I wrote this for a class…so, relax.

I play a game called “guess the crazy” as I sit in my shrink’s waiting room every Wednesday.

My appointment is at 1:00, every week. And she comes to get me at 1:05, every week. She takes lunch at 12:30 and I’ve gathered that her last few bites of pastrami sandwich take precedence over the first 5 minutes of my appointment, every week. Since I started coming ten weeks ago, that sandwich has cheated me out of 50 minutes, which may just be the 50 minutes I needed to figure out whatever the hell is wrong with me. But it doesn’t matter.

“Guess the Crazy” might be more interesting than emotional detachment issues anyway.

I assume others play this game as well. We all pay our dues in the warmly lit waiting room before each appointment, so the natural thought progression is to wonder why the others are here. Not that we are the type of breed to follow a natural thought progression, but still.

As I enter the office each week, I hope people assume it’s my first time. I try to walk with an unnatural pace as to suggest a nervousness that might not reveal how comfortable I’ve become with this place. I tell the lady at the check-in desk my full name, even though she knows it.

I walk back to the appointment room as my name is called with the air of a “first-timer.” Typically first timers are the easiest to spot, which, consequently, makes their temperament the easiest to imitate. It’s the way they carry that I-don’t-really-need-to-be-here look that gives them away. “Yeah, well, we didn’t think so either,” I want to say. Instead I just copy them.

And of course, at all times I avoid eye contact with those already in the waiting room. It’s the unwritten rule of the shrink’s office: do not look at anyone else. Until, of course, they are not looking at you. In which case you may look at them and assign the appropriate diagnosis based on their disposition. Hence, “Guess the Crazy.”

The only downside to the game is knowing that everyone else is playing it, too. I have a constant fear of what people might guess of me. I try not to look bi-polar or schizophrenic. Refrain from unwarranted outbursts. Do not respond to voices that others don’t hear. They’re typically the easiest disorders to avoid.

I wish people would assume it’s an eating disorder that brought me in. But I know they don’t. I can wear “slimming” black clothes all day but, as Shakira once said, my hips don’t lie. So that’s out.

I think I probably look like the anxiety type. That’s kind of the catch-all for the people that are hard to diagnose. Both, I think, for this game and for the shrinks. If you’ve got issues and the professionals can’t find a name for it…its anxiety. If you don’t fit the profile for any other characters in this game…its anxiety.

But I wish I didn’t look like that. I hate to be so unoriginal.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just told those in the waiting room my diagnosis as I walked in. Partly, to say it out loud because apparently that’s part of the “healing process.” Mostly, just to ruin their game.

“It’s emotional detachment, not anxiety, but nice try.”

Or I could wait until I leave the appointment. Yelling as I walk back through the waiting room, “I’m emotionally unavailable!” I wonder if they’d think I’d had a major breakthrough that day. Maybe that would give them some hope for their appointment. And knock out that haughty attitude of any first-timers in the room.

I’d never do that, though.

Instead I sit here quietly flipping through a magazine and making diagnosis from efficient, darting glances. Stealth is key in the game. Otherwise, those darting glances can be misconstrued as mania or cyclothymia and you can’t give people the wrong impression about yourself. That’d be cheating. Everyone deserves a fair chance at diagnosing you.

Unless, of course, you’re me and you fake people out with the famous first-timer move. But that doesn’t count. I suppose in that sense the game is all about deceit, unless you can tell someone else is being deceitful, in which case they are cheaters and probably have anxiety so they’re not really fun to play with anyway.

I bet I look depressed. Not the type of depressed that sits hunched over in the waiting room and leaves in tears, but the type that tries too hard to not look depressed so it’s very obvious that that is what they are – the type to flip through a magazine and try not to wonder why pastrami is so much more important.

Yeah, I probably look depressed.

I’d rather look anorexic, though.

“Intimacy is, …

“Intimacy is, in both love and faith, full of tensions.  When fulfillment is delayed desire is bitter.  Between falling in love and consummating love, between the promise and the fulfillment, between the boundaries, that is, that are defined by covenant, it is the task of persevering and patient prayer to keep love ardent and faith zealous.

Which is why prayer is the chief pastoral work in relation to a person’s desires for and difficulties with intimacy.  Anything less or other than prayer fails to deal with either the ultimacy of the desires or the complexity of the difficulties.  Prayer with and for persons centers the desire in God and puts the difficulties in perspective under God.  Prayer is thus the language, par excellence, of the covenant: it is quintessential pastoral conversation that takes seriously the relationships that matter most, both human and divine.  In prayer the desires are not talked about, they are expressed to God.  In prayer the difficulties are not analyzed and studied, they are worked through with God.  If the goal is intimacy, it will not be arrived at by teaching or counsel or therapy (although any of these ministries may provide assistance) but by dealing personally with those who count, with Creator and creature.”

- Eugene. H. Peterson

O Heart Bereaved and Lonely

1. O heart bereaved and lonely,
Whose brightest dreams have fled
Whose hopes like summer roses,
Are withered crushed and dead
Though link by link be broken,
And tears unseen may fall
Look up amid thy sorrow,
To Him who knows it all.

2. O cling to thy Redeemer,
Thy Savior, Brother, Friend
Believe and trust His promise,
To keep you till the end
O watch and wait with patience,
And question all you will
His arms of love and mercy,
Are round about thee still.

3. Look up, the clouds are breaking,
The storm will soon be o’er
And thou shall reach the haven,
Where sorrows are no more
Look up, be not discouraged;
Trust on, whate’er befall
Remember, O remember,
Thy Savior knows it all.

I’m taking a creative writing class this semester to complete my free elective hours for graduation.  Of my 18 hours it is my favorite class by far.  And by that, I mean it’s my favorite class I’ve taken in college despite it having nothing to do with my major whatsoever.  That, however, is not the point.

In this class today, my professor began a very elaborate, emphatic rant about our generation being the most hyperbolic generation yet.  (Which is somewhat ironic considering his word choice, but I let it slide.)

His point was that everything we do, see, hear, think is in extremes.  This is the best book I’ve ever read.  That was the worst movie I’ve ever seen.  This is the best song ever written.  That is the ugliest dress she could’ve worn.  I’ve waited for an enternity.  I’m starving.

You get the idea.

We are a generation of hyperbole.

Which, I have decided, is the reason for this incredibly infections disease that is tearing through our culture of misusing the words “literally” and “legitimately.”  It.  Is.  So.  Annoying.  It’s even gone so far that the somewhat…let’s say, less informed people of the world are abbreviating the word to “legitly.”  THAT IS NOT A WORD.

I’m legitly running on no sleep.  I literally could kill my teacher right now.  I’m legitimately going to die if I don’t have coffee.  (Okay, sometimes that one is true.)

Again, you get the point.

I just want to look at people and say “Really?  Are you LITERALLY going to kill someone?  Are you trying to compare this situation to some figurative notion that needs to be qualified with the word ‘literally?’ NO.  You’re not.”

I digress.

The point is, I think we are so used to speaking in extremes and exaggerations that we now feel the need to qualify statements with words that might deter people from discrediting what we say.  As if to ensure that people know that this sentence, whatever it is, is not just another hyperbole.  But that I am legitimately tired.  And that I am literally very thirsty.

Makes sense, eh?  This is no grandiose point of insight, clearly.  It’s just something I’ve hypothesized about something that drives me a little crazy.

Cause legitimately it’s literally the most annoying thing ever.

…See what I did there?

Train of Thought

Well, I think I’ve figured this train thing out. It’s bothered me for a while now that the only form of transportation I find so majestic is the railroad. When you think about it, flight is a much loftier mode. So as I flew from Birmingham to Atlanta to Dallas to Charlotte to Birmingham this past weekend, I decided to figure out why I don’t really care about planes. Or ships, for that matter. And I think I did.

Planes are unthinkable. I’m sure there are people that understand how a giant piece of metal carrying herds of travelers, their excessive belongings, and hundreds of tiny Coke products can simply lift itself into the air. But I cannot. Looking out the window of a plane, seeing the buildings of a city reduced to lego-sized blocks and the street lights of a neighborhood become tiny, sparkling fireflies dancing in perfect parallels does not amaze me the way I think it should. It is just beyond me. It is an intangible moment. It is senseless.

Ships are one in the same. You tell me how a barge or a catamaran or a massive, gaudy cruise ship floats. FLOATS. Row boats, fishing boats, durham boats, steam boats, ski boats. They float. And I don’t understand it. Again, it seems senseless to me. Intangible. It elicits no emotion.

But trains. Trains make sense. Trains are marked by precision and reason and meaning. They are methodical, powerful, dedicated. They exist to be simply that which they are. Like words and numbers. There is no mystery behind them. They just are. And it’s a tangible, emotional thing. To me, at least.

Maybe I just don’t like things I can’t understand. If so, I should probably figure that out because I’m thinking that won’t fare well in my relationship with the Lord.

Either way, I just felt like putting that into words, and it seemed like a decent enough excuse to break my blogging hiatus. So there you go.

I want to write books.  I’m going to be a CPA.

I want to wear my favorite white sweater every day for the rest of my life.  Today I bought a suit.

All I want is to graduate.  This week I chose grad school.

I hate being trendy.  I own 7 pairs of Nike shorts.

I love words.  I’m majoring in numbers.

I love airports.  I’m scared of flying.

I love Jesus. I’m constantly seeking my own glory.

I’m a big, old, small, young contradiction.

I am lost in a romance of the purest kind with Atlas Shrugged right now.

Here are a few reasons why:

“She never tried to explain why she liked the railroad.  Whatever it was that others felt, she knew that this was one emotion for which they had no equivalent and no response.  She felt the same emotion in school, in classes of mathematics, the only lessons she liked.  She felt the excitement of solving problems, the insolent delight of taking up a challenge and disposing of it without effort, the eagerness to meet another, harder test.  She felt, at the same time, a growing respect for the adversary, for a science that was so clean, so strict, so luminously rational.  Studying mathematics, she felt, quite simply and at once: ‘How great that men have done this’ and ‘How wonderful that I’m so good at it.’  It was the joy of admiration and of one’s own ability, growing together.  Her feeling for the railroad was the same: worship of the skill that had gone to make it, of the ingenuity of someone’s clean, reasoning mind…”

“She sat listening to the music.  It was a symphony of triumph.  The notes flowed up, they spoke of rising and they were the rising itself, they were the essence and the form of upward motion, they seemed to embody every human act and thought that had ascent as its motive. It was a sunburst of sound, breaking out of hiding and spreading open.  It had the freedom of release and the tension of purpose.  It swept space clean, and left nothing but the joy of an unobstructed effort.  Only a faint echo within the sounds spoke of that from which the music had escaped, but spoke in laughing astonishment at the discovery that there was no ugliness or pain, and there never had had to be.  It was the song of an immense deliverance.”

“Then he said, ‘I like cigarettes, Miss Taggart.  I like to think of fire held in a man’s hand.  Fire, a dangerous force, tamed at his fingertips.  I often wonder about the hours when a man sits alone, watching the smoke of a cigarette, thinking.  I wonder what great things have come from such hours.  When a man thinks, there is a spot of fire alive in his mind – and it is proper that he should have the burning point of a cigarette as his one expression.’”

If I could write even half this well, and for only one day in my life, I would feel accomplished and entirely satisfied.

*So I don’t go on Brent’s double secret probation*

After my accident, I was really mad.  I think I woke up angry from surgery and it pretty much got worse from that point on.

I was in pain.  And I was frustrated.  I hate asking for help.  I hate being idle.  I hate missing out on things.  And I really hate losing my independence.  Okay, let’s be honest, I really just hate losing my sense of control.

So I was mad.  Everything about it just sucked.  And I really struggled to heed the standard Christian-y advice to “trust the Lord’s will” and “see the blessings amidst the storm” and “make the most of the situation.”

Mostly, I just wanted to tell people to shove it.  After all, their legs weren’t broken so what did they really know?

But I knew I was being ridiculous.  And despite my best efforts to cling to my bitterness and make excuses to cuss as much as I wanted, I knew that the Lord really was sovereign over this stupid wreck, and that fighting it was just succumbing to that silly beast of pride.

So I made an agreement with myself to read Psalm 145 every morning until I could walk again.

I did so begrudgingly, at best.  The last thing I wanted after waking up in pain, taking thirty minutes to brush my teeth, make someone bring my coffee and toast, give myself a shot, and take 9 different pills, was to read my bible.  But I did it.  Probably more out of my ridiculous need to feel productive than my desire to submit to the Lord, but what can you do..

So every morning, I read this:

I will extol you, my God and King,
   and bless your name forever and ever.
²Every day I will bless you
    and praise your name forever and ever.
³ Great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised,
   and his greatness is unsearchable.

 ⁴ One generation shall commend your works to another,
   and shall declare your mighty acts.
⁵On the glorious splendor of your majesty,
   and on your wondrous works, I will meditate.
⁶They shall speak of the might of your awesome deeds,
   and I will declare your greatness.
⁷They shall pour forth the fame of your abundant goodness
   and shall sing aloud of your righteousness.

 ⁸The LORD is gracious and merciful,
   slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.
⁹The LORD is good to all,
   and his mercy is over all that he has made.

 ¹⁰ All your works shall give thanks to you, O LORD,
   and all your saints shall bless you!
¹¹They shall speak of the glory of your kingdom
   and tell of your power,
¹²to make known to the children of man your^[b] mighty deeds,
   and the glorious splendor of your kingdom.
¹³ Your kingdom is an everlasting kingdom,
   and your dominion endures throughout all generations.

   [The LORD is faithful in all his words
   and kind in all his works.]^[c]
14The LORD upholds all who are falling
   and raises up all who are bowed down.
¹⁵The eyes of all look to you,
   and you give them their food in due season.
¹⁶You open your hand;
   you satisfy the desire of every living thing.
¹⁷The LORD is righteous in all his ways
   and kind in all his works.
¹⁸The LORD is near to all who call on him,
   to all who call on him in truth.
¹⁹He fulfills the desire of those who fear him;
   he also hears their cry and saves them.
²⁰The LORD preserves all who love him,
   but all the wicked he will destroy.

 ²¹My mouth will speak the praise of the LORD,
   and let all flesh bless his holy name forever and ever.

Some mornings it was slightly encouraging.  Most mornings it just was what it was.

But as I was flipping through my Bible this morning, 15 weeks later, I came across this psalm again and was so struck by the Lord’s faithfulness.

Being on the (almost) other side of all the craziness of this season of my life, I really do see the “abundant goodness” of the Lord.  I could write about the things I’ve learned from it for days.  Now that I’m out of Auburn, I’ve really been able to process a lot of it.  And it’s good.  And I’m thankful for it. But I don’t really want to type it out and I’m certain people don’t really want to read all of that.

But, at the risk of being cheesy, I am just overwhelmed by the Lord’s grace and goodness this morning.

“The Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.  the Lord is good to all, and his mercy is over all that he has made.”

“DFW Digs Dirk”

Today is May 14th.  This date marks the 5th week, that is 35th day, since that silly little wreck.

The past 5 weeks of my life have consisted of quite the heated battle between my broken leg and I.
There have been moments where defeat seemed imminent.
There have been moments of quiet victories.
And though the battle wages on, I felt it only right to commemorate these last 35 days with a record of events thus far.
A scoreboard, if you will.
After all, as Douglas MacArthur once said “in war there is no substitute for victory.”

1. Spring Semester Classes – This point goes to me.  While it would be nice to say now that I am done with my classes, I can’t say I hated not finishing them up.  It was the best finals week I’ve ever had.  I stayed in bed and read books.  All my accounting friends didn’t sleep for 5 days.  I will have to finish those classes this summer.  But for the most part, I’ll be working at my own pace.  I’d call that a victory.
2. Camp – One for the broken leg.  Trailblazing starts tomorrow.  And I would really really really like to be there.  But alas, I cannot walk.  Thus, I cannot navigate the treacherous terrain of the Pine Cove Shores.  I will however continue on my ultra extended FOB.
3. Walking – Really it’s not even a debate.  Although I have taken a few steps (against the advice of my physical therapist), I look pretty ridiculous doing it.  And it’s looking like we’ve still got a few weeks to go on this one.  Point for the broken leg.
4. The Art of Conversation – Me.  Not to say that I have by any means mastered it, but all this down time has lead to exorbitant amounts of conversation.  Through which I have realized just how important it really is to, for lack of more eloquent wording, be good at conversation.  I’m glad to know this.
5. Driving – Broken leg point.  I miss driving.  And I never thought I’d miss the Sunfire.  But I really, really do.  However…
6. Gas Prices – Point for me.  The prices are insane.  Not that they will have gone down by the time I can actually drive again, but I’m okay with not having to fill up for a few months.  I’m sure my father would agree.
7. Literature – My point.  I hate watching TV.  And I enjoy a movie every now and then, but it is by no means something I’d want to do on a daily basis.  So instead, I’ve spent much of my free time reading.  And it has been wonderful.  I think this is what I will miss the most once this is all over.
8. Relationships – Point for me again.  At the risk of sounding cheesy, it has been the biggest blessing to see how the Lord has used this event in my relationships with family and friends.  I could write for days about the support everyone has shown me – cards, flowers, rides, Starbucks, etc.  Even just having people sit in my room and hang out when I’m sure there are a hundred other things they want to be doing has meant so much to me.  I’m really bad with serious, emotional “thank you’s”, but I certainly owe them to a LOT of people.
9. Domestic Life – Broken leg point.  I miss cleaning.  The second I can sweep or vacuum or wash dishes or something, this house is not going to know what hit it.   And I want to cook.  Like the full on, wearing my apron, bringing out the nice plates kind of cook.  And go grocery shopping.  With Starbucks in one hand and a very detailed, organized by category shopping list in the other.  I’ll be a regular Martha Stuart.  Excluding the whole felony thing.
10. Wanderlust – Broken leg again.  All this sitting in my house has made me absolutely stir crazy.  I want to travel.  More than anything.  When I’m alone, I look up places I want to go on my computer all the time. (Embarrassing?  Maybe.) I’ve always loved going on trips.  But being this idle for this long has intensified that more than you can imagine.  I really don’t think it’s too much to ask to win the lottery, drop out of school, and just travel forever…I’ll send everyone postcards.  I’m going to pray about this.  I’m pretty sure that’s how that works, right?

Anyway, I could go on – like about how lame it is to be in a wheel chair or how smokin hot both my surgeons and my physical therapist are – but I wont.  Nobody likes reading super long blog posts.  And I don’t like writing them.

But the final score to date is:
Bailey – 5 , Broken Leg – 5

So here’s to you, femur.  You’re a valiant competitor.