Skip to main content

A Tribute

It's late.  I probably shouldn't be up right now cause I plan on being up somewhat early tomorrow.  But there's a lot of things in life that "shouldn't be".  This is (by far) not the worst among them.
There's something on my heart.  I'll try to get it formed into a blog post quickly for the sake of time.

It's something I've never thought of blogging about; it has (thus far) been something I kept sort of hidden and pondered in my heart.  But for some reason, it's nagging at me to be written down, to be shared.  Almost as if I have realized that this thing deserves to have a work of literary art in it's honor as a tribute to what it means to me.  So I will make one for it.

This thing is a truth.  A story, sort of.  A very short story.  My parents have told it to me (or reminded me more or less) a few times over the course of my life but it's one of those things that have expansive impact even though you've had minimal encounters with it.
The story is about when I was a baby.  I think I was only some small number of days old and had only been home a few of those days.  I was laying on a blanket and one (or both) of my parents were just sitting there, watching me.  (It is ok to do that sort of thing to people sometimes.  Seriously.)
Either they had both been watching me or once one of them started crying, the other sat down next to them and started to cry for the same reason- my Pain.  For everything that would make me cry.  For all the times I would hurt, no matter the reason.  Even if it was because of them.  Even if it was because of myself.  Even if it was because of God.
(From my understanding of what happened, this wasn't just my-eyes-are-a-little-damp kind of crying but UGLY crying.  This increases the story's value in my eyes.)

Sometimes when I've been in pain, I've thought back to that day (even though the recollection that I have of it isn't my own).  I remember once in particular that I was crying and thought, "One day, 19 years and so many days ago, my parents wept with me for this."  No person can ever take away the fact that they have shed tears for my tears and that makes every pain just a teeny tiny bit less horrible.  And my heart holds that fact dear.

Popular posts from this blog

We Meet Again

Well, to say that it feels weird to be here again is an understatement. This is a little emotional for me and I'll try to explain why. Firstly, it's been a while since the last time I wrote here. When I typed the address into the search bar, I was actually surprised that a 404 page didn't show up and that, instead, I saw a familiar title and design come up on the screen. There it was - my own writing, published on a web page I undoubtedly spent hours adjusting and tweaking until it was just right, down to the blue and green squares I painted  by hand, scanned into a computer and digitized the old fashioned way with....wait for it.....*Microsoft Paint*.  Illustrator? Pshht. Who needs that when you've got the grandmother of graphic design tools for FREE on your receptionist job work computer? (sarcasm, of course. Adobe, baby, I love you.) But even the details and designs of this page speak to the reason why this is emotional for me. All of the things about this blog that ...

Seasons: The Future

So about the future.  I obviously don't know it so it makes sense that this one might be a little shorter (or longer-it could logically go either way, I just went with shorter). There are litterally (at least) a hundred different ways it could go. After the internship I'm doing, I might stay on there. Or I might come back here. If I come back here I could work, go away to college, take classes from home, live with my parents, move out with some friends, get some kind of certification and work a more specific job, come back to the office job I have now, etc. Or I could move to CA and live with some family and find a job with some distant cousins. Or I could move to some other random state and adventure there. The list of possibilities goes on and on. What sounds best to me right now is to do one of the aforementioned options that have to do with moving back here but we really will see won't we.

Lipstick marks on coffee cup lids.

This is one of those posts where I'm riskilly honest.  The kind where I don't sound politically correct but I hope you'll hear me out.  Where I admit things I'm not proud of. Ready?  Okay.  I used to ABHOR lipstick marks on coffee mug lids (as can be seen in photo below).  There, I said it. Now the funny thing to me is that the cup with the lipstick marks on the lid that you see in the picture belongs to none other than yours truly.  So let me explain.   I used to be the girl who subconsciously thought she was better because she didn't need lipstick to feel pretty or 3 coats of mascara just to leave the house.  I was proud to only wear a little bit of makeup (or none at all) and still feel like I looked like my normal, averagely pretty self.  When other girls talked about needing to reapply lipgloss or eyeliner, (especially in front of guys) I made it a point to not be lumped into their shallow activity and went out of my w...