http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP2MKYGggd8

Here I sat, listening to Springsteen by Eric Church, reading He's So Not Worth It by Kieran Scott, my mind dancing somewhere on the North Carolina beaches, as the sun tucks it self beneath the horizon, to return in a mere few hours. Half of my mind was consumed by processing the words I read on each page, the other half absently reminiscing on the three days I spent with my best friend on the glistening waters of Beaufort and Atlantic Beach. The song recounts, funny how a melody sounds like a memory, fitting my feelings so well. I flash back to sitting in our room on our respective twin beds, the FM radio across the room, those same words unraveling through the small speakers and into the sweet and slightly salty air. I would be sedentary, legs crossed at the ankle, enveloped in a book, while Morgan surfed the web on her Blackberry or texted someone. And in the silence between us, Eric Church sang the bond between us to life, each drum beat a like the gentle rays of the sun on the beach, his voice like the sloshing waves against the foldable chairs we dragged up to the tip of the water.

But through the evocative music being expelled through my iHome, I heard a call that was soft enough it could have been imagined. "Jen." A voice so familiar to me begged, almost choked out entirely by sobs. Jumping to my feet, realizing the need in my sister's voice, I walked the eight steps from the edge of the carpeting in my room to hers. There lay my older sister, her face stained by tears, a sea of tissues around her bed like lava. I was prince charming, having to make it across to the princess in distress. She scooted herself over on her small bed, with bright pink sheets and a teddy bear residing close to her. She looked of such juvenile innocence, her hands gripping the blankets around her body, her nose runny and red as if her friends at school had just mutinied and she was kicked out of the Fab Five in the fourth grade, now revised to be the Fab Four. But that is essentially what happened. The only word she uttered was "Jen," her head now resting on my sunburnt thigh, her blonde ponytail thin and flimsy behind her. I ran my fingers through it, keeping my other hand propped on the top of her head, stroking it. Beads of water splashed onto my leg, as she recounted what the mean girls on the playground had said. Now more like mean girls at the bar. Her words fell like glass, shards flying everywhere, some even hurting me. The queen bee had found flaw in my sister, her words the accusation of a judge after a trial. Seeing one you had admired, one you had looked up to and seen as strong, brave, untouchable, cry makes your own tears prepare for the front line. We just lay there, her head on my lap, her soft hair the same it had been since we were a couple of elementary schoolers, fighting over the last cookie. And while so much had changed between us, a dragon occupying the lava between us, some rugged rocks finding their place between us, I would always find my way across the bridge, me to her rescue, or her to mine.

Now I hear the water in the shower beside my room gushing through the pipes and out into the bath-shower, the water droplets hitting the floor beneath her feet. I know she'll come out, red as beat, and tiptoe into my room. She'll talk, or maybe she'll be characterized by reticence, her thoughts running away as she wishes she could. And I'll be ready to brush her hair, or paint her toenails. Because we all need each other. As I need her, and she needs me now, I'll be ready with in my armor, to come comfort her and rescue her from the harsh reality of life. We'll go back to the playground in our pigtails and overalls, slide down the slides and never take it for granted.

Days Like These

The sun's weary rays are illuminating my room as it sets, and Jason Aldean is playing on pandora while I'm sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce in the nook of my futon. What could be better? In truth, I could probably sit here and list many a thing, but over the past few days I've had a taste of the consequences and rewards in life and all their implications. And this life I speak of means, that while cliche, nothing is perfect or permanent, and happiness is defined not by a single moment but a series of choices to see the positive aspects of each setting.

Following a wild weekend infused with too much liquor and marijuana, too much testosterone, and its fair share of drama, I couldn't have had a worse Monday. But with the help of my best friend, brother, and someone to hold my hair as I threw up all the contents of my stomach on Monday morning, my blessings dawned upon me. Not only will there always be someone to help you get back on your feet, but you have to find the strength within yourself. Because God gave you lungs to breathe and feet to walk, not to be wasted but to be used.

Another important lesson found itself at my door today. It never hurts to apologize. You never know what that one word uttered can do. While covering and repairing all harm done is not in its power, the simple word sorry is like a pebble dropped into a still pond. The ripples ricochet in all directions, affecting more than two words seem to have the ability to do. 

Lastly, we are all victims of a terribly real love of a Savior beyond comprehension. Sin is only a slight encumbrance that has no jurisdiction over the love of our Maker. This love is unparalleled, unprecedented and incomparable to any other, more vast even than a mother's for her child. This love stretches to the depths of our wounds and our brokenness, and whispers to the shattered pieces left of us that no action is too unforgivable. And despite the sinner behind these words, I no longer find myself defined by that word. Instead, I am a child, a treasure, of a matchless King, who lifts me after I have stumbled, who loves me after skipping church due to a hangover, who talks to me when none of my friends will, who assures me of my worth when all say I have none.