in Starbuck’s. He’s said hi to almost everyone in here. And he gives off such a pleasing aura of, “Be my friend, please.” I will be your friend, Starbuck’s guy.

I wish I was like Bailey Price. She hurts my pride a lot – in a good way. I constantly find that after I post an extremely depressing blog, or get super frustrated with this whole “Jesus” thing, or throw a pity party for myself, she posts a blog or says something so profound that it could make me cry. It’s not the end of the world after all, I find. And I need to put on my big boy pants, swallow my pride, and get over it. She reminds me constantly how important the Lord is. And I wish I was like her.

I wish I was like Natalie Yarid. She exudes happiness. I feel happier with her. She’s my role model in so many ways. I could give you the list, but my hands would grow tired, and we don’t have all night. She is so beautiful. If you don’t think so, sit down with her for an hour and I guarantee you that you’ll change your mind. She is happy, and joyful, and exciting, and accepting, and loving and a much better version of myself. And she’s so transparent and real.  You think she’s got it all worked out and that her life is 100% perfect, but then you sit down and talk to her, and you’re blown away by the challenges she has faced, and better, overcome. It just makes her all the more fascinating. If I had to pick one person to turn out as as an adult, celebrities and famous folks included, it would be her. Hands down. No second thoughts. Natalie Yarid. Absolutely. Maybe that’s dumb and naive of me to say. Don’t care.

I wonder if someone else wrote a list like this, if I’d be on it? And if I was, what in the world would they say they wanted to have that I have. Or that they think I have. I know that all of these people have problems just as I do. I know that they have a list of people that they want to be like, even if they don’t spell it out quite as literally as I do. And they probably feel like me, that they don’t deserve to be on anybody’s “I wish I was like ______” list. It just goes to show how insecure we humans are.

Most importantly, I wish I was like Jesus. And if I’m not mistaken, most of the people on my list agree. They wish they were like Jesus. And I’d say that the lot of them are a whole lot closer than I. And that brings us right back to why I ultimately wish I were like them. They are the tangible forms of Jesus in my life. The ones that have transformed themselves into followers of Christ, and in turn, they look like Jesus. I want to be like them, because I want to look like Jesus. (Please don’t misunderstand that I worship them or something crazy like that. That’s not what I mean at all.)

I’m so tired of wanting to live like ________. I’m going to pull a Nike and just do it. Today, tonight. Right now.

“Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is-his good, pleasing and perfect will.” Romans 12:2

I will not conform. I want your will, Lord. Renew my mind. It’s yours.

“Even now, declares the Lord, return to me with all your heart, with fasting and weeping and mourning. Rend your heart and not your garments. Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love, and he relents from sending calamity.” Joel 2:12-13

The good Lord knows I need no more calamity. I’m running to you, Abba. Take me back. Forgive me, for I have sinned.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!” 2 Corinthians 5:17

I love the use of exclamation point here. Paul is exclaiming that I am new. I am new. The old has gone, the new has come! Say it loud, say it proud, Paul.

Change. I am changing. Albeit for the 973rd time. But who’s counting?

Purge

I have attempted to write a blog three different times now. It’s not working. I feel like anything I say is going to kick me in the butt afterward. So I’m just going to embrace that and go to town. And I’m going to compile the blogs I tried to write.

I hate New Years. I think it’s stupid. And I hate it. Completely. Nothing feels different and nothing gets accomplished. New Years resolutions suck and they only let people down. This is not a clean slate, it’s still the same year to me. New Years to me is in August at the beginning of a new school year. That’s when you have a clean slate. Or when you move somewhere new. Or when you start a new job. Or have a new baby. Or break up with someone. This day is the same as yesterday except that I now have to write 11 on papers and bank deposit slips. Big freaking deal. Plus, it’s the first day that the Christmas season is really, actually over.

Remember that idea that I had a few blogs ago? It’s gnawing at me. Daily. Hourly. I don’t really know what to do. I can’t decide if the idea is good and right, or if it’s my paranoia getting the best of me. My instinct is to think the latter. But I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I need to go back to church tomorrow morning. I plan on going. I have to have something keeping me in check. I think I’d be more “in check” if I had friends that shared my thoughts and beliefs. But I don’t really. And I can’t tell you how much it upsets me. If you have good girl friends, consider yourself lucky, and don’t take them for granted.

I want to know if there’s anyone in the world that just wants Caitlin. Because it seems to  me that everyone wants Caitlin + _______. And that’s not okay. Is it actually possible to accept people the way they are, or is it a big myth that’s been passed down for centuries?  Caitlin + a college acceptance. Caitlin – insecurity. Caitlin + drugs. Caitlin + sex. Caitlin – paranoia. Caitlin + money. Caitlin + a better sense of humor. Caitlin – weight. Caitlin + intelligence. I guess I understand. I know good and well what I lack, and what my faults are. Who in the world would just want Caitlin? I don’t know that even I want just Caitlin. By the way, I know the answer to “who in the world would just want Caitlin.” But I’m choosing not to go there right now.

Please excuse this purge of sorts. I needed it. I’m going a little insane tonight. I’m pretty sure it’s the lack of sleep.