Do I hear a "niner" in there?

Security is such a funny thing. 

 

As babies just scream their pink little heads off they let the world know that they are NOT OK when mom and dad leave the nursery.  I hate that I still see microcosm of me in their teething little toddler bodies.  I have grown and lost more teeth than they even have, and I am frustrated to no end that I still throw these much more mature and dignified and justified little silent (and sometimes not so silent) tantrums.  So yes, Baby, I DO understand that when I coo and say "Ooohhh it's all riiiiight? You are fine.  Yes. You. Are" That it does indeed sounds like a load of crap.

 

Last night I had this vision of me sitting in my bed looking over at the Lord, my heavenly husband, perhaps even looking at him over my reading glasses that I do not actually wear, saying you are OK to sleep in here tonight, things have gotten a little bit better and I think we will be OK....but I'm reading...yes I'm reading about YOU (noun)...but I'm not speaking to you right now (no verbs).   Sidelong glance and cold shoulder.  (Noted. In the "plus" column,  I do still have perfect eyesight at 29.  Disco!).  You are still in the dog house, mister, (sorry, I guess that's 'Mister' with a capital M), but  I'm still not entirely sure I trust what you are doing. 

 

But the difference is...I want to find out this time.

 

What if I just let it go?  This thing that I am carrying.  It's no work to carry it really, I mean I can barely exist without it.  The crusty old thing I drag around, this little sock monkey with it's mouth all made of zig-zaggy threads and covered in germs that my body has grown immune to.  I have eaten with it, slept with it, showered with it lived with it, vomited on it, cried when people have tried to take it.  I have refused to hand it to God when he has asked me to lay it down.  It's who I am, it's what makes me "me" and "interesting", right?   It's that part of "crazy" that makes good art.  It's the extreme humility that forces people to adore you.  If you take my monkey, you are asking me to redefine my very "me" that some enlightened people happen to like just fine.  Self degradation, CAN be funny.  I mean c'mon really funny.  I am a hilarious specimen of person.  I have stories to last a lifetime about what a freak I am.  Why ask me to give that up??  If I get screwed over with this spacious cathedral of a body, with the ridiculously solid size 13 foundations, at LEAST let me have fun with it the only way I know how?

 

What can I trust to fill it's place?  What if it's not filled right away, how do I deal with that perhaps boring hole?  I am not brave enough to deal with that gaping hole.  Who wants to trade this in for a "cross" to bear anyway...I'll keep my musty monchee-chee.

 

Friends I'm not talking about anything classic, nothing anyone is going to want to make into a TV mini-series or an after school special, so I'll leave it described in vague terms, but this seems somehow like the fight of my life.  

 

I am starting to not want to drag the monkey around.  I think, much like my hair styles, that it's time for me to change.  Just see what it would be like, to finally not have it.  I imagine it might feel like a person who has been wearing a fanny pack for 29 years and then once it's removed keeps trying to stick gum wrappers and chap stick in it.  But hey those are fun stories too...and it's all about having fun stories.   At twenty-niner, this is the first birthday that I have physically felt, like a clock struck midnight and then it struck me in the face.  Struck me to the tune of now needing physical therapy three times per week. (probably had a little bit to do with the fact that I was literally playing sand volleyball when the clock struck midnight, but nonetheless)  I have a shoulder falling out of socket and a two knees that sound like breakfast cereal, and maybe it's time not to depend on my outward appearance, or cat-like grace, or my debilitating matted sock monkey, or even walking in stealth, to be attractive and worthwhile (or a good hunter?).  Maybe it's time... inner beauty, Jesus's beauty.. it's the new outer beauty.  

 

"Lindsey, again, this is too much for a blog.  Shouldn't you be not emotionally vomiting on us like this?  My google-reader-meter is registering 'awkward' on the charts.  I work with you for crying out loud..." Fair enough.  I'll just say.. in lieu of photos of beautiful little ones, which is the good and proper content of a blog  (and yes, John, I am counting the pics of your new washer and dryer in that as well) I am forced to post what I am giving birth to right now.  I am categorically against emotional vomit, and that is exactly what this would be if I do not follow through.  A posting of "ah ha's" only for me to close the lid to my laptop and bury my head in a bucket of Ben and Jerry's chubby hubby and kick a kitten is only a testament to the proficiency of my typing teacher.  Not to the goodness of God. 

 

So...

 

For the sparkling and bright Elizabeth Ann's out there in bold print. (Gosh how perfect is that?) 

For the Marc's out there who show up in my dreams barging through conference room doors looking long-journeyed and a bit like Elmer Fudd after the Iditarod, wearing a fur-lined hat and skins and what was that? A boy scout bead necklace? 

For the really cute and fun lady who gave birth to me 29 excruciating years ago and has this knack for furniture shopping.

For my very, very, dearest who is having his quarter life right on schedule,

For all the people who really love me and want me to chill the heck out, walk in Grace, 

 

I am attempting to lay my cold weapons down.  The ones I have taken up long ago against me.

 

So be praying.  I don't know how this works.  It's been with me longer than Jesus has.  I might keep you posted, I will probably spare you the gory details.  You, dear reader, are welcome.

 

For the record, I am also categorically against pickles. It's just not what you were born to be, Cucumber.