I was a bridesmaid more than once, I am a gatekeeper always

It's a quiet Sunday morning here in my little house. There are white hydrangeas on my table, a growing sunlight in the window, and warm coffee in my clover pot. I read Mark 13 this morning. I liked the end best, when Jesus spoke of how we are watchmen, servants, and gatekeepers, and we are awaiting his arrival home, but unsure of the hour or the day. There is so much truth in that, so much anticipation and edge of the seat-ness. So much impatience.

I was discouraged the other morning. I had been at home alone for a little less than a week, and much like today, I was up in the early hours and at my kitchen table. There was the sun, tea steeping beside me, a branch of eucalyptus on the breakfast tray. I was painting and waking up. I was also half-heartedly scrolling through my friends' lives. Sometimes I do that in the morning, just to make sure they're okay, just to see if I can pray for anyone, just to know what they've been doing and where they are.
Many of them are still donning on the white dresses and getting on their knees with a ring in their pocket. They are walking down the aisle and standing underneath huge floral arches. Others are past that now. They have swollen bellies and tiny babies and piles of wooden blocks all over the floors of their new homes. They are creating families and memories and growing, growing, growing.
And the thought has arrived to me again.
This is only the beginning.

I know it is, because I have heard the stories. I know other women. They talk about how they have been a bridesmaid at least fourteen times and they laugh as they say that there are still weddings every summer. And I laugh with them, but inside I begin to panic, because when I go home and look at my two dresses hanging on my wall or the bouquets on my desk and bookshelf, I think, I can't keep doing this. There's no way. I'll break in half. I imagine adding twelve more dresses of chiffon and lace to my closet and suddenly I can't see straight anymore. You can only hang and dry-out so many posies before you become overwhelmed. Before you need to give up.
I am full of love and joy for the people close to me who decide to become one with each other. I'm brimming with it. But it's not endless, it's not a boundless love. It took me so long to say that, let alone accept it, because I thought people would hate me once they knew. But it's the truth, and sometimes I am ashamed of it, and rightfully so. I'm not a machine, but I am also a flawed human. I get tired of being happy for everyone all of the time. I grow impatient with my own state of being. Jealousy creeps in, ugly little thoughts rear their heads. Why not me? I often find myself thinking. What am I doing wrong?
I hate days like that, when my desperation becomes so evident that it chokes me and I feel dirty. Days when I throw my hands in the air and stop being the gatekeeper. I go into the house and tell all the servants we've been stupid, the Master has no idea what He's doing and He's not coming back. And I try to take control. I leave the gate unattended in the throes of my impatient anger, my blood thrumming hot in my ears and cheeks, sure that I am right in this.
Certain that He has left me.
Certain that I have to do it all myself now.

I'm really good at not waiting for things. I'm also really good at lying to myself. I'm trying to change that though. I'm trying to get over myself, to stand at my post, to live patience constantly.
It's difficult.
I find though, that in those desperate moments, I am only thinking of myself. And while I don't have the ambition to be unceasingly happy, I don't want to be selfish either. So I have this faith that this is the year Christ will release me of that burden. And I already know how He will do that, I just have to accept it, be consumed by it, become smaller because of it.
Every woman who is single should reach a point when she realizes that while having a husband would be nice, she doesn't necessarily need one. She can still serve the Savior without a man. She can still help people without a man. She can still live life abundantly without a man. Knowing that, presents a sad restlessness in her heart, but knowing that, will also make her better.
I want a husband.
I don't need a husband though.
Potential is not fulfilled by a person of the opposite sex. It's fulfilled by enrapturement and complete devotion to Christ. No matter how many dresses I hang in my closet and on my wall, I am supposed to press on towards the mark. No matter how many bouquets I dry, I am supposed to keep climbing. No matter who is with who while I am with no one, I am supposed to remain at the gate. If I only hold my nieces and nephews and my friends' children in my arms, I am supposed to be satisfied. I want you to know, that last one kills me. It really does.
To stop being selfish requires thinking of yourself less, learning humility. A man on instagram wrote this morning,
"I've found the more I try to not let the people around me feel lonely, the less I feel it myself. Or to say it another way, the more I love the people around me in a way that isn't about me, the more I feel full and healthy."
That resonates with me. Because although it is okay and somewhat justifiable for me to get tired of being happy for everyone who has what I don't, it's not very Christlike. And what I want the most out of this life is to be like Christ. To be His only.

I am making it a point to feel less discouragement and less jealousy, and to throw myself wholly into friendships and family. I want to foster growth in people. To give them a beautiful space where they feel safe and warm, somewhere they want to be. I want to offer more of myself to things that are important: causes, charities, movements, words, fellowship. I want to encourage people more. I want to be a shoulder, a strong back, a helper, a guide. I want to be interested in people, to hear their stories and listen to their voices. I want to be passionate. I want to change things. I want to do things. I want to make things.
I want the pile of knitted baby blankets in my bedroom to grow, and then I want to give them away, one by one. And I want to be glad as I do it.
This message isn't just for me though. It's not just for single women, or even just for single people for that matter. Because I know some of you have mistakenly believed that it would all be different once you're married, it would all be different once you've started a family, but now that you've done that and it's still the same, you don't know where to go. These words are for you too, and here is where you should go.
To Him.
Sell out for Christ. Everything you are and everything you have should begin to shrink as you do this. You will find yourself simpler, your life tinier, and you will be thankful for it because it means that you can serve Him better, with more heart. It's not easy, I know. There will be a day when I hang a third dress up, and I'll probably cry. There will be a week when I give more than one blanket away, and I will sob. But I will stay at the gate. I have faith in Him and I trust in Him.
I know that He is coming home to me.
So gain perspective on this with me. Jesus is important. People are important. And the fewer moments we dwell on ourselves, the more time we can give to those who need it and are worthy of it. To wallow in self-pity is not only unattractive, but it's also addicting and infectious. It will rub off on those around you, I promise you that. And personally, I would rather create a world of humble, kind, heart-givers who are servants of the Carpenter and constantly on the lookout for those in need, than a world of fist-shakers who look to themselves only. Broaden your gaze, light your lamps, and do things that are important, for He is coming back and we must needs be ready. I don't want to be caught inside the house, pining at my table for someone I'm not even sure of when He arrives home. I want my banners ready, strung up above the door and shivering in the cool breeze. I want my gaze fixed out towards the path, and I want to quiver with excitement when I first see Him approaching. I want to run to Him, dashing through the field because that way is shorter, my voice echoing back to the servants as I announce His arrival, and I want Him to catch me in His arms and swing me around as we laugh.

This is a turning point for me, this year. I'm standing on the cusp of making important decisions again, and I am determined to make them bright and worthwhile. I don't want to live desperately anymore. I don't want to live impatiently anymore. I want to be beautiful and smart and kind, but most importantly, I want to be a grace-giver and grace-bringer. I want to demonstrate and illustrate Jesus in a manner that is anchored and certain and authentic. I want to live out my own words. For you see, I was journaling the other morning, and I wrote about how I wasn't overlooked, but undiscovered. And I needn't sit still any longer, but go climb mountains and build bridges, because that's where the sort of man I want is, climbing mountains and building bridges. Part of being a gatekeeper is trusting that the Master knows what is best and has prepared a path for you. That's why you still look for Him daily, you hope in Him entirely.
And so I have to go.
I have to climb mountains.
I have to build bridges.

I am daring to shake off my impatience and discontentment this year. Are you willing to as well?

The words from the man on instagram are those of Ian Pratt. He is wiser than I think he knows, so go check him out. It is important to note as well that I feel that wanting a husband while you are a single woman is healthy and Christ-driven. Here are my thoughts on that. 
Also, Trader Joe's is currently stocked with ranunculus and hydrangeas. Go. Go now. 

A book of flowers

Apparently, I am frustrated. I swear that I'm trying really hard not to be. But still. I noticed it last night as I laid on my bedroom floor and painted abstract florals and a few valentines. My hands had been shaking, but they stopped halfway through, and I noticed my shoulders loosening and a load falling off.
This quarter has been a very difficult one.
In a way, I feel like I'm only making it through because of John Keats and C. S. Lewis and tea. Literally, I make enough tea to share with a table-full of people every morning, and I drink it. All by myself. Because no one (aside from the lovely A) is here and no one has come here.

I miss my family.

I think you should all know, there is a context to this. As I expressed above, this term is a beast. I have yet to find any work. I've been comparing myself far too much again. They cut a bunch of programs at my school. Doubt is my constant companion. And thus far this year — but really, it's only February — I have had four sets of friends get engaged.

I really miss my family.

I was remembering last night, whilst mixing up some pale pink and peach because I don't have those colors of gouache. I remembered that when I was really little, my mom used to wash my hair over the stainless steel sink in our kitchen. Light and suds would spill everywhere, and the water was always just warm enough. Then she would trim my split ends and we would scatter them off the porch in the backyard for the birds to use in their nests. 
I had forgotten about that.

The truth is, I want a family. That has become painfully obvious to me. My heart has been thrumming full of the reasons I chose to go to school in the first place, and honestly? Many of them had to do with my children. How I wanted my children to be able to come to me ask me about the color of Neptune and how to use a microscope and what Shakespeare really meant, and I would have some of those answers for them. I have always wanted that for them.
But a family is not an option right now. That is not on my horizon. As far as I can tell, there's not even any broad shoulders and strong forearms reaching for me yet. Nothing, no one, not at all. I just stand alone in my kitchen and make butter and chocolate cake and read about Christopher Robin and listen to La Traviata on repeat and wonder about what to do after next year.

And so, I miss my family.

I really want to go home. I thought I would before spring break, but now the roads are an utter mess, and there's really no chance of that happening. Now I'll just have to bide my time and paint more small illustrations and prints. Now I will have to be alone for awhile longer.
I am actually learning to appreciate that, being alone. I know it doesn't seem like it, but I am.
There is something sacred and gorgeous about knowing yourself so well from your experiences of solitude and quiet breathing.
I have had many of those as of late. And so many magical memories that have been keeping me awake.

I started a book. It is full of good, lovely things I will do with my daughters and sons. Maybe you will read it someday. Or maybe you will see it.
I have hope for the latter one.

Okay.

I got really upset with myself the other day. Just simply destitute in my soul about still being here and not going places and unsatisfied with who I am and how much work I'm doing and wanting to change, grow, love, and discover, but not knowing how to. I got mad.
I got really, really mad.

I am a fickle woman. I love the mountains I climb. Other days I hate them. I always preach, to myself and others, the importance of reflection and joy and searching and now.
The importance of being here, now.
It's hard to always be present. I'm learning that lately. It is hard to always be present. 
Sometimes you don't want to wake up. Sometimes you don't want to finish. Sometimes you can't see the top of your mountain because you're in a forest. Sometimes you want to quit. Sometimes you want to run away. Sometimes you forget. You forget the point of everything you're doing. Or you even forget to forgive yourself. Sometimes you have no hope. Sometimes you're jealous. Sometimes you are done, just done. Sometimes you have to move on. And sometimes you're not there, sometimes you're not present.
I used to ride my bicycle to a job I hated and never believed in. I would wake up at six every morning that summer and take off down the road with tired eyes and I would say a few words to myself as I pedaled. I am doing this for India, I would tell myself that. And then I would go down the list. I am doing this for India. For France. For Romania. For Africa. For Italy. For children. 
I am doing this for children. 
I don't always remember to wake up and tell myself those things now. After I quit that job, I just stopped. So now it's harder. For some reason, it's not the same when I have to say those things as I roll out of bed instead of ride down my hill. There was a shift in meaning. The volume of those words is different now.
I think it's heavier.

I am so close. So close to finishing things I started long ago. So close to the children.
It's hard work, being here, all the time. Being present. Existing.
God is good though. He lightens my burdens with black coffee and baby chicks and nice paints. He knows me. He understands. He understands that I am not always present, and that's okay.

It is okay to be mad some days.
It is okay. 

Little French Dream.

Dear Fleur.
So there's, ummm, french toast in the kitchen. Do you know what that means? No, you don't.
IT MEANS THAT TODAY WILL BE RAD.
And I don't even usually use the word "rad."

I'll be cracking out the sewing machine this morning.
My fingers are already covered in ink.
My hair still smells like peppermint.
I heard mention of a French Press&coffee...s'il vous plait Ria?
A girl is sitting on the sofa behind me playing an out-of-tune child's guitar. Darling.
There's one of the sweetest books in the world on my bed.
And there is that little stash of pink paper hearts calling my name.

The one word for this day:
Madeline.
I've kind of been obsessed with her. My life dream is to write something as amazing as Ludwig Bemelmans did. That would be so...rad.

Love from Bella.