set fire to the third bar

Confession: Whenever "Set Fire to the Third Bar" by Snow Patrol and Martha Wainwright comes across my playlist, I have to listen to it at least three times. I'm not sure why.

Perhaps it's linked to why I would listen Brand New's "You Won't Know" repeatedly.
Or that day I left The Decemberist's "Mariner's Revenge Song" on repeat for about an hour.

Maybe I suffer from some sort of musical OCD.

eponine's lament

This past weekend was Mar's bachelorette party, which was basically a night out in New Hope accompanied by a scavenger hunt.

I've really got to let go of my need to win, as when it was determined that I was no longer in the lead with points, I went after a high scoring item: five hand written philosophies (from guys) regarding marriage. I had secured one earlier in the evening as a way to pass the time waiting for dinner to be served, and I saw opportunity present itself when in came a group of three girls and four guys, all of which were pretty approachable looking (no small feat in New Hope).

So I grabbed a stack of cocktail napkins from the bar and broke into their circle of conversation, readily making myself entertainment fodder for the gaggle of girls at the next table over.

Three of them got to work at once on their napkins, but the fourth was hesitant, and even distanced himself from the rest of the group as he thought his answer out. I started up conversation with one of the girls who happened to be sitting next me, asking general questions about how everyone in the group was connected, etc, and she mentioned that she was curious as to how they were responding to my request.

I offered her the three napkins I already had gotten back, and mentioned how I was still waiting for one more. Her response was that the one I was waiting for was the one she was most interested in. I asked if he was her boyfriend. She unapologetically answered, "No, but I'm hoping."

Mr. Hesitation ended up stirring up lots of interest the rest of the night.

After receiving such a blunt, honest response from this girl, I wanted to remove myself from the group, so I went over to him to see if I could just get a quick sentence scribbled down and be on my way. It was his hook.

The next three hours we ended up having a few more conversations.
His name is Greg.
Abbey, in a very un-Abbey manner point blank asks for his number.
Lisa keeps threatening me that I need to go over and talk to him more.

But I felt guilty.

The nameless, hopeful girl reminded me too much of me, and I didn't want to do that to her.

I've always identified with Eponine, the girl in the wings, hoping that one day, Marius would take notice and realize how much he loves her in return. And I think that eventually Marius would have taken notice of Eponine and loved her, but Cosette entered the picture ending all hope Eponine had and essentially dooming her.

Just one more day on her own.

on holiday

This afternoon at work there was a delightful change of pace when Abbey and I had to covertly build three new chairs (which we did in under an hour, because we generally rock). There's a long explaination as to why the Customer Service Manager and the Analyst had to quickly (and secretly) build these chairs, but that's whole other chapter of crazy.

Though honestly I think everyone was in a fine form, what with half the office out and the rest of us giddy with the promise of an extended weekend. I especially appreciated the e-mail thread debating whether it would be better to spend "stimulate-the-economy" money on going to the UK and following the The Rocket Summer tour or going to New Zealand and somehow ending up getting involved with the production of Voyage of The Dawn Treader.

I ended up voting for New Zealand, deciding that once production wrapped, I could become a shepherdess, a profession I think I have grossly romanticized.

oh the possibilities

My brain is reeling, no where close to winding down for the night and allowing me to sleep.

Three (four if counting students' thoughts) people have suggested that I apply for the youth pastor/director position that has opened up. I thought about it fleetingly before it came apparent that I wasn't qualified as A) I'm a college drop out and B) I'm a woman.

But it keeps popping up, and I am not a believer in coincidence. I think that I need to seriously reassess my stance to youth ministry, because even I'm not trying to think about it, God doesn't seem to want not to think about it.

First and foremost, I want to serve God above all else. Whatever it is I do to earn a living, I want to do for God's glory and glorifying God is not limited to full-time ministry. But of all the possibilities for what I could be doing with my life, with my time, youth ministry has been a constant. It's been one of the few constants in my life for the past six years....I've moved several times, changed schools, dropped out of school and have tried my hand from tour guide to barista to now analyst, and done all this with the thought of "How will this affect my involvement with Cornerstone?" as a highly weighted question in the decision making process.

I love God. I love these students I grown to know more and more over the years.

But, me? Even during my time at PBU I never thought of myself in the position...my idea was that maybe in a few years down the road, some sort of associate youth position at a church that already has an established youth pastor might open up and that would be a very cool thing if that second person for the job would be a female...aka me. But then I'd not be apart of Grace Point, it would be a another church.

It's strange that all these things seem to be colliding together at the same time.

When I moved into town last year, I convinced myself that this would be my last year here. That I would spend the time building my portfolio, doing the research and come the summer of 2008 hit the open road and write.

That year is coming to a close in three weeks...

My notions and fears of unfaithfulness seem to be a hitting a pinnacle.

Tonight, when I looked in the mirror, I didn't see a girl; I saw a woman.

So many thoughts, so many ideas, and dreams, and hopes (and always their counterparts of doubts, anxieties, and fears) are muddling my not too long ago clarity in thinking.

Lord, let me have the ears to hear, the eyes to see, and the courage to follow.

of minor prophets...

I borrowed my title from a Pedro the Lion song, because it's been running thtough my head all day. Along with The Rocket's Summer "Run To You" as they both have similiar themes. Which oddly enough seems to just be a general running theme in my brain in general.

The idea of being unfaithful haunts me and apparently keeps me up at night.

And now it's late o'clock and I'm still not ready to sleep despite being very tired.

Does haivng faith mean that you'll never stray or that if you do wander away you'll end back where or strayed from, or is it some sort of melding of those two ideas?

epilogue

"Who is she?"

"I'm sorry."

"Who is she?" I repeated weakly. I couldn't stand to look at him, but I needed to see for myself. I needed to know for sure that it was over.

He didn't open his mouth again, but his eyes told me. They showed the depths of his soul, and I could always read them. They were what drew me to him in the first place. And now all I could see in them was regret.

I stood in disbelief, lips parted, pieces of my hair falling down like the pieces of my marriage.

Uncertainty seemed to be all we had left.

I broke away from his pleading gaze, unwilling to subject myself to any more of this torment. I had to get out. I couldn’t look up. I blindly grabbed a bag and starting grabbing whatever clothing my hands landed on, my eyes fixed downward, afraid to take in any of the reminders that surrounded me. The air stopped short in my chest, and I chanced a glance at my reflection, as I grasped the top of the bureau.

Six years had just been ripped from my soul, and their absence showed.

His figure came into focus just over my shoulder and the stare I had broken off earlier was restored.

“I…I…” My anger had ebbed into pain, the words caught in the back of my throat. “I didn’t think it would end like this. I didn’t think that we’d end. This isn’t what you promised me.”

I turned to face him. I knew that he was unsure of what to do, of what he could possibly offer to me other than the name I demanded. The regret was now edged with sorrow.

“I have to go.”

I clutched the bag, buffering myself from him as I hurried by and out of the house.

Having small group at Starbucks is dangerous and I of course broke my no caffeine after 2 PM rule...I didn't just cross the line, I made a running start towards it and took a humongous leap. Since Starbucks offers the steady brew of Pike's Place roast now everyday it's become more conventional (read: affordable and less snooty) to order a pressed pot's worth of coffee. Since it was meant for sharing, I ordered two, which resulted in me drinking about 3 and half cups' worth, so now I'm slightly wired.

I need to start forcing myself to write...it's not enough to scribble done ideas and snippets of scenes and plot out (very loose) outlines. I need to just buckle down and write, let the story flow, let my character's speak their mind and have the story progress, but I keep getting hung up on this idea of perfection. I think it honestly comes down to the fact that I hate editing, mainly because I know that a good edit needs to come from someone who is not mean which means that I would have to let another person actually read something I write. That is a terrifying thought. I'm not sure why that is.

I've been toying with the idea of not being right all the time. That it is okay, and actually acceptable (rather human) to not be perfect at everything...or at least not be perfect the first time through something. There's something horrifying at taking something on and not being able to accomplish it. That's a weird thought, because I look back at stuff in my life and there's defiantly been a mixture of success with failure; and I know that I got through the failure.

But people like it more when you succeed, when you show them, "hey, I'm pretty good at this and with little prep; I'm sort of prodigy." There's something to be said about that.

That's my pride shining through in a way, I suppose. The ability to take on something I really don't have a right to take on, but somehow am naturally gifted at it and throwing off the curve for my peers. Oh how I would relish in throwing off learning curves. Not only can I grasp this concept better than you, I'll do it three times faster too! School was like when I was kid. And then something happened. That something is still debatable, but the point was, that information could be thrown at me and it would make sense and stick to my brain.

I need to look at the things that I didn't instantly succeed at though, like school the latter years. Not a whole lot of impressiveness going on there. My graduating was a Herculean task; and not for lack of intelligence, but apparently whatever it was that used to motivate me to achieve above exception grades just wasn't there anymore. And it carried onto college. I wonder now, if I were to go back if I would take it more seriously that I would strive to get good grades, that I would be willing to work towards being adequate instead of extraordinary.

Why do I struggle with being adequate? It's a perfectly respectable goal that many people are OK with achieving and not daring beyond. What is my drive to be extraordinary and why would I rather something not at all if it cannot be awesome?

I sound like my whiny 19 year old self again. Does everything in life need to be dissected as much as I like to take apart and over-analyze things? Maybe that's why I'm so good at my job. The surface level is never enough. I have to keep picking and digging until I find the imperfections and eradicate them.

Good for managing databases; bad for living life.

I need to just get over myself and start doing the things all the things I want to do.

But I need to start yesterday.