Last Shift

February 9^th, 2017.

I wasn't ready to share this before. And then I wasn't able to type much for a long time. But here.

I just worked my last ever shift as a cashier. I laughed with people, I ran for people, I circled things on receipts for them. When the people were gone, and I wiped down the surfaces again, I kept hearing myself whisper, “Goodbye.”

Goodbye, metal counter. Goodbye, ray-gun. Goodbye, red laser well. Goodbye, ugly phone.

My Collin told me, when I cried quitting our first teaching job, that you can lose a place, but you never lose the person you became for it. I can lose my store, but I can’t lose me.

I was never cut out for this.

I never got “mentally tough.” 

I never learned to read 100% which people wanted me to not be a person that day. I never stopped being a person.

I never got where I didn’t make mistakes. My speed and efficacy were directly dependent on how much caffeine was in my system, and I wondered frequently if I’d handed back a check or a coupon or someone’s $20 and whether I’d have a job in two weeks.

I was never good enough, but that was okay. Because every interaction, every glob of change, I was reaching out for help. I was thanking Him for every chance I had to be here, praying for the things I couldn’t fix, asking for help fixing what I had. It got to be where every moment became worship, and every hour fed my battered soul.

I was never cut out for this job, but I gave my all, and it was good enough.

It matters, because I know what’s next, and I'm not cut out for it either. I get scared. I’ve watched me fall like a house of cards.

The thing is, maybe I'm never going to be enough. And maybe that's okay.

Maybe I can go on without being enough. 

When to Buy Black Lipstick

When I was a teenager, we had a crazy youth pastor. Not “he has green hair” crazy but “he is vilifying that particular, already marginalized kid” crazy. The kind of guy who has one emo kid in his youth group of maybe seven, so he does a presentation to the entire church about the evils of goth…in which he mostly shows pictures of punk bands with no relevant scripture.

I wasn’t the rebellious kid. I was the kid trying so hard it hurt. That’s the thing I’m ashamed of: that I wanted so badly for Crazy Youth Pastor to be right. I wanted him to give me the excuse I needed to believe that I was okay, and that kid- the kid who made trouble, the kid who made people angry, the kid who probably clung for comfort to his black leather and chains the way I compulsively layered and denim-hoarded- to be evil.

We all knew Crazy Pastor was wrong, on pretty much everything. When he left the room, we admitted he was wrong. But we did nothing. We were respectful. And we just sat there.

I’ve sat quietly while someone slandered me out of my job. I’ve held my tongue, terrified, and let things happen that still give me flashbacks and anxiety attacks. But if I could live through my entire, hellish adolescence again, I wouldn’t do it to scream and fight the people who attacked my body or humiliate the people who lied to my face. I would to go back, and buy black lipstick.

It’s one thing to be silent while people hurt you. It’s another thing to let them hurt people you’re supposed to love. Leaders do deserve respect, but they shouldn’t be allowed to hound and attack and vilify the people who need us.

It would have embarrassed my mum. It would have enraged my dad. But maybe it would have made a difference.

Teens? Don’t be younger me, so eager to be good that you miss what good is. Don’t think that the opinion of the people around you is going to matter- you can do your best and get ostracized with no explanation, anyway. (I did- maybe my denim shrouds were too sensual.) But be the kind of person that 25-year-old you can look back on and be glad to have been. 

There’s a time for teenage “rebellion,” for honest resistance. There’s a time for refusing to let the ideals of evil people define you. There’s a time for standing up and telling people they’re wrong when they will only hate you for it.

That’s when to buy black lipstick.

The Surprising Thing about Being in Love

I thought I’d remember your freckles. That’s what I thought love would be like; I’d become a GPS of the little marks of you, a homing pigeon navigating by birthmarks like stars. I thought the warm, brown shapes on your skin would be familiar to me like the tree I’d climbed every day, or the kitten I’d raised.

But I can’t remember them. I shut my eyes when you’re not here, and I can’t find them anymore. So I navigate by scars.

Leaving the airport, I trace that mark on your hand from when you were a baby, touch the score in your dimple from the dog you forgave for biting your face. In the drivers’ seat of your car, I trace the line on your collar bone from when you helped someone move, the web of scarring on your lower back from carrying too much too far.

I find myself at cash registers touching the mark on the back of your heel from that awful pair of boots, or the cut on your shoulder from a box of rifles. I go over your shoulders, your abdomen, the bottom of your foot; like it’s a prayer I go over you. And when your face seems like something I made up, when even my photographs seem blurry and there’s no way you could exist for real and love me, I reach out and find your scars.

When you step off the plane with new white nicks on your knuckles, another mark on your back and the same smile in your eyes, I hold your arm and wait for my heart to come back from apart. And when you’re away again, for a day, for an hour, I close my eyes and trace our journey in your scars.

So You Lost All Your Money- an exercise in self-talk

Okay. So things kind of suck for you right now.

You'd just saved up the money for the thing- the really big thing- and then it happened. It happened and it is taking all the money away. And you are a responsible adult who should be happy to have this money saved so it can fly through your fingers, but you're not. It's not fun to have money fly away. You are not a rapper, and throwing money at car mechanics or medical agencies is not fun. It feels like throwing all the time you spent working away.

This is, what? the fourth time this has happened. The fourth time you got close to The Big Thing. You were kind of wondering if maybe you should spend the money on something other than The Big Thing, something more adult, when something more adult came smashing through the window.

Last time you were angry. Last time you felt like maybe God had it in for you. Now you just feel a little hollow.

It's okay to cry. You worked really hard. You were just working on something different than you thought. You thought it was The Big Thing, and instead it was this needed thing. You feel a little cheated, huh? Maybe if you stopped making plans and hoping and wanting, this couldn't happen anymore. You could just work and pay the disaster, work and pay the disaster. But when you stop dreaming it gets really heavy to work hard.

Maybe you could dream smaller. Maybe you don't need The Big Thing.

Crap, did your heart just break? It just broke a little. Crap, come here. Just...hug and rock for a second. No, it's not permanent; your heart's broken lots of times. It'll heal up, just...eat right, okay? Eat right and rest a second. Breathe.

What's hurting you isn't having to wait again for The Big Thing. You've had that disappointment so many times it's almost a phantom ache, like hope is an amputated limb you don't remember reaching with. What hurts is the feeling that you're not getting anywhere. What hurts is the idea that all the hours and days and weeks you've poured in were...

Whoa, don't break on me. When you veer off course, I- you're right.

What hurts isn't the idea that those hours were wasted. It's not even the idea that you haven't made any progress. You know that's not true. You know you made a difference in people's lives. You know you're learning and getting stronger. You can look down at your body, your soul, and see the difference. You are becoming more the person you want to be, and I'm grateful for you.

What hurts is the idea that somehow wanting was wrong, hoping was wrong, and the punishment for wanting something is having all the money ripped out of your grasp. Have you been evil squirreling money away? Have you been foolish to avoid spending money on sodas, to pick up pennies on the sidewalks and cry out "For the house!" Was God displeased that you wanted something? That you hoped?

Did you somehow get away from God's plan by trying hard?

I don't have the answers. I'm you, and my heart's breaking.

Scratch that; I do have answers.

Trying hard isn't wrong. Killing yourself trying hard is. God said not to chase after wealth, because it just flies away. It feels like that, doesn't it? But wanting to accomplish things isn't bad. Your wanting seemed so small and so right. Good tools to do good. A hidey-hole to make a home. You shouldn't have spent $8 on that shirt. It's that kind of wastefulness that gets us into these situations. ...Joy, we couldn't buy a transmission with $8. You only spent $8. You haven't bought clothes in like a year. You spent $8. You won't do it again. Crap, don't cry, that was supposed to be empowering. You won't do it again, and you'll have $8 instead of a shirt.

Wait, wait, finish that verse. God said not to exhaust yourself trying to get money, because while they slept He provided for those He loves.

You're someone He loves.

Right now it feels like everything is flying apart, but Joy? Your job isn't the money. Your job is serving the King who does supply your needs, even for Big Things, at just the right time.

I still believe in you. Even when you need the same blog post you wrote 7 months ago 7 months later. So perk up, cry when you need to, but start thanking the God who has this under control.

And when it happens again 7 months from now, because dreams are big and life is hard, you can read this blog again. I won't hold it against you.

How to Glare at Young Couples

Young couples occasionally screw up, so let's not encourage commitment. Instead, all young couples shall be cast into the wilderness, so that if they screw up, they won't get any of their failure on us.  

It's also a good idea to glare at anyone youngish if they hold hands in a public place. Premature sex could hurt them, so make sure they feel the full opprobrium of our society for this act if they so much as smile at each other. Ugh. How disgusting to smile at a best friend you want to spend your life with, am I right?

Glaring if they smile will DEFINITELY help them know the correct boundaries and avoid hurting themselves. Keep glaring. I bet you're really, really helping them.

In case they don't properly commit and they break up, discourage them, so when they break up, YOU'RE not responsible. At the same time, if they mention marriage, remind them that they should wait till they're financially sound.

Remember, only 30-year-old people have the right to make life commitments. You have to be rich to have a family. Poor young people have no business reproducing.

People who want a romantic partner and don't yet have one can be made sad by seeing people in healthy relationships. This can be solved by taking anyone who does find a romantic partner and casting them out of society ASAP.

Teaching them to be sensitive and love on their single friends will not work. I tell you, happy couples are poison to single people and we just need to get rid of them.

What if your children see a happy young couple and consider them role models? They might become a couple and want a family and then we'd have to glare at them.

I mean, if they were young. Wait till they're ancient and have put off commitment for ages, THEN bug them to go make a family.

(If they have wrinkles, we'll even let them hold hands after the correct 18 month waiting period.)

By shoving all young or young-looking couples into a wilderness of glaring and isolation, we can best encourage commitment, create strong friendships, and support the strong marriages and myriad grandchildren that we want, even if those grandchildren had to be defrosted from test tubes because we taught people to wait until their eggs had all dried up.

If we just wait to support anyone till we're SURE they're not going to fail, we'll all get everything we wanted and puppies will rain from the sky and yes, this is satire and I am attacking this because, God have mercy on me, until 2 years ago I WAS these people.

Guys. Let's nurture. I thought I'd wait till I was old, but I can't.

And my hair is like, turning white already, so.

The Rental Car

The insurance agency was kind enough to rent me a car of the same make as the one that crumpled into a paper ball on hitting mine.

I climbed in, cried, drove a little- for pity's sake, none of the pedals worked like mine- pulled over, cried more. I shouted, "I hate this, but it doesn't matter. If it mattered, they wouldn't have hit me with a car." I drove home through a 30 mph zone, screaming in horror most of the way. Crap, my brain is broken.

When I got home, I said, "I hate you, but we're going to be friends." I learned all her buttons and dials, and then I saw the odometer on the dashboard, and she only had 30,000 miles on her. I don't think I'd ever seen a car with that little. My voice broke. "Oh. You're only a wee baby. You're just a little baby."

I sat there. "...it's okay. We'll be friends. We'll be friends."

Junkyard Adventure

Need therapy?

Walk past the high junk-yard fence. She's staring at you, still gray and sleek, still friendly. Still looking just like home. You don't notice that the backseat isn't straight, don't see the way she's bent and jammed. From the front she still looks pretty. Tell her so. Say, "Darlin', you still look pretty." It's okay for your voice to crack. Who cares if the paramedic told you not to cry? If you were to do it again, you would cry as much as you wanted.

Talk to the tiny, goblin-like man who hides behind the grate. He'll tell you as the owner of the car, THE car, your only car, you're the only one who can go into the junkyard. You look small. Your mother and the burly man with you say they'll be on the other side of the high fence, the one topped with three strands of barbed wire. The gate is wide open. Anyone could have come in and touched her pretty, silver paint, stolen the hard candies that, in the darkness after the crash, you left under the seats. Your team laugh and smile like it's a joke. You're not alone. You've got back-up. They hand you the screwdrivers, and walk off. Give the little man your papers through the barred window of the fortified hut. Wait while he photocopies them, alone.

Perhaps it's better that you do this alone.

The charred and crumpled shells of cars are so close together, you can hardly open the door of yours. So many of the cars are blackened and blistered. Your crash wasn't so bad. She's still silver. You feel a little surge of pride because, compared to everything else in this lot, in this cemetary of wheels and dreams, she is still a tank. That's why you're still here.

Her license plate- YOUR license plate- is curled under from where the girl hit you so hard that even your tank curled its tail underneath. There are scratches on her spare tire cover. You get down on the ground, examine the one screw holding on your plate, fumble with the screwdrivers too big for your hands. You lean on the ground to leverage yourself down, and pain bites. There's blood; scratches and slices over your palm. Blue-green glass litters the ground, like a snowfall of sapphires. You kneel, hoping your knees and feet won't follow your hands. You wore sandals here. That's what a noob you are.

With your bleeding hands, you unscrew your scratched, bent, shredded license plate, and as you stare at it, there is this little piece of victory, the first piece since the crash seemed to take everything you had. They can take your beautiful car. They can slam into you and make everything hurt. They can force you to stay on the empty road for three hours and speak to bored cop after foul-mouthed cop and tell you not to cry, but this piece of shredding metal? This is yours, because you took this back. It will go on your next space ship, on your next, glorious vehicle that you will keep running against the odds, and they can't take it from you. It's readable.

You use your key- you rescued this, that night, remember? You were a little bit a hero- you fished it from the fabric surrounding your spare tire- you use your key and pry her open. You manage not to dent the green car beside you. That is someone else's baby car. Someone else loves her, and will come for her corpse.

It's okay to tell her she's been a good girl. You know cars don't have souls, that she isn't alive, but your heart doesn't believe it.

Pull every piece of your life from her wreckage.

Rob the peppermints from where they were rocketed under the seats, pull out each trivia card from beneath the carpeting, from where the wreck shoved them into the window-rims. Scavenge your rainy-day ketchup packets from the glove box, and rip up the seats so you can stick that one dime in your pocket. Pull out the radio- it feels like you're cutting out her heart- pull out the radio, and figure out (you've never seen this before) how to disconnect the wires. The last one, you have to break. You're strong enough. When you have every dime and peppermint, every ketchup packet, that crummy blue pen and the one, forgotten silver fork, when there isn't a scrap of homework left and the radio, trailing it's limp heart-strings, is stuffed in your bag with your scavenged license plate, climb over the rocked and crooked seats, and pick up the jack.

Lift it over the fence, and hand it through the barbed wire.

As you walk away, carrying your wiring and your ketchup packets and even the cigarette lighter, because hey, why not keep your cigarette lighter, for a little while you don't feel like a victim trapped on a highway, like a person whose back still aches from the impact of a single thoughtless act that crushed a world and whose key-chain has lost the best key. You feel like a sci-fi heroine who can walk into a junkyard and rip out her own ship's heart.

Everything might still suck, but hey. You're not totally helpless.

You have a license plate.