Contradictions.

"Why is life so hard?" 

One of my very best friends texted me this the other night and for probably the first time in my life (ok, maybe not the very first time), I was at a loss for words. I didn't text back for a good half hour...which is somewhat unusual for me. It's such a simple question and yet...not at all. Why is life so hard sometimes? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why do perfectly healthy children suddenly get diagnosed with cancer? My answer? I don't know. I'm not going to begin to try and answer or reason with something that I just can't figure. Yes, I can sit here and say we live in an evil, fallen world and that's just what happens, but what kind of hollow answer is that? I've come to realize that there are things we'll never understand the meaning of, good or bad. But isn't that what makes life...life? I think a lot of people want a map or manual handed to them, showing them which way to go or which route to take, but isn't it the periods of complete derailment that make us into who we're supposed to be? Jesus never said life would be safe and He most certainly never said it would be easy, but I've found that it's in those moments of complete brokenness and confusion and wandering that I realize...even through the aching sting of loss or heartbreak, life is beautiful. It's messy. It's confusing. It's downright crazy...but it's beautiful. 

I have to admit to you though, sometimes, I wish more than anything that I had all of the answers. I want to know why people come and go so quickly through our lives. I want to know why children starve in third-world countries while children here turn there noses up at the food they're given. I want to know why it's so easy to judge and yet so incredibly hard and painful to love sometimes. I want to know the real reason as to why God made mosquitos...(c'mon, you know you wonder the same thing).
...........
But then again, I don't want to know because to me, that is the beauty of life, the not knowing. Is that scary? Well, yeah, but I think it'd be so much scarier to know everything. If we knew everything...there would be absolutely no need for grace and worst still, there'd be no mystery. And if you ask me, it's that mystery, that spark that keeps us wanting to live for just one day more.

I also wonder though...if we knew all of the answers, would we even be able to understand them? Could our simple, finite minds even comprehend them?

Needless to say, when I find eternity...I'll have a lot of questions:)

xoxo, me

The question.

I'm a collector. I collect vintage clothes. I collect antique, hand-stitched handkerchiefs. I collect old toffee tins that most people see as junk. And lastly (and most importantly, if you ask me) I collect books. That's not all, I could go on forever. Literally... But I won't for your sake. I love the history of things. I love knowing that they had a past. I love that they've somehow made it through the years, presumably through moves and divorces and separations and family feuds. I love that each and every thing has a "story".

As I was going through all of my stuff the other day, it hit me, like really hit me, almost for the first time. One day, it'll all be gone. Mere dust and none of it will matter. Nobody will ooh and ah over it and tell me how "unique" or "interesting" I am because of the things that I collect. The clothes I wear and the books of poetry passed down from my precious and ever missed great-grandmother won't matter. As much as I try to fill my life with things that I think will set me apart...in reality, it's not things that set me (or you) apart. It's how we choose to love that sets us apart, it's in how we choose to part with the day and welcome the evening, it's in how we choose to welcome each and every new and precious morning. It's in those pedestrian moments of simplicity that we figure out who we really are and there's no epic movie score that accompanies it, but it's in those small, quiet, seemingly dull and routine moments that we're able to separate self from stuff. 

So many times, we try to silence the ever present question of, "Who am I?", with stuff. With things. With antique toffee tins and vintage clothes and old books...and yet, does that ever silence the question? 

....if only it were that easy. It's hard to think about life without stuff, without the things we unconsciously cling to each and every day and I could say it's because we're Americans, but really, it's because we're people. It's because we're human. We follow our eyes when we should follow our heart. We long for what is unseen (like hope, joy, peace, love, and satisfaction) and yet we clumsily answer these longings and desires with manmade things, things that we can see with our human eyes and things that will all too soon be tossed away or given to Goodwill. We can't even fathom a life without stuff. It's unnatural. It's strange. It's scary. But if we strip it away, who are we then? Beyond my affinity for vintage and pre-loved things, who am I? 

I keep looking at the remnants of things past to tell me who I am today, not realizing that at the base of who I am, is a soul that longs for more than things, for more than stuff, for more than what money can ever afford. It goes so far beyond that. And it's confusing sometimes. But I'm learning more and more that the real me, is not found in a comfy and quaint antique market or in a small, cramped and locally-owned bookstore that smells like a heavenly blend coffee and old hymnals. No, that's not me. As much as I adore both of those things, they don't make me who I am. And you know, that's scary to think about. The things we participate in and support and spend our money on are typically the things that we label ourselves by, but why? Why is it so hard for me to realize that I'm not what I cling to? You and I are so much more than what we store up on this earth. We're breath and flesh and blood...and God doesn't expect us to be anything else. We're beautiful and unique and interesting and accepted...without all of our stuff... 

xoxo, 

 me