(Over)thoughts | A glimpse into the chaos.

Gossip

Posted on January 28 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I’m not perfect. But I do (usually, hopefully) learn from my mistakes.

I got dumped. He called and asked me to go over to his place so he could do it and not expend any extra energy in the process.

Classy.

I had been praying about the relationship and wondering if it should continue.

God’s solution: dumped. Not the nicest way to answer, but it at least it was clear.

A couple months later, a friend of mine was filling me in on the latest in the guy’s life. We were washing vegetables at In-N-Out before the store opened for the day, slicing tomatoes and ripping up lettuce as we looked out the window over the drive-through.

“He got a girl pregnant,” she said.

No way! <Shock. Un-shock. And not as surprised as I should have been.>

She told me about the girl, and about how upset the girl’s parents were.

“And she’s married.”

What!? <Shock.> Seriously? It was a crazy soap opera story, and I couldn’t believe it was reality.

A new co-worker walked up behind us as we were talking. He had just started a couple days before. “Do you know who you’re talking about?” he asked.

My ex-boyfriend.

“And my wife.”

No breath. <Speechless.>

Yeah.
That happened.

Wow, I blubbered
stammered
barely got out.
I’m sorry.
Sorry, oh my gosh, sorry, and – of course – we had no idea.

He was clearly hurt. I had been so wrapped up in one side of the story that I completely ignored that there was someone – anyone – else involved.

I had completely ignored that it was all gossip. Because it involved me, right?

Nope.

I was no longer in the picture. I was no longer involved. It wasn’t my business anymore.

I learned my lesson.
I think.
I hope.

Because I never want to put myself or someone else in that situation again.

Pray

Posted on January 26 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I’m not sure I pray – enough.

Not enough
as in long enough
or often enough.
Although I’m sure both of those are true.

But thoroughly enough.

I’m not sure I always pray through
             the possibility of what God may want
                                                         or do
             with whatever He has placed in my life –
                      no matter how much I may hate whatever it is.

Because whatever it is, is so bad
     that no one should ever have to live it
                                            endure it
                                              exist in it.
     And I would never wish whatever it is on another person.

Anyone else who doesn’t have some horrible malice or vendetta against someone would come to the same conclusion about my circumstance. Right?

So why wouldn’t He think that too?
Or bother to remove it from my life?
Because I know He can.

Am I doing something wrong?
What if I prayed for something different?

I can what-if that scenario to a bloody mess
and never have any actual answers.

What do I know is
He is God.
And I am not.

I’m not praying for something bad
wrong
immoral.

But – maybe – there is something He knows
that I don’t.

And maybe I should be praying
differently.

What would
         could
         might happen next time
            if I think past my prayer
                        that isn’t necessarily wrong, but incomplete?
              If I think past my immediate distress
                                      or gigantic in-my-face circumstances
                                      or admittedly sometimes selfish needs
                                                 and pray more thoroughly?

Would my tiny change in prayer
     really make that big of a difference?
Would it fix things
                  circumstances
                  outcomes?

I don’t know.

But maybe it would make a difference in how I view
see
perceive things.

And that might make a difference
in how I perceive Him.

Know

Posted on January 21 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I don’t know how.

All I do is answer the phone and my mom knows already.

Are you okay? You don’t sound quite right.

Sad.
Upset.
Sick.
Tired.

It doesn’t really make a difference.

Mom just knows.

It’s not that I’m trying to hide anything; I just don’t put it all out there on display. But she picks up on the subtleties that I don’t generally put out there.

When I did try to hide stuff back when I was a kid, she spotted the inconsistencies, the untruths. (A lot of the time, at least.)

I hated it back then, because I was usually trying to get away with something I shouldn’t have been doing in the first place.

But now I realize
she knows
because she loves me that much.

She paid attention to me.
She watched me
      listened to me, even though it didn’t always feel like it
      cared, enough to back off and try to give me space
                                 but still keep a very watchful eye.

She knew and knows the depths of me in a way I never had any clue about.

I wonder if I have limited my view of God to that of a parent. Not the unconditionally loving, patient, compassionate parent, but a weird combination of hovering and inattentive at the same time.

I believe God created me and knows everything; nothing is hidden from Him. But I have always just assumed He knew because He knew. Not that He knew because He cared enough to know.

Enough to know every little detail about what I do, think, and just how I am (Psalm 139:2-3).

Maybe
I have been the kid
who assumed He just didn’t – or wouldn’t – understand.

And maybe, even if I can’t see or feel it, He cares too.

Nerd

Posted on January 16 2012 by J.W. Richmond

I forgot how much I enjoyed being a student.

Sitting in class, taking notes, reading and highlighting the textbook.

Sure I doodled in the margins, but I loved the learning.

Yes, I’m a nerd.

What I don’t miss about being a student are the tests – and the money. If I could go back to school and not have to take any tests, and not have to pay such an insane amount for it, there is a very good chance I would do it.

I could study all the things I wanted to when I was in college. All the things I never got the chance to try.

The money weighed down my decisions. And so did my GPA, which apart from some yellow cord I wore at graduation, has never mattered since.

Not that all that work was worthless. It was an accomplishment. I guess.

I just think I could have enjoyed it more. I could have taken some chances. I could have tried some classes that I may have really loved.

Art – Mixed Media, Portraits or Pencil Rendering.
Existentialist Philosophy.
Criminology – Everything.

But I was focused on graduating and high grades.

Intro to advanced, the classes I took had to count toward the degree, so the money would be well spent. Because I was given scholarships that I had to live up to, and my savings were depleting rapidly.

There is something to be said for degrees in History or Philosophy or Art.

They may not add up to a job in that field later, but I would have loved to have that strong interest in something then and delve into it. To have some underlying significance in what I might do with my life, even if it meant not getting a job right after graduation, which I didn’t anyway.

I would have liked to explore more, try more, enjoy more. Not just push myself into getting a degree.

Which is where Academy comes in – a six-semester class at our church where we study the Bible and theology.

Attending class now is so different.

I like letting the teaching soak in, and tracing the different edges of it all to decide if I agree or disagree. I love that I am learning more about the Bible I have read for years, and have a little more understanding of now. And I like figuring how to apply the text to my life.

I still keep up with all the homework, because something in me just has to.

But I am learning to be okay with letting go – a little – and sometimes listening to the podcast later instead of having perfect attendance.

And I can enjoy it, because it is for my edification.

And there are no tests.

Cigarette

Posted on January 14 2012 by J.W. Richmond

My friend spotted me sitting on the curb across the street. Her eyes turned toward me, and like an evil step-mother in a Disney story, she became livid. The anger on her face was only underscored by the volume of her voice.

It was one cigarette. No big deal.

But it was such a huge deal to her – and she was not afraid to tell me that.

It wasn’t like she was my mom or something. She was my age, and neither of us were even old enough to buy cigarettes.

But there are always ways.

I didn’t even like it. It tasted gross and I couldn't stop myself from coughing. But I felt stifled at the time, and this was one step I could take that was slightly out of the boundaries I had been pushed into.

It also opened up conversation with people. A cigarette was, as I learned later, like holding a cup of coffee.

My friend chucked aside any excuses, any reasons. She was adamant that there was a better way, and that I was worth more than that. And she had no problem calling me out on my crap.

She was willing to be hated in order to tell me the truth. That truth was more important than her being liked, and she was willing to put our friendship out there and hold it in front of me as a choice – and an unspoken agreement.

As hard as it is to be called out on something, it is much harder for me to put myself in her place: to be willing to stop everything and point out something in a friend’s life that isn’t good for them.

I have had those conversations, usually reluctantly. Some went fairly smoothly and some had bumps that would rival turbulence in a puddle jumper.

But I hate starting those conversations. I know I’m not even close to perfect. I have enough junk in my life that they can throw back in my face. And even the idea of starting a conversation is difficult, because I hope those interactions turn into conversations at all.

The hardest part for me is not getting through the conversation or having the other person get defensive or angry.

It’s that first word.

How do I start?
Where do I start?
How do I approach this person?

I think I need to take a lesson from my friend and just let myself react from my gut sometimes. Not back myself into a corner and think through the thousands of possible directions for each word I could say.

Because I appreciate that she spoke the truth – for me.

Stroke

Posted on January 13 2012 by J.W. Richmond

It hurts to even hear the word.

A year has passed and my dad is doing so well that if you met him now, you would probably never even know.

But if I were an actress, I could use the memories to cry – instantly – in the midst of the silliest moments. All it takes is one small mention of the word and the tears are just beneath my eyelids. Burning.

Jeff’s grandpa had one last year and is no longer alive.

Friends tell stories of their mothers or uncles or grandfathers who have had one and I have to remind myself to take a breath.

A character in a movie has one, and I stop breathing until it’s over – or turn it off and quit watching altogether.

And then there are the jokes.

A friend is shocked by some news
and jokingly says it just gave her a stroke.

The fish that can’t swim straight,
so they say it had a stroke.

The snowman on Gilmore Girls* with the crooked mouth,
or stroke face.

I know it’s not intentional; they don’t mean anything hurtful. It’s all meant in jest, and I get that.

But it slams into me with tremendous strength.

Every single time.

And I hate that my dad lives so far away, because every time I hear the word, all I want is to hug him.

Calendar*

Posted on January 7 2012 by J.W. Richmond

The calendar on the wall still displayed December, as if the past hadn’t changed, and never moved forward.

She wanted to say she just hadn’t gotten around to changing it yet. But that wasn’t really true.

Time had run away so fast from her that she didn’t even recognize it anymore. Like that kid in kindergarten who she hadn’t really even known then, but ran across at a coffee shop many years later in college. Just a hazy resemblance of a memory.

Only the calendar betrayed her.

The numbers were such a blur; she had no idea what day or time or month it was anymore.

She felt some slight pull in her that she should care. But she just couldn’t get there. It wasn’t that she was apathetic. She hadn’t given up; she just didn’t have the energy anymore. And she had no idea how to find it or how long she needed to wait.

She was lost. Unrecognizable.

She hadn’t chosen this.

Before everything, she had been driven. People told her she had potential. She was going places. Blah, blah, blah…

Now the silence rose up like smoke into every conversation, every interaction, every word. It took over her, smothered her and enveloped her. It had stolen her voice.

She tried to speak, but as if waking from a dream in the middle of the night, her voice barely cracked, and the scream she tried to get out sounded like a muffled yawn.

She hadn’t given up without a fight, but she couldn’t fight anymore. She didn’t want to succumb, but the silence paralyzed her and clouded her brain like a drug.

He had taken everything.

Almost.

She wished she could go back to before. Before the night they met, before she let him walk her to her car, before everything.

But her backspace refused to cooperate. She had fought for every breath she took. All she could do now was wish that he had finished the job. Because leaving her this way was far worse than just getting rid of her the first time.

*Fiction

Astronaut

Posted on January 5 2012 by J.W. Richmond

When I was five, I wanted to be an astronaut.

The following year, along with my class, I watched the Challenger launch on TV. Being an astronaut didn’t look so fun anymore.

In elementary school, I thought it would be great to be a ride operator at Magic Mountain. Not sure what I was thinking there. Short lines, maybe?

Then in junior high I saw The Silence of the Lambs* and I became fascinated with forensic psychology.

How cool would it be to work for the FBI or CIA and study people’s behavior and figure out the type of person who would commit a particular crime? To catch the bad guys and be the hero?

That interest in criminal psych never fully died, but I wasn’t sure what to do with it either. I didn’t want to be in law enforcement, and I didn’t want to have to live in the midst of all the horror of that world. Or dream about it every night.

When applying for scholarships my senior year of high school, I joked that I wanted to study psychology from inside the criminal mind. People would either laugh or look at me with a really confused look on their face.

I also told people that I wanted to be a bum in San Francisco.

Most people figured out pretty quickly that they could laugh at that one. I think.

The reality was I had no idea what to do with my life.

And I still don’t.

I search and pray for direction
clarity
purpose.

And only receive silence.

Although I love where I work, I kind of oopsed my way into a job. I don’t dislike it, but I don’t want to assume it’s permanent either.

I don’t have plans of leaving. “I don’t even have a pl.”**

But I wonder if there is something out there – somewhere – that is meant for me. And maybe that’s too egocentric or individualistic. But I would like to believe that God has plans for individuals too, not just groups or nations. I’ve seen it happen – for other people.

If I could be anything, I still don’t know what that would be.

But I do know I don’t want to be an astronaut. I guess that’s something.

Least

Posted on December 31 2011 by J.W. Richmond

“My Least Favorite Things”*
A Parody

Big crowds and mingling and public speaking
Car accidents, asthma attacks and not breathing
Driving in snow and snowy anything
These are a few of my least favorite things

Dentists and doctors and bowel preps and surgeries
Hospitals, gowns, waiting rooms and large needles
Nausea, anesthesia, medical anything
These are a few of my least favorite things

Timed tests and pressure to answer and snakes
Lies from friends, abuse, homicide and rape
Forced to shut up with no hope for helping
These are a few of my least favorite things

Dusting knickknacks
The DMV
Printers make me mad
I just recall my least favorite things
And then I don’t feel so bad

Big crowds and mingling and public speaking
Car accidents, asthma attacks and not breathing
Driving in snow and snowy anything
These are a few of my least favorite things

Dentists and doctors and bowel preps and surgeries
Hospitals, gowns, waiting rooms and large needles
Nausea, anesthesia, medical anything
These are a few of my least favorite things

Timed tests and pressure to answer and snakes
Lies from friends, abuse, homicide and rape
Forced to shut up with no hope for helping
These are a few of my least favorite things

Dresses and lace
Too little caffeine
Printers drive me mad
I just recall my least favorite things
And then I don’t feel so bad

Minutes*

Posted on December 25 2011 by J.W. Richmond

Only four more minutes and he can get up. That’s the rule. No earlier than 7:00.

A small stream of light comes through his window already, where the blinds don't quite touch, and he can hear some shuffling noises on the other side of his door.

He is sure the tree is all lit up. The ornaments, the ribbon, the angel on top… He can picture it all. Including the scooter that he has wanted so badly.

It’s there under the tree, silver and shiny. It has to be. And it wants to be ridden.

Three minutes left.

He wonders if Santa liked his cookies last night.

Fidgeting wildly, he kicks his covers off as he sits up and faces the door.

Three whole minutes is such a long time to make a kid wait.

He stares at the crack underneath his door and wonders if it is big enough to see through.

Second thoughts are a waste of time; he is already up off the bed.

One step to the left to avoid the creaky spot on the wood floor, three more big steps forward and he crouches down. It’s hard to get his eye close enough to the ground or the door because his nose gets in the way. He scrunches it as far as it will go, but he still can’t see much.

Shadows. That’s it. Doesn’t help at all.

He lifts his head and looks back toward the clock next to his pillow.

Two minutes.

Two minutes may as well be forever.

He starts to pace around his room, stepping over the creaky spot, just in case his parents hear him.

Walking toward his window, he peeks out the blinds. The sun is so bright he can’t look at it. No snow today. Florida isn’t really known for snow, but a kid could hope.

One minute.

Just one more minute!

His breathing gets faster and his heart starts to race. He could beat his heart to that door, though.

The doorknob calls to him and he reaches up for it. Everything in him wants to turn it, but he knows the rule.

How long is this minute going to last?

The anticipation might actually kill him. This is a brutal form of torture and he could burst from the incredibly long wait.

That clock is still working, right? Nothing is happening. How would he know if it stopped? He could be waiting in here all day! His Mom and Dad would come get him if that happened, right? They wouldn’t let him miss Christmas just because his clock stopped.

The seven appears with the two zeros after it and his hand slips on the doorknob from the sweat of excitement.

That won’t be enough to stop him. He grabs the knob with both hands and turns it as he pulls the door open with his entire force.

The lights from the tree light up the hallway and he trips on the bare wood floor as he tries to turn the corner so quickly.

He falls hard on his knees and slides just a bit in his pajamas. The pain screams at him and forces the tears out of his eyes.

He has to pull back to grab his right knee, but through the blurry tears, just around the corner, he can see a small sliver of shiny metal. And through the grimace on his face, a small smile appears.

*Fiction