It's been a while.
Nine months, in fact. That's completely by coincidence; I was not busy reproducing, thank goodness.
You know, I've written dozens - literally dozens - of blog posts these past nine months. They sit like ghosts in the drafts section of blogger somberly. They litter the yellow pages of my notepad that curl together like old wall paper. They're scattered in various areas of my life: scrawled between conjugations of Spanish verbs in a binder, written on my phone or computer, saved on google drive. I've said them in my own head hundreds of times. But in the end, every single time, I couldn't write.
I have dozens of these half-written posts. Some are better than others. Some are probably ridiculous. Some, depending on my mood, may reflect the writings from a recluse or the ramblings of a young woman who can successfully consume an entire 24 pack of Dr. Pepper in less than 12 hours.
(Don't do that).
If you're seeing this post, that means I finally wrote enough of something to be posted. I hope you see this post. I think to do that, though, I can't really give an explanation of why I was away. Of why my blog was starved of posts for so long.
You all know, sometimes life happens. Sometimes it's easy and beautiful and pretty simple; sometimes it knocks you onto your knees. Flat onto your back, your lungs screeching at you for air.
In its varying forms, life is happening, always. And for me these past 9, I couldn't justify writing coming from me. I can't give you cohesive reasons, or the story behind it, or words, mostly because it feels like it's still happening, or because I don't have the words yet. Maybe I do, but sometimes to find them is one of the most unsure and miraculous discoveries I ever do.
But I know, firmly, a few things. I want to give you firm things to hold onto. Cling to, like the way I always imagine baby lemurs clinging to trees. Or the way my little sisters seems to become one with my leg whenever someone new makes her shy for the rare times in her life. Or, if you are like me, these truths are something that exist like waves against a seashore. Sometimes gentle, sometimes hard, sometimes flooding, sometimes merciless or to beautiful to seem real - they are waves that change, but, without fail, always come back to you all the same.
Here's the first one. For some of you this might be totally unnescceary. If so, I am so full of joy for you. But for some of you, this truth may be something you don't personally believe to be true for you, or something you wish desperately to have prescience in your life.
You deserve to have people in your life.
I don't have a direct bible verse saying this, just so you know. But one thing I do see in the bible repeatedly, over and over, is that we - human beings - were not meant to be alone. I see it in Adam and Eve. I see it in Jesus having 12 disciples. In the prophets, in God's promises. I see it all the time. We are not meant to be alone.
You deserve people in your life who love you the way you deserve to be loved. Love that is kind and patient and unfailing. People who will bear your burdens and allow you to bear theirs.
I spent my summer mostly alone. My mother, slightly affectionately, slightly concernedly, referred to me as a hermit, feigning surprise whenever I emerged from our basement.
While occasionally humorous, the reality wasn't funny, especially if you struggle with anxiousness. Not that my mother was mocking my anxiety, of course, but my isolation was a definite reality. And then college began. You'd think it be hard to be alone in college, but you can successfully isolate yourself anywhere, even in a room full of people.
Anyway. This began to change this semester when I befriended my friend Leslie, who has become one of the humans I am closest to on this planet. I do have many amazing, wonderful friends at Mississippi College, don't get me wrong, but Leslie became the friend I talked to every day, without fail, who encouraged me, and the person who I finally was honest with about everything. She came alongside me and supported me, and our friendship has been a beautiful reminder of why friendships exist. We can't do this alone. We're not meant to.
I needed someone patient enough to listen to me, because I don't talk about my struggles much. I needed someone to tell me to buckle up. I needed someone to draw me out of myself, away from me, to make me laugh or encourage me. We need people in our lives who make us better, who remind us of what can be, of who we are designed to be. That we are worth listening to. Worth befriending. Worth loving. I still don't really believe it or understand why she wants to hang out with me. But you need people you continually tell you that they love you, that you are wonderful and beautiful and fun and worthy, until you start to believe it for yourself. It took Leslie and two other friends, Ashley and Amy, to remind me of that.
Reminded me that I have a voice worth hearing. Stories worth telling. A laugh, while slightly annoying, worth letting.
They reminded me, every day, who I was. Who I am. They drew me away from me, for moments, then hours, day by day, to now, at a later time and much later date, I can fully say to them what I need and want to, what is on my mind, what's weighing down my heart, what made me laugh that day.
These three are just the beginning, I think. They were the perfect openers for this, for me being reminded that it's okay for me to be loved and have relationships with other humans. I have so many others, some are far away, states away, but always answer texts and phone calls. Some are mothers and brothers and step-fathers, grandmothers, sisters, aunts and uncles who gather me up into strong arms every few months and love me through the internet while I'm gone. Some are the friendships I have now, even at MC, that are here, just waiting for me to be vulnerable, to be me, to seek out and form new relationships with people.
I have been reminded of how much freedom I can have, that I can have joy. That I can be a friend, hopefully a good one.
So I guess the other truth is that something along the lines of be vulnerable. Be real. Obviously, not with every single person you meet on the street. Unlike Gabbie, circa age 5, you cannot believe that every single human being is your best friend. But that doesn't mean you have to lie or exclude yourself, or hide.
The end to this post (that is actually ending! Gasp! I still can't believe it; I won't until I actually click "post") will be a story told to me by someone who cares for me a lot.
Here we go.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in the desert. She did not have a home. During the day, it was hot and dry and bright; during the day she was safe. But at night, it was cold and wild animals would prowl around her. Every single night the little girl managed to make her way through the nights. She always managed somehow or another to survive. One day some people came to her desert and saw her. They told the little girl: "let us help you! Let us build you a house, so that you have somewhere safe to be, with a door that opens and closes. To protect you from the cold and the wild animals."
But the little girl shook her head, assuring them that she was fine. She refused to let them build her a house and survived the next night alone in the desert.
After many days of asking, the little girl finally realized that she wanted more than just to survive every night. She couldn't even enjoy her days because she was so tired from fighting off the wild animals each night. So, she finally asked and allowed the people to build her a house.
Soon, the people around the little girl had built her a small little home to protect her during her nights. The little girl could go in and shut the door behind her. She could open it and allow people in. She could be warm and safe and rest. Her whole life was no longer merely her trying to survive.
The little girl in this story, when it was told to me, was me.
The house was one of prayer. I had to let people into my life, to allow them to care for and love me. To build up a house of prayer and protection around me, a place where I could live, because the world is cold sometimes. And dark. And full of wild animals.
Let people in. Let them build you a house, especially when you cannot build one for yourself. But you have to let them.
Let them.
Life is supposed to be more than just surviving. Than purely existing.
Thrive. Write. Seek truth. Tell it to yourself. Surround yourself with people who speak truth into you. Read, pray, and ask. Ask. Let yourself believe that you deserve them, and that you deserve that house, for your own sake.
Because, frankly, without that house your life is really only concerned with yourself. Maybe you don't mean to be selfish, but when you're only focused on your own survival, you can't get the rest required to love others. So let them love and build your house for you, and then, who knows? Maybe one day you will have a hand in building all the homes in the desert around you.
Much love,
gabbie
P.S. Before I go. Shoutout to all of you who still swung by my blog during this time. Even after 9 months, for whatever reason, some of you found reasons to check every day to see if I had anything to say. I do, and I will. But thank you. I'm sorry I was silent for so long.
Shoutout to all the people, whether at MC or Illinois or Portland, or in the dorm room next to me, or at my church, who continually help build my house for me. The small ways, the big ways, and for convincing me that I needed a place to sleep.
Last shoutout, pinky promise: to those of you wandering in a desert, tired and working hard to survive, alone. The story above? You're the main character. You deserve a house. You were made, I firmly believe, to glorify the Lord and enjoy Him forever. You were made to honor and to experience joy.
Let people build you a house. Ask God to bring the people, the friends, the builders to you. I did. He did.
Get yourself a house, kid. You're too precious not to.
Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.
Isaiah 43:19
