a cafe

image

image

image

image

While sitting at a cafe with a friend we noticed all the cute things surrounding us and found a new appreciation for life (also she is a blogger – knowingtakesawhile)

while we were there we admired the snowflakes falling on the ground and smothering the world in beautiful white.

”Animation, the reason why I like snow is because its the carte blanche. It falls so freely and gracefully piling up, creating you. Then somebody comes in and changes you. Sometimes youre changed so much you change colors and forget but in the end youll end up white or just disappearing completely.”

My godmother

I was sitting at home studying when the phone rang.

On the other line was a voice that was filled with emotion.

“Mem, oh, Mem, how old are your now?”
“Eighteen.” Who is she?
“I remember you. I remember you when your were so young. I am your godmother.”

This elicited more emotion than I had imagined. On the other line I sobbed alongside her trying to remember here face, her voice.

Messages

“Love is just kindness with its working boots on.” –

    The House Bunny

I’ve always been a big reader with a decent memory.
When a situation comes up I’ve been able to recall a quote and instantly a smile spreads through their face like a wildfire and they blush. I wish I was able to spread my words as well and wisely as some authors. Namely Markus Zusak, who is my favorite author.

I’ve read all of his books, once, twice, three times. Hoping that every word stays with me forever and ever and ever and ever. I am jealous of him, but I am thankful for him. As “I am the Messenger” turned out to be a catalyst book for me, it’s aided me in so many projects, including fixing myself.

I am a message.

I am eighteen years old and lived a nomadic life, blessed with two strict, but loving parents, an older sister who is the exact opposite of me, two rambunctious dogs who somehow still love me and a network of friends willing to help me when I fall.

When they fall, I’ve been noticing it myself for: “it is harder to judge yourself than to judge others” (Saint Antoine d’exupery) I can recall words, create my own, and or so many other things that they can smile and laugh and suddenly feel so much better. I feel empowered with words. I feel empowered with the gift of spreading happiness and joy by just being the person God made me to be.

For once, after seeing one of my friends cry. I am thankful for being me. I am thankful for being a message in his life as he was in mine because I believe that:

“Some people are beautiful.
Not in looks.
Not in what they say.
Just in what they are.”

– Markus Zusak

Friendship

Originally, this was going to be a post about advent wreaths and how my parents took over the workshop.

It’s not. It’s about weaknesses in my heart, and how with the simple addition of friends – good friends mended the broken holes.

For the longest time I’ve been “lonely” literally trampled on by people. I was bullied once but when they saw I could fight back they never attempted again. Instead teenage angst saw a weakness they pursued.

All I wanted was some friends who were true friends and would invite me to parties, have inside jokes with. Instead I heard about their parties and how I should have been there but was never informed or invited. And all of their sadnesses confided in me then they run off and go with their “real friends”.

High school was a difficult time for me, I tried so hard to be in, but I was always left out. Boys exploited this weakness. And in response to that I kept sane, and morally right when the only refusal I ever gave was “No,” then they’d run off and find some other, taller, prettier girl and not tell me we had broken ways.

I confessed all this while out of high school – to a high school boy that encountered the same problem and he mended me telling me that:

“A lot of people respect you, but you don’t even seem to respect yourself.”

It was what I needed to hear, then the words:

“I would invite you, but you’re so busy being a grown up. I know it’s tough being eighteen living at home with your parents waiting on the day you can leave and everybody shaking their heads at you thinking you could do better in life. It was mostly your decision they shouldn’t hold that against you, but they do.”

They then promised me that I was welcome and loved if I ever came back, even if the teachers saw me and shook their heads, at least four people would be happy to see me still here, still waiting, still growing up. And then they’d have mixed feelings, sadness, and joy, because they knew I needed to get away from this place, but I due to circumstances I stayed.

God works in every aspect of my life, although originally I detested staying and getting stared at with shaking heads, it also makes me happy to know that post high school. There are still some friends that really do care, even if they are a few years younger.

Walking with mama

After a tumultuous year, I (and my mother) get to spend few solitary and peaceful moments together. It’s not that we don’t want to but our personalities clash so heavily and we aren’t very good talkers, always keeping quiet unless our honest truths come out.

Which in our conversations, happens a lot.

Yesterday, she and I walked alone for a while, got along and suddenly I realize, this is the mother I love and adore, who loves and adores me. I’ve missed so many moments of my life being torn up by her and she by me.

Throughout the human life, especially in adolescence, it’s healthy to rebel, and rebel I did. I also knew it would hurt her but at the same time, in order to preserve my sanity I did.

“Mem, how many days left?”
“86.”
“I’m going to hold onto each of those 86 days and miss you terribly when you’re gone.”
“Regardless of all the fighting?”
“You’re still my baby girl. And you bright this light into this household.”

I didn’t cry then. But I cry recalling these words to anonymously show the world how much I love my mother, and my mother loves me.

Mom, in 86 days I won’t be a child anymore. I’ll be growing up. I’ll always be your youngest and you’ll always be the mother who lay in bed for three months straight after four miscarriages trying to keep me alive in those pivotal few months and watched over helplessly as doctors kept me in an ICU for a week because they thought I was defective because I was born to older parents. You watched me grow in three different continents, always struggling to make the right friends and choices, in the end you are the reason why I made it so far without too many problems.

Closing this horribly sentimental blog post, last night I realized. No matter how hard I try, or seek. I’ll never understand a mothers love and strength until I am a mother myself.

Peek-a-boo

I have just made friends with a few classmates in one of my classes and the first thing one of them says to me is: “would you like to meet my three-year-old?”

Three’s a bit old for me when it comes to babies, but wanting to keep a friendship, I join her and a friend (who I recently found out will be flying to Basic Training with me. Same time same place. what luck!) and we meet the little darling.

As with all children she plays shy and only wants the attention of her mother. Then she hides behind my chair tapping it screaming: “I no see you!” I shift to the left of my seat to catch a glimpse of the child. Then to the right and she outright tickles me.

“She’s not as shy as she wants to seem.”
“Seems like you’ve got a thing with children mem?”
“She’s beautiful, looks just like you.”

The little girl buries her face in her mothers jacket and demands that she carry her, the mother does and the girl waves a small goodbye to my friend and I while the mother carries her back to her grandmother, where she and her mother stay with now.