I talked to Ma today, and toward the end of our conversation she asked if I'd made any Christmas plans.

"Nope," I replied. "No one to make plans with...except you guys."

We talked about which day Christmas is, and about my going over to the padres' place for our family favorite of Blitz Bubble Rings and orange julius for breakfast. And a little bit later, she said that Gimli had been on her heart a lot recently.

"Mine, too," I said quietly. I had attributed it to all these anniversaries of milestones--holidays with him--and fantastic ones they were. Today, talking about Christmas with Mom, I was so glad we'd had Christmas at my place last year. I've worked through my memories of Gimli's being here and have had other people over. It's become my home, not my home with his touches. I haven't had as much time at my parents' place this year--haven't had time to take away Christmas memories in that home, had we been there last year. So this year, I'm grateful to be going home for Christmas--even if it is less than a mile away.

"You have?" Mom asked.

"Mm hmm. I finally defriended him on Facebook, too."

"When...when was that?"

"Sunday, I think. Yeah. Sunday."

"Hmm. Well, he's been on my mind since Tuesday or Wednesday. I've been praying for him a lot. I've been praying that God would soften his heart. I don't know in what way, but..."

Really. About a month ago, I started praying that God would soften my future husband's heart toward me.

Then Mom seemed to switch gears.

"Remember when I was talking with P the other day, and you called, and I told P that I'd call her back, but then I forgot to? Well, she called me the next day, and, you know how she's so direct... She said to me, 'Are you mad because I'm going to be a grandma before you are?'" [P's daughter-in-law is pregnant.] "And I said, 'Not mad... Sad...'"

And the tears burst out of my eyes. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad. I know that you love children and would truly be the best grandparents in the world. I'm so sorry...

And...I couldn't make a sound. Couldn't let my mom know how that hurt, and how it hurts me that they hurt, and how it hurts me to know that they never say anything like, "When are you going to get married and give us some grandchildren" because they love me so much and...don't want to hurt me.

Mom went on. "P said that if I had grandchildren, I wouldn't spend time with [the littlest children in the family of our friends who have 11 kids]. And they need that--they need 'in-town grandparents.'"

"Yeah," I agreed, managing an even tone.

"And you're the one who introduced me to them."

Oh. I have given my parents grandchildren. Thank You, God, for that gift, and thank You for that realization from my mother.

And thank You, God, for the things my parents know and feel but don't necessarily say. But thank You for these glimpses that make me realize how much they love me.

I did it. Defriended him, I mean. We haven't talked for about 11 months. We've emailed twice. Facebook was only a painful reminder of his existence in a look-but-don't-touch format.

This fall has been the anniversary of so many things with him. I enjoyed him SO MUCH. That makes the anniversaries so much harder.

I re-read his explanation email to me from last January, and wonder if he was saying that physically, I wasn't good enough for him. But I had asked him about that during our breakup conversation, and he had said no to that along with other things.

If it was a God thing--if he just didn't have a peace from God about us--it was easier to take. But I don't see why God would bring us together then take us apart. Did one of us sin in the first place? Did he pursue me without God's go-ahead, thereby making us wrong from the start? What if it was just the wrong timing? But after eleven months...I start to doubt that. It sinks in that...he's probably not coming back. And oh how I loved him... Oh how I loved being with him... Oh how I loved every part of "us..."

And every posting of his on FB was a pick and a peel of a scar. It wasn't facing reality, like I'd hoped it would be by leaving him on the list. It just...prevented healing.

So I wrote him an email this afternoon, explaining why I was about to defriend him. It was a nice email. Then I did the smart thing and pushed "save" rather than "send." I cried some more. Took a nap. Woke up. Checked Facebook. Went to his profile. Stalked his wall a little more. Really...ready...to say...goodbye...? I left that tab up and went back to check my FB newsfeed. All posts covered, I returned to his page. Bottom left--"Remove from friends." My pointer hovered over it. I paused, cried, prayed, held my breath, pushed the button.

"Are you sure you want to remove Gimli from friends?"

This time, I knew he was already gone.

"Okay."

[Click.]

High school friend's mom passed away last week. High school friend was a girl then...seems to be a guy now... Missed the visitation today since I'm home sick.

Checked Facebook this morning while I was missing church, and saw a former student's update: another former student has died. I quickly went to his page and saw tributes written on his wall--so it _was_ true... I checked his sisters' pages--condolences were written there. I quickly texted the oldest sister and asked her to keep me updated on time and place for the funeral. "Will do," she responded. Oh dear... So it's true...

The only news reports of fatalities are of someone crashing into a light pole; speed and alcohol are factors...and yes, I can see those applying in his case. There's still no name published, but...

He was the kid who, as a freshman, made me feel that he would protect me from anyone who attacked me; that's a big deal for a young, white teacher on a reservation. His little sister looked up to me, his big sister befriended me, his younger brother confided in me, and his mother somewhat adopted me. I sat with them at the last funeral I returned to the rez for; they'd made a space for me and waved me in, even though my entrance was late. I still remember getting the mom's brittle, damaged hair in my mouth as we hugged.

The first reservation funeral I went back for was for this student's best friend. That was nine years ago; another car accident.

Much heartache.

I have an urge to be productive...or something...

Well, so much for that "I'll be in contact" deep-and-meaningful look; when I went to Albi's last night, Texas was on a date elsewhere! So be it.

I'm afraid I ruined potential connections by being overly concerned about the weather--which was, to my credit, not good last night. Sirens went off and everything. I checked online resources (including Facebook) via my iPod for updates, and most likely alienated the girl beside me. My apologies!

It turned out to be a good evening, with a bit of flood-watching and people-watching-flood-watching going on. I corralled one of the guys into wandering downstream a few blocks with me to see the water's impact there, and got some interesting shots of the clouds that kept moving along to the east.

Other highlight of the evening was listening to conversation about getting cows on a schedule and artificially inseminating them, thereby having their calving season down to about three days rather than the four month range that would occur naturally. While there's debate about whether or not it's really healthy for the cattle, it's a lot like knowing the plumber will visit between 2-3pm, rather than "sometime this week."

Wondering

Albi called tonight and invited me to dinner tomorrow. She and her husband are having guests; dinnertime is 6:30.

At church on the 4th of July, I ran into Albi and her husband, and Albi's best friend and some strange guy. I reminded Albi of my get-together that night, and she asked if they could bring strange guy along. Sure! I was very much into a "the more, the merrier" sentiment that weekend.

When they arrived, I had already forgotten strange guy's name and had to ask for it again. However, I was high on hostessing and had no problem with awkwardness; what a wonderful sensation!

Later, when I ran into Albi on the balcony, she pulled me aside and said, "So--are you seeing any of these gentlemen?" Nope. "Well--have you met my friend [Texas]? He's really quiet, so you'll have to go initiate something."

I don't initiate. If the guy's not willing to, why bother? And if he's not able to...why bother?

We stood on my balcony to watch fireworks, and I found an open spot between a new Baptist friend and Albi's husband. On the other side of Albi's husband was Texas. The guys on either side of me were conversational and relaxed. It was such a juxtaposition of guests in attendance that night, with my front hall being filled with sandals and cowboy boots.

After Albi's husband and I had caught up a bit, I felt the need to include Texas in the conversation. I got him talking, heard his accent, and loved it. Albi's husband stepped back a bit to allow for face-to-face communication, but was still available to moderate the conversation. He provided security that way, and it made me feel closer to him than I ever have before. I think, really, he reminded me of my favorite uncle. :)

When Albi and her entourage left that night, I invited Texas to my Bible study since he's still semi-new in town and doesn't have a large social group. He looked at me, said with confidence that we'd be in contact, and _looked_ at me. It seemed to be an "I'll follow through with you" look that made me smile and feel gushy inside.

I hope he's there tomorrow night...and if not, I look forward to meeting new, fun people anyway!

Wonderful Night

I got creative in my online TV-watching earlier this week, and selected a show about America's museums. One feature was on the Museum of Natural history, which I recognized as being in "Night at the Museum." Since "Night at the Museum 2" is in my Netflix cue, I decided that it should be watched, and soon. I invited my Bible study friends over for this evening, and changed the event from just a movie to games and a movie, and then added a supper beforehand.

I put a couple chuck roasts in my slow cooker, added cream of mushroom soup and whatever seasonings smelled good, and let the slow cooker have at it. The breadmachine from my 90-plus-year-old friend was employed to make dough, which I later fashioned into rolls and baked. One friend brought frozen veggies, and two others brought fruit salads. Good stuff, all around. One of the salad people had asked permission to bring another friend along, and the other friend brought a 2-liter of pop to share. Later, another of the guys brought a case of Mello Yello. I think it's sweet when guys bring a token item. :)

As an early arriver and I were extending the table to put leaves in, I got a call from my old friend Gibson. He and his family were in town; was I available? While his wife had a meeting, he brought their two kids and himself over to join us. Little F was cautiously inquisitive about things in my apartment, but did no damage and didn't throw himself (or anything else) off the balcony. They were here for about two hours, and I would have been quite fine with their staying longer. It's so, so good to see friends raising their children right--"right" in this case being "well-mannered in a semi-stranger's home." F even bonded with me a bit by playing with a toy turtle he found and placing it on my head while I was eating. I told him numerous times how happy I was to have him in my home. When he and his dad left with his baby brother, I asked F for a hug. He nodded solemnly then reached out for me. As I stood after our embrace, Gibson gave a smile and told me quietly, "He was goin' in for a kiss." And I'd missed it? Poor kid! So I asked him for a kiss on the cheek, and he willingly obliged. I smiled all the way back down the hall. It's such a blessing to be liked by your friends' not-quite-three-year-old...and to like him, as well!

The meal was, honestly, fantastic. After eating a bit, I told those at the table that there was more meat, etc. One piped in that they knew, and had been partaking of it. :) Out of two chuck roasts, I hardly have any leftovers. Though my tastebuds are sad, that makes me smile.

We played some Mario Kart, watched the movie, and then those who were left gathered around the table for a game of Pente. It's a game that's chess-ish in thought and checker-ish in pieces. The rules are simple, but the mastery is more complex. I inherited it from another 90+ year-old friend, and wish I could tell her that I have yet to introduce it to someone who didn't quickly love it. The best part in the three games we played happened when we began to table talk. One of the guys played a move that would allow me to win if not stopped. The person next to him missed it. Then the coughing, aheming, and veiled references began, and were directed to the last remaining player before it would be my turn. She sat for eons trying to figure it out. I eventually asked her what the greatest threat was, and she identified a technique I was likely to use to win. Then I had her stand up and look at the board from different angles. At one point, she pointed right at the critical spot, without seeing what she was supposed to be stopping. The guys began creating arrows with their unused pieces, and making all sorts of game references which half clued her in and half drove her crazy. Eventually, she discovered the move. We all sighed and exclaimed, and the game moved on. During the rest of that round, one of the guys deliberately set up moves exactly like that almost-unseen one, just to see who would catch and stop it.

The friend that one of the guys brought is soft-spoken and kind-faced. His contribution to the evening was the Diet Coke. His skin and hair are much darker than that of most of us Midwesterners, and our friend could frequently be overheard explaining slang and cultural references to us. His accent was definitely non-native, and he commented once that his English was not so good. After being together for four hours, one of our friends looked at him and said, "So, are you from another country?" The rest of us couldn't look at each other; I may have dropped my head to the table at that point. Our guest handled the question with great grace and answered that he's from Iran. It is, indeed, another country.

Ouch...

I'm still FB friends with Gimli but have been debating it lately. I don't want to react out of anger, which is why I haven't removed the threadbare connection. Tonight, I found in my newsfeed that he'd posted a video which he was in. I clicked "play" and...I still don't understand why...why it didn't work out. I had forgotten how he talked, how he moved, what his lit-up eyes looked like... I remembered his broad shoulders and strong arms around me. Maybe I'm still FB friends because it hasn't hurt enough to be over. I haven't felt the piercing pain that would give me a conclusion. It's probably just that he's nice and I'm nice, and hopefully some day we'll be able to have a casual friendship.

In the Bible study/book study I'm leading, the author of the book has challenged us to spend the next week journaling the previous day's events, and then prayers. Just a page a day; a page a prayer session, he recommends.

That was last week. It's Wednesday again, and I have nothing written. Granted, there were a few days of extreme busyness and exhaustion. But mostly, it's an issue of...me not wanting to come to terms with things? Me wanting to curl up in bed and watch episodes of "Murder, She Wrote" and live in a fictional world that has more spice and resolution than my own does?

It seems I always feel "down" after "that time of the month." It's as if a mini-depression hits. Realizing it is good.

Twice in the past couple months, I've been asked to babysit former boyfriends' babies. Kinda strange, but kinda cool. And at the same time, it hurts so much. "Coulda been me; coulda been me..."

Wasn't meant to be you; wasn't meant to be you...

So this morning, I took a break from Jessica Fletcher and started reading a friend's sister's blog. She went through the adorableness of her two daughters, and in her writing, a desire to please God shone through. She loves her husband, she loves her babies; life can be rough, but God is good. She also included an entry on how she met her husband. In it, she wrote about going through a spiritual rebellion. It didn't look like it on the outside, but she knew it existed on the inside. Through a process, she gave every little piece of herself to God--including her desires to be married and have a family. There was a point after that surrender that she realized that giving those desires to God didn't make for an automatic granting of the wish.

A couple of friends are going through a horrid place in their marriage, and divorce seems imminent. He's on a path toward positive change, but she's wary of trusting again. He's been reading "The Love Dare" after watching "Fireproof," and it's affected his whole life. When we talked about his trying to woo her back, I asked what would happen if she didn't respond the way he wanted. He said he'd keep living his life in ways that please God, and hope that his wife returns to him.

Those are such great reminders for me--to give it up, and maybe not stop hoping that I'll get what I desire, but to continue following God joyfully through the rest of life. It's not easy. I read something today that said a woman's level of fertility decreases drastically after age 35. I turn 35 tomorrow. Is it easier to surrender something you know you can't have, anyway? I give up my dreams to be an WNBA star because I'm only 5'1" anyway? Do I need to willfully surrender before there's a forced surrender? Is this "coming of age" God's way of saying I messed up in not fully surrendering earlier, so He has just removed the option? Then I feel as though I'm a failure in spirituality as well as in the world of relationships.

More wrestling to do...

Goals

I stopped setting goals, mostly because I didn't follow through with them. For a while, I prided myself on "staying flexible," but I see how that's a cop-out--and I see how I respect people who do set and follow through with goals. I want to be worthy of their company.

I miss clothes that fit; I miss not having to dress according to which combination of bottoms and tops minimize the muffin top effect. I just want to put cute clothes on and look cute.

The last time I went to my doctor, he checked my blood sugar (which had raised a red flag at a wellness screening at work the year before) and said I needed to cut down on sugars. Do you know how many things sugars are in? I like sweet stuff, so I tried to work around the pop and sugary cereal angle. How about if I add honey? That contains sugars. Well, what about fruit? Sugars. ARRRGH! Bread, too, apparently contains sugars. That's my favorite food group! However, my mom as adult onset diabetes, and I have a friend whose dad died from complications of diabetes. He said it was awful to watch his dad, and his shudder stuck with me.

The doctor also said I could lose 10 pounds and be healthier.

Okay. Granted, that was in...November. I was busy. And then I was recuperating from being busy. And then I got dumped. You'd think pre-summer would be the time to shape up, but, again, I wasn't into goal-setting. As springtime set in, I realized I'd have all summer to work on being a healthier me. Hanging out at my apartment doesn't do much for self-discipline in regard to food and exercise, but having time alone with myself to think does. Last week, I bought a bathroom scale. This week, I downloaded a couple free apps for my iPod. One is a pedometer, and the other is a calorie/exercise tracker. Oh, goodness.

I've checked out my weight and height, and realized that I could lose 20 pounds and still be healthy. So that's my goal in my calorie tracker--1 1/2 pounds per week to be shed, and down 20 pounds by mid-September. It's horrid, though, how quickly I run out of my daily allotted calories. I know that starving myself to reach that goal would not be healthy, would not be possible, and would earn me the wrath of a friend who's struggled with an eating disorder and is now very outspoken about it. So I'll endeavor to be wise about my caloric intake, and counter the past-my-allotted-calories issue with exercise--again, not fanatical, but rational.

What's most interesting about the calorie tracker is its metacognition parallel. Metacognition is "thinking about what you're thinking about." I'm not sure what that word would be in regard to calories, but it's pretty eye-opening to record what goes in and see its carb/protein/fiber/sugar breakdown. "Did I really eat that?" "Do I want to eat that again?" "I'm going to have to spend how long on the elliptical to counter that thing?"

The Purpose of Summer

I really, really wanted to be a foster parent for infants this summer. But I didn't get the go-ahead from God--and without His blessing, well...I've done things without His blessing before. They haven't been blessed. So I didn't.

I thought of a few places I could get "easy" jobs--breakfast hostess at a local hotel, like a friend did one summer. Early mornings (ugh), being friendly to out-of-towners, then going home and back to bed--and getting a little bit of pay. Didn't feel called to that, either. [Sigh.]

What, then, God?

I figured for a while that the plan was for me to use my talents--enhance what I've been given. But today, as I try to phrase that, I realize I've been given the opportunity to create. I've got a lovely little garden growing in planters on my balcony. There's a hassock full of beading supplies at my feet. The bread machine I inherited from my 90+ year old friend (which sat in my storage unit for five years) and the slow cooker I got at a garage sale have been employed at least weekly. I delight in God as Creator, and I've been given this time and these resources to follow His example--maybe not in creating man and animals, but in creating things that are good. For a while, I've been stifled by my reactionary tendencies; but here in this quiet, there is life.

The Sweatshirt

From 2000ish

I've heard that one should go to where one wants to be in life, and find a mate there. Interests and goals are more likely to coincide. Great theory, unless you work with the person and live next door in a town of 700.

What do you do when the relationship fades and the friendship sours? What happens when co-workers and students think you'll be together forever, but you only talk politely when passing in the halls or when discussing a student? What happens when the pounding in your heart that you used to feel as you walked past his classroom turns to dread, thinking of the many silent evenings without the playful pounding as he waited at your apartment door? When you've angrily and sadly returned all of his things that you possibly can, and have quietly requested the return of each item he has borrowed, what gestures are left for venting?

A couple of years ago, he brought me a sweatshirt from an educators' golf tournament. I don't golf. I thought it was weird that we had matching sweatshirts. I wore the gray cotton/polyester politely, in my apartment or while on errands. It sat in my closet as we grew closer as friends, etc.

Within the past month or so, the sweatshirt has gained a peculiar use. So have a pair of red-handled paper scissors and a little blue trash can. I'm not a violent person. I am not imagining him as the sweatshirt, or any such symbolism. It's just that I'd rather not relieve stress by walking through town with tears streaming down my face; it's much more functional to have two pointed blades and a cotton/poly blend at my disposal. And I can nod politely when we pass each other in the halls; I know the sweatshirt waits at home.

Cinnamon Rolls & Guatemalan Coffee

My home smells like my grandma's house. I came back in after walking B to her car, and coffee and bread scents wafted into my nose.

Home. This is my home.

It helps so much to have friends to show around; helps so much to look at a couch and think, "So & so sat there, and we talked about this and this." I belong here, and I can welcome others into it.

I feel like a loser those times when Facebook is my only friend on a Friday or Saturday night, and I'm careful not to comment anywhere with a time stamp so people won't realize I didn't have anyone to socialize with between seven and 10:30 on a weekend. But B came over today, and Bkl will be over tomorrow. Beautiful A helped me for more than two hours last Sunday as we got ready for my mom's 60th birthday celebration.

When I realized today how long B had been here, it occurred to me that even though I don't have a group of "hangout" friends, I have "three hour" friends. Dear God, thank You for these ladies.

So here it is, Valentine's Day 2010, and I'm sitting in a coffee shop in my "virgins are hot" Tshirt. The hippies are outside smoking, the recent high school grads are crowded into a booth behind me, an old guy is across the room with his laptop and wireless mouse, and a young couple is cuddled up in the loveseat.

Coincidentally, my ex boyfriend is working out at the gym across the street.

I don't suppose this day is any worse than the one in which a well-meaning casual friend asked if I was engaged yet. I shook my head, updated her on the situation, listened to her sympathy, and fled. I drove away in tears.

And it's not any worse than the day I watched a friend's month-old baby for a while, then smelled formula on myself for the next few hours. Each whiff was a reminder--not me, not mine... Ever?

Today has been tearless, unless another well-meaning someone else asks sympathetically how I'm doing. If that happens, I'll likely burst into tears.

I think it's safer to remain at home, where no one can be nice. Easier to build up walls that way.

Heartbreak Therapy

Wow--did I write this? No, but...wow. I could have. Heartbreak Therapy

by Sarah E. Hinlicky found at Boundless.org, published in 2001 http://www.boundless.org/2005/articles/a0000392.cfm

You were doing just fine until someone broke out the kiwi-flavored seltzer water. Then suddenly you were transported back to that time when the two of you were in the grocery store pretending the kiwis on the shelf were baby mice making squeaky-voiced professions of love to one another, all the while passersby surreptitiously giving you disapproving looks. The memory transformed the innocent beverage into an instrument of cardiac torture, and finding yourself on the verge of a complete emotional breakdown in the middle of The Simpsons, you excuse yourself for the safety of your own room, where you can indulge in a salty tearfest without any witnesses, except maybe for your roommate, who has learned by now to ignore you when you get like this anyway. At first your friends were helpful. They listened. They were outraged on your behalf. They declared your utter innocence. They gave helpful suggestions. They commiserated on the incomprehensibility of the opposite sex. By now, though, they've moved on past the slight tingle of disappointment they felt at the breakup. It's easy enough for them to stop thinking of the two of you in couple terms anymore, but you're not there yet. You don't feel like yourself without your — ugh — "ex" there anymore, but no one else is suffering from the same state of cognitive dissonance. You know it because they've given up plotting how to get your recalcitrant ex back. Gone are the schemes for the ultimate passionate reconciliation with your beloved, gone the blueprints of a deathtrap for the suspicious third party who might be the cause of all this woe. Now they're saying things like, "I never did like the way your ex..." and "You can do so much better." But you loved the way your ex did it, or you are not even remotely convinced that you can do better, or what "better" in this case would even look like. You defend your ex and your friends can't imagine why, so sooner or later you shut up. Your grief has gone from communal to isolated, and even though you no longer cry every day, you sort of wish you still could. In the stable moments it embarrasses you. You catch a glimpse of yourself looking good one morning and remember there's more to you than that other person. You laugh with old pals over a silly escapade that doesn't involve your ex at all. You find yourself enjoying the nice weather in a plain and simple way, and momentarily you're actually enchanted with the prospect of going it alone. You start to recognize your own strength again. You think you're getting somewhere at last. And then, as soon as you know what your worth is, you recall to mind the baffling fact that your ex doesn't love you in all your strength and uniqueness and wit and stories and memories. And what good are all the things that make up you, if you are unloved by this one particular person? Then you descend into the sap again. You write poetry and oh, it is so bad you can't even believe you let yourself mark up a piece of innocent paper with such drivel. You start listening to Carole King songs and marvel at her profundity. You reread every single email your beloved ever sent you, even the one asking if you had an extra one-cent stamp handy — you couldn't bear to delete it. You play "your song" over and over again, licking the tears off your face as the melody steamrolls through your heart and flattens it. You walk past the coffee shop where you had your first real conversation together, linger by the window, and dream up the imminent rainy night surprise rendezvous when you'll reunite. A happy couple comes out giggling; you reel back, as though physically assaulted, and then push on through the sunny day that seems to mock your misery. Then comes the big challenge. You have to face this person again, this person that you used to address by a whole dictionary of pet names and now is relegated to the bleak and empty category of EX. Just ex, the former, the past, the no longer, the never again. Ex marks the spot where your heart used to be. It's been long enough now that you can keep yourself together. Your chin doesn't wobble and your eyes don't well up. Then a little voice inside you whispers conspiratorily, Death to dignity! Impale your pride! Throw yourself on the ground and beg for reconciliation! Offer anything you've got, nothing is too valuable, give it all away for free, the more melodramatic the sacrifice the better your chances! But you're armed, thankfully, with that tiny bit of leftover self-respect that won't impale your pride for anyone but God, and you hold out. You act carefree, lighthearted, cheerful, busy, ambitious. Your ex doesn't suspect a thing. You leave, having had the better of the situation, and immediately you convince yourself that your ex is as wounded as you inside and your strength has only made matters worse. You think you should've gone crawling back after all, but instead you really ruined your chances. Your friends see that look of doubt on your face and come to your rescue. It was a narrow escape. A few weeks slip by because you're so buried in work to ease the pain that you don't even notice the time passing. You think you should be recovered by now but you're not. Someone offers the helpful calculus that half the length of the relationship is the amount of time it takes to recover. That discourages you, because it means you're nowhere near through the grieving process yet. You try to deny your ongoing pain. You hide it well. You cry only in secret, only occasionally. You start burning the love letters, commenting on fresh possibilities, joking about your ex's character flaws the way your friends did at the outset. It feels kind of OK. You can put on a tough front to soften the knots in your heart. And then one day it happens. You crack. It hits you with the force of a revelation — all the things this person did wrong to you, all the lies, all the half-truths, all the leadings-on, all the hopes with no promises, all the promises with no fulfillment. You suddenly see that you have no vested interest in defending your ex's character and so you snap to the other extreme: You take that heartless spawn of the devil apart scale by scale, analyzing every error, scrutinizing every fault, until you have mastered the situation. You explode into rage, well-controlled and well-concealed rage. You almost laugh at the calm you exhibit in that person's presence, because all you want to do is reach for that tender throat and rip it out. You want to shout over the loudspeaker your catalog of every injustice committed in your whole relationship and the extraordinary cruelty of the breakup. Your ex can do no right, and after awhile your friends are the ones defending the helpless victim of your wrath, not you, and you get enraged at them too, even if you admit silently to yourself that they have a point. The rage flames hotly, brightly, and briefly. It can't sustain itself for very long. You exhaust yourself with the intensity of your hatred. Then all you have left is pity. You can't hate all those flaws and unkindnesses anymore; your ex is just too pathetic for that. You don't have the energy to despise. You wonder, with the slightest itch of condescension, how this miserable creature is going to make it through life and love in that state. In a rare moment of altruism, you wish you could help. Then you realize you can't. You don't really care. Just as suddenly as you found yourself dumped, just as suddenly as you became angry, just as suddenly as you started to pity, now suddenly you find yourself indifferent. All right, there are those pangs of jealousy whenever you see someone else moving in on your former territory. The kiwi still makes you a little depressed. But your ex — you're OK with saying that now — has lost the claim to your heart. It's your own again. You can see your ex walk by without the desire to breathe poison in that direction; you can flirt with someone else without feeling guilty. Despite the occasional regressions, you know you've moved on. More time passes. You can rationalize the hurt a little better now. You summon up all your faith to your aid and teach yourself all over again that this is in the Almighty's hands. God's will be done, and if in the long run that means someone else for you, so be it. You marvel a little at a world where love is rejected and goes to waste. You wonder if it'll ever be redeemed. You remember all that business about taking up the cross, how glorious and courageous it sounds on paper and in church, and then you realize that you're doing it now and it's not glorious and it doesn't require courage because you don't actually have a choice about it. To make the best of it, you reflect on all the lessons you've learned. You know something new about communication, something new about the opposite sex, and something new about yourself. You don't regret it, you say again and again. You'd do the same thing all over again, it was totally worth it, no remorse. But you know in the secret depths of your heart that no one could pay you enough to go through it again, and you won't do it again, and you'll keep your heart safe this time. And you wonder how much longer things have to go on like this.

54 Minutes

I was on the phone with someone for 54 minutes last week, and 54 minutes was all I could take. At some point during the conversation, the person said, "I'm working on being a better listener. Sometimes I have to be reminded, though. So, you can tell me when I'm talking too much." And I thought, "No, I can't.

"There's no point in it. When you do pause in your monologue long enough to ask me something, you don't truly seem to care about my perspective on it. You're digging for information, then relate what I've said to something that applies to you, and the monologue resumes."

During the 54 minutes, I got my kitchen cleaned up, took the trash out, checked Facebook, etc. And then, I was done.

"Okay," I said abruptly. "I'm gonna go do some other stuff." The person then asked questions about my life; I answered them briefly, said goodbye, and ended the conversation.

A while later, I was listening to a podcast in which the teacher happened to be talking about being quiet enough to listen to God. We tend to prattle on and fill our lives with spiritual and emotional noise, and really just need to [shhhhh] and wait on Him.

And...I got it. He doesn't want to just tolerate us--for 54 minutes or longer or shorter. He doesn't want to have to interrupt our thread in order to say something important from Him. We'd probably miss it anyway, because we're still too focused on our own thing. He wants us to want relationship with Him, to want to listen to Him, to think that He may say something interesting or important.

Thanks for the lesson, my 54-minute-friend!

Lessons

I emailed him last week.

You would have done anything for me. What changed? You don't have to answer that. I just had to ask.

And he responded.

What I got from his message was that he didn't have a peace about us. He had started to withdraw, but hoped that feeling would go away. It didn't. I noticed its effects. When I asked about them, his explanation led to our breakup.

So if I'm reading him right, it's not that there was anything wrong with me (he was sincerely complimentary in his message; it's contrary to his nature to be insincere, which was something I loved about him)....and there wasn't anything wrong with him. But God...didn't ordain us.

And...I get that.

When I was a kid and wanted to do things, Mom at times declined my request. When I fought her, she sometimes had a lame excuse and other times explained, "I just don't have a good feeling about it." It sounds strange if you haven't experienced it, but I had a nudge from the Holy Spirit that said something like, "Respect this." I _knew_ I shouldn't push her on it. And often, later, I found out that it would not have been good if I had done such activity. I've had those same "feelings," myself. They're not "feelings" in terms of my own wanting to do something, but feelings that come from "nowhere" and that I have a supernatural confidence in.

God had been prepping me before "the" conversation with Gimli. I don't know if it was a "this relationship is not to be" feeling, or a "he's not going to go through with this" feeling. If it was the former, I didn't want to believe it. If it was the latter...I didn't want to believe that, either. So in the last couple weeks, I started praying. "God, if you don't want this relationship to be, please break it off. Have him break it off, because I can't."

So when he wrote in his message about not having peace, I understood--at least to the point of not being able to go forward with something one doesn't have peace about...not about why we weren't "right."

The lessons part:

• If you don't have peace about something, pray pray pray about it! What's causing the unrest? And, firstly, face that unrest. Take it to the King. Better, sooner.
  

• I love Gimli more after his email than I did while we were dating. That probably sounds twisted, but I respect him for putting his desire for rightness with God before his affection for me. I also think about his actions--how he was respectful to me as a woman, and how he, even withdrawing, still treated me better than...any other boyfriend.
  
  
• Why..._not_ us? It was an honorable relationship. Christian brothers and sisters thought we were perfect for each other. We integrated well with each other's families. I gave him the reins to co-lead my Bible study, and we fell into roles we were designed for; he talked us through the message and cross-referenced Scripture, and I was the administrative assistant. We were reaching out to international students/colleagues to whom he was connected; this fulfilled my need to reach out to those who don't fit in. What...what...?
  
• I realized today that I hadn't been writing. Maybe because everything was so peachy, maybe because the stuff that bothered me wasn't something I could put out publicly on a blog, maybe because I could just tell him all the goods and bads, maybe because I was lazy. But I am...meant to write. And I've had a hard time this past semester just sitting and being quiet. This post was prompted by a rather vehement letter from B, who voiced her protectiveness toward me and jerkiness of Gimli. (He's not a jerk, B. I probably made him sound like one, and for that I'm sorry. It was his further explanation that clarified things. But I love you for caring and for being angry for me!) I figured I should give an update, so here it is. Rarely have I sat so long, so quietly in my beautiful apartment. Restlessness...it, also, keeps me from writing. Perhaps I need to conquer that, commit to writing, and then...?
• It took about three months of a lot of togetherness for me to want to include others in my hang-out times with Gimli. Maybe three and a half. Mostly that was because I didn't want us to be isolated. But really, I was content with just him. However, _that's_ not what I'm called to. Perhaps God has given me this singleness to ensure that I reach out to those I have always had a penchant for--the abused, neglected, and misunderstood. I need a mate who is as committed to outreach to that arena as I am/should be. And Gimli did that when I hosted a movie night in my building...but when the movie was done, I didn't have any huge urge to converse with the others. I did little community-building that night. Gimli was my refuge, and I looked forward to being in his arms. I didn't feel the needs of the others because I was looking toward mine being met. Ouch.
  
  
• I cried on the floor to God. "Teach me what You want so I don't have to go through this lesson again!" I am amazed at how one so stubborn can be so weak.
  
  
• I miss Gimli.
  

Guess I Needed That Stud Finder After All

My Bible study had our White Elephant Christmas Party last week. I drew first, and got a studfinder. Handy. And on the back was a picture of one of our guys. He's not the most "ladies' man" as far as descriptions go, which made his gall even funnier. One of the other members of our group "stole" the gift, but I was later able to "steal" it back.

"What do you need a studfinder for?" someone asked. "You've already got your stud!"

As it's turned out in the past few days, I don't.

I lose Gimli, I lose one of my best friends, and I lose my favorite boyfriend ever.

I am...a loser.

Maybe God's working on me with a pride issue. I lose face, along with the guy. How do I explain my newly reacquired singleness after four and a half months of amazing compatibility? How do I tell everyone who thought we would get married that...I wasn't enough for him? That he couldn't make a committment to me, so he decided to walk away before he took my heart in further?

What...is wrong...with me?

My pastor mentioned "young women in love" this morning, and what he hears sometimes at premarital counseling. He'll ask, "Why do you want to marry him?" and a woman will respond with, "He completes me," "He makes me happy," etc. The pastor winces. He won't always make you happy; he can't complete you.

As the pastor talked about that, I assessed my relationship with Gimli. He has made me happy...but moreso, I liked who he is. I liked his trustworthiness, generosity, protectiveness, easy-goingness... I liked his godliness and his striving toward a closer relationship with the King. I liked who I was when I was around him.

The pastor then said that one point of marriage is to grow in the Lord--*And,* he laughed, *to learn to love unconditionally--even when that person doesn't seem lovable!*

And I...had gotten some of that, in my time with Gimli. I could commit to making it work.

But he...can't.