SO, my first official date I remember was during baseball season. He had I-just-showered-hair under what I thought was an impressive baseball cap. But to be honest, what was first just a purple button up which I feel was silk like material, ended up being a super distracting piece of clothing throughout the night. Sometimes I wonder if guys think about their outfits as much as girls (I) do, but a blatant NO comes to mind with this fella (God bless him slash sorry I was 19 so I was all about the exterior). But as we headed to the game, the sun was setting and I remember looking at his rear view mirror catching the purply red light reflecting from his 4Runner back window. I remember he even let me borrow his sunglasses because I was adamant in seeing the sky though it kind of burned my eyes. That was for some reason more than a nice gesture to me so since then, I’ve made it a point to check if a guy will either hand me over his sunnies or judge me in being stubborn in staring at the infinite sun. The former promises a potential lifetime of respect and hugs.

As we got to the game, I met with a friend and her boyfriend. Typical girls in the middle situation with bits of snickering in our own and at times intimate corners. I want to say we were cute, but I’m very certain we were as cute as much as we were falling in love with one another. Though the crowds and Rally Monkey mainly drowned the conversation out, his body language was rallying none of my attention or interest. I just felt awkward and blamed it initially on the sticky floor and mist from all the different drafts that were on tap spewing out of the angry man fans. But at least there was passion in those men! I kept thinking, “man guy next to me, where is your passion?” He spoke with no enthusiasm, which communicated a disinterest in a very interesting girl (no bias). Would I like a rope licorice? Sure. But would I have made you buy it? Probably. But we’ll never know any of these outcomes because you never asked. Or spoke for that matter.

During the bottom of the ninth inning, we decided to head out and grab something to eat. Conversation picked up a bit but the content was alarming. I suppose if I had an ex who did cocaine constantly which consequently led to the demise of my relationship with my lover, I’d probably divulge of such adventurous meets mysterious thriller story too…but yikes, I’ve never even had a whole beer and you’re talking about your ex who used to have at least like 3 beers. Suddenly I felt I was out of my league, but in the good way, where the league is a bunch of coked out, silk shirt wearing, monotone speaking peeps.

This was obvious a sign of a man who was still hung up on a girl who wasn’t me, which thankfully was quite alright/ideal. As I inhaled my animal fries ferociously to thwart of ANY potential interest he may had of me (because I’m just a good listener no matter who you are and what you wear) I soon suggested he’d better get me back home since it was a school night.

During the ride home, he let me play any Fall Out Boy song I wanted to and then after a then very impressive bridge to chorus transition, I was home. Before I stepped out of his vehicle, he suggested we go see Dave Matthews for my birthday (since it was coming up and he had two tickets). I nodded nervously and let him walk me to my front door. As he bent down to hug me with what felt like the weight of his world which surely had no room for mine, I reciprocated with my version of a thank you for the night with two and a half pats on the back and half-smile.

Then he said goodbye and I ran inside and sighed.

As I scurried inside finding my mom in the living room watching Lifetime, I instantly and hurriedly changed out of my too-thought-out outfit and into more comfortable threads. Though my eyes fixated on the young pregnant teen on the screen, my mind was on how nice that boy was, despite his tangled hair and heart. Thankful for his kindness though gray demeanor, I considered the date a success though a second one would never come into fruition. No matter how much Dave Matthews meant to me. Or how much I would love to have someone  to hug days on end.

You make others feel at home

You make laughter erupt in any room you occupy.

You try knowing failure never outweighs success.

You try.

You love unconditionally and inconveniently.

You are an emotional space, available 24/7.

You are active in your search for better.

You ache with others as well as rejoice.

You are emotional stability and when you’re not, you are at least familiarity.

You came from a nothing to what now looks likes something.

You pray for me without inquiring, support me without contesting.

You tie my shoes in the rain (if I ask/my hands are full holding your warm drink and/or pastry).

You face your infirmities with vulnerability that is inspiring.

You count on me, just as much as is expected.

You will more than gladly buy a first AND second cup of coffee before ever expecting I buy you one.

You run the race with a humility that I try to mimic very often.

You embrace change and cling to a foundational force.

You accept my somber soul, without inquiry or countering, but remind me there is light.

You inspire me and others, solely by being your authentic self.

You stretch the boundaries of safe.

You gladly harmonize with me because I’m terrible at it.

You foolishly continue to try teaching me how to roller blade, like dogs, and/or run a marathon.

You wish the best for me and all before the best comes for you.

You believe in “bests.”

You speak with Truth that permeates my curiosity.

You keep a close watch on the beings and things you love, just so you know I love you and value you.

Speaking of sweet, I believe it was a young, talented and Canadian pop-star who said, “I just need somebody to love.”

Such words whether said or sung, carry weight and wisdom and an adamant vertical head nod.  That very saying is one that delightfully tolls and tramples my insides both at the same time. Yet after momentary disdain of such a relevant statement, I’m left with the catered and massive space to respond. To myself, to others–and all by how I probably decide to live out my life–or maybe just that day, the 14th.

The plan?

To spend it with the many somebodies I love. And I guess it’s not the fact that I need somebody to love, more so that I need them all to know I love them. So though romancing a simple woman seems like Everest (insert underlying compliment comparing me to a very difficult accomplishment meets breathtaking wonder of the world) romancing about a handful of them will be easier and my very intention is to share my immense appreciation for the many someones I care for so deeply and  to realize and treasure how one day, I won’t be able to do this type of celebrating. So as of right now, I’m wildly glad I am able to.

So when the whole world celebrates their romantic lives and judges mine for the lack roses and over-priced chocolates underneath my arms, at least I will be abundant in story-sharing, braided heads of hair, advice on how to say yes/no to them fellas, wisdom on learning lessons the hard and/or graceful way and lastly sweet decadent desserts of many, MANY kinds.

When I was younger, I could be found vehemently praying for a pink Jeep. And it seems looking back, all things pink and jeep were pretty foreign to good ol’ Paul. Today the equivalent prayer to my pink Jeep desire is perhaps still a pink Jeep in a sense. But if it’s not a Jeep, it’s definitely  to have my own place…or to attain some really expensive camera/artsy equipment…or really, just some nice boots. Nonetheless, I really wanted a pink Jeep and after two long and blustery winters of not receiving such a noble and honest request, I started to devise a plan on how I would enjoy my inevitable gift and also what I should start praying secondly for in the mean time, to kill time.  See, I knew I’d get it, but the waiting made me upset and truly had me obsessing over what car decals and stickers I would place on the shiny new hot pink paint, once them plastic keys were in my hands. The expectation of what I thought I deserved was donned with a crown of self-righteousness and I swear, arms have never been folded across the chest as often as they did when I was a youngin.

(Obvious) Disclaimer: I am an only child.

And I also  pray a lot.

And when I pray a lot I always end up thinking—moreso than actually verbalizing, “Lord when are you going to honor my decision to be faithful to you?!”

And since the expectation of what I most needed was ill-rooted when I was ten, I’ve easily  forgiven little Tracy. But as the Tracy today, I’m less accepting of my internal tantrums or subtle wishes. And seldom do I ever really deserve any type of plastic in my hand.

Disclaimer #2: It sucks not being ten.

And quickly, Jesus surely responds, “why do you let yourself grow weary?”

I grow tired, a lot.

It seems it’s taken His response to my non-response to truly see where my petitions are going and to hear which attitude they are declared in. Upon reflection, I’m embarrassed. With that, I am doing my best to answer questions such as, “What do you need?” with responses such as, “Nothing, for I have plenty.” To get there, there needs to be major re-evaluation. And I’m not talking about considering a different colored jeep. I may be even suggesting instead of asking for that jeep, asking for the desire for control over my life to be surrendered. Instead of asking for my debt to be vanquished, perhaps asking to rejoice in the bread on my plate daily and nightly. Instead of asking for a new or cooler job, maybe ask for the clear vision that there is true fruit in my labor.

To pray for not a change of circumstances but an understanding in what we have in Christ is what I need.

For gratitude is finding that what we have is surely enough.

If we have that, no matter how bad or difficult our life circumstances are or how blustery our sky appears, we can handle them as a woman or man of righteousness.

This may or may not prove my not so gigantic circle of friends but aside from word of mouth about how so and so is a funny guy or super sweet girl, it’s almost always and discreetly preferred I get to shake the hand of the unknown to be known person before I can agree, yeah that guy is super funny and that girl super sweet. 

Granted a lot of my expectations stem from my bachelor’s degree-ridden influences and how communication is easily utilized yet often done poorly or ineffectively…did you know we should always wear our name tag on our right side (so that when we shake hands, the arm leads to the name)? I digress. In all seriousness, like a un-piped cup of coffee, a poor or weak handshake translates “I don’t really care about meeting you” and I just don’t want to be greeted with it.

Shake it like you mean it.

And because I’ve received a more than normal amount of hesitantly limp handshakes in my day, I’ve even asked my guy friends if they shake the hands of a woman with less intensity than they do with men (and vice versa). Their responses surprisingly came out to be about a 50/50 concerning catered gender handshakes. It’s just that I’m a girl, not a baby bird. All that to say, more firm isn’t necessarily a better handshake, but for me these marks ideally would like to be met:

• It feels 50/50–that we are holding both the equal weight of intention, excitement and curiosity. And I’m not asking for a prolonged interest in me by way of handshake, just at least, momentarily.
• There is eye contact. You are meeting me not that waitress behind my left shoulder.
• Timing. Do not linger but do not shake and run.
• A smile never hurts. Granted this advice I also bestow upon myself.  :)

And when these are met, it simply translates to me positive factors about a person.

Confidence. Intentionality. And simply, presence.

Most women want to be swept off their feet. And I am most women–and also a woman who also wants a dang good handshake.

So like the art of hugging and other interactive activities that may last for a moment or two, I do not take them lightly and truly  hope for the best possible future encounter with you, a for now stranger and your really funny guy friend/super sweet girl friend.

I sip from porcelain mugs almost daily and the steam rises heavenly towards the perfect places creating the perfect emotions. Good morning, it greets me and the aroma pries my eyes open for the day ahead.

I crave blending ingredients and creating an appetite that stems from recipes that promise color, taste and texture. As everyone oooed and ahhhed, the pauses between each bite proved the true wonders of breaking bread with the ones you love.

I crack open my composition book to scribble meaningless words from meaningful thoughts. Today, I gathered a couple more as an elderly couple split a panini and apple with minimal conversation but an obvious history of love, and future of faithfulness. And it’s such a sight.

I bury myself often in piles of photo collections of past events and present occasions. In the albums recently developed I found a series of moments that are proof we do indeed all grow old, but amazingly closer. My brother, looks more of a man than yesterday though his boyish smile still resides. My mother is found various times staring of at her children as they compare their height and age differences in a couple of shots. And the kids of the family are no longer asking for barbies or hot wheels for Christmas, but iPods and make-up, or at least their grown faces say so anyways.

I depend on cheersing glasses with a best friend or two over conversations that stem from our individual uncertain paths alongside our mutual certainty that we are well taken care of and fought for, sought after. Even more often lately, we praised our problems through accountability, water-proof shoulders, and a reminder of a hope. Or more simply, a home-cooked dinner, laughter that deflected profound sadness and songs sung at the top of our lungs from the bottom of our souls.

But like every human, I am flawed beyond repair, though knowingly worthy of your concerns for me. And though time has bridled me and I have yet to externally become fully what I am wholly internally, know my attempts to shield such a progressively decreasing failure is coated with my coffee and conversations with you, my prayers and thoughts of you and my utter love for you.  All this is stowed away in my temple of gratefulness. The abundance causes it to overflow often. It is powerful and it flows and cranks the wheels of my blood flow. It keeps me grounded during lofty times and floating freely during the heavy ones. My growing spirit is not worthy of such reward received from you.

But sincere it is, boastful it is not. Peaceful it is, anxious it is not. Thankful it is, forgetful it is not.

I am still and I’m sitting at Starbucks feeling extremely lonely, but the kind of lonely that is required of me to really hear God. Not that people or conversation take me further from God, but solitude positions me right before Him. This loneliness I’m learning is a form of worship, rather than an indication of depression. This relieves me greatly (and certainly my closest friends and family). 

Though my sabbath isn’t as fully formulaic as I would hope for it to be, it’s inevitable, which settles well with me considering the plethora of infirmities I carry and bury Monday-Saturday 11:59 pm. And a time of rest I’m experiencing, involves more than surrender but acknowledgement that what we do surrender is carried and cared for, wholly. 

To go from heavy to light, cluttered to clear, and restless to rested requires the sabbath.

Though the routes we take to get on the road to rest will look quite differently for everyone, for me it’s this: just like being alone helps amplify my hearing of His voice, my complete and undivided surrender amplifies my trust that He does better with my stuff than I do.

I suppose that’s a formula. 

May Your calm defeat the raging seas that is my rushing blood, my torrent thoughts. 

May Your solemnity infiltrate the twisting of want and bending of understanding. May Your strength carve out a place for me to rest–Your presence for me to boast in. An effusion I long to reside in. And where You are there I will live since You are where I insist on being.

And that my sight is on You, by You and solely for You. 

May my confidence be of godly wisdom, and Truth and patience my strength, satiating the holy depths I often flee from, excavating fullness my worries pile upon. 

May I receive Your spirit, for there is no lacking; there is completion and unrestricted joy–unrestrained praise. 

I’m temperamental, fickle and almost always moody, but swear I’m a catch (who’ll catch your arms and limbs) —-so [never] doubt my love.

Never doubt my love because my brows are furrowed. When I speak louder it is only because it is windy outside countered by your hard of hearing.

Never doubt my love because my fingers create stark white imprints across your arms, I just want you to feel near.

Never doubt my love because of the silence that often  evades from my mouth, my thirsty thoughts internally praise your name like a whisper touching an ear–may it sink into your bones.

Never doubt my love because I am sad often for sadness has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.

Never doubt my love because I’m disappointed, but my fingers are pointed more at the enemy, than at you my friend.

Never doubt my love because I cannot stay later, but I can come over earlier.

Never doubt my love when your angry sun is out and my stubborn moon retreats.

Never doubt my love because i’m weak, and  I say yes when it should be no, or no when it should be yes.

Never doubt, my love.

“I know” I say in an affirming meets tired tone.

“I love it!”

“Oh, thanks..”

This is the essence of the many initial conversations that take place when meeting friends I haven’t spent longer than a hi with. My hair seems to be the main thing to stop people in their tracks when inquiring what has changed in my life as of late. I suppose it’s harder to notice my better erected back due to my increased self-confidence or my calloused fingers from the sharpening of my guitar skills, but my hair indeed serves decently as an indicator that I am indeed growing and changing. Whether it’s the length of my hair or the progression of my character, as long something is noticeable, it’s validated as real. And I’m not lost. Or something akin to feeling such a way.

I couldn’t swim deep enough. My ponytail had to stick out above the dark blue squiggly lines turned waves. Like a thumb that throbs, my head stuck out. Afraid of going too deep? Or afraid others will see me plugging my nose because I cannot dive eloquently for a woman of my stature? Even at twilight, I know anyone could catch me, nose in hand, if they wanted to.

I couldn’t make you believe I could swim deep enough. Towards the darker black that was a stagnate bottom. As we’d unknowingly race, my mind would pace the ways I could persuade anyone into believing I made it back so swiftly because simply, I was a good swimmer (even with all the long hair). If I could swim as good as I lie, the black would be no threat, the deep my  ebbing enemy. And you, a feeble competitor. You–heartache, distance, change, a loser. Me–heart broken, consistently yearning for others and routine-ridden, a winner.

I hate this ponytail, but it makes you search elsewhere for some shimmery fleck of impressive. And I wear it also to see the sea better, you see? The salt can burn, but at least the brown tendrils do not get in anyone’s way. In my way; I seem to get in my way often. On the way down, a glance is made at the girl descending delightfully. “She’s different” they all whisper in their heads.

I need to grasp the person I was a few moments ago and the person I will be in moments to come. One I find, meant for the ethereal gleam, beside her, behind her and above her. Some call it the moon, I call Spirit. The other, a beguiling blunder disguised and maneuvered by handsome temptation, or  a coy enchantress. It’s hard to think under water, but I can see both are fragile and fortunate and relevant.  And so I’m aware of the humanness and abundance that surrounds me. And also aware, maybe my improvement do not need to be seen, just claimed.

I don’t swim deep enough and I hate this ponytail, but I trace the steps before me and meander forward, slowly but more importantly, surely.  My breath become the tokens that create ripples towards you, towards better. My body the shore that keeps order and direction.  I can’t swim deep enough, but found when necessary the deep surely finds me. And for a breathe’s moment, I’m not lost.