It's one of those nights that evolved itself into something beautiful.
It was supposed to be a homework night. A sit in my room and type essay question after essay question about theology and marriage and books that I haven't quite gotten around to night. But these friends of mine came knockin' and now, here we sit on the big comfy couches in the lounge, listening to Bon Iver, debating pronunciation and talking about imaginary friends.
"I had two imaginary friends when I was growing up. They were called Bob and Dolphin."
Laughter. Intrigued, we asked questions.
"No, they were both humans. And they played games with me."
Laughter.
And then the stories came, with intermittent fits of laughter, echoing through the high-ceilinged room.
"My imaginary cat friend's name was Mr. Pickens."
Obviously, more questions.
"I don't know, we played by the window a lot."
Story after story after story.
And just like the evening, conversation evolved. I love that about these nights.
Lent. Sea-kittens (or for normal humans: fish, aptly renamed by PETA). Aristotle and anthropocentrism.
"No, but they weren't like my real friends, like my intimate friends."
"Oh, like Bob and Dolphin?"
"NO! I'm talking about my real friends, my stuffed animal friends."
"I clearly remember the day Bear lost an eye."
How do people even exist? We are SO weird.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
hey, love!
Dear Valentine's Day,
Hi there. You may not remember me--we haven't spent much time together, besides for my freshman year Valentine's disaster and the fact that my mom uses you as an excuse to send me socks with little hearts on them and I'll take any opportunity to eat chocolate and talk about love.
So, Valentine's Day, let's talk about love. I'm afraid that you've made a bit of a mockery out of something that was so cool. I'm afraid that in the hustle and bustle of trying to find a boy to take us out to dinner, and rushing to the Hallmark store to buy boxes of Valentines and chocolates to say "I love you," or trying to wear as much red/pink/purple as possible without looking tacky (impossible), you have caused us to lose sight of what that day, and every day, should be about.
Valentine's Day, I wish that you were less concerned about reminding me that I'm single and more concerned with reminding me that three little words aren't reserved for a boy, but that I should day them, sing them, shout them, live them, with everyone.
I wish that you hadn't taken love--God's best idea--and turned it into chocolates and flowers and spending money to prove affection. I wish, Valentine's Day, with all of my heart, that you were just like February 13 or February 15, or June 9 or October 21. I wish that you were just like any other day--a day where a boy and a girl fall in love for the first time because of conversation and music and books and laughter, and it doesn't involve teddy bears or an overpriced bouquet of flowers. I wish you were a day when two people realize that they can't live without each other, and it's not extravagant at all, but it's perfect.
I wish, Valentine's Day, that we celebrated you every time a boy does something that makes us feel beautiful, like the luckiest girl in the entire world; I wish we celebrated every time we think, happily, "This isn't real, you're not real," every time we learn how to give, how to care for, how to appreciate another person. I wish we'd celebrate you when walls of fear come tumbling down and love becomes a possibility. I wish, Valentine's Day, we'd celebrate you at every wedding, every time a baby is born, at every church service, every visit from family, with every kind word and every thoughtful action.
I wish, Valentine's Day, that you'd talk about what love actually is.
Love is what put breath in my lungs.
Love is why I believe in God.
Love is my hope for tomorrow.
Love is redemptive and powerful and stronger than the grave.
Love seeks me out. Love does not leave me alone.
Love is giving and compassionate and sacrificial.
Love is selfless, love is just.
Love remains.
So, Valentine's Day, I wish you'd tell all of your followers that after the flowers wilt and the chocolates expire and the bill for the hot air balloon at sunset comes in, love remains. After Valentine's Day gets replaced with St. Patrick's Day, love remains. After we lose hope in you, love remains. After everything, love remains, and that is what we should celebrate.
Love always,
Kara Lee Kimball
Hi there. You may not remember me--we haven't spent much time together, besides for my freshman year Valentine's disaster and the fact that my mom uses you as an excuse to send me socks with little hearts on them and I'll take any opportunity to eat chocolate and talk about love.
So, Valentine's Day, let's talk about love. I'm afraid that you've made a bit of a mockery out of something that was so cool. I'm afraid that in the hustle and bustle of trying to find a boy to take us out to dinner, and rushing to the Hallmark store to buy boxes of Valentines and chocolates to say "I love you," or trying to wear as much red/pink/purple as possible without looking tacky (impossible), you have caused us to lose sight of what that day, and every day, should be about.
Valentine's Day, I wish that you were less concerned about reminding me that I'm single and more concerned with reminding me that three little words aren't reserved for a boy, but that I should day them, sing them, shout them, live them, with everyone.
I wish that you hadn't taken love--God's best idea--and turned it into chocolates and flowers and spending money to prove affection. I wish, Valentine's Day, with all of my heart, that you were just like February 13 or February 15, or June 9 or October 21. I wish that you were just like any other day--a day where a boy and a girl fall in love for the first time because of conversation and music and books and laughter, and it doesn't involve teddy bears or an overpriced bouquet of flowers. I wish you were a day when two people realize that they can't live without each other, and it's not extravagant at all, but it's perfect.
I wish, Valentine's Day, that we celebrated you every time a boy does something that makes us feel beautiful, like the luckiest girl in the entire world; I wish we celebrated every time we think, happily, "This isn't real, you're not real," every time we learn how to give, how to care for, how to appreciate another person. I wish we'd celebrate you when walls of fear come tumbling down and love becomes a possibility. I wish, Valentine's Day, we'd celebrate you at every wedding, every time a baby is born, at every church service, every visit from family, with every kind word and every thoughtful action.
I wish, Valentine's Day, that you'd talk about what love actually is.
Love is what put breath in my lungs.
Love is why I believe in God.
Love is my hope for tomorrow.
Love is redemptive and powerful and stronger than the grave.
Love seeks me out. Love does not leave me alone.
Love is giving and compassionate and sacrificial.
Love is selfless, love is just.
Love remains.
So, Valentine's Day, I wish you'd tell all of your followers that after the flowers wilt and the chocolates expire and the bill for the hot air balloon at sunset comes in, love remains. After Valentine's Day gets replaced with St. Patrick's Day, love remains. After we lose hope in you, love remains. After everything, love remains, and that is what we should celebrate.
Love always,
Kara Lee Kimball
Sunday, February 8, 2009
splish splash (i was takin' a bath)
I’m sitting in the bathtub with Cherry Blossom bubbles and I’m wearing my glasses that I don’t actually need. I’m wearing them anyways, because they make me feel scholarly and maybe even a little bit cuter than normal. Vain, yes, but maybe in some recess of my mind, I hope that feeling scholarly means that my brain will come up with something great. I’m wearing them as I sit in the bathtub with my computer; I disassembled my do-it-yourself shelf and made a make-shift “desk” of sorts that sits on the edges of my bathtub. My computer is sitting on it, hovering over the water, which makes me nervous because I know how stupid I would feel if I had to tell anybody that my computer fell in the bathtub simply because I felt like it was really important to write this while attaining the highest level of relaxation. I’ve got peppermint tea and Jon Foreman is singing peace into my heart, about how we’re broken from the start, and it’s not the happiest of songs, but even still, I’m glad he’s singing it because for five minutes and thirty-eight seconds, I feel like somebody gets what I’m feeling.
I wrote something yesterday. Pages and pages of words, and I wrote it and it was honest and made me feel all too vulnerable, like you, whoever is reading this, knew all too much about me in a few pages, a few thousand words. As if a few thousand words could truly let you know me. Maybe you wouldn’t know all about me—I didn’t talk about my favorite color or favorite book or song or artist or pastime. I didn’t talk about pet peeves or funny memories or flowers and ferris wheels. I didn’t talk about my deepest desires and the dreams I have for the future. But I wrote and wrote and wrote, just to talk, to put a voice to my present reality.
My heart feels weird these days. Happy and hopeful. I can see in so many ways that YHWH has intervened in the last few months, from bringing me back to San Diego to my rooming situation, and even the way my schedule has worked out—four classes so that my soul can rest and fight for peace, four classes to give myself a break. But my heart feels weird, oddly heavy, because that’s exactly what I’m doing: fighting for peace, and needing a break.
So now I’m in the bathtub and the anxiety has subsided, at least for a few hours. It’s left my body, but not my mind. I wish that I worried about my grades or finances or even my future. Unfortunately, grades have never really been a problem and by the grace of God, my dad’s work has been steady, and graduate school is providing the perfect opportunity to put off deciding on a career. No, no, my fight has taken a different form. I wish that I could say that the fight has just begun, but if I’m being honest with myself, this battle has been raging since…as far back as my memory allows.
Two theology classes are a relief—I can learn about the Character of YHWH, the Creativity of YHWH, the Love of YHWH, the Power of YHWH; I can learn about humans in relationship with Him and humans in relationship with humans as He so intended; I can study it and meditate on it and give it some sort of intellectual foundation in my mind for the times when my anxious heart can’t discern His voice, for the times when my heart wants to give up, to give in, to resign.
My homework for last week was to read Genesis. Creation. When YHWH intimately breathed His breathe into our nostrils and brought us into our humanity, into our need of Him, with an intimate kiss; when Creation spoke one giant “I love you;” when Creation was one magnificent display of Power and Glory and Goodness.
There is a life and breath that I was given, and for now, that life feels trapped, and my breathing feels short and shallow. The anxiety is there for a reason, so now I’m discovering why. I am traveling back in time, and digging to the root—investigating my childhood and my parents and relationships and experiences and, in the process, I’m unearthing layers upon layers of pain and frustration and confusion and irrational fear after irrational fear that seem to have followed me. I’m uncovering wounds for which healing was never sought and deep pits of insecurity in my heart for this reason and that reason. It makes me sad and angry and hopeful and tired.
I’m not bright and shiny like I always hoped I would be. I don’t have a bright and shiny family or a bright and shiny history. But this life has made me real. This is real, and this is why I need Jesus. I’m irrational and insecure and scared and there doesn’t seem to be much room for YHWH inside of this tangled web, except that He made me and formed my very being and knows my heart and every anxious thought. And so there must be room. Above anything, there must be room for Him.
I don’t feel bright and shiny, but Jesus says that I am clean. So there is a spring of hope bubbling up inside me. I want to collect its waters in a jar and carry it around my neck. I want to sing and dance and twirl round and round in a dress that rises and falls with every spin.
I don’t always feel capable of love, or worthy of grace, or, you know, any of those other things that sometimes come up. With God, or with humans. But this is where I am right now, and YHWH promises His comfort and His presence, and so I know. I know that peace and redemption will flood my heart. I know that He has hold of me. He is my shepherd, and His rod and staff comfort me.
It’s slow, contrary to my racing heart; and He is hope in the midst of the darkness of the anxiety itself, even though, more often than not, I don’t feel it. I want the songs to be true. I want to overcome by the blood of the Lamb and the word of my testimony. I want to shout unto God with a voice of triumph and a voice of praise. I would like to enter the city of the Living God. I would like to join in the chorus of thousands upon thousands of angels singing Alleluia.
I wrote something yesterday. Pages and pages of words, and I wrote it and it was honest and made me feel all too vulnerable, like you, whoever is reading this, knew all too much about me in a few pages, a few thousand words. As if a few thousand words could truly let you know me. Maybe you wouldn’t know all about me—I didn’t talk about my favorite color or favorite book or song or artist or pastime. I didn’t talk about pet peeves or funny memories or flowers and ferris wheels. I didn’t talk about my deepest desires and the dreams I have for the future. But I wrote and wrote and wrote, just to talk, to put a voice to my present reality.
My heart feels weird these days. Happy and hopeful. I can see in so many ways that YHWH has intervened in the last few months, from bringing me back to San Diego to my rooming situation, and even the way my schedule has worked out—four classes so that my soul can rest and fight for peace, four classes to give myself a break. But my heart feels weird, oddly heavy, because that’s exactly what I’m doing: fighting for peace, and needing a break.
Exodus: YHWH says, “I will fight for you, you need only be still.”
So now I’m in the bathtub and the anxiety has subsided, at least for a few hours. It’s left my body, but not my mind. I wish that I worried about my grades or finances or even my future. Unfortunately, grades have never really been a problem and by the grace of God, my dad’s work has been steady, and graduate school is providing the perfect opportunity to put off deciding on a career. No, no, my fight has taken a different form. I wish that I could say that the fight has just begun, but if I’m being honest with myself, this battle has been raging since…as far back as my memory allows.
And I wish that YHWH would take it all away. I wish that He would make everything new again.
Two theology classes are a relief—I can learn about the Character of YHWH, the Creativity of YHWH, the Love of YHWH, the Power of YHWH; I can learn about humans in relationship with Him and humans in relationship with humans as He so intended; I can study it and meditate on it and give it some sort of intellectual foundation in my mind for the times when my anxious heart can’t discern His voice, for the times when my heart wants to give up, to give in, to resign.
My homework for last week was to read Genesis. Creation. When YHWH intimately breathed His breathe into our nostrils and brought us into our humanity, into our need of Him, with an intimate kiss; when Creation spoke one giant “I love you;” when Creation was one magnificent display of Power and Glory and Goodness.
There is a life and breath that I was given, and for now, that life feels trapped, and my breathing feels short and shallow. The anxiety is there for a reason, so now I’m discovering why. I am traveling back in time, and digging to the root—investigating my childhood and my parents and relationships and experiences and, in the process, I’m unearthing layers upon layers of pain and frustration and confusion and irrational fear after irrational fear that seem to have followed me. I’m uncovering wounds for which healing was never sought and deep pits of insecurity in my heart for this reason and that reason. It makes me sad and angry and hopeful and tired.
I wonder if this is part of the fight; I wonder if YHWH wants me to know what He is taking away, though I hesitate to predict what He will do.
I’m not bright and shiny like I always hoped I would be. I don’t have a bright and shiny family or a bright and shiny history. But this life has made me real. This is real, and this is why I need Jesus. I’m irrational and insecure and scared and there doesn’t seem to be much room for YHWH inside of this tangled web, except that He made me and formed my very being and knows my heart and every anxious thought. And so there must be room. Above anything, there must be room for Him.
I don’t feel bright and shiny, but Jesus says that I am clean. So there is a spring of hope bubbling up inside me. I want to collect its waters in a jar and carry it around my neck. I want to sing and dance and twirl round and round in a dress that rises and falls with every spin.
I don’t always feel capable of love, or worthy of grace, or, you know, any of those other things that sometimes come up. With God, or with humans. But this is where I am right now, and YHWH promises His comfort and His presence, and so I know. I know that peace and redemption will flood my heart. I know that He has hold of me. He is my shepherd, and His rod and staff comfort me.
It’s slow, contrary to my racing heart; and He is hope in the midst of the darkness of the anxiety itself, even though, more often than not, I don’t feel it. I want the songs to be true. I want to overcome by the blood of the Lamb and the word of my testimony. I want to shout unto God with a voice of triumph and a voice of praise. I would like to enter the city of the Living God. I would like to join in the chorus of thousands upon thousands of angels singing Alleluia.
I would like to enter the courts of YHWH. I would like to stand, barefoot, as a child before Him and experience the Living God. Peace that grips me. Happy that has a hold on my heart. Humbled.
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