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I Love You This Much

I lit a candle for you.

Yeah, I walked up to the front in that church with the lights all dim and lit a candle for you–just for you.

A commitment to pray without ceasing.

You’re special you know.  Or do you know?  I don’t think you do.

You’re humble.  Caring.  Selfless.  Responsible.  Faithful.  Inclusive.  Loving.  Wise.  Thoughtful.  Open-hearted.

You make me feel safe.

When you’re near, I feel that nothing bad can happen to me.  I trust your decisions.  I listen and hold on to what you say, even if you don’t know it.  Whenever I’m scared, I want you there.  Your hugs–well, it’s hard to describe.  Only that you give the best bear hugs of anyone I’ve ever known.  That I feel this deep, deep, real, strong, steady, unbounding happiness all inside me when you hold me tight. Like nothing bad can ever happen again.  That the world is perfect, as long as you are close.  I don’t ever want to let go, but always know I have to.  And when we do, I’m always looking for the next one.  They’re some of the best gifts I’ve ever been given.  No–scratch that.  Time with you is even better.

But the flip side–the flip side is, when you’re not here, I’ve got this big ache inside that won’t go away.

Hollow, like there’s something missing… and there is.

It’s especially bad after I’ve spent a long time with you.  This last time… well, it was the worst of all.  I smiled at memories of you, of your laugh, of the stupid things you said, and grew sad at the intensifying of missing that followed a second later.

Instead, I dreamed about you then.  If someone were to ask me what I do when I miss someone, the answer would be threefold: think of them often, pray for them constantly and passionately, and dream about them.  Yes, I literally dreamed about you.

Time has made it easier, as it always has–but then there are days that I think about you and daydream and wish.

‘Cause, you know what?  You make me happy.  You make me more than happy–a deeper happy.  A complete, everything-is-going-to-be-all-right-and-already-is kind of happy.  I would rather be nowhere else than with you.  If you invited me to come see you right now, or do something this weekend, I would drop everything and go, if I could.  And coming with this intense love is worry–just as it is with all true love.  If you love someone, you can’t help want the very best for them.  And it’s hard when you’re miles and miles and a few hours of airtime away and there’s nothing I can do but pray and strain forward with a longing ’til I see you again.  And it’ll happen.  I know.

Because your last text said, “See ya soon!”

And you never break your promises.

Love ya, bro.

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Wings

Tonight’s a big night.

The last night in my own bed for a while.  The last night of summer for a year.  The last night with my family in a long string of nights.

Tomorrow’s a big day.

The first night under a new roof.  The first reunion with my friends.  The first in a long string of celebrations of just living.

Tomorrow, I spread my wings.

I want them to be strong.  Big.  Powerful.  Gentle in their brown soft feathers speckled with sunlight.  Gentle in their strength–yet ready to whip the wind.  Shape it to my command.  Ride it, soar me high, anywhere I want to go.  To anyplace.  To anyone.  Following my heart, at my will.

But not only are my wings strong–they are wise.  Faithful.  Loyal.  Intelligent.  Not only at the beck and call of my heart but also in line with my head.  And on a perfect day, those two will never be at odds.  The center of their compass is love. Home.  Constancy.  Protection.  Sacrifice.  Ferocity.  Forever embrace.  Reliability.  Adventure.  Love is all of these things–love is my friends and my family.  Those dearest to my heart.  Those I would give anything for at a moment’s notice, although I may strive to see the small needs right in front of my nose.  Although my wings fly on the call of the wild and the whisper of the unknown on the wind, they train true to the strong beauty of love.

When I spread my wings, it will mean six things–

I am ready.

I am strong.

I am free.

I am brave.

I am an explorer.

I follow my love.

And when I get a little scared, and my wings wobble a little even as they hold me up–

I will remember to be confident, and trust the One that gave them to me.

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Right Now

Do something stupid.

Jump off a cliff.  Lie in the road.  Roll down a hill.  Take a bike ride to nowhere in the middle of the night.

Go on, do it.

I’m serious.  Right now.

Now, you ask?  Yeah, now.  Right.  Now.

‘Cause if you don’t do it now, you never will.

If you play it safe, you’ll never be alive.

What if I told you your life is in danger.  Right now.  What are you gonna do about it?  Anything it takes, of course.

What if the only way to save your life is to risk losing it.

Throw caution to the winds.  Heck, throw yourself to the winds, literally.

Adrenaline is your friend.  So is the wind, and the waves and the earth and water and fire and dangerous, possibly not-so-legal acts and the runaway beating of your heart.

Live to the beat of the music only you can hear.

You don’t not drive even though it’s dangerous, right?   Even though, at any moment, you know that your soul could be blasted into the sky.  You don’t let yourself be dictated by those fears.  Don’t let yourself be controlled.

I hate to break it to you, man–the same principle applies to everything else.

The world isn’t safe.  So don’t pretend it is.

So do it, go do whatever makes your heart beat faster and your breathing quicken and your hands shake.  Jump out of planes.  Climb cliffs.  Paddle whitewater.  Soar with the birds.  Pick you adventure, it’s everywhere, you’ll find it inside.

Our number one priority should not be safety–it should be living.

Some things are more important than staying alive.

Routine and comfort zones and luxury and money and safety and even education are your worst enemies.  You can only trust your fears.  The wild.  The open spaces.  All the things you swore never to do.  Listen–they tell you what you should do, not what you shouldn’t.

Be rebels.  Be creators.  Daredevils.  Risk takers.

You are the only ones who can change the world.  Edge your toes over the literal no trespassing signs and the stark white lines and the metaphorical limits drawn in the sand.  Let that rebel spark ignite you, consume you whole.

Be you.  You’ll be hated for it.  You’ll be loved for it.  You’ll be feared for it.  You’ll be admired for it.  But you will never fail to challenge and inspire.  Never stop living big, living loud, no matter what anybody tells you.  Close your ears to the haters, and listen to your heart.

And one day, the world will wake up to find its shackles broken open on the ground.

So paint with your fingers, howl at the moon, dance with the stars, spin till you fall over in a laughing, breathless heap. Wear your hats backwards, rip holes in your jeans.  Get dirty, roll in the grass, pick flowers, pieces of multicolored velvet sky.  Grow your hair long, cut it short.  Breathe deep, or dive even deeper.  Kiss often, and hug even more.  Smile most.  Laugh always.  Wear bright colors.  Go barefoot.  Count clouds instead of sheep.  Confound it all, skip sleep altogether.  Watch a sunrise and sunset in the same day, and be just as awed by every one you see.  Never underestimate the power of letting go and riding every opportunity to shore.  Freedom and happiness can be found on every star, adorning every wildflower, tucked away in each seashell, and hiding in each clasped hand.  But most importantly, you’ll find them within yourself.

Be bold, be brave, be true.  And you’ll be more You than anyone else.

Be impulsive, not rational.  Feel, not think.  Believe, not doubt.  No matter the circumstance.  And you will get through, and shine all the brighter for it.  Love others, love God, love life, love adrenaline and adventures and spontaneity and unexpected good times–and you will be all the better for it.

It’s your new world.  It’s all yours.  A little scared, you say?  Good.  Now go live it.

Right now.

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Recombobulation of Love

When I was at the airport a week ago, I was reminded how disorienting security checks can be. Take shoes off, pull jacket off, empty pockets, remove computer,  dump backpack, raise hands, lower hands, hold breath as the x-ray machine scans, answer police with yes ma’am and yes sir, pick up backpack, insert computer, refill pockets, don jacket, yank on shoes.  It’s enough to make a girl dizzy.  And by the end, I sometimes don’t know what to feel.

Figuring out crushes is kind of like that.

I didn’t have my first real crush until I was seventeen.  A little late, I know.  It didn’t truly last, but now my brain is catching up with the reality of the huge switch that’s been flipped.  My mind is still a bit shocked at this new fact…

that boys are cute.

Yeah, I’m a little behind schedule.  I’ve realized this over the past few months, and I decided to make a list to help reorient myself as I figure out what all this means for me.  Almost like the humorously entitled “Recombobulation Area” in the airport… a place to gather my wits, figure out how I feel, and get my feet back under me.  A place to begin directing my thoughts toward the future and embrace this new season.

Here goes nothing…

  1. I do want a relationship… and eventually marriage.  Dating will never be recreational, but instead always have a purpose, linked to marriage in distant possibility at least.
  2. There’s a difference between thinking someone is cute and having a crush.  The first is just a fact, but the latter is something more real.  A crush is also based on someone’s personality and character, not just looks.
  3. Kissing always sounds “bleh” (aka disgusting)… but that’s okay.  Kissing will come with actually falling in love.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  The day I hold hands with someone will be a huge step–and truthfully, I like it that way.
  4. Dates are not as confusing or scary as they sound.  Two people hang out on their own, and the guy usually pays for things, but that’s it.  Nothing to shy away from.
  5. Chivalry is okay.  Actually, better than okay.  I have emerged from my hard core tomboy stage realizing that if a man holds a door open for me, it’s not an insult… it’s a complement.  It’s not that I can’t do it on my own; he just wants to do it for me.
  6. Wanting to spend lots of time with someone and enjoying his company is a better sign of interest than how high he rates on the cuteness scale.
  7. I don’t feel the need to be as strong or as athletic or as tough as a guy I truly like; the ones I strive to impress in that way, I see as brothers.  Someone I can be my true, goofy, Ashley self around… that’s different.
  8. Marriage means life forever with your best friend with something else thrown in… I think it’s called romance.  A ring is freedom, not a restraint.
  9. The four criteria for dating material: a) He must be a true Christian. b) I feel completely safe around him. c) Attractive not only physically but in personality and character. d) I enjoy just spending time with him.
  10. He will talk about God with me and will not be afraid to be deep and real in conversation.  He will appreciate my passions and value them even if they’re not his thing.  He will enjoy my quirks.  He will love me for being me.
  11. I’m not a girly girl, but I do like flowers.  Stars and campfires seem much more romantic than a fancy restaurant and expensive clothes.  The smell of wood smoke is better than that of perfume.  Candles are good.  Jeans and flannel shirts are comfortable and attractive.  And I do love to dance.  He will be the only one I’ll willingly wear a dress for, and he’ll understand the significance of this as soon as he talks to my mother.
  12. He will see me as equal but special.  He will understand the power in a simple touch or a smile.  He will help me get over my phobia of phone calls, simply because I’ll love to hear his voice.  He’ll call me by my nickname, without being asked.  He will have a goofy, wild streak.  He will understand the power of adventure and spontaneity and the untouched, open places.  He will know when to rough around yet how to always be gentle.  He will know how to enjoy the comfortable silence between two open, happy souls.
  13. I’m going to get scared.  I’m going to be that blindsided, deer-in-the-headlights kind of girl when asked on my first date.  If I accept that now, it’ll be easier when it happens.  I must never shy away from an opportunity because I’m scared, yet I must never do something stupid because I’m scared to miss something good.  I’ll be a little slow, but that’s okay.  Scary and exciting often go hand in hand.
  14. How he interacts with those who can give him nothing in return will say more than how he interacts with those who already love him.  How he interacts with children and his elders will say more than how he acts around those his own age.
  15. I love you will be the most powerful words for us–never common, never trivial, never misused.  His love should not be unlike the love of 1 Corinthians 13.
  16. He will make me laugh, make me smile, make me be silly, make me sing louder, make me dance faster, make me try harder, make me see more beauty, make me live fuller.  Make me more than I am apart from him.  We will be better together than apart…

And it will be good.

I think… I think… I think that’s called love.

 

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Playing Favorites

These are a few of my favorite things…

mowed grass between my toes

cold, thick custard on a hot day

new friends, new hugs, new laughs

singing songs loud and bold in the car with the windows down on a winding road

pastel fire sunsets over a rocky mirrored river

spires of a new city poking the sky with the trees

buttery noodles and a tall lemonade

a new world, a new story, pirate gold, unlikely friends, and unexpected humor–aye aye, ahoy matey, and land ho to you all

two AM talks with a sister in Christ

fun teacups and salsa to end the night

I guess playing favorites is okay, after all.

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Run: Update and Snippet

Yesterday I completed the first draft of my contemporary young adult novella, Run!  Below is a short sneak peek:

 

Pain.  Light.  Garbled noise.  Warm wetness seeping down my arm.  Gritty asphalt under my palms, my cheek.  Drifting between heady black and greyish white.

Footsteps.  Footsteps on my right.

“Brandon, get over here.”  The footsteps stop.  A presence crouches near me.  A whisper of breath on my hand, my face.  “Hey.”  The voice is soft.  “Hey, can you hear me?”  I force my eyes open, barely.  Crimson trails stain my limp fingers.  I bring the blurred face above into focus.  My mind, emotionless, collects details.  A boy.  Teenage.  Long, spiky blond hair.  Concerned brown eyes.  A hand, reaching…

Reaching?

My heartbeat flies.  My shallow breathing comes faster.  Memories flashing by.  Pain.  Screams.  Dark.  Hurt.  Trapped.  Pain.

His feather-light touch burns me, and I jerk back.  A growl builds in the back of my throat.  I strain to push myself up with energy I didn’t know I had, but fall back, having moved only a centimeter or two.

The boy has pulled back his hand.  “Hey, whoa there, sorry.  It’s okay, you’ll be fine.  I’m a friend, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Boots clomp to my left and stop near my shoulder.  My whole body tenses involuntarily.  My breath rasps, panicked, in my throat.

“My gosh.”  A deeper voice, distinctly male.  I feel a hand on my left wrist and jerk violently, crying out in fear and pain.  I can’t think, I can’t breathe…

The boy half rises.  “Back off, give her space.  She’s scared.”

Understatement.  Terrified, I’m terrified.

He bends close, purposefully making eye contact.  His eyes are gentle.  Pleading.  “Let me help.”

I don’t respond, I can barely comprehend his words… I’m kind of floating, floating, like I’m drifting off to sleep.  Help?  Why do I need help…  Sharp pain lances through my arm, and I cry out.  The sharpness brings focus.

“Please,” he’s saying.  “Let us help.”  He reaches out to me again, but pauses, his fingers hovering over mine.

I close the distance.  “Okay,” I say.

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Wonder

There’s an essence that is one of the most precious in the universe.

An element that’s becoming increasingly rare.

A fleeting bit of childhood that slips through adult fingers almost without fail.

A shining bit of quicksilver undervalued and dismissed although it glints precious, almost extinct, right at your fingertips.

What is this treasure, you may ask?

Wonder.

Yes, wonder–that thing that you were born with and have somehow lost along the way.  That thing that sly time and this overrated experience called “growing up” have begun to strip from you.

And I’m telling you, no, begging you–hold on for dear life.  Yes, for your very life, reader–for life is much, much dimmer and dingier without wonder.

If you want to see what you once were, look at a child.  Really look.  Listen.  Feel.  Learn to recognize that thing that lights up their eyes when they gently cup the velvet petals of a white and yellow wildflower in their small fingers.  That thing that bubbles up in their laugh when they fly through the air on a tree swing, eyes closed, arms outstretched to embrace the breeze.  That thing that inhabits their voice when they bury their nose in the new spring grass and say, “It smells green,” or when they reach their hands up to the sky as if their fingers could graze the white, fluffy clouds and say, “They’re so soft.”

Next time you watch a child, don’t dismiss their antics as “childishness.”  Instead try to see the world through their eyes. Become like a child again.  Try to rediscover…

The story in a strain of wordless music.  The way a book can make your heart beat faster.  How a picture can take your breath away.  The excitement and eagerness and the dash of danger that floods you when you stand beneath the ocean waves.  The wildness that overtakes you when you sprint, barefoot, along the deserted shore.  The way the soaring of a hawk can lift your heart with it.  The way the feel of grass under your bare feet or the wriggle of a newly unearthed worm can make you giggle.  How a hug can be the safest place in the world.  How joy can be a whole-body experience, not just a thought.  How wonder can imbue your life with color again.

Take nothing for granted.  Seek out every little beauty, for there is beauty in everything.  Wonder is hidden in plentiful pockets and caches for the open-hearted treasure hunter, if we will only seek.  And this lifelong search just keeps on giving.

Will you become a seeker?

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Not a Tame Lion

We do this–put him in a box.

A safe box.  An ordinary box.  A decidedly normal, smiley, unmessy, unradical box.

So when we hear about miracles, healings, spurts of uncontained joy and the roaring of the Spirit–somehow we manage to cover our ears and say, “It can’t be real.”

Not only is it too good to be true, it’s too scary to be true.

We don’t want action to be required of us.  We want to stay comfortable and safe in our sane if a bit dull little worlds. Sitting in nice houses with nice jobs and nice friends and nice hobbies.  And yes, these are all good things.

But not at the expense of ignoring the call.

You know, the call.  The call of the Lion.  That great roaring, that’s decidedly not safe, but also undeniably thrilling, wild, and good.  The rebel in each of us is drawn to that echoing, commanding, immediate call.  It’s the same drawing that we all feel when listening to tales of intrepid explorers facing imminent danger and insurmountable odds, ignoring the naysayers and the danger signs, fighting through the evil until they attain the unimaginable… the uncharted mountain summit.  We hear the tales of their struggles and follow their progress, trying to appear not too eager, but inwardly our heart sings when we hear their victory shouts at the peak, standing with arms spread among the wheeling of the eagles.

We feel this.  This defiance.  This urge to set off on adventure of the mind and body and soul and suffer a bit and push through and do great, never-done-before things.  This is what the call awakens in us… and once fully realized, it can never be unheard, never quieted.

No one can ignore a Lion roaring in his face for long.

Unless, of course, he is deaf–made deaf by his own luxuries and fears and expectations.  By the world’s acceptance and even endorsement of small hearts and little love.

So unstop your ears, sleeper.  Take up your belongings tied in a bandanna on a stick, dreamer.  Lace up your sturdy shoes, adventurer.  For this will be the greatest adventure of your life.

Follow the Lion.  For he his wild.  He is dangerous.  He is powerful.  He is defiant.  He is radical.  And he is free.

And so are you.

“‘Aslan is a lion- the Lion, the great Lion.’ ‘Ooh!’ said Susan, ‘I’d thought he was a man. Is he-quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion’…’Safe?’ said Mr. Beaver; ‘don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.'” -C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

“‘He’s wild, you know. Not like a tame lion.'” -C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

“I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

“Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” Matthew 28:19-20

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Girl, without the Y

When I was younger, I hated the fact I wasn’t born a boy.

I hated having to smell nice, look nice, act nice.  I wanted the oft’ wryly said phrase “boys will be boys” to apply to me.  I wanted to live “free and in the wild,” as I told my parents.  To own a horse in my backyard.  For ages I firmly believed I didn’t want a husband, ’til one day I declared I had changed my mind–he would be useful for shoveling horse poo.

Although my opinions about being a girl have slightly changed (I do want to marry, and not just to acquire a stable boy), there are still many things about being a girl that bug me to no end.  Crossing my legs the feminine way.  Wearing skirts that force me to shorten my steps.  Shaving–completely unnecessary in my opinion.  The inability to wrestle with the guys.  The shortage of girls that don’t mind blood and sweat and dirt and good hard work and adventures and wild places experienced fully and up close.

But as I’ve grown older, I’ve realized one thing…

My version of femininity is up to me and God.

I can be a girl without the “y”… being “girly” does not have to be part and parcel of being a female.

So this… this is what has risen up in the soul of me and trumpeted itself clear and I will not disobey its call.

I will go barefoot as much as possible.  Run in the rain.  Laugh loud and hearty.  Splash in puddles.  Play in the mud.  I will wrestle when I can.  Play stupid pain games with the boys.  Be more comfortable with proving myself physically than in petty social games.   Ooh and ahh over fuzzy green moss rather than flowers.  I can shout loud and try hard and grunt and strain with the best of them.  I can climb tall cliffs and swim in freezing lakes and splash up forest streams without a care.   I can get psyched at the growing callouses on my hands and feet.  Take pictures of flappers and blood blisters, battle wounds.  Be proud of every single one of my scars, and know the stories that I carry with them.  I can love big, and love hard, and love unreservedly.  I can prefer bear hugs over side hugs.  I can choose jeans and flip flops over dresses and jewelry.  I can love bright colors over pastels and lace.  I can feel most comfortable in a tank-top, flannel, and hiking boots.  I will prefer to eat my food simple and outside and end the days with campfires.  I can smell like wood smoke and good ol’ hard work.  I can howl at the moon when I feel like it, star spin when I feel like it, pick my crazy friends how I feel like it.  Love like my heart’s leading me, laugh as joy explodes with in me, be free and wild when the urges overtake me.  I can be impulsive.  I can be silly.  I can be adventurous.  I can be me.

Me, Ashley Elizabeth Wilda.  Or just Ash, what my closest friends call me.

A woman.  A girl.

Not girl-y… no, just a girl.

But still me.

And I like myself better for it.

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Missing You

You know–that core inside.

That place in your chest, beyond the bone, beyond the muscle, a place you just can’t physically reach.  You.  Your soul, I guess.

The place you feel things.

Deep things.

Inescapable things.

You know, that place inside that just. plain. hurts.

When I’m going about my day, and something’s just all wrong, and I’m grumpy and snappy and just feeling sick and dead inside and in a word just “meh” and “bleh” and I can’t for the life of me figure out why–

I remember.

You.

When something just feels dead inside.  Hollow full of aching.  Grey.  Hard flaking.  Lonely.

And then I remember saying goodbye, and hugging harder and longer than normal, and fighting the tears I didn’t expect to come.  I thought I wasn’t going to fall apart.  I was dead wrong.  I completely lost it.  I watched your cute blue car drive away and just lost it.  And then did it again.  And again.  And again.  A few minutes later.  An hour later.  A day later.

My heart just dang hurts.

I do stupid things like wear your necklace around and finger the scrap of paper on which you gave me your email address when we met those four years ago.  Has it really been that long?  I remember all the things we did and all the things we wanted to do and I wanted to say and we never did.

I remember things.  Your sunscreeny, sunshine-on-skin smell.  The braided permanent bracelet you always wore for four long years and your wrist just looks naked and wrong without it.  Your double chaco tan.  The way we wrote letters, real letters, while you were at camp, giddy with the unexpected, explosive joy of fourteen year old bff love.  The blue and yellow friendship bracelet you sent me that summer.  How I can’t help but stop singing for a moment in church, just to hear your voice.  The times spent splashing in the creek.  That one afternoon I sprayed you in the face with the hose.  How you can’t eat fried chicken without having a minor, greasy-fingered panic attack.

It’s these moments.  I’m holding on.  To them.  To you.  Holding on tight.  Forever.  That’s a promise–you better believe it.

I keep reminding myself–it’s just college.  Nothing’s going to change, you told me yourself.  And I believe you.  I really, truly do.  But it still hurts.

I can’t talk to anyone like that but you.  Can’t do stupid things with anyone like that but you.  Can’t completely be myself like that with anyone but you.  You do more than not judge me.  More than be like that with me, like the twin of my soul.  You love me.

And I love you.

And just as I’m beginning to handle one missing, begin to stop dreaming ceaseless dreamings of odd, earthy adventures and best-in-the-world bear hugs, begin to stop obsessing over silly phrases and weird ways to tie knots–just when I stop randomly crying all the time for no reason at all and diagnosing myself via the internet…

then you leave.

I had forgotten that you had to leave.

I still forget that you have left.

And even though you’re technically still in the city for a scant two more days, our goodbyes have been said.

And although I know that with us, it’s never really goodbye, that the late night talks and unstoppable giggles and sisterly hugs can only be numbered with infinities…

I wish we could just dance in the rain together, forever.

“If ever there is tomorrow when we’re not together… there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart… I’ll always be with you.”

-Winnie the Pooh