Twenty-Five Years of Dust

I'm reflecting on the tender mercies of God this morning. I probably should not share this but...in the interest of some degree of transparency, here I go. I have struggled with anxiety most of my life, but in recent years to a degree that, at times, was a bit mind-bending. Fast-forward to this past weekend.

I traveled over four hours from my home in Knoxville, Tennessee to Auburn University in Auburn, Alabama with my husband for a football game. He's a graduate, and we both enjoyed the university atmosphere and the joy of a victorious game. Our seat in the stands afforded a gorgeous view of part of the campus as the sun was setting. All of these experiences and images sent me reeling back to my own big-school experience. I got my master's of journalism at Louisiana State University in 1991. I was filled with career dreams and so happy to be at that beautiful, very interesting school. I finished my internship in Miami, Florida, which was the replacement for a thesis at that time, and went home to Alabama. I had been so excited about graduation. Thing is, someone who was very important to me told me they had no interest in attending it. My master's degree was really the only thing that, to that point in my life, I had ever done that I was proud of. Extremely proud.

When that significant person declined to go, to say I was crushed would just not cover it. I cancelled plans to attend the graduation. The upshot of this story is that I never received my diploma. I called the registrar's office and made sure that I was duly noted as a graduate and I ordered a copy of my transcript in the event an employer ever needed it. I moved on with life. I never asked the school to send my diploma. The human psyche is a curious thing. In analyzing my own and that of others, I am always taken aback by how complex it is. The cross-currents of emotions in one person can lead to actions that are deeply motivated and super-tough to define, except to the One who made us and who can hold, guide and direct us through those crazy channels, if we're open to it. Looking back, I now believe that the actual physical diploma would, at least in my mind at the time, and perhaps in the  many years to follow during which family members would again and again say "Why don't you get your diploma," be a physical reminder of a profound rejection.

I never really pursued that "dream" career. Instead, I opted for raising two sons. Now that they are teens, I am ready to dream a new dream in the freelance and creative writing realms. I decided, on that ride home from Auburn, that I wanted my diploma. In rushed a spate of wholly irrational fears. What if they no longer had it? These thoughts drowned the prospective joy of receiving it. My husband assured me that they would not have disposed of it. It might have been mailed to the wrong address, he added, which gave me no comfort.

Monday morning after the game on Saturday, I planned a call to the LSU registrar.One thought hit me especially hard. Maybe I was more afraid of receiving it than not. Maybe what was once a concrete symbol of rejection would now become a concrete symbol of the hope of a new career, something beautiful in the last quadrant or so of my life? Maybe I was afraid to leap from the diving board of my dreams for fear of missing the water? One thing I have learned in recent years, something to which I hope to cling, is the absolute truth of the saying "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." I made the call. The registrar's office employee asked for my social security number. "Nineteen-ninety-one?" she asked. I replied in the affirmative, my voice tremulous. "If you'll hold on, I'll go look for it. It may take a few minutes," she said. In that span, I felt every emotion ever known to man. "I'm going to make your day," she said as she re-emerged on the line. She was holding my original diploma in her hand. The dreams buried for twenty-five years, dreams of making use of my skills in a professional capacity, came roaring back through that telephone signal. My cell phone became a beacon of hope. My prayer for every day for the rest of my life is that I never let go of my calling to be a writer. Loved ones have urged me to just write. Even when no one reads. Even when no one pays. Just pour my heart onto the page. I'm going to!

Footnote: It arrived today, the very day I posted this entry.

Roses for Regrets

I revisited my old regrets about having a Facebook account today. Where else, I ask you, can one look at the lives of people who knew you when, who started when you did and who have done astoundingly well in areas in which you have failed? Or who have at least made progress in areas in which your own life has been stymied? Nowhere else can one, at a glance, see in glorious, living color, the dreams one had for themselves, dreams that had to die, being enjoyed by others.

It's hard to watch. When life works out so differently than we have planned, it is just plain hard to watch it turn out the way we dreamed for others. It's not that I want them to fail. I don't. It's not that I want them to taste what I've tasted. I do not. Am I jealous? Yes, but more than that.

Jealousy is a word that conjures images of a mansion I wish I could buy or a vacation I wish I could take. What I am feeling is an angst that defies words. I had dear, sacred dreams for myself. Some were secret, deeply held, cherished desires. Others were seemingly simple milestones that, of course, everyone enjoys. Or so I thought. These things have been withheld from me. There are times I want to cry until I die. Just keep crying until I dry up. Other times I swing my legs over the side of my bed and get up and just go on. The latter is the preferred course.

Even though I will hit the half-century mark in a couple of years, my life isn't over. I've found a secret ingredient in the recipe of life: two, actually. One: keep setting goals (aka "dream new dreams"). Two: look for ways to help other people every single day.

The first three paragraphs of this blog post might, at first blush, appear to have been written by a selfish infidel. But they weren't. I'm a child of God, just brutally honest. I've also become, over the last couple of years (and by way of some egregious hardships and disappointments) committed to the body of Christ by way of a local church. This is new. I have spent most of my life running from long-term attachments to people due to, among other sinful bents, an aversion to pain and rejection. I have learned a GLORIOUS truth in the last couple of years. The pain is worth the beauty of interaction. Wow, is it ever.

Then there is the joy of my relationship with Jesus. He is so tender and kind. He is always there for me, injecting meaning in the simplest of places. He will never let me stay in the slough of depression or regret for long. The problem with a Christian spending time with regret is that, first and foremost, it cuts our productivity. To be corny and repetitive, you can't move forward looking back. We're going to be alive for all of eternity. No matter our station in life, we can pray, we can praise and we can do our best.

At the top of this post you'll find a photo of a church near the cabin we rented in Colorado this summer. Notice that it was built on rock. Just like my life. I'm rooted and grounded in Christ. Notice that the church is not resting on social media. The photo depicts a pretty solid foundation. There aren't any grandiose pilings, just good, old, solid rock.