Exhausting

Chilling with Aiden, the little boy I nanny. :)

Does anybody else ever feel like their life is moving too quickly and yet they don't know what they're meant to do next? I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. In fact, it's a pretty common feeling, from what I can tell. I think it's especially apparent in the transition from graduating high school to encountering the rest of your life.

Right now, I'm working at a video store, taking a semester off from school, and living by myself in my parents' home while they're living overseas. I'm trying to figure out what my next move is going to be while saving up money and trying not to freak out over the fact that I don't have any substantial plans yet.

I mean, even a few days ago I was worrying over the fact that nearly all my coworkers at the video store work two jobs and thinking that maybe I needed to get another one when I realized I already have one working as a nanny (at least, that's if he starts calling me in more often--which it looks like he will).

*Sigh* It's like I know what my major goals are. I have a good idea of where I want to go. It's just the periods in between that stare back at me like a blank page just begging to be written on, but writer's block keeps holding me back.

I have plenty of stuff to take care of in the meantime. Lately, I feel like I've just been running from one thing to the next with barely enough time to keep up with everything that's important to me. It's just exhausting worrying about what my next step is going to be while trying to take care of everything else that needs to get done.

What I really need to do is put more trust in God and his ability to lead me through this and make sure I end up where I need to be. But honestly, that's easier said than done. Still, it can't hurt to start now.

I guess I just wanted to get that off my chest. I know I can deal with this and everything will fall into place in it's time. Sometimes I just have to remind myself of the fact that He makes all things work together for my good.

I can do this. I can make it through. I can accomplish my dreams.

I Might Just Be Mental

Sometimes I feel like my laptop is a sentient being.

When I'm reading a particularly good book or have an idea that keeps turning itself over in my head, this little MacBook Air of mine seems to loom bigger and bigger in my mind as if it's calling out to me.

"Write!" it pesters incessantly. "Why aren't you writing? Aren't you the one who calls yourself an aspiring author?"

Of course I want to write. The problem is multifaceted and cumulates in a lack of focus and far too many ideas ricocheting off the boundaries of my mind. Nothing's cohesive. I know where I want to go with some stories and the premise of others, but it's like the moment I've got that going for me, by brain freezes up and my fingers seize.

My laptop scoffs. "Maybe you should just give up," it jeers. "Everyone else is better at this than you. They've all at least finished a rough draft of their manuscripts. You just keep getting stuck after the first ten chapters then ditching it and it's cluttering up my files."

I sneer and go back to reading or watching YouTube, doing my best to ignore its nagging. I have to figure out how I want the opening to work. I have to hash out the story first. I can't write down some half-baked idea and call it a manuscript.

"That's what editing's for, dimwit. It doesn't have to be perfect the first time around."

But I want it to be perfect the first time around! I want it to be the potential I see it having. And I have other things to do. This isn't my entire life after all.

"Isn't it what you want your entire life to be? Writing? Publishing books?"

Shut up! I'm doing the best I can. I'm reading like a maniac over here, trying to learn as much as I can through what others have done. As John Green would say, it's the best apprenticeship I've got.

"You just ended that sentence with 'I've got'."

I groan. That's besides the point. The point is that I'm learning right now. You can't expect me to do everything at once.

"Practice makes perfect. You can set a little time aside at the very least. What was that quote you used to be so fond of? Oh yeah, 'The way you define yourself as a writer is that you write every time you have a free minute. If you didn't behave that way you would never do anything.' -John Irving. Or 'Learn as much by writing as by reading.' -Lord Acton. Or even that one from Ray Bradbury, that author you look up to so much, 'Quantity produces quality. If you only write a few things, you're doomed.' I win."

Not fair! You can't just bombard me with quotes I like and win the argument just like that. Okay, maybe you've got a point. *sigh* Fine, I'll get to writing already. I'm not saying I'm gonna type up a novel in the next week, but I promise I'll stop procrastinating somewhat and at least write for an hour or two every day. Scout's honor.

"You weren't a girl scout. They didn't let you in the troop because the lead mom hated you, remember?"

Enough with the low blows already. You already won.

Just let me finish one more chapter of Suite Scarlett first. Things are getting intense right now . . .

Fun Stuff

She needed to wrap her "burn" too. 

So I almost used a picture of my nasty burn as the picture for this post. You're lucky I didn't. I just figured it had already nauseated enough people already. It looks much worse now than it did in the "day of" picture. You're welcome. You got an adorable picture of my niece instead.

For those of you who aren't up to date on my medical issues, I recently sustained major second degree burns on my thighs due to a Starbucks Venti Chamomile Tea landing in my lap. Fun stuff, right?

Anyway, I ended up going to hospital that day to get it treated. They prescribed a cream to fight off infection and hydrocodone (which I didn't take . . . I don't cope well with things that make me loopy).

On Tuesday, I went to the dermatologist to have them check up on it and they gave me more of the cream, along with some antibiotics. I have to go back on Friday to get a steroid cream that ought to prevent scarring.

So I've basically been bedridden since Sunday, since the location of the burn makes it difficult to walk. I'm thinking I'll be able to walk around a bit more tomorrow, though, which is good because I have stuff I desperately need to take care of (aka. fixing my haircut, turning in library books, going to appointments, etc.). In the meantime, I've been chilling on the couch in the living room and sleeping in my parents' bed (remember, they're in France), which is closest to me and also downstairs.

Also, guess who called Monday? A possible employer that wanted to set up an interview. *facepalm* This would happen the day after I wound myself. Thankfully, when I explained my situation, they said they could call back next week and schedule one then. Success! Prayers for getting this job would be much appreciated. I'm sick of the job hunt.

Back to the wound, I have relatively high pain tolerance in general, so it wasn't entirely unbearable. The worst part of the whole ordeal, pain-wise, was when I had to wash the wound Tuesday night. That was excruciating and, looking back, I should have made an exception to my "no hydrocodone" rule for that one. Only cried three times this week overall, though. I'm kind of a boss.

My little brother has been taking care of me all week, which is quite a task for anyone. He makes me food, brings me the things I need, and even gets clean clothes (including the dreaded underwear) for me when I clean my wound/take a bath, because my room is upstairs and that's currently out of the question. Chull is the best.

Starbucks, by the way, has contacted me recently and filed an incident report, since my injury was partially caused by a lack of following procedure. This means that I can send in the out-of-pocket expenses that I accumulated through this injury and they will review it and possible compensate me for it. Also, as an act of goodwill, they're sending me a gift card in the mail soon. So, thank you Starbucks! No hard feelings over here, but I'll definitely be sticking to cold drinks for a while.

Anyway, that's all for my little life update. Thanks for everyone who has taken care of me, asked about me, and prayed for me. Y'all are amazing!

Father's Day

Happy Father's Day, Pa!

Had to go to the hospital for second degree tea burns I sustained at Starbucks this morning.
Fun stuff.  (Yes, I'm blonde now.)

Had my grandma and good friend over to spoil me with a hot fudge sundae.
:)

As you can see, Father's Day has been particularly interesting. But hey, at least it was memorable. Haha.

I love you, Pa. And it's a good thing I'm your favorite. ;)

Motivation and Reflection

I've just finished cleaning my desk in the hopes of spurring on my creativity by being organized. I feel like I've been slacking in my writing for the past couple of weeks, churning out my work just before my self-imposed deadlines (which I only end up enforcing because others are waiting for that work) and dragging my feet when it's time for me to write. I'm hoping that I can jumpstart my "writing juices" by getting myself to learn to sit down and focus more often than I normally do.
Thus the cleaning off of my desk.

It seems I get both reflective and motivated at night. Motivated in the sense that I do some of my best writing at night, probably get the most cleaning done (like my desk), and generally strive to create goals for myself or seek how I can do things differently, therefore improving my way of life. I become reflective in the sense that I start analyzing the things that are going on in my life, which inevitably ends up making me emotional because I tend to focus on the negative things. It was in that mood and state of being that Growing Up, my last blog post, was written.

This is where I find myself right now. I'm thinking up goals for myself and planning out art projects I'd like to complete quite soon. I'm mourning the impending and likely inevitable loss of a friendship while stressing over the job interview I had today.

I suppose I get restless when I'm up late and this causes my mind to slingshot through emotions and such. It's a bit irritating, but I learn a great deal about myself during these late night forays into the depths of my own mind. Sometimes I'm not sure if this is something to be desired or cautiously avoided. There are times when it hurts to mess with old wounds or try to clean up new ones, but if we don't examine those wounds, we can't clean them and ultimately stimulate healing. It's a frustrating chain of events. I'm the sort that likes to coddle my emotional wounds and bottle them up until they become unhealthy and begin to fester. Let's just say I'm not great with emotions.

It's probably quite obvious that I'm writing this late at night and I wonder if it will even be coherent to all of you. Oh well. Maybe that just means I need to start getting some sleep and cut down on the "exploration of my inner self." It's rather uncomfortable, after all.

Then again, some of the most beautiful things emerge from discomfort.

Growing Up

My brother. Yes, that's a half-chewed grape in his mouth.

Growing up is a terrifying ordeal.

I guess I'd better specify exactly what it is I mean by "growing up." When I refer to growing up, I am basically referring to the age group consisting of seventeen to twenty-two year olds (and possibly older). This is a time in nearly everyone's life where they are trying to figure out exactly what they want to get out of life and how they are meant to make that happen.

This sentiment -- this feeling of terror in the face of the unknown -- is one that many are familiar with. Still, the realization that others are dealing with they exact same questions you are trying to tackle somehow doesn't make you feel much better. This is likely because we all realize that these aren't questions that anyone else can truly answer for us; rather, they are decisions we each have to make on  our own.

Up until now, our parents have been the decision-makers in most of the big dilemmas our life has presented us with. They generally had the final say at the very least. Now we're supposed to strike out on our own to "find our fortunes" ( that's a Howl's Moving Castle reference, for those who care). It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

On the one hand, it's scary trying to move from being supported to supporting yourself, finding where you fit, and where you want to be. On the other hand, it's wonderful when you feel like you're finally getting closer to accomplishing those dreams you've desired for so long and it feels like the world is at your fingertips.

Coming from my own prospective, I have the potential and the desire to become a published author. There's much I have to do in order for me to accomplish that dream, but it feels doable now. There are times when I can almost taste it. But there are also times when I feel like I'm looking through the wrong side of the telescope and all of my goals are comically out of reach. I feel out of place in my hometown (particularly after living in Paris, France) and I'm literally itching to get out of here, but my circumstances have determined that I stay for now.

It's like those cartoons from when I was a kid where the person trying to get the horse to move dangles a carrot in front of its nose to keep it going, but the carrot is always out of reach. There are times when I wonder if I'll ever reach the carrot at the end of the line or if it'll always just be a dream and never a reality.

I realize I sound a bit melodramatic and I apologize for that. Still, it's a legitimate feeling that I know I'm not alone in experiencing. It's a big world and there are so many opportunities to shoot for the moon; but at the same time, there's such a potential for failure that it can nearly paralyze a person at times.

All in all, I know its all in the hands of God. He knows exactly where I (and everyone else) need to be and if I listen and follow, I'll be able to finish the race. Trusting Him is key and listening to His voice is more than necessary.

Still, what I wouldn't do for a couple of neon signs to point the way for me right now . . .

This Crazy Life

Birthday shopping with amazing people

I guess this is sort of an update post. Just a head's up on what's been going on in my life.

My birthday was a couple of weeks ago. You may have noticed that I switched my age from "19" to "20" a while back. It's nice being able to say I'm not a teen anymore. Plus I only have one more year until I'm legal to drink in Texas. You have no idea how much I've missed beer. I may sound ridiculous saying it, but it's true. Just like I missed Dr. Pepper while I was in France.

Altogether, it was a good birthday, though. I got some pretty cool gifts from my family and friends. I had a lovely day spending time with those same people. I did end up at a sports bar I didn't know existed in our suburb (don't worry, no drinking of alcohol took place). Let's just say I'm really not the sports-watching type and we definitely felt our IQ points dropping by the minute.

My dad, Uncle Henry, and myself before he got so sick

There's recently been a death in my family. Anyone who follows me on basically any social media site knows this already. I've only mentioned it about a thousand times. It was my Uncle Henry that died, my dad's godfather and one of the funniest and most kindhearted men I know. He was in his late eighties and the situation had been deteriorating for some time now. His Alzheimer's was getting steadily worse and my Aunt Lois was having an especially hard time taking care of him, so I suppose his passing was in his best interest.

Still, it hurt like a blow to the chest. I sobbed when I found out, I cried at the visitation, I wept at the funeral. Everyone in my family cried -- even my dad, whom I've never actually seen shed more than a single tear before. As you probably guessed, that set me off crying even harder.

He meant so much to me, and having to say goodbye hurt more than I could have imagined. I wish I could have spent more time with him and gotten to know him better. I wish I had more pictures with him. I wish I could remember more of his stories. They're all wishes everyone grasps at when a loved one dies, but that doesn't make it any less truthful. His death reminded me how fragile the human life is -- and how we ought never to take it for granted.

A glimpse of my tattoo. :P

In much better news, I got my tattoo on Friday. I love it. It's everything I wanted it to be and the experience was wonderful as well. Alika, my tattoo artist, is incredibly friendly and makes you feel at ease immediately. Not to mention, I'm inherently fascinated by tattoos, so watching him ink both my friend and myself was an incredibly interesting process. Yes, I did watch the entire time I got my tattoo. No, it didn't hurt that bad. Yes, I would and will do it again.

Oh, by the way, it says "Words are our most inexhaustible source of magic". Also, it was on my bucket list, so that's another thing crossed off and one of my New Year's Resolutions completed!

Still no news on the job front. I'm just a tad irritated about that, so I don't really want to talk about it. Crossing my fingers that something will come through soon, though.

My baby brother graduated from high school this weekend, though, and I couldn't be more proud. It's easy to forget that we're not the same age, that we aren't twins, because it feels like it at times. But there's nothing like sitting beside your sister and screaming for your little brother as he crosses the stage to receive his diploma. Two years after my own graduation, my parents have now officially succeeded in getting all three of their children through high school.

Isn't he just adorable?!

Being only seventeen months apart, Mitchell and I have always spent a lot of our time together. I'm not ashamed to admit that he's been my best friend since the beginning and will be my best friend until the end. I'm eternally grateful to my parents for instilling the mentality in us that our siblings will be the only friends that will always be there for you no matter what. And I'm eternally grateful to have the amazing siblings who have always lived that, even when being difficult runs in the family.

Speaking of siblings, Mitchell's graduation meant that Miranda came back in town for a week. We don't get to see my older sister very often, seeing as she lives in Michigan, and it's always nice when she comes down. The last time we had seen her was at Christmas while we were still living in Paris.

I'm always happy about sibling bonding time and I definitely got that with Miranda this time. Seeing as things were pretty crazy with preparing for Mitchell's graduation, that left Miranda and I free for some quality time. She was the one with me when I got my tattoo and all three of us started watching a new manga (well, new for Mitchell and I) called Gurren Lagann that she loves.

Myself and my big sister waiting for the DART after the zoo

The day before she left, Mitchell had already left for senior trip and Mom had gone back to France. Both she and dad were due to leave on the next day to go back to their respective homes. So Miranda decided we should go to the zoo.

Frankly, the idea of zoos freaks me out. Large animals caged only feet from human contact? You can count me out. But Miranda seemed so excited about going that I conceded and went with her to the Dallas Zoo.

We actually had a lot of fun. Miranda fed the giraffe and nearly died with excitement about it, we rode the monorail and agreed that the guide was incredibly attractive, Miranda freaked when we saw the baboons having sex while I nearly died with laughter at her reaction. We even got to take pictures at the photo booth, and anyone who knows me well enough knows how much I adore photo booths. They're my absolute favorite. We almost rode the carousel too, but chickened out when we realized there were a lot of kids and no adults. We decided to wait until we had a kid with us so we wouldn't look like complete morons.

All in all, it's been an interesting couple of weeks, both sad and wonderful. Mostly good, though, and I'm quite happy about that. Life is always changing and I'm excited to see the places that it's taking me.

The Skinny Obsession

Just to warn you right off the bat: this is going to one of those rage blogs. You know, the one where the blogger rants about something that majorly pisses them off. Yeah, that kind.

And the thing that has been majorly pissing me off as of late is our culture's seeming obsession with being skinny. There is nothing more inherently frustrating or disgusting to me than the fact that so many beautiful women are convinced that unless they reach that size 0 body, they can never be attractive or beautiful.

You have got to be kidding me.

I shouldn't have to tell you that Marilyn Monroe, the icon of sexiness, was a size 16. Neither should I have to tell you that the average jean size of American women is in the double digits. It should be more than obvious that being overweight is far healthier than being underweight.

I spend a great deal of time on Pinterest, I'll admit that right out. I love the creativity that can be found there. I spend most of my time looking at tattoos, crazy colored hair, and nerdy greatness. Seeing what friends of mine find inspiring is another great thing about the site, but I am beyond sick and tired of the "dream body" posts.

In modern culture, it seems that being skinny is the ultimate goal. Eating disorders are running rampant, both girls and guys are working themselves to the bone exercising for the purpose of feeling better about themselves, and I don't know how many PARENTS I've heard criticizing their children when it comes to their weight. (Seriously, if you don't shut your mouth, I'm liable to shut it for you. How dare you?)

Speaking from the standpoint of a girl who has dealt with insecurity concerning my body, my personality, and basically every aspect of who I am; I breaks my heart and frustrates me beyond belief that we allow ourselves to have this mindset, much less encourage it. Losing weight should not be at the top of our list of priorities. "Being skinny" should not be looked at as the only way to assure happiness or confidence in oneself.

Seriously? What ever happened to loving ourselves for who we are? What ever happened to just being yourself and not caring what the rest of the world has to say about it?


Look, let me be brutally honest here: Being skinny isn't all it's cracked up to be. You're never going to be skinny enough to satisfy your insecurity. Because insecurity is something that will cling to you until you force yourself to get rid of it.

I'm all for getting in shape of that's what you want. I'm all for getting healthy and making sure you have a long life. I'm all for wanting to be strong. Those are all worthwhile endeavors. Being skinny? Not so much.

Insecurity isn't something you can fix by heeding its demands. Insecurity is a beast that, if you keep on feeding it, will keep on growing and consume you. Learn to love yourself. Learn to be happy with who you are. It's going to be a battle and it'll probably be a long one if my own story is any indication. You are beautiful. You don't have to be a size 0 for that to be true. You just have to be you.

Following Your Dreams

Ice skating: Not one of my greatest talents

My time in Paris is coming to a close soon. I leave on March 31st and it's such a bittersweet thing. On the one hand, I am super excited to see all the family and friends I have at home; but at the same time, there are so many wonderful family and friends here that I will be leaving.

The prospect of going back to Texas both excites and scares me. As much as I've loved my time in Paris, it has felt quite a bit like I'm putting my life on pause. Now it's time to press the play button and start moving full-force toward those dreams that I have been looking forward to and holding so close to my heart. All those plans I have been making are going to become actions soon enough. It's exhilarating and terrifying.

One of the things I have loved so much about Paris is all the amazing people I have met. So many young people are giving their everything to follow their dreams and they aren't afraid to take a leap of faith or two to get there. It's so inspiring to see these wonderful people fulfilling their heart's desires.

At times, my own dreams seem so far away and nearly impossible. It seems like every time I give voice to a new goal or another part of my dream, there's always someone who responds with, "Yeah that all sounds well and good, but logistically . . ." and it makes me want to scream! Every day someone does the impossible. Every day someone reaches that dream that once seemed to be the most unlikely thing possible.

What I've learned from all this and from each of the people I've come in contact is this:
Always chase your dreams. No one else is going to chase them for you. And if you let others convince you that your dream isn't valid, you'll spend the rest of your life wishing you had chased it instead of listening to the people who were "just looking out for you".

I understand that people will always have concerns with the way I live my life or the way I follow my heart, but that's something that ultimately comes down to me. I have to make the decision to do what I want to do or to listen to the skeptics.

I can't wait to see what lies in store for me in this journey of life. It promises to be one amazing trip and I can't wait to see who else I will meet or what else I will accomplish along the way.

Writing Hindrances

There are two major things that hinder me as a writer. Honestly, there are probably more -- it varies from day to day -- but I'm here to discuss the top two.

First of all, we have distractions.

I'm very easily distracted. And in this day and age, there's more than enough distractions readily available to do the trick. From the internet to movies, from TV to books -- none are specifically bad for me except when they're keeping me from hitting the pavement on something I consider my passion and what I hope to do with my life.

I'm serious. Even as I was pondering writing about this topic for my blog post, I was scrolling through Pinterest for at least half an hour.

I guess I need to learn to sit down and set boundaries for myself. It's not like it's a punishment or anything. Telling a story that's been bouncing around in my head is one of the greatest joys I've had the privilege of experiencing. Spinning a tale is as much a pleasure as drinking coffee or eating a really good brownie.

(Trust me to make some kind of connection between writing and eating . . .)

Secondly, I have trouble getting frustrated with the fact that the story isn't always perfect when I first write it out. A huge part of writing is the editing, I know that, but I love it when the story just bleeds from my fingers on the first run. If I feel like it's not on par with some of my better work from the get go, I tend to lean toward giving up. It's stupid, but it's how my brain works.

It reminds me of my exploits in art class when I was in high school. I loved art and I was relatively good at it, but it was so frustrating to me that it wasn't worth the effort. I didn't want to do it if I couldn't make it perfect. I've always had trouble with stuff like that. It's my own brand of perfectionism, I suppose. It's a good thing I love writing as much as I do or I would have given up a long time ago.

Learning to let go would probably be my best advice for myself in this case. I need to give myself permission to suck sometimes. Editing can be as enjoyable as writing and can provide new opportunities to make the story loads better than it would have been if I'd just shotgunned it.

Well, now that I've got that covered, I suppose it's time to sit back and start working on that novel of mine. Maybe, if I work really hard, you might just be reading it in a year or two.

The Hezekiah Tunnel Incident

My sister is visiting us in Paris for Christmas and tomorrow is her last full day here. We've been cramming in as many fun sight-seeing events as possible in the time we're here and tomorrow is supposed to be proceeding in much the same fashion.

First on the agenda is the catacombs. Now I've heard little tidbits about the place before, but we haven't been yet. It's basically these underground caverns full of arranged bones. They were cleared out a cemetery and put on display down there years ago. Now it's a huge site for tourism. I even found out they have a sign that says, "Stop! This is the empire of death!" (That's what it says in the picture.)

Sounds awesome, right?

Wrong. It's not awesome because I can't go and I'm super pissed about that. Okay, it'll probably still be awesome for my brother, sister, and dad-- but it sucks for me. You see, I'm claustrophobic. Like, I have panic attacks from claustrophobia. Panic attacks including tears, snot, and plenty of hyperventilating. Turns out the caverns are pretty narrow, which means it's definitely a no-go.

We don't need another Hezekiah Tunnel Incident.

"What's that?" you ask. Well, the Hezekiah Tunnel Incident is basically the story of what happens when I underestimate my level of claustrophobia. When I was told my tour group in Israel this May was going to walk through the Hezekiah tunnel, the tunnel Hezekiah travelled when he and his army were attacking Jerusalem in the Old Testament, I thought, "Sounds like fun."

I should have known better.

My first red flag was when we watched the informational video at the beginning. I saw a clip of some guy having to crouch to get through part of the tunnel. I quickly asked about the narrowness of the tunnels, but was assured that it wouldn't be bad. I'm thinking, "Oh, they must've just been exaggerating. The tunnels are probably pretty big. I mean, if an army is going through them, it's probably, like, five people wide."

Oh, how terribly mistaken was I.

It only took about five minutes of walking through the tunnels before it was narrow enough that I only had to move my shoulder about three inches to the right or left to hit the walls. Then the roof lowered to only a foot above me. I tried to stay strong, I really did; but it wasn't long before I was reduced to tears.

I cried for twenty out of twenty-five or thirty minutes of the journey. God, it was terrible. The only thing that kept me from hyperventilating the entire time was knowing that if I managed to make myself pass out, I was going to just get trampled as I drowned in the calf-high water. By the end, I was practically pushing the others out.

That was probably THE most terrifying ordeal of my life. I was shaking at the end of it. Then some of the adults on the trip had the nerve to go laughing about how I was probably over my claustrophobia now. Yeah? Far from it. If anything it's probably worse.

So that's why I'm not going to bother trying to "tough it out" in the catacombs. It was a bad idea the first time and the sign of insanity is to do the same thing multiple times and still expect a different result. No thank you.

I think I'll just meet up with them at the Napoleon Museum.

Not for Those with Weak Constitutions

Well, it's 4:30 in the afternoon here in Paris and I've only been awake for maybe an hour.

Oh, the wonders of jet lag!

My plane ride over here was probably the worst travel experience of my life. How so? Well my original flight was meant to be DFW>HIA>DFW>CDG. That means I was supposed to take a plane from the Dallas-Fort Worth airport to the Houston International Airport, then board a plane there for DFW which made a pitstop there (where my brother was going to get onboard) then take us to Charles de Gaulle.

What ended up happening was that I made it to HIA and had to collect my luggage and recheck it because that's what the American Airlines guy at DFW had told me I needed to do. That was fine and dandy except for the face that when I made it to the American Airlines baggage check, they told me I was too late to make the flight and I would have to make other arrangements-- that was the last flight to Paris today.

I got out of line and found a seat nearby, promptly bursting into tears as I called my dad. Now, I'm not the type to cry in public if I can help it. However, this is an exception for a number of reasons:
1) I had pulled an all-nighter the day before and I was over-exhausted.
2) My brother was sick and cell phone-less. I had no way to reach him so he would know what was happening.
3) I just wanted to go home and see my family.
4) I didn't know what to do or where to go.

When Dad picked up the phone, I explained the situation to him and he handed the phone over to Mom while he figured out my flight with the airline people. In the meantime, a sweet older woman saw me crying and dabbing at my eyes with my sweatshirt, so she came over and handed me a pack of tissues. It was rather sweet of her and it helped me calm down a tad. I don't know why. It's just the little things like that that really make your day just a bit brighter.

Finally, Dad came back on the phone and informed me that he found another flight for me with British Airways. It took me another half hour just to get the the terminal where their airlines were located and then I had to grapple with a pissy baggage check lady who seemed to be irritated by everything and kept trying to hurry me along as if I could help the fact American Airlines was taking so long in getting my ticket to come through on the computer system.

Finally, she got it and I made it through the security line after having to go through the metal detector about four times. It was only when I realized my iPod was still in my pocket that I finally got through.

My flight was delayed when I made it to the gate, so I found an outlet and checked my phone, only to find a voicemail from my brother, who had called from the DFW airport to let me know that the gate had changed in case I needed to know. I tried calling back, but it was a pay phone call and therefore pointless. I then called my dad, trying my hardest not to panic. He was still working with American Airlines to get a message to my brother. I hung up and tried not to worry.

Let me give some context here in explaining that all of the previous night during which I had pulled an all-nighter, my brother had been throwing up from some stomach virus that had him feeling miserable. Dad had given him the option of staying behind a day or two in order to recover before his flight, but he didn't want to get left behind in Texas when his family was in France. He didn't want to be sick by himself. Let's face it- who does?

So I sat there, worrying about him until my dad called back and told me he had gotten the message through and my brother wouldn't be worried. With that burden off my shoulders, I managed to relax long enough to eat some chocolate and do some reading until it was time to get on the plane.

My trip lasted about eight hours before we landed at the London-Heathrow airport. I had enough time to use the restroom, brush my teeth, and spruce up my makeup before I had to jump on the plane. I spent about an hour and a half on that plane and slept through most of it. I declined breakfast, as I had on the other plane. Airplane food makes me nauseous and the dinner I had eaten hours before had been enough for me.

I reached the airport with barely suppressed glee. I had my passport stamped and hurriedly grappled with my bags before heading out to where everyones' families were waiting. . . only to find mine missing. I stood there awkwardly, then moved off to the side to where I wasn't in the way. My phone had died before I made it to Heathrow and I started to panic wondering how I would reach my family. Sure, I knew how to take the metro home, but that would take hours and I didn't know the address for a taxi to take me. I knew Mom had told me to call them when I was in London. What if they were still waiting for that call and assuming my trip over the Atlantic had just taken longer than expected?

I moved off to the side and waited for twenty minutes, scanning the crowd for my dad's face before I finally saw him walking over with my brother. I jumped up and wheeled my bags toward them as quickly as possible. Turns out, they hadn't expected my flight to be in so soon and had gone to sit down where there were more open seats.

Exhausted and ready to finally be home, I let them pile my things in the car for me. My brother claimed shotgun because he was still feeling nauseous after the flight and such. I settled into the back, complaining about wanting to sit next to dad.

The car ride took about forty-five minutes, but the worst bit wasn't until the end. It's a well-known fact that I suffer from motion sickness. Thus the reason I generally get shotgun when we go on family road trips and such. I can't even swing on a swing set for more than a minute or two.

So near the end of this car trip home, I was feeling intensely nauseated. I kept asking how long it was until we got there and complaining that my stomach hurt. I didn't start gagging, though, until we made it onto our street. Dry-heaving is never pleasant, but a panicking father who's driving the car can always make it worse. Not only was he freaking out in the front seat, but he pulled over IN FRONT OF A CROWDED BUS STOP. And that was about the time my stomach decided to release its contents. Talk about embarrassing.

My brother and I were both yelling at him to move the car while my head was still sticking out the door and he finally moved further down the road, still throwing up out the door. I rinsed my mouth out with Dad's sweet tea he offered and jumped out of the car over the emptied contents of my stomach, keeping my head low since we weren't far from the bus stop at all.

Mom was leaning out the window with the cat calling down about how excited she was that we were home. I ignored her and hurried into the building, dying to brush my teeth and praying I wouldn't vomit all over the floor on my way up.

Finally, I made it upstairs and after changing and thoroughly brushing my teeth, I got plenty of water and promptly passed out for the equivalent of nearly twenty hours.
And that, my friends, was the worst travel experience in my life. I hope I never top it.

Worthy of Love

I don't have a crazy salvation testimony. I was saved when I was five and rededicated somewhere around the age of nine. It wasn't anything spectacular. There was no chorus of angels or near death experience. I just realized I loved Jesus and wanted Him in my life forever.
Thus, when I was asked to write my testimony for a personal tract when I was in an Evangelism class at CFNI, I was a little worried about what to write. I know so many people that have had these crazy things happen to them  and while I've gone through my own share of crap, it's never been something astounding or even something I'm cool with sharing.
Finally I decided on an experience that actually happened to me while I was in attendance there-- the Lord dealing with my insecurity. It's a journey and this was only the catalyst. I still deal with insecurity and likely will have to fight it for the rest of my life, but I'm okay with that because I know Who I have beside me.
So here's my story:

I sat in a chair in the middle of the room, tears streaming down my face as my body convulsed with sobs.
Two minutes ago, I'd been avoiding my youth pastor's eyes, desperately hoping I wouldn't get picked next for prayer. I knew I needed it, but that was exactly why I didn't want it. It had been my mentor who ended up calling me out, though.
Two minutes ago, I'd been focused on holding in my stomach so everyone wouldn't see how fat I was. I'd been focused on keeping myself from crying so no one would see how ugly I looked when I cried and so no one would know what I was feeling. Neither mattered now. The only thing I could think now was, "I'm in so much pain! It hurts so bad!"
I'm sure I looked a mess. No one else sat down in the chair and started sobbing before anyone started praying. But it didn't matter anymore. All I knew was that a burden had been wrapped around my shoulders for so long and I just wanted it off. I wanted nothing more than to be rid of this pain that encompassed nearly every waking hour.
That night, the Lord healed me from my self-hatred, self-condemnation, and massive insecurity. I carried that burden of feeling worthless, disgusting, and ugly for so long that the burden had become a normal weight- I can't remember a time before then when I didn't shoulder it.
The emotional scars came the way scars usually do: careless words; a comment here, a rejection there. As a child and later as a young adult, I had unwittingly harbored these things in my heart. Satan whispered his little half-truths until I would accept the full-blown lies as truth.

"She's so skinny, yet she keeps talking about how she needs to lose weight. She probably thinks you look like a cow."
"No one's ever going to like you. I mean, what is there to like?"
"You're just irritating them. Why would they want to hang out with you?"
"Ew. Look at that stomach. No one will ever find you attractive."
"All those people who rejected you before? They obviously had a pretty good reason. Get over it."

On and on they went, spinning their little webs around my heart until it was entirely ensnared. I had my good days, where I thought a dress looked pretty good on me, or hung out with that one person that I knew actually liked to hang out with me, though I couldn't for the life of me figure out why.
I knew that God found me beautiful and fun to be around. I knew He loved my personality and my body. I even knew that thinking badly of myself was insulting His handiwork, figuratively spitting in the face of God. Still, I groaned when I saw myself in the mirror. Still, I cried when I finished a beautifully romantic movie, because I was certain that could never happen to me.
But on that night, the people on the Paradigm leadership team called it out of me. They "read my mail" and cried with me when they saw what I was going through. They helped me give up that little girl who saw a whale when she looked in the mirror and that young girl who couldn't figure out why no one wanted her around.
Then we were silent as I listened to what the Lord was speaking to me. It was one sentence, but it sent me into an entirely new set of tears- tears of joy. In the deepest part of my heart, He whispered, "You are worthy of love."
My countenance changed immediately and I knew that the pain had stopped. I felt so light. I've never felt that light in my entire life. The weight slid off and I suddenly felt like I could fly because I didn't have to carry that burden anymore. Jesus had picked up up, thrown it over His back, and I don't have to carry it ever again.
It's so easy to listen and agree with Satan when he feeds you lies. He's constantly doing it. He uses people to make little digs at the things we struggle with the most. He whispers half-truths that seem whole, all the while using it to eat away at our souls. He masks condemnation as conviction, hiding behind twist Scripture and twisted Truth to prove a point.
You don't have to believe Him!
God finds you beautiful/handsome! He sees you as worthy of time, effort, love. He finds you intoxicating when you worship Him with your whole being. He cries with you when your heart is heavy-laden. He cares about us in a world that would rather cover up our flaws than help us fix them. He calls you His treasure and sees you as more valuable than life.
That's why He gave His life for you on the cross so many years ago. He thought of you as He was executed for sins He did not commit- sins you did commit. He died so you could have a life with Him, because He enjoys your heart! He loves you enough to want to spend an entire eternity loving on you and spending time with you. How can you feel worthless or of so little value when the King of Glory calls you beautiful and His own?
It doesn't matter what anyone else says. Your family, your friends, those people who shaped your insecurity, they're all just as jacked up as everyone else. They don't know what they're talking about and through that, Satan will take whatever foothold he can get in your heart. The lies of Satan are potent and the longer they are left without dealing with them, the more they fester, the more they grow, until they threaten to take over your whole world.
Hand it over to God. You know what those lies are.
What's holding you back?