mlehaymes's Xanga

My puzzle piece.

Mon, 14 Dec 2009 20:48:35 GMT

"When you buy a jigsaw puzzle at a yard sale, you can pretty much bank on having 97% of the pieces...if you're lucky. There are always at least a couple missing. What happens to those pieces?

I'll find out sooner or later, considering I'm one of them."

I wrote that about a year ago.

I used to think that I'd never find a man who would fit me. I always thought I was too weird, too tall, too silly, and much too intimidating to attract anyone of consequence. However, I'm engaged to someone beautiful who is weirder, taller, sillier, and far more intimidating than I am. I guess God did know what he was doing. I told Jarod about my puzzle piece theory, and he laughed. Apparently, he'd come up with the same theory about himself. We are just two oddly-shaped puzzle pieces without a puzzle, but somehow - all my weird bits and corners that never seemed to fit anywhere else are mirrored in this man.

I couldn't be happier.

In my Place

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 13:24:48 GMT

I haven't been writing lately and this particular brand of "emotional constipation" is wearing me out.

1. I moved into a new apartment all by myself a few months ago, and I have no internet. Even sans internet, I enoy my place a lot...mostly because it is just that. MY place. It's so wonderful having a house to take care of alone. I don't have to worry about offending roommates with my slovenly behavior, for one. Also - everything in the fridge is MINE. I can listen to music whenever I want, read whenever I want, and watch any silly guilty pleasure chick flick I want without worrying about anyone making fun of me. My Mom surprised me for my birthday and stayed with me in my apartment for a week. Have you ever had a parent as a houseguest? It's both very weird and very neat. I got to show her around my "town" (if you can even call Van a town), and show her how I do things at my own little house. She also witnessed an exceedingly stressful week at work and was quite impressed. I've never felt so much like a grownup, really.

2. Writing is tough when you're nearly always brutally embarrassed about your emotions. I am absolutely, intently, mind-bendingly in love with my boyfriend. How in the world can anyone write about how happy they are without sounding intensely cheesy? I've wanted to write about Jarod for a while, but I simply cannot come up with a good explanation. This is how it began:

Jarod is an incredible blues guitarist. That's pretty high praise when my dad happens to be a Clapton/Hendrix/Satriani clone. Jarod found out that I could sing from his mother, so he asked me when he could hear me sing. I invited him over one evening, and we sang and played the night away. When it got to that foggy time of either very late or very early, I began to get ready for bed and he got ready to leave. As he put down his guitar, Jarod came close to me and said, "Before you fall asleep, there's something I've got to do." He swept me up in his arms and kissed me. To borrow the colloquialism, "the rest is history". He always opens doors for me, he's filled my house with groceries more than once, and nearly every day we laugh until we cry about something silly and nonsensical like farts or mad libs. It's taken me forever to shake the odd feeling of depression and inadequacy, but Jarod sheds those silly (but infuriatingly common) notions and makes me laugh like a seventh grader who's friend just farted in the hallway.

I guess that's pretty much all I can say about that. I'm very happy and I haven't been in a while. It's nice to be with someone who loves you and isn't a manipulator and a complete waste of time, I guess.

3. I'm learning new things at work, and I still really love my job. Being under a bit of stress is worth it when, every once in a while, I remember that people's lives are being changed every day because I'm putting 67 bags of flour on a shipping container. Very cool.

4. I've been doing a lot of thinking about Jesus. I not only believe that Jesus is real - I am very much in love with him. When I think about how much we love each other, I always have one image in my mind's eye. I remember being very young and having those pink footy pajamas with Pooh Bear and Piglet embroidered on the front, and I always looked forward to putting them on after my evening bath. Mom would part my hair down the middle, then I'd cuddle up with Dad and my brothers to read the Chronicles of Narnia. Those nights are my favorite memories. They're the ones that remind me who I am. Putting on those pajamas and cuddling up with my dad made me feel safe enough to be drowsy and not have to worry about monsters in the closet. I know that I am safe with my Jesus, and he reminds me who I am and how much thought he put into making me.

Abandoned?

Sun, 31 May 2009 05:59:00 GMT

That silent voice that just spoke nothing, that is me. I’m listening to your plea with open ears - counting all your tears flowing from your irritated eyes searching the skies looking for that hope that beyond there lies.... When I am silent, I am listening. Not abandoning.
-Bradley Hathaway, Silence

Sometimes, I feel like I need to blasted by some huge and different experience or epiphany in order to write about my Jesus.

However, in the past few weeks, something has been scratching at the corners of my mind - trying to quietly gnaw its way out. I am not sure how to articulate it, and that's been really bothering me.

I don't need something dramatic to happen to me to remind me of my faith. Every once in a while, when I'm alone in my car, I'll talk to Jesus and tell him about my day. Every I remember to speak up, I always end up apologizing profusely and saying how much I miss him and I love him over and over again.

It might be time for me to stop apologizing and trying to convince him of my good intentions to speak with him more often. I need to grow up and embrace the fact that I don't have an excuse to stay away from him.

Most of the time I feel very unlovable. I know this is silly. I have incredible friends and an amazing family who love me very much - but, occasionally, my depression creeps back and turns me sour. I feel like they're wasting their time, loving someone like me. I feel like God's wasting his time - and the biggest waste of all was to die for someone as self-absorbed and needy as I am. Sometimes I wonder why he made me look like I do - most days I look in the mirror and vow that I'd give anything to look completely different. I am so arrogant that all I can think about is my ugliness. I am insignificant, and I do not matter.

Punchinello laughed.
"Me, special? Why? I can't walk fast. I can't jump. My paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?"

Eli looked at Punchinello, put his hands on those small wooden shoulders, and spoke very slowly.
"Because you're mine. That's why you matter to me."

Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this - much less his maker. He didn't know what to say.

-Max Lucado, You are Special

Apparently, I matter to God because I am his. He made me, and he loves me. You matter to God, too - because you're his and he loves you.

I don't know if anyone else needed to hear that, but I did. I knew I needed to write something to this effect, and I think I've done it.

He can took my wretchedness and made it his own - and he loves me.

What's bigger and more dramatic than that?

Resuscitation.

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 02:05:23 GMT

The sensitive skin underneath my fingernails aches from clawing the concrete wall that separates me from you. I am lost in a dense fog - a haze of weigh-ins, calorie-counting, and spreadsheets on computer screens. Every time I look at food, a battle inside me begins. I want to taste it so badly....but the thought of putting on another pound terrifies me. Hunger always wins. Even when I say I'm not going to indulge in something, I eat it anyway and feel like a failure. Why can't I have willpower?

More importantly: why can't I talk to you anymore?

I went grocery shopping today. It was, as expected, another torturous event. Everything I saw, I wanted to eat; but everything I saw also tallied up as weight. When I opened the trunk of my car, my heart cringed. There was my Bible, half-open and neglected. I grabbed the precious book from its forsaken and forlorn exile and clutched it to my chest. I cried aloud, "I miss you, too!" and started reading immediately, searching for words from the Most High God, my Savior.

At least, I wish that's what happened.

I didn't even look twice at your Word. I put my groceries in on top of it, closed the trunk, and got into my car.

By the time I lit my cigarette and turned on my car stereo, I had completely forgotten about the non-incident.

I am putting so many other things in front of you. I am steeped in thoughts about my weight, I cannot be alone without calling someone to hang out with me, and I am addicted to my new job.

This is so painful. What I want more than anything is for things to go back to the way they were. I want to stop caring so much about what I look like and care more about what you think. I want to feel you in the breeze and see shards of you in my friend's faces and actions. I want you to be so obvious to me that I can't go five minutes without telling you how much you mean to me.

I've tried talking to you - I really have. I'm screaming and searching for a crevice in the wall I've carefully constructed between us. When I'm in my car alone, I talk to you. Can you even hear me? Every other part of me is so loud that it seemingly drowns out the tiny whispered prayer.

In case you didn't hear, this is what I've been trying to say:

"My beautiful and powrful Father, thank you for making the sun. Thank you for moving me to Texas and blessing me with this new job opportunity. Thank you for being real. I love you so much. I'm sorry that I've been so quiet. I know you love me. Please close my mind to all but you. I feel like I'm dead when I forget about you. I miss you when I don't say good morning as soon as I wake up. I miss you. Make me alive again."

Changes and Blessings.

Mon, 23 Mar 2009 03:55:59 GMT

So sorry to all of my avid readers (I know I may have fudged a bit while using the word "avid", but it makes me feel more loved), I've been far too strange to write anything lately. Do you ever have several weeks at a time when you feel so uncharacteristically "un-you"? I haven't been acting like myself lately, but I don't think it's a bad thing. Normally, I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type gal with nothing but snatches of inner turmoil and memories to keep myself busy. I write a lot about my heart, or I take seemingly insignificant moments and create melodramatic pieces of literature that no one really cares about - with the exception of myself, of course. I normally write about my undying love for Jesus...or the fact that I like the turgidity of water on the top of an almost-too-full glass.

I graduated high school in a very pretty dress of blue and white. Last month, the poor strained zipper barely made it halfway up my back fat before it choked out in a fit of despair. This morning, I slid the zipper up with ease - and no strange puffy fat rolls protruded out of the arm holes, either. I am the proud loser of fifty pounds since Christmas.

Warning: If you know me well, what I am about to say might shock you. Make sure you are seated before you read the next remark.

(I'm not sure why you would be standing up while reading my blog, but it seemed like an appropriate thing to say)

I started counting calories and eating low-fat stuff.

This is exceedingly UNLIKE me. I loathe anything having to do with numbers. (or anything NOT having to do with unhealthy food, for that matter) Even though I can stumble my way through telling time on an analog watch, I prefer to ask someone the time to save myself the headache. When I was in third grade, we were instructed to go through and memorize multiplication facts. I quickly rattled off my 2s, 9s, 5s, 10s, and 11s (up to 9x11). I let the complicated ones be because I didn't feel like it was worth my time. I never learned them. I've done horribly in every math course that prohibits the use of a calculator.

But now, I count calories in food. How silly!

I also exercise.

"What?!"

I used to make fun of people that went to the gym. I thought they seemed a bit narcissistic to always be in front of those horrible mirrors, treading on treadmills that never went anywhere. This is how I got over my aversion to the gym:

Turn the stupid machine AWAY from the mirror!!!! That way, I don't have to watch the pounds I have yet to lose thrashing all over the place, looking like a soggy mess of a human being.

Here's another thing I've been doing. (This is a real shocker, too, but not as huge as the math-hating calorie-counter) I've gone tanning a few times...

....and....

...I really enjoy it.

"Fake-n-baking?! NO WAY!"

Yes, way. I find it relaxing and it makes my skin look nice.

Even though I have been indulging in strange behaviors, I am reminded that I am still irrevocably "me". I need people more than air. I have made such wonderful and beautiful friends. They are the new-found glue that holds my sanity in place. If I hadn't moved to Texas, I would never have become close with these incredible people.

I met Heather on the ship. When I first moved here, I lived in her house for a month. We have been getting closer recently, and I couldn't enjoy it more. The boys we hang out with refer to us as "the girls" and I kind of like it. With Heather, I can "geek out" and not have to worry if she'll still like me. I can be as much of a girl as I want around her without feeling like a ditz.

Aaron is an artist, and he is very intentional when working on a piece. For Aaron, the beginning and the end of the project are the two scariest parts. He doesn't want to start off with a mistake, and he always second-guesses himself at the end. "Should I do something else here? NO. I don't want to ruin it... But what if it needs another splash of pink?" Dear Aaron is nothing if not genuinely friendly. His heart is swollen with how much he loves his friends. Even though I let him in on scary ghosts from my past, he takes everything in stride and is nearly always available for a hug. He inspires me to write more intentionally (and more often).

Jared is called "Jigga". I have no idea why, but it fits him. Picture this: "The Dude" in the Big Lebowski had some outfits that looked nice, lost the drugs and booze - but kept the silly personality and a few quirky wardrobe choices. He takes fantastic photographs and lives with Aaron. Here's one of my favorite things about this new friend: Jigga has an authentic interest in other people - rare these days. When he asks me a question about my life, I feel like he actually wants to hear the answer.

These are only three examples of reasons why moving to Texas was a blessing instead of a curse.

Sometimes, God works very slowly. I didn't realize how much he'd done until I started writing tonight. I've stayed up far too late, but it's been worth it. God has given me friendships, a wonderful job, a great place to live, and the energy to be healthier and happier.

I am not content, I am happy. The word "content" makes God's blessings sound like a compromise. This is no compromise. I am so happy that God placed me here, and I couldn't be more thankful for what he's done in me during the past six months.

He's a brilliant being.

Probably the best thing he could have said:

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 22:19:35 GMT

"You're sweet and smart and will eventually find someone that can't stand to be away from you and wants you for who you are."

Very sweet of him to take me seriously when I foolishly threw my heart to him. He caught it - then threw it right back so I could give it to someone who will hold it forever.

Thank you.

Dave = best feaux father ever.

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 15:32:44 GMT

Dave is my feaux-father in Texas while I'm away from my real one. He's one of those people that happens to be a 17 year-old in a 44 year-old body. He plays little pranks and tricks all the time when he's supposed to be working. However, this past week he's been gone to New York to visit family.

He's back today!

When Dave is gone, things go along pretty smoothly without any hiccups - but things are also much more boring. This morning, I filled my water bottle at the Anchorage Cafe with Dave. When I took a sip, it tasted a lot like coffee... As I inspected my bottle closely, I realized that there were coffee beans in the bottom! I realized that, whenever I had my back turned, Dave plunked another bean into the bottom of my water bottle. What a jerk. I missed him. :)

Twenty-Three Years.

Mon, 09 Mar 2009 03:39:14 GMT

He moved here about a month ago, and he's been filling a gap in our IT department. However, the organization wasn't a good fit for him and he's moving back to Oregon on Tuesday. Yesterday, he took me to a concert. It was an hour away and we talked the entire time. We talked about family, places we've been, things we've done, and all the things that make us who we are. I bravely poured the contents of my existence into his hands, and he did the same for me. It was a strange feeling to know someone so well after only being with them for a handful of hours. The way we spoke, it was as if we'd known each other for years.

He bought my ticket at the concert unexpectedly - gentlemen are few and far between nowadays. As we sat amidst the other concert-goers, we giggled about the lady with the huge hair seated a few rows in front of where we were. We laughed about the silly clothes that the band members were wearing, and made fun of oblivious passersby. Once the music started, he reached over to tell me something. He spoke into my ear and his prickly five o'clock shadow brushed against my cheek. I shivered - even though he was just telling me that the opening act sounded a lot like another band he knew.

After the concert, he and I got into his car to make the drive home.

"Are you tired?" I asked with a grin.

"No..." He said, and smiled brightly.

"Good! I'm not done hanging out with you!"

"Sounds great - let's go back to my place and have a beer."

Apparently, Oregon is known for having several nice microbreweries. He brought a couple of samples with him when he moved to the area. He popped open a dark ale for me and a pale one for himself, then led me to his patio to lie on our backs and inspect the underside of trees against the sky.

After the beers had been enjoyed, he and I went back inside so he could show me photos that correlated with all of the stories he'd shared throughout the evening. I loved seeing bits and pieces of his life all fit together like that.

Finally, at around one-thirty in the morning, neither of us could keep our eyes open any longer.

"It's late!" I announced, yawning.

"It sure is. Let me take you home." He said.

We hopped back into his car and he dropped me off.

I sent him a text message a bit later:

"I didn't want to embarrass you by saying this to your face, but you are really handsome. Just thought you should know."

He sent one back, saying this:

"You're funny, very sweet, and obviously alcohol impaired...and a very attractive young lady yourself. Thanks for hanging out tonight. ;)"

When he showed me photos of his past, I looked at the young, dark-haired stranger wistfully. As I tore my eyes away from the attractive young man in the photograph and faced the handsome gray-haired man in front of me, I wished with all of my might that I had been born 23 years earlier.

We could have been perfect. He could have been what I've been waiting for. I guess I'll never know.

To Xangans Everywhere:

Thu, 05 Mar 2009 18:18:40 GMT

How do you have so much time to write blog after blog? I'm lucky if I can find something to write about once a week - and even then, I'm lucky if it's anything worth reading. I am astounded by a lot of my Xanga friends who can, somehow, find time to write about interesting topics several times a day. There's just not enough time in a day to come up with five different ideas and write blogs about them - and they're good blogs too!

My hats off to you, dedicated bloggers!

But...

...how do you do it?

Sailing Day!

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 14:24:47 GMT

I'm trying to get some things together for a book, so I've been searching through old blogs and posts and journal entries. I came across this piece I wrote - slightly more than two years ago. It's been so long since I've had anything of consequence to write about. I miss it so much.

Sailing Day. 25 February 2007

My alarm clock sounded at 6:30 and shattered any hopes of further sleep.

'Today is the day we SAIL!" I thought to myself. Grinning like a child on Christmas morning, I leaped out of bed with an uncustomary bound. Sweeping my braids into an elastic, I donned work clothes and sped to the dining room. Breakfast went as it normally does with the grumpy morning people nagging for more yoghurt and the tables emptying slower than syrup in January.

The MV ANASTASIS was scheduled to set sail for Liberia at 4pm. Until then, I anxiously darted around the ship, unable to sit still. I watched about three minutes of eight different TV shows before I finally went out on the deck to pace. At 4 o'clock, everyone started to show up to pace with me. Some had tears in their eyes as they waved to their Ghanaian friends on the dock. Some waved Ghanaian flags and handkerchiefs to no one in particular. Most everyone wandered about with digital cameras getting more restless by the minute.

At 4:30pm, people didn't think anything of the delay. After all – this was Africa! Things don't just happen on schedule like that. At 5pm, however, some faces showed mild confusion.

Ding! The overhead paging system signalled the coming of an announcement.

"Attention crew, this is the captain speaking. We have a slight problem in the engine room and we will not set sail at this time. Please pray for the engineers and we will keep you updated."

To be completely honest, I don't think anyone was that surprised. The Anastasis is a 54 year-old motor vessel that hasn't sailed in 8 months. Of course there would be complications! Everyone on the deck dejectedly shuffled back into the ship to eat dinner.

I washed dishes for dinner. Being the dishwasher entails loads of sweat mingled with soapy water. The dishwasher stands in a cramped corner of the hot stuffy galley, and runs trays filled with dirty dishes through a massive machine named "Hobart". Hobart is an ornery old coot, and takes a load of tricks and sweet-talks to get any work out of him. This particular evening, Hobart was being especially mischievous. Every time I cranked the lever for the steam valve, he hollered and grunted in loud protest. A good swift kick in the steam pipe eventually did the trick, and Hobart sighed and grumbled his way to finish the dishes.

After dinner, I watched some more snippets of TV shows to take the edge off of my gnawing anticipation. That didn't work, so I found some friends curled up watching a movie and decided to join them.

At about 2am, a Canadian deckhand named Garret came striding through the room.

"We're leaving!" He said as he puffed out his chest; extremely proud that he got to deliver such news. Needless to say, the movie played on forgotten as we tripped over one another to get out to the deck. My heart raced and the butterflies in my stomach fluttered themselves mad. I watched avidly as the gangway was disconnected from the ship and hooked to a crane/pulley system. A few deck hands clung to the gangway for dear life as it was lifted from the dock and swung onto the ship.

I ran to the other side of the ship (starboard side, facing the ocean) just in time to see tugboats attach lines to the ship. Sprinting back to port side, I watched as the mooring lines were released and tossed to the ship. That was the defining moment. The Anastasis was no longer tethered to Ghana. The outreach had officially ended. At that moment, I stopped to think. Just in the 10 months that the ship was docked in Tema, hundreds of lives were permanently changed. My eyes brimmed with tears of ambivalence. Ghana had become my home for the past six months, and I knew my way around. I made friends that I will probably never see again this side of eternity. However, the new outreach has begun! God has a huge plan for Liberia, and I can't wait to see that plan begin to unfold.

The tugboats pulled us through the harbour and past the lighthouse. I remembered all of the meaningful walks I had taken to the lighthouse, and the many conversations that had occurred. It was a poignant place for me, and I bid it goodbye as the wind swept my braids in front of my face and obstructed my view. The tugboats let out a long blast of farewell to let us know that they were letting go, and the crew cheered and waved and clapped as the tugboats chugged back to the port.

The Anastasis is now sailing into the pre-morning black of the wide sea. The harbour lights are barely visible at the hazy horizon. The view of the sky makes my breath catch and my eyes shine. There are millions of brilliant stars – stars everywhere. I looked between the stars only to find a deeper and fainter host filling in the gaps. It is now 4:30am. The wind is rushing at my face and making small hairs stand up on the back of my neck. My renegade hair is flying out behind me. The white foamy surf from the wake of the ship is sighing and swishing against the wrinkled black ocean. Mesmerized by the sparkling sea below and the brilliant heavens above, I have reluctantly decided that it is time for bed. I will probably never have a chance to experience this again.

And so it begins.