disclaimer: it's very long. i mean it. but, please, don't let that deter you. and a second part to the disclaimer. i'm giving you yet another look at the work in progress i am. i'm telling ya, even when i'm not too happy about it, i'm learning what this thing called life is all about. and i'm going to be honest. so with that in mind...
Crazy how taking a drive, walking through a foot of snow to the edge of Lake Michigan, and freeing your mouth and lungs from the restraints of common decency can really be a sort of therapy.
Although it wasn't humorous to me at the time, I can't help but shake my head and smirk as I picture what the lone seagull 50 yards away witnessed on the snow covered shore of Lake Michigan monday afternoon.
Really quick. There is this thing here called "lake effect." The lake effect leaves the lakeshore cities with significantly more snow than GR. When I left, GR had no snow on the ground nor in the air. But on my drive down to Holland, the amount of snow in both spheres gradually increased until I was in a foot of snow and the snow flakes fell thickly... looking more like a block of styrofoam was sent through that thing in the fridge that changes your cubed ice to crushed.
The very sight of me should have sent the seagull off to round up his buddies for a quality comedy hour.
Only my eyes were visible, for my head was hidden beneath two hoods cinched tightly. My gloveless hands wouldn't dare leave my coat pockets and face the icy wind any more than a child would dare to leave his room and face his mom after breaking the neighbor's window. The pant legs of my jeans were bunched up to the middle of my shins. And those Napolean Dynamite-esque boots I intended to part with and donate to the salvation army came in handy one last time. I threw them on in haste and out of fear of frozen toes.
I didn't even bother to tuck my jeans into my boots. I had an appointment with God, and I wasn't about to fuss over proper looking pant legs.
The seagull likely saw the lone set of footprints in the snow originating from the single car in the parking lot, traversing through the wooden fences, and ending at the feet of the individual standing at the lake's edge.
I had trudged through the deep snow with eyes fixed on the lake. God knew I was coming, He knew I was angry.
You know how, on TV, one of the characters gets really angry and storms into the office where the unsuspecting soon-to-be-accused individual is sitting, reading the newspaper? And the cinematography of the scene works in a very specific way:
The camera tracks the anger-driven approach of the accuser and then cuts away to the defendant looking up from the day's headlines with a look of "what the hell is going on/I don't know what happened, but she is convinced I did it."
And of course, not a word is spoken until the fuming accuser arrives at the desk of the clueless individual who is bracing himself for something major.
That's when the accuser throws a file on the desk and the audience gasps because they know the secret is out. The defendant looks at the file and then up at the scowling woman, who at that point has tears pushing the maximum holding capacity of her eyes. He is speechless because he can't figure out how in the world she managed to get her hands on the file that exposed his true identity as an alien-born professional ice cream man involved in a major drug scandal.
This is where we cut away to a commercial break... naturally.
And when we return, they are still staring at each other in silence, and before he can utter the words, "I can explain," she bursts into undecipherable yells and threats, thinking their relationship could never recover from such a breach of trust...
...even though she is prego with his brother's child. gasp!
Now that I've gotten carried away (and exposed the plot of every single soap opera ever written), I will continue.
That angry girl.. that was me (minus the prego part). I marched up to the edge of the lake, a file of grievances against God in hand, ready to just give it to Him. But I knew that God wasn't unsuspecting of my arrival... after all, I had told him during my first class of the day that I was going to be coming and that I was going to give him a piece of my mind. It wouldn't be fair to just spring something like that on Him.
That brought me to the lake's edge, staring out at the choppy waters. It was the first time I had ever seen waves, actual surfable waves, on Lake Michigan. And I was glad to hear the waves... it was good background noise for what I was about to do.
It also added to the dramatic atmosphere. Essential.
Standing there, just staring, I wondered where to begin. That's when the seagull would have seen the individual in black meijer snowboots begin to pace back and forth in the snow, blazing a 15-foot long of path from the repeated treading on and packing of the fresh snow.
You have to understand something about me. When it comes to confrontation, I'd much rather write out my beefs with people--if I was angry at someone, I'd prefer to write it down, hand it to them, and stand there as they read it rather than just think and talk off the top of my head.
And that is why I wished there was a massive dry-erase board or magna-doodle on the beach that I could write in really large print on (really large print signifying yelling, of course). But my lungs were tired of not being involved in my methods of venting, and so I stopped for a moment and uttered the first word: "Why?"
I know... way to come out swinging, Cristina.
But really.
I was surprised at how good it felt to say it--not think it--say it. So I said it a bit louder... and again, louder, and then again, with my Italian tendency to involve my hands in a dramatic manner. The seagull probably thought I was just a crazy human trying to fly away or something.
As the pacing resumed, eerily and worriedly familiar thought started flowing.
This is a good point to stop and say what exactly spurred the spontaneous trip to Holland.
To be frank and sum it up in a few words: fear, suffering, and frustration.
Fear that some things might never come. Fear of not being accepted, of not being significant. Fear of losing friends, and that my family and friends didn't understand just how much they meant to me, how much I loved them.
Suffering in the form of stress, in the form of heartache. Suffering as the result of empathizing the pains both past and present of those I loved, and feeling like I couldn't help.
And frustration--oh the frustration. Frustrated with my inability to handle all this normally. Frustrated with my insecure and jealous tendencies that lead me to thrive off the equation of attention equaling acceptance... equaling happiness.
Well now.
I seem to have created some awkward tension tantamount to the awkward tension found in an advanced drawing class that is having its first day of nude models as the subject of the assignment. Think about it--for the first time models and the freshman who was only in this class because of a scheduling mis-hap, that's gotta have
some awkward tension.
But.
Moving on.
With all that stuff flying through my mind, leading my argument with the word "why" seemed to be just fine.
If it didn't make me sound crazy, I'd tell you that the seagull shouted an "amen" in agreement with and support of the profundity that my thesis provided.
But that would make me sound crazy.
The pacing resumed, as did a stream of words and tears that turned into mini salt-slushies because of the freezing temps. I didn't want to pace anymore--I was tired. The waves captured my attention, and I just stood there. Numb. Both from the extreme cold and from pouring out all that was bottled up. The painful grievances were momentarily laying out in the snow, being caught up in the waves, on God's desk, waiting for an explanation.
God! You know how much my heart aches for this. You know how hard I try to be patient, how hard it is to convince myself that I am not defective. You know how hard it is to not feel left out, to try and trust your "wonderful" plan for me.
You know how much I want to believe that.
But right now... I don't.
Ya, people say you know what you're doing, that you don't want me to get hurt.
Well, hate to break it to ya, but I'm hurting right now. Can you just give me a break here?
I'm begging you. Please.
You know my heart. You know how much the word "hurt" is an understatement. You know how I feel when I am aware of what I lack. You know that I'm not seeing a bright side to all this.
Some of this stuff I'm getting all worked up over--I know, it's petty, it's lame. Other people are angry at you for the loss of a loved one, for the cancer they've been diagnosed with, for shattered dreams. I understand how selflish I probably sound. But. It still hurts.
God. Please. Can't you just help me out here? Am I wrong in all this?
In a way, yelling at God was one of the most satisfying things, one of the best things to do at that very moment.
Arguing with, yelling at, and questioning God all seem to be taboos. Yes, we are told that it is okay to do those things, but I've rarely heard of someone encouraging it, saying it's healthy, it helps.
It helps, yes... but it doesn't fix.
I was still angry. But I was no longer
just angry. It felt like I had actually gotten somewhere, made progress, ready for the next step of sorting out this mess.
And that dang cliche knocked on my heart again:
"It's all a part of God's plan. You can't see it right now, but He knows what He's doing."
I absolutely hate it.... can't stand it... because it's so true... and not only is it true, but it puts me in my place, and then it reminds me of God's place.
Think of when kids get assigned to do a chore... like the dishes. They are not happy about it, and they'll make sure you know it. They'll do the dishes, for you are higher up in household rank. But as they "obey" they clink the dishes super loud, shove the utensils loudly into the dish washer, slam the cupboard, all while wearing an angry look of disgust on their face.
That's like me when I am reminded of my place in life that God has planned. I'll admit that God is indeed in control, but then I'll casually mention to Him that I currently think that this part of the plan sucks and needs revising.
I think God handles bluntness rather well.
And while I hate not knowing "why," I can't help but be reminded that God has the bird's eye view in this whole thing.
And He has proven that to me in the past... many times.
I walked back to the car and looked back at the lake. What was once a single lonely set of footprints as I had stood by the lake shore was now accompanied by the returning set of foot prints.
And of course, another cliche knocked me upside the head: that whole "Footprints in the Sand" poem thing.
I looked up to where the snow was still falling from and immaturely pointed out to God...
"Ok, I get it. But this is
different. it's snow... not sand... and I'm still not happy with you."
I got in the car, started the engine, and couldn't help but say one last thing.
"I guess I'm just going to have to trust you on this one.
but remember... I'm still not happy."
What better cliche verse to end a cliche lesson than Prov 3:5?
"Trust in the LORD with all your heart, lean not on your own understanding."
I wanted to share this because 1) it means a lot to me 2) i hope some of you can find some sort of comfort in knowing that this happens to more people than just you 3) it really is funny sometimes how we fuss over these things. that's why i try to keep the tone light... life is funny... even in the dark.
