RAGE, RAGE again the pre-Halloween Christmas carols!

One of our Christian radio stations started playing Christmas carols all day every day a week before Halloween.

I would just like to express my outrage at such an offense.

There. I've expressed it.

If you knew, would you still?

When your house and all you possess has gone up in flames,

When the father of your two children fights for his life and loses,

When your little girl would have been 14 this year,

Then when your boyfriend suddenly accepts a promotion across the country and starts to pack his things, it doesn't seem so bad.

Nor does being sick going on month 2. Or forcing yourself to blog in order to stay awake because you had to make an emergency phone call to the pharmacy and they need an hour to fill your prescription.

That's what I've been off and doing since I last wrote:
A spike of panicking.
A lot of thinking and processing.
Frustration. Sadness. Excitement.

All of that. I'm dealing with all of that.

Grateful that my friend escaped her house in time. Wondering, if it were me, what would I have grabbed? And how easily would I be able to say goodbye to my things? (Just how tied to stuff am I?)

Mourning a good man that I never knew. At a loss for his wife, who lost her best friend. Probing her in my mind, If you knew he'd die so young, would you still have married him? (In my mind, she says yes. Oh yes.)

And the little girl. Well. God loves his children and takes care of all of them. We grieve, but we still hope.

As for me, I have 20 minutes until I can run to the pharmacy and 2 months until I send off Ethan to his new home at the airport.

And as I'm thinking about Beth, Charlie, and Samantha, I think about Ethan.

I think about how he's right - I'm blessed because even as sick as I often am, at least I have widespread access to healthcare and I can afford it.
And I think how lucky I am to be in love with my best friend. To laugh with him, explore with him, and be vulnerable with him.
I think that perhaps long-distance, even on the other side of the country, is not so bad. Even exciting. (More excuses to travel.)
I think God's challenging me to rise up and grow up. To pinpoint my dreams and run after them with no holds barred.

And I think, that even if the end of this path does not lead us together, well.

Ask me the question.

In my mind, I say yes. Oh yes.

Retreat.

"Have you ever had a near-death experience?"

And before everyone else's eyes roll sideways to think, I answer, Yes.

It's Sunday night. Dinner. I'm surrounded by the 4 remaining friends who are staying one more night during our small group retreat in Gatlinburg. And over spaghetti and meatballs, I recount my most vivid of the memories - drowning, car wreck, near car wreck, 2 cancer biopsies - all of them confirming to me that God is completely in control of life AND death. If He wants you to go, you'll go. If not, you might as well make yourself comfortable. (Though, as my friend Steve pointed out, sometimes plain stupidity is what kills you. In which case, I believe in the Darwin theory.)

Speaking of cancer and things, health (or lack thereof) is one of the bloodiest warfronts between God and Satan in my life. From birth, I've been nothing short of cursed by a devil who constantly tries to kill me this way, and blessed by a God who, apparently, has bigger plans. To list all my health ailments over the years would overpower this post. Suffice it to say, despite my best efforts, I've never had a healthy constitution, and I don't expect I ever will. What I can say is that I'm never surprised.

So as I was telling stories to my friends, I was nursing a 3-day worsening headache with nausea. Since I've never experienced this before, my best guess says sinus infection with added fun. Or a brain tumor (which, if you knew the likelihood of all the other things I've come down with over the years, you'd know this is not completely out of the question.)

This funness eventually landed me in bed, and it's from here I write, while I listen to my wonderful friends chatting and laughing in the hot tub outside my window. (It's the mark of a good friend who knows when to stay beside you and when to leave you alone. But not QUITE alone.)

So here I am, having just read a good chunk of Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert after a 3-hour nap. You can always measure the talent of an artist by the level of which he/she inspires others to follow suit. (Bravissimo, Liz.) And I'm thinking...

- I've always wanted to write a book. I should write a book. I can write like that. -
- (A couple of chapters in.) Maybe I can't write like that. -
- My head hurts. -
- Hi, dinner. Please stop revisiting me. -
- This is going to suck on the drive home tomorrow. -
- Having a plush queen bed all to yourself in the middle of a 3-story chalet tucked in the woods is pretty damn sweet. Even when your head is a balloon dripping snot. -

* * * *

We saw two black bears yesterday while hiking the Smoky Mountains. Really up close, too. One was merely feet away from the side of the road, perfectly happy to paw the dirt for lunch while traffic piled around it.

The other was at least 50 feet high in a branch which seemed surprisingly strong for the amount of bear it was carrying. The yummiest leaves are at the top, I guess.

That was cool.

* * * *

Ethan's eyes are surprisingly blue. I thought this as I observed him this morning, sitting on the couch next to me as we did devotional.

There are songs written about people who are naturally beautiful and, at the same time, carelessly unaware. Those songs might as well have been written about Ethan. Other than the everyday goodness in affirming a person you love, there's really little point in describing his handsomeness to him. He would still wear the same mismatched clothes, eyeing the latest fashions with obvious skepticism, and need the same reminders to brush his teeth.

Despite my teases, I don't mind this; it makes him all the easier to adore. And frankly, I am personally that much more secure because of it - he regularly voices how beautiful I am, regardless of what I'm wearing or how clear my skin is. And I believe him, not because I need the affirmation, but because I know all his faults, and ingenuine is not one of them.

* * * *

Yesterday was Ethan's 31st birthday. He wasn't exactly thrilled. I, on the other hand, was content to mash a few candles into a cherry pie and sing to him along with our friends. Especially because this was my first time being with him on his birthday. If you recall, last year the most I could do was write him a letter on this blog, never knowing if he'd ever read it, let alone know how much I missed him.

So I'm conscious of the poeticism in kissing him on his birthday in the same chalet our bible study retreated to a year and a half ago. Back then, we'd only been dating for 1 month, totally lost in puppy infatuation and just as oblivious to it. We couldn't have known that, 4 months later, he'd be spending his birthday weeding his yard in solitude while I desperately typed just miles away.

Yesterday we also, quite unintentionally, hiked the same trail to the same waterfall as we did back then. I couldn't help but notice how different I felt - as an individual and as one that's part of relationship - stomping through my old tracks a year and a half later. We took a lot of pictures on that first retreat, and I remember every one of them (mostly because it replays obnoxiously on my work computer when it's sleeping).

Same trail, a blend of old and new friends, same boy - yet all completely different. Like your favorite flavor, but better.

Logically and illogically, that makes sense. Love grows with time. Duh, right? But for me, it evoked a sense of quiet awe which words were nearly inadequate to express. Perhaps if you knew how I grew up, you'd understand my small smile as my friends chatted and he reached for my hand, trail blazin'.

I don't deserve such grace, but I fully embrace it.

So we took new pictures. We made new memories. And that's why, despite my Googles about brain tumor symptoms, I am not that worried.

God will do as He will. And He's done ok so far.

No need to offer condolences. This is to record this piece of my life in case I want to look back on it.

I don't know when it happened.

I don't know when I traded my nights, my weekends, my sanity...to work. To work. To work and work and work.

Did I do it willingly? Or am I another victim of gradual complacency?

I started saying it just after Halloween last year. "This is crazy," I said. "I worked 55 hours this week and I hated it. I hope it gets better." I said the same thing a few months after that. And a few months after that.

And now it's October 2009, a whole year later. It's the 3rd consecutive evening that I am up at night working. 55 hours has become 60, 70, 80 straight from hell. I still hate it. More than ever. But I've stopped hoping it'll get better.

All my co-workers are the same way. I feel helpless, watching my friends look a little grayer, a little thinner every day. "I'm hanging in there," they say when I ask. But it feels like we're hanging onto thin air.

A month ago, one of my co-workers - a grown man, married with 3 kids - nearly cried in the middle of a meeting from stress. His workload was taking him away from his family. Yesterday, another co-worker burst out sobbing in the office, red-faced and overwhelmed. And everywhere you walk, someone is slumped in their chair, internally conflicted on whether to give up.

I have friends who are struggling to find a job. And I don't miss the bitter irony that, while so many out of work are struggling to survive, so many workers are trying not to die.

Yesterday, I got a raise. A pretty decent one, especially given the recession. Ethan says it's cause for celebration. So sweet - he's trying to help. Trying to make me smile. But I look at my paycheck and all I see is the price at which I sold my life. The price at which I completely missed the summer season, only glancing at it occasionally through my office window. The price at which I've missed countless opportunities to call on my friends and to spend time with family. To exercise. To be with Jesus...

I am tired. So very tired. The kind of heavy that comes from something much deeper than simply lack of sleep. And despite the to-do list that continues to lengthen, all I can think about is 2 things:

1. The sores and little ulcers that have erupted in my mouth, and the bright lights I see when I rinse with alcohol and hydrogen peroxide to dull the pain.
2. And worse than giving up, is simply not caring.

A year and a half later...

Girls do a lot of silly things boy simply don't understand (and vice versa, but this post is focusing on the former).

For example, we count the length of a relationship like parents count the age of the baby.

When you were born, and someone asked your parents how old you were, they answered in days. Weeks. Months.

Not until you were 3 years old did they start to count by years.

And girls are just like that with their dating relationships. Men, that's why we get so upset when you forget anniversaries. Because we've been marking each minute/hour/day/week/month as millions of milestones leading up to that big day, and we're flabbergasted that you can't remember something so. damn. important. It'll be a year or two before we ONLY count year anniversaries.

It's human nature to treat time as a symbol, too. 2 months is much more impressive than 2 weeks. 6 months feels more solid than 3 months. 1 year is a big deal, but not as big as 2. And so on, and so forth.

And maybe it's just me, but in the first year of a relationship, I seem to always want to fast forward time. 'Cuz you're always a little sheepish when, after going on and on about your new man fangle, someone asks how long you've been together and you say "2 weeks". "Slow down", they say. But surely they understand that the technical time we've been together can't do justice to the mushy gooshy wobbledy wunderness of our relationship that transcends time?

That's why I'm surprised that the tables have turned. After a year and a half, I feel sated. I'm happy. He's happy. I trust God that He has a plan, whatever the turn out.

Yet lately I've had a hard time saying hello to someone without them looking at my right hand before looking at my face.
"Where's the ring?"
"When's the wedding?"
"Am I invited?"
"You better be nice to my future son-in-law!" (Thanks, Mom.)

And it's not because I've said anything. (So Ethan, relax.) I haven't. It's simply because they're making assumptions about what happens when two people have been together for a year and a half. Apparently, that's a long time. And somehow, I missed that. Sometime after my manic over our anniversary, I must have calmed down and simply let the time pass however it wanted.

Don't misunderstand; I'm not bothered by any of those comments, nor do I feel pressured. So keep on keeping on. I just felt like I hit a milestone when I realized I've been enjoying more and counting less.