kitsch

i bought a new camera! and i miss my family!

 A month after moving back in with my parents, I drove down to Dallas to shoot a wedding.  I've shot dozens of weddings before -most of them clients that have had no previous contact with me, but I usually worked with my former boss, an energetic Frenchman who has not only guided me as a visual artist and inadvertently educated me on Edith Piaf's discography, but also has become a good friend of sorts, welcoming me into his family, he and his wife generously supported me in my final push to graduate. Shooting those weddings I became accustomed to verbalizing what our goals were, praying before we began, dividing and conquering the reception (my least favorite part of weddings), and even venting a little and reviewing what our technical struggles were of the day. I miss that.  And it was a feeling that was especially acute in Dallas. I had spent the whole weekend chatting with strangers usually about the bride and groom, how they're connected to them, or about my work. They're very draining and empty conversations that are a necessary part of my job, which I really do love, by the way. Besides working on my own, the recent changes in my life were keeping me on edge, to say the least. I had no idea what my next step was or what exactly I wanted or who would still be a part of my life, post grad. Post grad. The magical word that suddenly makes this whole scenario make sense.

Love Actually consistently makes it on my top five Christmas movies to watch before the holidays end. I just love Hugh Grant falling for the chubby girl and how  Emma Thompson unwraps that Joni Mitchel CD only to begin to pick up the pieces of her broken marriage. I love how Christmas is its own character that brings all those crazy stories together. One scene that always puzzles me though, is the story line of the young man in love with his best friend's wife. The young man decides to confess his forbidden love and through a note, his message reads, "But for now let me say, without hope or agenda, just because it's Christmas - and at Christmas you tell the truth. To me, you are perfect and my wasted heart will love you." I was always confused by his statement that at Christmas one tells the truth. I don't know if that's just something the writer coined for the screenplay or maybe if it's part of British culture, or if it's just a fact I was left in the dark from. But I like it.

There's something about Christmas that seeps so much excitement, cheer, and coziness that it has to compensate for something. Sometimes I wonder if it is the truth, like Love Actually seems to suggest. So often, when it comes to Christmas, I'm left with the impression of deep longing for what's just out of grasp. We long for meaningful relationships so we patch the ones we have with greeting cards and gifts. We long for peace on earth and so we're compelled to drop a few coins in a bucket to join the jingle of bell ringers. We long for harmony and for a little under a month we're free to smile and tell strangers "Merry Christmas!" when the realities of the complicated tangles of Christmas for each of us is naively swept under the rug for that brief interaction. But it's beautiful, nonetheless. It gives me a glimmer of a future of peace and restoration. Sometimes I don't feel like that day will ever get here. Instead, I'm comfortable to patch up my life with Christmas tradition and artificial interactions, not that those things around wrong. But especially this year, I see where I want to hide in the merriment. I don't want to unwrap my Joni Mitchell CD or have to walk away from the one i think is perfect. But it's Christmas. And at Christmas you tell the truth. So here it is.

The is my last Christmas as a kid. I'm graduating college in a little over a week and I'm being gently placed in a very scary world of responsibility, starting over, and loneliness. This might be my last Christmas with my Pop, who is advancing in Alzheimer's Disease more quickly than I would care to acknowledge. There's a lot I dread at the thought of Christmas, what it means for the new year. I'm leaving some of the greatest people in the world. I know it's time to go, it's been a good run here. I don't want college to be the best years of my life though. But where else am I going to have friendships that thrive during the hours of ten pm and three am? Where else am I going to catch ducks and let them loose in the dorm? I worry I'll struggle for a while to find people who are going to be my new kindred spirits. Things are going to look a lot different -I'm okay with different. I'm just struggling with letting go of the familiar.

I'm not very good at being an adult. I haven't been one long and I'm afraid of messing up or being stupid. Add all the weight of trying to figure out what I want to do with my life, the responsibility of providing for myself and taking care of student loans, wondering what life without insurance is going to be like for a while ... it's hard to have peace some times. All of this is a fantastic reminder that Christ is enough though. He is my provider. He is my rock, refuge, shelter, fortress, friend, father, lover. I have more than enough in Him. And my inabilities and bumblings are not contingent on His plan for my life.

But there is so much more to this holiday season than my existential funks and life transitions.  Christ has come, grace was made flesh, and I have a living hope through his life and death. No matter if I'm living out of a card board box or my parent's house or a New York penthouse a year from now, may my circumstances not mar the Gospel and its truth in my life. And that's when I realize, on this cold quiet night, that all is well.

Now the whole world will not be the same,
For love has come down and grace has a name!

Love actually is all around us.
Happy Christmas, interweb.






Bri

Over the summer I was with my grandfather, who was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. It was just the two of us in the house; I was there tidying up the place while my grandmother went to a hair appointment and my pop sat in his cream lazy boy, drifting in and out of a nap. It was not unusual to have silence accompany the two of us but with my recent move back to my hometown, the realization of my pop's health was hitting harder than I had hoped. I normally love simply being in my pop's presence -especially if we're both occupied. He could talk all day to a fence post and still have a few words to spare and often times it's hard for me to swallow his stories or simply hear them after a handful of times. But that day was different. I hated that he didn't have much to say. The clock in the kitchen just seemed to tick louder and the dryer became obnoxious screeching. I started thinking about how I'll probably be the first grand kid whose name he can't quite remember, and began dreading the day he stopped telling the story about the time I got homesick camping with him or when I used to recruit him to buy me McDonald's cheeseburgers at an obscenely young age. I felt angry that he'll probably never meet my future spouse, or see me being an adult -living out all those life lessons he tried to instill in us. My eyes even began fogging up at the thought of a Christmas without that stupid "yes Virginia, there is a Santa Clause" letter that he reads every. single. year.
The ambient noises of the house laid on my ear like a cheese grater, my chest so full of anger I could barely focus on cleaning the bathroom mirror.
"Hey, Baby girl?" those three words could never still my heart like they did when my Pop's voice floated in from the living room.
I swallowed hard. "Hmm?"
"We sure appreciate you coming over and cleaning today." And that's when it hit me -people have flaws, they get under your skin, the can be cheesy and outdated, you take them for granted, and in the case of family, you're stuck with them forever. I knew in that moment I had the greatest Pop in the whole world. And he was going to continue being the greatest, even when the memories stop being swapped, and he can't remember who I am. I know I can't love something more than I can miss it. I've decided Alzheimer's is not worth getting angry over; I'm just learning to let the good times roll, just me and my Pop.

"Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy?" Is. 55:2a

This is the question I feel the Spirit pressing in on me lately. I've been living cheaply and cutting corners when God straightforwardly calls me to obedience. Plain and simple. I've come to the realization that I long to be a disciple without having to practice being a disciple.

This is nothing new, really. When I took piano lessons back in the nineties (oh goodness) I used to make my piano teacher play the song for me so I could "just hear what it sounds like" before she assigned it to me. The next week I'd play it for her and it sounded pretty dang good, only she never caught that I was playing by ear and the only way I even looked like I remotely knew what I was doing in front of that sheet music was because I listened to her play it that one time. Sure, she was pleased, I was pleased, I got my silver star next to the song and we moved on. The problem with it all was that I never really learned music. The ends and outs. I learned just enough to get me by. It was a decent situation then, but today I cringed listening to a Dario Marionelli piano piece, wondering if that could have been me if I hadn't been so keen on cutting corners. The frustrating thing about this all was I had no good reason to do this. I did it simply because I could. And it saved me thirty minutes a day that I usually wasted on writing half baked novels that makes twilight look like a masterpiece. I trashed a bunch of them over the summer cleaning out my room at my parent's house. What a waste.

I'm seeing this pattern continue in my daily disciplines with Christ. I want to be on the front lines of the Gospel where all the action is but I'm refusing to keep myself spiritually fit to be qualified for such a place. I want the glory on behalf of God. I like people thinking I have my crap together and have a great relationship with God. I'm all about honesty but when it comes to where I spend my time,  I want to lie and magically re-prioritize my life. God has pressed me and pursued me to seek a more diligent life with Him but it's been messy because I'm a rebel. It's been so hard to admit that over the last year but it's so true; I like being my own independent person who doesn't have to answer to anyone.  Ha. This reminds me of a very wise man I worked with last year. Rick used to say. "Bri, be real. But be dignified." I'm sure I'm being real but I'm not sure if it qualifies as dignified. Sorry, Rick.

I know that I'm not alone in this though, because pride is at the root of each one of us. We all are fighting or losing to the urge to make ourselves the center of our lives, it's just that it looks more obvious in my life than probably most.

The Holy Spirit has encouraged me though in this time of realization and disappointment.
"Each time he said, "My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness." So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me." 2 Cor. 12:9
I am slowly learning what it mean to surrender wholly to Him, even through my seasons of disobedience. I am learning more about Christ's grace when I have moments of obedience and moments of flagrant disobedience. He truly loves me and that fact alone overwhelms me in my darkest times. I'm thankful I've got a Dad who supports me and a King who presses me to pursue holiness for his glory.

"Discipleship is built entirely on the supernatural grace of God. Walking on the water is east to impulsive pluck, but walking on dry land as a disciple of Jesus Christ is a different thing. Peter walked on the water to go to Jesus, but he followed Him afar off on land. We do not need the grace of God to stand crises, human nature and pride are sufficient, we can face the strain magnificently; but it does require the supernatural grace of God to live twenty-four hours in every day as a saint, to go through the drudgery as a disciple, to live an ordinary, unobserved, ignored existence as a disciple of Jesus. It is inbred in us that we have to do exceptional things for God; but we have not. We have to be exceptional in the ordinary things, to be holy in the mean streets, among mean people, and this is not learned in five minutes."
.Oswald Chambers

Here I am saying God,  I want to give you more than my convenient five minutes. I need to be kept by you because I'm prone to wander. Teach me a lesson in humility and what it means to be loved by you in the mundane. I need you to run with me the race that's set before me because I know with no uncertainty that I will fail if you aren't with me.

one of the more difficult parts of being a part of life is how continuous and routine it is. each of us wakes at a designated time and completes tasks set before us, whether it's bringing home the bacon, raising offspring, or getting an education. in some ways, this routine is nice. it gives us purpose to our day, it keeps our destructive sides at bay, and allows us to connect with people on a more consistent level. i mean, turn on the tv and some constipated looking reporter lets you know a whole village in peru has been washed away in floods and a new study shows we're all going to die from using our cell phone; all i have to do is turn it off and go floss my teeth. there.  i've given purpose to my day by keeping plaque at bay.  if i'm really bothered by it, maybe i'll update my facebook status and get it off my chest; this way i'm both being globally minded and fostering open internet relationships. even better. what i'm trying to say is, i like routine and can shelter myself from things out of the ordinary, that is, until it happens to me. and that's when it gets difficult.

i like to think of humans as homemade stuff. like pottery. each piece can be made beautifully and even look a like, but when you trace your fingers over it, you know each one is slightly different. you can feel the patterns of the potters hand moving in a slightly different course and perhaps it's a bit heavier than the others.  i know this isn't a new concept, in fact, it's rather cliche. but it makes too much sense for me to try to think of a wittier analogy. i only bring it up to say, i forget there's nothing wrong with me or my life but i choose to look at the pattern of those lives around me instead of the textures. because we all resemble one another in some fashion, i unconsciously choose to believe we should be experiencing the same things and responding in the same ways. i wrongly believe our textures are identical. to put it bluntly, i'm sitting in a minivan in triple digit heat sipping on a coffee that was supposed to be iced -but the barista forgot that part so i cram a donut in my face for size to see if that makes up for the mix up. i try to memorize one bible verse, ONE verse for the week, and already forgot it over the weekend, plus i have a wonderful six month relationship gone down the drain on my mind. of course i'm  picking up a beautiful fifteen year old kid i nanny who is an AWANA poster child, nibbling on a single whole grain pita chip who already is feeling refreshed from its nutrients, and is gushing about a boy who is pursuing her with more fervor and romance than mr. darcy himself. and then she turns to you and flashes a sickeningly gorgeous smile and says, "bri, sometimes i wish we could switch lives." that's when it hit me in the gut: she's feeling that smooth even part in her texture of life and i'm definitely feeling that grain. or that part where i got dropped and shattered into a trillion pieces that incidentally got stepped on by orphaned babies and accidentally made their feet bleed.

i, probably more than the average person, love things that are different, but somehow that doesn't seem to apply to issues of the heart. i have found in my young 21 years on earth, that i haven't encountered anything more difficult than having your heart broken over things that have happened in your life, and hearing your alarm clock go off in the morning. because as soon as that alarm clock goes off, your feet hit the carpet and you feel your heart chained to your ankles and that's how you start your day. walking around, dragging that beast of emotion behind you and no one else sees it or feels it like you do. their lives carry on and yours does too, which is so bizarre. how it must feel to wake up after your village has been decimated and realize no one but your community cares. or how it feels to know your spouse has three months to live and you have three wedding invitations on your fridge. or how it feels to be utterly depressed and be in the presence of a dear friend who's life is full of happiness.
life is always hit and miss. it seems cruel but i know that i know better than that. i want a pity party, really. but i don't necessarily want to take the time to stop and listen to the pulses of souls placed in my life to bleed with them to hold their hand or hold a punching bag. i want to change that. existing amidst the routine is hard! i want to be with people who  can link arms together and take these days one at a time. 

i express this whole topic often to friends and family who nod in agreement but it makes me more frustrated.  get angry with me man! i can't decide if i'm frustrated at them for being shallow minded dimwits or my inability to clearly express myself. judging by this stream of consciousness, i'm going with the latter. i hope that one day though i'll gripe the usual, "life needs to stop so i can deal with one thing at a time." and that person will unexpectedly punch me in the face and yell back, "YOU'RE RIGHT!"

"oh, we find the christian life so difficult because we seek for god's blessing while we live in our own will. we should be glad to live the christian life according to our own liking. we make our own plans and choose our own work, and then we ask the lord jesus to come in and take care that sin shall not conquer us too much, and that we shall not go too far wrong. we ask him to come in and give us so much of his blessing. but our relationship to jesus ought to be such that we are entirely at his disposal, and every day we ought to come to him humbly and straightforwardly and say: "lord, is there anything in me that is not according to your will, that has not been ordered by you, or that is not entirely given up to you?" oh, if we would wait and wait patiently, i tell you what the result would be. there would spring up a relationship between us and christ so close and so tender that we would afterward be amazed at how we formerly could have lived with the idea: "i am surrendered to christ." we would feel how far distant our relationship with him had previously been, and that he can, and does indeed, come and take actual possession of us, and give unbroken fellowship. the branch calls us to absolute surrender."

.andrew murray

"thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, it's joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

.william wordsworth

i've been confronted with my destructive behavior a lot lately. i've been teetering on self hatred and throwing the towel in. i'm so disappointed by the fact that there are some things that i might always struggle with for the rest of my life. i hate that speak ill of people without giving a second thought. or even worse, catch myself and continue anyway. i hate that i forget to love others they way they need to be loved and not the way i need to be loved. i hate that i lack compassion, understanding, and discipline. i hate that i  emotionally injure myself thinking it's what i need.
i hate that i know all of this and know that i will try to fix these problems, only to realize a few months down the road that they are still present. i hate that god knows all of the above and is okay with it. because i'm not. i want to change. i want people to see me and see god's transforming power in my life. really, i long for perfection, as absurd of a longing that it is. someone close to me recently pointed out that god always uses the broken to pour out his love.

that stuck with me. i want to be that, but the reality is i don't know that i'm brave enough to feel the weight of my sin every day as i carry it on my back, one step behind christ.
maybe i should stop begging god to help me be perfect.
and just ask that he make me a little braver.

"it remains a startling story to those who never understand that the men and women who are truly filled with light are those who have gazed deeply into the darkness of their imperfect existence... my deepest awareness of myself is that i am deeply loved by jesus christ and i have done nothing to earn it or deserve it." .brennan manning

Grace strikes us when we are in great pain and restlessness. It strikes us when we walk through the dark valley of a meaningless and empty life. It strikes us when we feel that our separation is deeper than usual, because we have violated another life, a life which we loved, or from which we were estranged. It strikes us when our disgust for our own being, our indifference, our weakness, our hostility, and our lack of direction and composure have become intolerable to us. It strikes us when year, after year, the longed for perfection of life does not appear, when the old compulsion reign within us as they have for decades, when despair destroys all joy and courage. Sometimes at that moment a wave of light breaks into our darkness. If that happens to us, we experience grace. After such an experience, we may not be better than before, and we may not believe more than before. But everything is transformed." .paul tillich

 

I’ve been told everything changes when you fall in love. I have always thought that was a crappy way of expressing that you’re just a sucker. My cynical shoulder angel pacifies and tells me that such phrases are simply ill phrased and used to try to impress the blasé, kind of like the time when my friend Mollie reenacted her favorite scene from The Patriot one afternoon while I puked my guts out from a bad migraine in the seventh grade. I picked up The Odyssey the other day and felt like I was force fed this lie yet again as I rolled my eyes to the fact that Odysseus feels the need to feign his love for Penelope by fighting off Cyclops and having adventures with his men, floating the ocean on a magical veil, feasting with kings, and sleeping with total babes. Homer romantically reinforces Odysseus’ love for Penelope by remembering to tack on the idea that Odysseus only thinks of Penelope when he sleeps with them, of course. What a dedicated hubby –if any literary character has mastered the challenge of taking thoughts captive, he is my gold medalist. I have trouble deciding who I feel sorrier for though: Odysseus for being so blind to his true desires or Penelope, with her angst-y offspring, waiting around for her sly fox of a husband who is suffering a major identity crisis.

I was struck the other day at how much Penelope reminded me of my brother. John is thirteen and stuck at home with our obnoxiously emotional younger sister who fights for attention with Henry, the family poodle. John called me last weekend while I was on a date to complain that our sister had been practicing her cheerleading routines over a dozen times right across from his room and had been picking Henry’s eye boogers and leaving the clouded Kleenexes on top of his freshly laundered clothes. His voice sounded strained and he ended his call by asking when I would be coming home. He always does this, as if I can magically melt his problems away. While I find it somewhat annoying, it does help build anticipation to upcoming breaks from the college grind. I clutter my life at school with enough binge socializing and academia that there is rarely enough space in my slowly frying brain for thoughts of home. But I always tell them I miss them, which isn’t entirely true. I want it to be though. I convince myself I am needed at home and guilt myself with John’s pubescent voice in my head and find myself making a surprise trip home, just me and five loads of laundry.

In my mind, going home is a refreshing idea but John’s behavior is appalling. I make a three and a half hour drive to appease this sympathy drainer and I come home to a house riddled with gaming systems, online social networking, a basketball hoop, and a chubby neighborhood kid we call Beans. I’m lucky to get an afternoon with John, not without fighting Beans for his attention though. The emotional roller coaster I go through to see the guy who guilts me into coming to see him, only then to toy with my affections while being ruled by these agents of separation. I curse them all -except Beans.

I’m frustrated that I let it all bother me. In years past, it wouldn’t have hurt me in the slightest. Like Odysseus with the goddess Calypso on her private island of paradise, I know I would be happier back up at school stuffing my face with cheap Mexican food on the weekends, enjoying the company of my sleep deprived friends. That’s what I should want. Sure, I’m not exactly eating forbidden beef while planning on how I destroy each suitor of John’s attention, yet every semester I find myself tearing my bed sheets off, stuffing them in my laundry basket and taking them home for my annual washing, hoping my dorky little brother will distract me from washing them. But you see in years past, there wasn’t John. It was just my five sisters and me. As much I hate to admit it, when John was born I might have fallen a little bit in love. And begrudgingly I submit to you he might have changed everything in my life. While he and Penelope share a romantic connection and John and I just a platonic one, I can’t help but cry out with Odysseus when I spy John logging onto Facebook and unconsciously signing off his whipped older sister, “by heaven you’ve stung me now!”

What can I say? I suppose I’m a sucker.

sometimes i look back on my life and can't do anything but giggle. and thank god that things change. i'm grateful to those who've been gracious and allowed me to grow and learn. and those who didn't always make for good stories. hmm. maybe i'll make better mistakes tomorrow.

“The great guide of the world is fashion, and its god is respectability—two phantoms, at which brave men laugh. How many of you look around on society to know what to do. You watch the general current, and then float upon it. You study the popular breeze and shift your sails to suit it. True men do not so. You ask–is it fashionable? If it be fashionable, it must be done. Fashion is the law of multitudes, but it is nothing more than the common consent of fools.”

.charles spurgeon "the common consent of fools"

I find it odd that at the end of the year it's compelling to review, package up, and file it away. But I do it every year. Remember back in the days when xanga was the old facebook? Every year there are new years surveys that sweep the virtual world, asking vital and fascinating questions as to whether or not you have received a speeding ticket in the duration of the year or which of your friends or relatives have given birth. These were the questions that I thought would entice friends, to heighten my sagging personality, and make the blogging world do a double take on angsty me, Bri Suitt. I have always been this way. I'm more confident with my words than my skin. I feel bolder and wittier behind a computer screen or blank sheet of paper than I could ever be behind a class room desk or the counter of a coffee shop where the cute barista is waiting to be flirted with. I have found it to be rare to stumble upon such reviews by other desperately needy, like-minded survey filler-outers and find them intriguing. Or just bearable. My suspension of disbelief can only go so far until I start realizing these people really are not as enviable as they are making themselves seem. Obviously I believed my reviews were exempt from such eye rollers. I must get it off my chest that all those years of blogging my year review were really just an excuse to be noticed by someone. Even though that someone was usually just Eli, a big time gamer and pyromaniac from Atlanta with a voice resembling Kermit the frog and whose pants always suggested an impending flood. But still. At least Eli read my crappy thoughts. Plus, I could always reinvent him, which I usually did, pretending he wasn't unsettling and geeky but instead, beautiful and mysterious.

But why do I do this? Why must I crave attention so? I blame this fault on many things, middle child syndrome being the largest culprit. Really, I believe the desire to be known is one of those things that throbs out of the heart of every one, every where. But maybe not. Maybe I'm passing off owning up to my personal flaws to every single person on the planet. Even now, this very moment I'm suppressing the urge to talk about my year, about my adventures of living in Missouri, that I have a new cousin that was born a few hours ago, how I almost changed my major, or that I nannied a kid with asperger syndrome who gave me one of his drawings, how I landed a cool photography internship, how I was daring and caught a duck and let it loose in a dormitory or shaved my head, or that I got hit on by a junior higher, who wrongly pegged me as a cougar of sorts. But I'm not going to indulge that desire. Because not only have I realized that other people find rare entertainment out of it but they leave reading such indulgences thinking you're egotistical -and rightly so. Plus I'm above this. This time you're going to have to grovel about my year.

I'm already hating not telling you about my year. Part of me wants to show you the beautiful and mysterious parts of my year, like my imaginary Eli -the parts that if pieced together just so, make me seem effortlessly adventurous, adorable, independent, and intriguing. There's another part of me begging to just reveal how god awful I am -to confess to the empty blog world all this crap I'm dealing with all because it's my fault and no one else's. I have a raw desire to just spill a stream of nasty disappointment because well, that's me. But there's a middle ground that I'm teetering ever so carefully on right now. I think it's called the truth but I won't know until I read this a year from now and either roll my eyes or sigh confidently. But here it is.

Really, I'm just trying to figure out how to be content, to like the skin I'm in, love well the people in my life, to focus on my passions, to be a godly woman. Goodness, some days I'm just trying to figure out how to not disappoint. The whole attention thing is my band-aid to the gaping wound. God is showing me where I need to quit trying to impress myself with the barbie band-aid and just take it off and and take a big wow at the festered and seeping boo boo. How do you allow yourself to be okay with not being okay and trust God with the nuts and bolts of your dismembered self? That's where I am -at the intersection of 2009 and 2010. My prayer is next year I'll be past that. That there will be an unspoken confidence in my relationships with others, that when I spend time with God I will be less constrained to my flaws that keep me from kissing his feet, and that I will live with more intentionality. This sounds well in type but I know that I know it's going to be messy in reality. It always is. You want to know why? Because I'm a mess. That's what Eli said.

happy new year, friend.

kenny burris died this morning.
i'll never get used to death.