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how to [break] a girl.

December 10, 2011 in 20-something troubles, dating, lessons learned, my story, sex with 0 Comments

i’ve been in a “pull from the archives” mood recently, so please forgive the angst-y tone. i guess i used to be sad sometimes? :) i thank God for my brokenness, because it toiled the dirt long enough to ready my heart for all that He had planned on planting in me.

~~~

Meet a sweet girl, age 15. No more, no less. Any younger and she isn’t quite independent enough. Any older and you risk being the second one to damage her instead of the first. It is important to be the first. You will be the cruelest, your words will echo in her heart the longest, and your wound will sting the most. This is the only time love will feel like this. And this is the only time love will ever hurt this badly.

Write her a note. No, write her endless notes. Every other day, while in English class, craft the perfect letter on college-ruled notebook paper. Tell her you’ve been “thinking about you, babe!” and that you can’t wait to come to her soccer game.

Go to her soccer games – almost all of them. Afterward, make a joke about wanting to come say hi to her at “halftime”, pretending to be dumb and not know the game rules. Find out there really is a halftime in soccer. Give her “the look” when she laughs at your ignorance. Reel her in with that look.

When you ask her to be your girlfriend, be nervous. Nervous in the hand-sweat kind of way. Do it after the movie you go see on Friday night. No, screw waiting. Do it before the movie. And then hold her hand the entire way to the theatre. Worry about the sweat on your hands. Savor how small her fingers feel between yours. When she tells you that your hand is the first to hold hers, tell her you wouldn’t have it any other way. Tell her it’s the first AND the last. Promise her that.

Wait two months to kiss her. In high school, this is an appropriate amount of time. In later years, you will find out this is a lifetime. When you do kiss her, ask politely. She will later come to hate any boy who has to ask permission to put his lips on hers. But ask, and wait until she nods. And then put your hand on her face and kiss her like you’ve never meant anything more in your life.

After five more months, tell her you love her beneath a big tree at the park by your house. A month later, carve your initials in that tree and make her believe that this is symbolic of your long-lasting love for her. On your one-year anniversary, take her to a seafood restaurant, even though you hate seafood. Dress up, take pictures, act like a blubbering idiot, wonder how long until you stop acting like a blubbering idiot around her.

Month after month, let your feelings grow. Let your hormonally charged, didn’t-know-any-better feelings grow so deep you can’t function without her in the room. Act on these feelings all the time, letting impulse control the puppet-strings tied to your hands and feet. Say big things to her, so that she hears them. Throw caution to the wind. Make big promises. And when you have no words, let your body do the talking. Walk hand in hand down the road of innocence lost, and have no regrets. Mean it every time you touch her. Promise her forever.

Spend years doing life together. Finish high school and start college with the world at your fingertips. Embrace the feeling that nothing else in the world matters except this moment, this choice, and this girl. Convince her that you’ll grow old together, and reassure her that you are soul mates.

After those years, stop meaning it – any of it. Let the nightly routine become just that: a routine. Forget to tell her you love her, become indifferent about returning her calls. Tune her out when she says she feels like you are distancing yourself. When she cries, feel nothing. Let your eyes ice over. Tell her you think you two should take a step back in the physical part of your relationship because you need to focus on the important things like morals, and finding yourself. But still call her when you’re having a lonely night. Go farther than your newly set boundaries. Immediately after, convince her that it’s her fault, and don’t let her stay the night. Rinse and repeat this week after week. Begin to like the way she looks at you like a puppy that hasn’t been fed. Enjoy this newfound control, and wonder why you enjoy it. Love watching her beg to while you feel nothing, absolutely nothing, on the inside. Begin to wonder if you’re rotting away. Decide you don’t care.

Meet Someone New through mutual friends. Meet her with an open heart and a steady hand. Notice that she is a touch prettier, and fairly skinnier. As you get to know Someone New with no hesitation, learn that she is less messy than your girlfriend of four years. Listen to her stories closely, as interested boys always listen to pretty girls, and realize that she has a lot of morals, and a lot of strength. Find yourself thinking about her during the day. Catch yourself wanting to call her, waiting to hear from her.

Begin to pursue Someone New. Write her love songs, drive 19 hours to her house in another state, send her flowers. Tell her you’ve never felt this way before. About anyone. Even your girlfriend. Oh crap, your girlfriend. Spend every other night with her. Ignore your girlfriend when she asks what’s going on between you and Someone New. Is she the boss of you now? Who does she think she is, asking so much personal information? Doesn’t she know you’re entitled to your privacy?

Finally kiss Someone New. Travel into the world of infidelity. It is scary, it is thrilling. It is fun to have two girls at your beck and call. Shuffle them back and forth daily, and ignore the fact that you are exhausted. Spend your days falling in love with Someone New, and your nights scratching the itch that every man deserves to have scratched. Lie, lie, lie. Deflect, deflect, deflect. Control, control, control.

When your girlfriend discovers you with Someone New, take it like a man. Let all scrutiny roll off your back, and creatively convince her that this was her fault. Do not, under any circumstance, apologize. Act shrill, brassy, harsh. Do not back down. Make her feel stupid. Make her feel small.

When she tells you that she will forgive all of this if you just take her back, let down your guard, just for a moment. Remember the way her hair smells, and the way her skin on your favorite part of her stomach feels. Hear her laugh, even though she is currently crying. Remember, just for a moment, the tree – and all that it stood for. When she begs you to pick her, to choose her, to love her, do not budge. Do not make any sudden movements, for they might trick you into staying. Tell her that she is a mistake; that with her, you will continue to mess up. But with Someone New, you can start over, start fresh; you can be better with Someone New.

Pick Someone New.  Choose the life less risky, pick the predictable. Skip off into a world of new love and zero mistakes. Never answer any questions about why. Embrace asshole-type tendencies. Regret nothing. Be callous and dry, soulless and cruel.

If you do all of this successfully, then congratulations; you have broken her.

dear heartbreak [a thank you.]

November 28, 2011 in 20-something troubles, dating, lessons learned, my story with 4 Comments

In light of this week’s American tradition, I have been reflecting on the things I am thankful for. There are the obvious: my job, my family, my friends, my great hair. But some days I like to think outside of the box, and be thankful for those blessings-in-disguise that sneak up on me. Today is one of those days, and I am oh-so-thankful. -Originally published on The Well Written Woman.

 

~~~

Dear Heartbreak,

I have to admit; I never really expected you. Are you always so abrupt? You kind of took the wind out of me. Like that time I was eight and I begged my dad to let me go down the big metal slide at the park, only to fall on my face and stop breathing for two full minutes. Yeah, abrupt like that.

The first time I met you, I thought I was literally going to die. You have this ridiculous ability to scrape away at my soul with what feels like a sheath knife, without even being something physical I can grasp onto. I wish I could grasp onto you and choke the life out of you. Instead, you kind of did that to me. I cried in new ways and I spoke in new terms. I don’t know when I stopped functioning normally, but I know it was sometime during our first encounter. You took part of me that I’m not sure I will ever get back. People call you difficult. It was not difficult to meet you; it was unbearable.

The subsequent times we were able to meet always surprised me. Maybe I’m naïve, but I never knew you were coming to pay me a visit and then BAM! There we were, curled up on the couch watching reruns of When Harry Met Sally all over again. You disguised your visits as coffee dates or midnight walks. You weave yourself in and out of clichés and horrible looking tears. You were there when my friends let me down, or when my family went through hardships. You always show up. You’re faithful like that.

The only thing worse than your presence is your absence. You walk away, and you leave this void of “what am I going to do now?”

I remember meeting you at an airport in the middle of nowhere. As I sat in a chair waiting for my flight, I wept into a napkin and repeatedly asked anyone who was listening, “What am I going to do now?” Then a girl stepped off the terminal and was carrying a bag that had a quote on it, and I felt like someone was talking to me. It said “Bloom where you are planted.”

I used to scream at you and wish you dead. But today as I survey your presence in and out of my life over the last several years, the only phrase that comes to mind is this: Thank you.

Thank you for your lessons; they have shaped my character. Thank you for your pain; it reminds me I am alive. Thank you for your stories; I have used them to touch the lives of countless other women you interact with. And thank you for teaching me that I can survive you; I have a bright future ahead of me. So, for now, we must part ways. I don’t want to see you again ever, though I know that is inevitable. But next time I will be stronger, next time I will be more hopeful. Next time, I plan on kicking your ass.

Sincerely,

Rachel

by his [wounds.]

November 27, 2011 in bible verses, jesus, lessons learned, my story, stories with 2 Comments

As a student leader in college, I was required to attend a month long training at the beginning of every school year. The first 10 days of this training were spent in the outdoors, on a backpacking trip through the Ansel Adams Wilderness in Yosemite, California.

Not only was this leadership position completely unrelated to anything that would have a need for physical training, I myself am not a particularly outdoors-y individual. This is important, dear reader, because you need to have a visual image in your head of an already-awkward girl who is used to the luxuries of air conditioning, flip-flop-friendly sidewalks, and the availability of diet coke at any moment.

Ansel Adams has none of these things.

What could I possibly learn from an experience like this?

The things I bought, did, and read in order to prepare for this trip are pretty much textbook “rookie.” I memorized dumbed-down books on camping, and then I bought everything that the outdoor store had in my size. Underwear that lasts 2 weeks without needing to be washed (um, EW.), wool socks, and upwards of 50 packages of second-skin bandages.

I was padded up, weighed down, and wholly ready for anything that wilderness had waiting for me. I was basically ready to just grin-and-bear-it, and get back to my real life.

During the trip, I avoided sickness by drinking tons of water and swallowing pain pills at the first sign of a headache. I managed to not fall while scaling a mountain, or get eaten by the bears I read about in the guidebooks.

But I did get a blister on my pinky toe. 

Minor injury to most, this little contusion became the bane of that trip for me. It throbbed so painfully that my whole ankle was in agony; I could feel my heartbeat in my heel. Every night, I threw out the old bandage, cleaned out my wound, and wrapped my aching pinky toe with new bandages. I kept it tightly covered up from all of the bacteria and poison hidden in the air that I read all about.

In the middle of the trip, we took a two-day break. Forty-eight hours of undisturbed silence and rest; an intermission to a very exhausting adventure.

Since I wouldn’t be hiking for two days, I was able to take off my very confining and uncomfortable hiking boots. Almost as soon as we stopped to rest, I kicked them off and let my toes feel the cool green grass. I let them soak up the sun until the skin turned pink again. I stared down at them, and saw that little bandage. I remembered the pain that I had been ignoring. It was frustrating that it had been five days and my toe still wasn’t healed. I had been covering it up with all the proper material, drowning it in all the right medications, and putting very little pressure on it. And that silly little toe Just. Wouldn’t. Heal.

I decided to remove all of the wrapping. I wouldn’t be walking on it, so it seemed appropriate for me to let it be. I went to sleep, finally allowing my body to recharge.

The change I saw in the morning was remarkable. Not only had my toe almost completely healed, but the swelling in my ankle was also gone, and the pain had disappeared.

As crazy as I might have sounded, I said something out loud to myself. No one was there to hear me, but no one was there to stop me either, so I just said it.

“Maybe some wounds just need to breathe before they can begin to heal.”

It shocked me how badly I needed to breathe in and out the pain in my heart. I needed to talk about it! I needed to wrestle with the emotions in my heart, I needed to feel the grief in my soul. And I needed to breathe in the peace of forgiveness and grace.

And that’s when I learned about the power of story telling; it heals me.

“But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed.” [Isaiah 53:5]

Christ’s wounds bring peace. And His wounds have taught me how to find healing from my own wounds,

I used to cover up my stories, my truths, my mistakes. I wrapped my broken heart in heavy-duty bandages and ignored the throbbing pain.

I used the heavy medication of rebellion to numb the ache I had in my soul. And the rebellion, the mistakes, the choices – those were not accepted in the small Christian atmosphere I was in. So I didn’t tell anyone; I kept them wrapped up in bandages, suffocated by regret.  I dare not let the words of my story escape into the air that surrounded me. In an effort to bite my tongue, I lost my voice. And I stood on the shaky stones of approval as I hid parts and pieces of the real me.

I did not believe that the air around me was thick with freedom, grace, and the power to change lives.

I kept quiet and pretended that I was the exact same as everyone else.

It is an incredibly sobering moment when you realize that you have been completely blinded by the very spotlight you demanded.

By telling my stories through words on a page, I open myself up, one stitch at a time.

And I just breathe.

diagnosis: [single.]

November 8, 2011 in 20-something troubles, dating, lessons learned, my story with 8 Comments

this is one from a loooooong time ago. can i just say it is very refreshing to read back and see how i used to feel, and to see how God earnestly pursued me and then provided for me? He gives and He takes away, and both are blessings.

note: i am not suddenly single. still madly in love with my super great boyfriend. fear not. 

xxo, rachel

~~~

The thing about being single is that sometimes, it feels like a disease.

Like you stepped in a puddle of bacteria-filled water and now you have this rash that has spread from your ankle to your hip and everyone is able to see that there’s something seriously wrong with you. You scratch in a subtle way and make sure to keep your mind off of it, but it’s still there; it’s not going away.

And sometimes it feels as if it’s not only this topical disease that is itchy and raw and unbelievable obvious, but it’s also untreatable. Facial expressions darken in pity once the singleness is revealed, like it’s a life sentence. So we mask it like it’s really not a big deal at all, just something tiny and probably temporary.

We cover it up with ointments and clothing and disguise it as something that doesn’t bother us, when actually it is incredibly painful, all of the time.

And it feels like it will never go away.

And oh, the loneliness. It aches in a deep place in your ribcage; a pain that you cannot soothe. And is it just me, or does anyone else feel like everyone around you is getting engaged? “Ring By Spring” is a real, vicious, neck-breaking hurricane. And it makes that pain even more deep.

Being single can ache in the worst kind of lonely, because you can be with hundreds of friends and still feel completely alone.

For the longest time I was afraid that I was broken. I thought that I had screwed up too much to ever be loved, and I feared that I would never find anyone who could love me. I felt like I was paying for all of my past mistakes. As if my struggles with selfishness and idolatry and sexuality had now tarnished my soul and deemed me unworthy of the joys of being in love.

I equated relationship with reward. Thus, I felt that singleness was a punishment.

Like being a sinner made me unfit for what the Gospel means: abundant life.

To all my single ladies dancing around in black leotards, listen up: being single is not a punishment.

And being a sinner makes you completely fit for the Gospel. And “abundant life” does not mean, “having a boyfriend.”

Being single means I strive to make much of Jesus in every thought of my heart, through every word on my tongue, and with every step of my path.

And when I finally get to taste the sparkly waters of marriage, it will still mean that I strive to make much of Jesus with every thought of my heart, through every word on my tongue, and with every step of my path. I’ll have someone else around to do it with, yes. But my objective remains: to let Jesus reign in every moment.

You see, our task never changes, single or dating or engaged or married.

It’s hard to live obediently right now, as a single woman who sins far too often and believes far too many lies. I am by human nature, a sinner. I struggle daily to fight against the desires of my flesh, and to live for Christ rather than myself.

I can’t imagine how much harder that fight will be once I am a sinner living with another sinner.

But whatever the season, I live to walk in obedience with a God who created everything and knows how it all works. A God who loves me, as I am. Whether I have a plus one or not, He absolutely adores me.

And there is absolutely nothing to fear when you are loved by the Creator of all.

“Perfect love casts out fear.” [1 John 4:18]

I misread that once. I thought it said that when I finally found my Say Anything kind of love, I wouldn’t be afraid anymore.

But that’s not it at all.

There is only One who will every love me perfectly; the only One who is faithful all of the time. And once I trust in that love, all my fear is gone. The deepest fight of my every day single life is to cling to this promise: His love casts out all of my fears.

My fears about not being good enough, about not ever finding a man to love me, about being too broken for what the gospel means: He takes those fears and tells them to shove it, and I get to fall into the pillows of grace.

So yeah, maybe it’s hard to keep trudging along as a fifth wheel, and it gets redundant not having an excuse to straighten my hair or skip my way to class. But I am not afraid. And when the loneliness sets in and my mind and heart are throwing lies back and forth to each other, I am reminded that being so close to pain is a sign that I have come so close to Jesus that He could literally kiss me. And I dare not let the fear seep in too deeply, lest I forget the joys of His perfect love.

 

anniversary: the [celebration] of an event.

November 1, 2011 in bible verses, jesus, lessons learned, my story, stories with 6 Comments

One year ago today I was wearing high heels, a nametag, and felt like I had drank a bucketful of butterflies as I started my first day at a new job in a new state in what felt like a new life.

Even today, I cannot believe I moved myself halfway across the country.

I didn’t know anyone in the great state of Texas before packing up my Nissan Sentra full of my entire life and settling down here. To be honest, I don’t know why I applied for this job. Don’t get me wrong, everything about it is a perfect fit for me. But there is no way I would have cognitively applied for a job in Texas. I hated Texas. I am a Californian to my bone and I never would have thought I’d live anywhere like here.

But I am here. And it was probably one of the best ideas I ever accidentally had.

Before I came here, I had one of the most tumultuous years I’d ever had. I spent the entire year working at a bar that I was overqualified to work at; I spent my days mopping up smashed olives and polishing wine glasses. And I spent my days applying for job after job that I was under-qualified for. I soon realized, there are a LOT of jobs I am under-qualified for. I reflected on the year in this very blog, one year ago. In fact, it was that post that catapulted this entire blog. I love looking back. Years have a crazy significance to me, and I don’t exactly know why. But I love being able to pause, and take stock, and see how much has happened and how much I’ve learned.

So, 2011. Wowzas. What a year! My first professional job in a field that I actually enjoy. I have had 365 days of challenge, frustration, guidance, learning, growing, and trusting. I’ve been to more meetings than I can count, written more student reports than I ever thought my little hand could write, and become a supervisor to more people than I probably should be responsible for. I’ve calmed students down from tear-streaked panic attacks, held a flashlight for police during drug tests, and  told more and more of my own story than I even knew was there. I have more than a dozen student leaders who I get the pleasure of supervising and I see myself in them more than they probably realize.

Most people get into this particular field because they want to make a difference; they want to bless the students. I entered into this job no different, but I can tell you that one year later I am the one who is blessed instead. They have made a difference in my life, and I am so grateful.

I love working in student life, I love the busy-ness. I love wearing jeans to work and baking cupcakes for staff meetings. I love drowning in college drama and living around people who average 3 hours of sleep a night. They keep me young and remind me to live in this moment, because we aren’t guaranteed any others.

I also started this journey as a single, bitter, giving-up-on-love kind of girl. I thought that by dating everyone in LA, I could intelligently decide that there was no one left who deserved my trust. I decided to focus on my career, because my career would never wake up in the morning and decide it didn’t love me anymore.

And now I’m in love. 365 days later, I can honestly say that I’ve found myself a good man. He is kind, he is patient, he is goofy, he is strong. He loves me in a way that makes me brave, in a way that makes me understand love. He puts up with my tears, listens to my dreams, and helps me process the crazy life I lead. He’s my best friend and the counterpart to my very existence. And he has blue eyes and dimples. Come on, God. You really one-upped Yourself. My super great boyfriend might not be fully aware of how incredible he is, but I plan on showing him for a very, very long time.

[Today]: 11/1/11

[Hebrews 11:1]: “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for; certain of what we do not see.”

My hope in God is different now; I trust Him in a different way. It’s a hope without the jittery feeling in my stomach. You know what I’m talking about? Like when you hope your name is next at a restaurant, or when you hope that you got an A on a paper. This hope is different than that; it’s steady and strong. It is sure.

I recommend that all of you start over from scratch at least once in your life. Not because you’ll land the perfect job, not because you’ll finally get a boyfriend, not because the humidity is actually really good for your skin. Yes, those things happened to me. But that might not be your story. And you shouldn’t live your life in a way that is desperate to have some crazy interesting story; you should live your life so closely knit to the power of the story that is already true in you, that you cannot help but burst at the seams with excitement to be alive. You are the most fascinating thing in the world, and the depths of your experiences are wildly inspirational. Live your story.

Watch God take the gross and make it good. And watch the world spin madly on.

 

 

why i [write.] | guest post @writesnrights

October 5, 2011 in lessons learned, stories with 0 Comments

I sat down to write today in my favorite coffee shop, like I usually do. I was rushed, like I usually am.  I plugged in my headphones, found my favorite writing music, and opened up a blank page. Next to me sat two women, in their mid-thirties. This is not an uncommon sight to see, especially at a coffee shop. We women love our coffee dates with our heart friends.
Because I’m a curious person [and an avid people-watcher], I positioned my computer so that the pair was in my direct line of vision. Their mannerisms were fascinating; their laughter was like a magnet. I knew these women had a special connection, though I couldn’t figure it out.
Then one of the women opened a journal. It was a simple blue spiral bound notebook, probably found on a sale at a grocery store. She began to read.
As soon as I heard the word “addiction”, I turned off my music.

Click here to read the rest…

a job called [hope.]

October 4, 2011 in 20-something troubles, lessons learned, my story, stories with 4 Comments

Now that I’m a bachelors-degree-owning, student-loan-paying 20-something, conversations are different. During the four years of college, conversations almost always had questions like:

“What’s your major?”

“What do you want to do with that?”

“What year are you?”

These were my “definitions”; the things I was known by. I was a Junior International Studies major who planned on saving the world, or something. Then I put on a funny hat, walked across a stage, and gained the rights to a whole different type of conversation:

“What do you do?”

It makes me feel so cool, so Hollywood. I now look like I belong somewhere in the world, like I do something substantial with my life. And while I feel like I am, indeed, doing something substantial with my life, I always hesitate to answer this question to anyone who isn’t familiar with the Higher Education world. When people ask what I do, I always feel awkward.

“I’m a hall director.”

“Oh and what does that mean?”

I sometimes wish I could say:

“I’m too busy for my own good, I spend hour after hour planning and working for the betterment of 750 snotty-nosed, ungrateful, naïve 18 year olds, who vandalize ping pong tables, disrespect my staff members, and smoke pot in their dorm rooms. I plan programs that cost a lot of money so that the students will have something fun to go to in order to gain friends and feel connected in this big world of a school. I attend back-to-back meetings that enlarge both my to-do list and the ulcer in my stomach. I then answer phone calls of angry parents who don’t understand why I don’t treat their son or daughter as the most important child in my dorm of 750.”

Since I can’t say that, I usually say:

“I oversee all of the resident assistants, manage the resident programs, direct the maintenance of the building, and oversee all of the administrative duties of discipline and student conduct for a dorm.”

Once I get a confused look, I usually go with:

“I’m kind of like a dorm mom. With attitude.

I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but it’s the best I can come up with. People don’t usually ask much more after I say it. They think they have me figured out.

You see, the building I work (and live!) in is home to 750 college freshmen. But they are not ordinary college freshmen; they are all a part of our lower socio-economic standing group of students. They have qualified for a certain level of financial aid that gets them an almost-free-ride to a four-year leading university. Their background gets them a chance at something that 80% of their parents didn’t get: a college degree.

They are poor kids. Not by choice; none of them picked their circumstance. They overcame a huge financial hardship to get here. But that’s not how I know them.

They are smart kids; the GPA requirement all throughout college ensures that. But that is not how I know them either.

They are rowdy kids; always pushing the limits and yelling loudly. But that’s not how I know them either.

The students in my building are some of the most resilient human beings alive. They are the creative adults, the children who survived unbelievable situations. It’s bone-chilling to hear their stories.

I have sat across the table from Michelle, who was sexually molested by her own father for the first 17 years of her life. When she finally found the courage to tell someone, her parents filed for a divorce. Her mother blames her for this divorce, and has told Michelle several times that the sexual activity was the result of Michele’s own seductive behavior. Michelle has scars up and down her arms of the times she placed blade to skin, in order to relieve the stress and release the pain.

I have held Aprilynn’s hand as she told me that her parents have been out of the picture since she was 4; her dad is in jail for drugs, and her mom wants nothing to do with her. Her adoptive parents have now turned on her, disowned her, and have taken everything material she has ever known. She is completely cut off from all the family she has known. She told me that she doesn’t cry, because no one else is crying for her. That night I sobbed into my pillow for this sweet girl.

I have had the unfortunate conversation with Courtnee, in which I informed her that since she had drugs in her room, she was being kicked out of housing. Since she was being kicked out of housing, she was also being kicked out of the financial aid program, which would in turn cause her to leave school, since she was unable to pay for it in the first place. Within the first month of college, she blew her chance at a degree. When she asked me what she was supposed to do about her 2-year-old son back home, I almost wept.

Every day, I hear a new story of unbelievable pain.

And every day, I bleed a little more for the students that surround me.

They inspire me to live my story, to tell my story, and to invest in my story.

They drive me to see the world in a new way; in a way that reminds me I am alive.

They make me better, every single day.

So yes, I sit through meetings, and I plunge toilets, and I buy chips and salsa for events. I talk to parents who hate me, sit with students who don’t see me as an authority figure, and spend far too many hours clocked in each week

But every day I listen to the stories of hurting people.

And I get to tell them about hope.

I’m not a hall director. I’m a hope director; I am just one person who strives to direct people to the place of hope.

And I kind of like the sound of that.

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