Want

As I lay here in the dark, staring at my desk across the room I notice all the shadows of the little trinkets overwhelming the surface. 'Gosh, I am so rich,' I thought to myself. God has blessed me so much. Although if anyone saw the little stuff I collected-- burnt out light bulbs, box tops for my church back home, ducky shower cap, 3D glasses, towels from Aeromexico, Rhema booklets, one yellow plastic glove, etc-- they may seem like garbage. But my little mess. I am so wealthy. What more could I want?

I want to buy a flute so I can practice again. It's been four years, but I still remember most of the notes. My favorite was F for some reason.

I want to buy a camera. It can be a very humble digital camera. I learned from that little 3.0 megapixel canon in high school that it's not really up to the photographer to take a beautiful picture. The beautiful picture is already there! All the time.

I want to buy two more wii motes for my wii console so the maximum number of people can play.

I want some business-y shoes (to match my fancy pants) I can wear to the airport since my oxfords broke.

I want some kind of dresser to put my clothes in so they don't have to still sit in my suitcase.

I want a simple life.. wouldn't it be sweet? I can take a simple and humble job. Come home in the afternoon to play some music. Live in a small and humble home with a God-fearing husband and children who have the freedom to chase after their dreams. Maybe that's just madness. I guess so. Who would ever want that.

But God's plan is always better, and most usually more challenging and convicting and way out of our comfort zones.

Pouring Out: Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

Christmas. Christmas. The word hurts my heart. It hurts my heart this year more than ever before, just simply by remembering what Christmas was for me growing up.

Disappointed by the song Santa Claus is Coming to Town because he made a list and checked it twice to make sure of whom was naughty or nice. I first heard about Santa in school I think, maybe my younger uncles and aunt may have told me about him as a tease, or maybe my sister heard about him first from when she started to go to school. But it didn't matter and my parent never bothered to talk to us about him. No matter how many letters I wrote Santa, no matter how hard I wanted to be a good girl, I realized that I wasn't good for even one day. I thought that Santa would make his new list every year after new years. I would try so hard to be good so Santa would visit that year. So Santa would love me and give me a present. But every January 1, before it even got dark, I would've done something bad, and I would just feel so rotten and disappointed because I was on the naughty list for the rest of the year. I could never be good enough for Santa. I was a bad child. Santa was never going to visit me. He never did, because I was unlovable and unforgivable.

I remember as children Christmas did not really exist in our home. Our uncles and aunts who loved us out of the sake that we were super cute and we were the first babies in the family showered us with toys regardless of holiday. One of my favorite parts of my childhood home was probably the one strip of Christmas lights my dad would put up on our living room window. I was always amazed at how he was able to shape the lights into a christmas tree, and that was almost every year until we got older. I loved that Christmas light tree, although it was flat and cheap and simple. It wasn't really meant for me or Kelly. I remember my dad said it was so other people could see it. I loved it though. Christmas lights take my breath away. As children, sometimes our dad or uncle would drive us through a suburb to look at houses that decked it all out with Christmas lights. Kelly and I would go "oooh!" and "aaaah!" endless through that entire five minute cruise.

For some reason my mom hated Christmas trees. While me and my sister loved them so much and begged so much, we never got one. One year, after all the begging, one of our aunts gave us a small tree. It felt really huge because of how small we were, but I'm pretty positive it was small; it was probably about four feet tall. We managed to put it up by ourselves. Nothing really for ornaments (maybe a few red bows were in the box), but we were just so happy. Our mom came home that night and got so furious. She took it down and she threw it away, that very same night. I don't remember if I cried. Knowing the kind of kid I was, I probably did cry a lot.

One year, when I was about nine or ten years old I had a hold of $20. I went to Card Factory Outlet, and there was this beautiful pre-lit Christmas tree. It was so so so beautiful. I wanted to buy it and my uncle who was there with me, bought it for me and told me to not tell my parents he bought it. We walked back with it to the family restaurant. I proudly showed everyone the tree, and when I was asked I told everyone I bought it for $20. Then my dad yelled at me in front of everyone, "Why did you spend $20 on a stupid tree when we could've used it for flooring instead! Useless! Go return it." Whatever the words he used, it was harsh, and I definitely cried. I stayed in our little closet-size of a play room at the restaurant and cried and cried and cried. For some reason my sister came into that room and she was being nicer to me than I ever remembered and she said, "Tori, don't worry you're not fat." What the? I just continued in my bitterness and I vowed to hate my dad forever, never speak to him again. I wanted his heart to break.

Chest nuts roasting on an open fire, when I hear that I realize I have no idea what that means. Gosh I really wish I knew. Hearing that song hurts my feelings and it reminds me of my un-American-ness. What does a real pine tree smell like? It probably smells disgusting to me because I never got to sync the idea of pine tree to lovely feelings. The only pine tree I knew of was the big and ugly one I passed by everyday on my way to and from school. It always poked kids who walked past it and weren't careful enough to dodge it's prickly stems.

Hearing about international students visiting people's homes for Thanksgiving and Christmas. All the food and love and joy and decoration and festive spirit. I don't know that. Christmas almost means nothing to me besides family sometimes is off work and come together for meal and then head to the casino.

Would I lie to my kids about Santa so they could have an authentic American make-belief-Santa-Claus-god Christmas? I don't know, but it would hurt my childish feelings to bring it up.

Lord!

Lord! Show me Your discipline! Be it in Your will and make use of me in Your kingdom.

mucho

 "If the head of the house has been called Beelzebul, how much more the members of his household!"
Matthew 10:24

Jesus, the most innocent of all, the most upright was called Beelzebul, the foulest, most repulsive name you can call anyone, the prince of devils. They called Jesus the prince of devils. Jesus. They called Jesus, who is our messiah, redeemer, Christ, son of God, prince of peace, the prince of devils. How wicked. How wrong. How terribly terribly wrong.

I've been called a lot of names, too, in my life: lesbian, freak, worthless, idiot, slut, whore, b-t-h. Why should I be surprised? No matter how upright I try to live my life, those not of the spirit of God will not cease. 

Jesus said, "Father forgive them for they do not know what they are doing." And they divided up his clothes by casting lots.
Luke 23:34

truly how much more can be expected of me when at my best of bestest I can only hope to be as good as Jesus. How much more. 

Yesua, I'm sorry for my generation that goes against you. Yesua, I'm sorry for the generation that crucified you, our Savior. Yesua, Yesua, Yesua.
Jesus, you're pretty awesome. I mucho love you. 

Not-yet-identified

So this post is mini-inspired by this guy on Facebook. In a lack of pretty words, he's like a Facebook status-whore. I mean that in the best possible way. Sometimes seeing his posts gets annoying just cause' some things mentioned are so personal or subjective, and it doesn't necessary portray Christ-like love like he intends. So he sometimes writes facebook status letters to his future wife, and that's really sweet. I wondered about praying for my future husband and writing to my not-yet-existent-husband. I wasn't sure if that fantasizing would be healthy for my heart, so I never really did it. And sometimes I wonder if God is gonna use me like how he uses those Christian women who are in their mid-thirties and still have never had their first kiss. I guess I lost my first kiss to a girl at a fear factor food challenge, and the next moment to a guy. Anyways, that's not really kiss though, so I'll say that one doesn't really really count.  It was pretty gross, bleh. Anyways anyways, a letter for my not-yet-identified-husband.
_____________________________________________________________________

Hi!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I've been waiting to meet you for as long as I can remember!!! I've mistook you for some other characters in my life before, but I'm sure you're a pretty cool guy if you're my husband. And I'm sure you were worth the wait and anguish. I guess there hasn't been serious anguish much at all, because God's protected me from a lot of that stuff. God's protected my heart.

Right now I'm at a stage where I really wish I knew who you were already. And almost every single-man in my life, I see him and I think that he can potentially be you! And that scares me. But most of the time when there's a guy, I try to avoid all possible ways of leading him on, because I want to wait for you.

Where ever you are, I hope that you're healthy. I hope that you're happy. I hope that you've surrendered your life to Jesus already. I hope that you're already experiencing the joy of having His sovereignty rule in your life. I wish the very best for you. And sometimes I wonder if you've ever lost pieces of your heart to other women in dating and stuff. It makes me sad to think that you might have given pieces of your heart to other women before me, while it feels like I'm just waiting for you so lame and helpless and Disney. But it's gonna' be ok. So I pray that God is protecting your heart too. I pray that you are my brother in Christ right now.

I can't wait to meet you in God's perfect timing. Maybe we've met already, but I can't wait to meet you as my husband. I really can't wait to meet you, but right now God's working on this ole' heart of mine. He's growing me before I get to meet you. I hope I can be a good wife. I hope my cooking will be better by then. I hope I would have gotten more mature by then. I hope I would have gotten wiser by then. I hope I can be the godliest woman I can be for you. I can't wait to know who you are, but for now I pray that you can be patient, too, trusting God's perfect timing.

Raw Sin

The other day, things got a the most tense it's ever been between me and my roommate. Our other roommate left and it's just been extremely draining (spiritually, mentally, emotionally) to think/talk/mention ANYTHING about our other roommate. I can't pin the issues all on any one person, and I can't say that I've been blameless during this whole entire experience, but the other day I just felt pushed so hard. I felt like I was my dad, the way my mom suffocated him with her words. "I wish I never married you. You're scum. You're useless. You can't stand up for yourself, you can't stand up for me, you can't stand up for your kids, you piece of shhh" Ok she never really said "piece of shhh", but sometimes you don't need to explicitly say the words to bring up the same emotions if not worse

"You can't stand up for yourself. All you do is say, 'It's ok baby, I'm here." FAWE@%#$&!!!! I hate, I ABHOR  I DESPISE that freakin damn voice she uses to mock me. I haven't longed to curse so bad since Beechpoint when someone was trying to put me down mentally for not being well-versed in the Bible. My flesh is so raw. All I really did was raise my voice for maybe 5 words, and it was so unexpected for the both of us. "What did you say? You mean that to me?," she said. What does she friggin' want me to do? Flip some damn tables? Slap our old roommate? Verbally destroy her and ban her from all church activities?  Freaaaaaaaaaaaaaak! If she wants ungodliness from me, it's here. Lord, I'm dying. Save this f-ed up heart again that's back at square 1.

Perfect Plan Perfect Pace

Whatever you want to do with me God, do it. Whatever you want for me God, let it be, let it happen.

The other week I was feeling impatient about the topic of singleness, my singleness. Almost twenty and still haven't yet, but still I am so so so so SO glad God shielded me from the mess that could've been. So one weekend, as we were gliding along the roads circling the hills, I was looking through the sunroof in the car. I was enjoying the breeze softly caressing my head and my hair running wild in the air like spilled ink.

"God, I want what you want for me. I want what you have prepared for me. Because you know all my needs. What you have intended for me, is all I want," I thought to myself. "If that's really what I want, then why am I so impatient? Why am I so doubtful? Why am I shaming my Father's name with my lack of faith? If I really want God's will, then I should be more patient, more faithful, more at peace." So God, I will be patient. I will be content. Because God, you know me better than anyone else knows me. God knows what I need. So I can trust that His plans are far better than mine. So I will be faithful. Lord, I will walk at your pace. Not that your pace is slow, but because your pace is perfect.