It’s all about comfortable/When you move so much

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Song of the day for y’all… this reminds me of where I am and where I’ve been on so many different levels.

I don’t want to leave here
I don’t want to stay
It feels like pinching to me
Either way
And the places I long for the most
Are the places where I’ve been
They are calling out to me
Like a long lost friend

It’s not about losing faith
It’s not about trust
It’s all about comfortable
When you move so much
And the place I was wasn’t perfect
But I had found a way to live
And it wasn’t milk or honey
But then neither is this

I’ve been painting pictures of Egypt
Leaving out what it lacks
And the future feels so hard
And I want to go back
But the places they used to fit me
Cannot hold the things I’ve learned
Those roads were closed off to me
While my back was turned

The past is so tangible
I know it by heart
Familiar things are never easy
To discard
I was dying for some freedom
But now I hesitate to go
I am caught between the Promise
And the things I know

If it comes too quick
I may not appreciate it
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand?
And if it comes too quick
I may not recognise it
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand?
–Sara Groves

Daffodils? Who needs ‘em!

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

The spring of 2002 was a difficult but growth-filled time in my life. As I prepared to graduate from college, I was moving toward a position on the staff of Campus Crusade for Christ. But God used that time to break me and reveal areas where I needed healing. In that process of learning about who I was created to be, I chose not to go on staff with Crusade. I also began to reconcile past hurts with God’s grace.

February 14th of that year was a marking point in that growth.

My Bible study was reading through Changes that Heal, and the first part of the book (“Bonding to Others”) was throwing me to my knees. I had so many issues in that area of my life that I found myself crying whenever I read it – whether in the comfort of my own home or curled up in a booth at Jim & Milt’s BBQ. Self-examination was painful, especially as I began to pray about the roots of those problems. On February 13th, I made a breakthrough of sorts. I was sobbing in the arms of a close girl friend when my doorbell rang.

My roommates were pretty bad about not answering the door if they weren’t expecting anyone, so the task was left to me. I brushed the tears away and walked across the house to see who was calling on us so late at night.

My cat followed me to the door, and I opened it to an empty porch. My eyes travelled across the front walk and into the street. There was no sign of our guest until I looked lower.

Two bouquets of tulips were resting on our porch.

I retrieved them and brought them inside. One of the bunches had a card marked with my name; the other bore the name of my roommate Heather. I called Joyce out of my room – that was enough prayer for one night – and together the three of us puzzled over the delivery.

The mystery wasn’t solved for several days, but I was warmed by the indication that one of my friends cared enough to bestow such a beautiful random act of kindness upon me. Finally, it came out that Andy was the culprit. He had flat-out lied to me when I asked him – he didn’t want the credit.

Until today, that was my favorite Valentine’s Day memory.

Don’t worry, Andy, your kindness has not been forgotten. But February 13, 2004, has offered a second act.

This has been one of the roughest weeks I’ve had in a while. It may not be the worst I’ve experienced, but it’s up there.

I had sort of been seeing a guy for several months and I thought it was going fairly well. I was wrong. We called it off on Monday night. (So much for pre-empting.)

Of course rejection always carries with it certain questions about what could have been different. I’ve been processing through the anger, the bitterness and the pain for the past several days. But a bigger blow came on Wednesday night.

My little sister has been arrested for the third time, and this time she’s not coming home. As soon as she’s released from juvenile, she’ll be sent to a camp for troubled youth. The minimum stay at this camp is one year; the average is eighteen months. My family is hoping (praying, even!) that she’ll be a different girl when she returns. I’m also praying for her walk with Christ.

Few people know about the situation with the boy (at least in its entirety). Fewer still have heard about my family situation, and not many people know both sides of the story. I’ve found comfort in the arms of my Jesus and of my friends. I’ve been through a lot of this before, and it doesn’t hurt nearly as much when it becomes old hat.

But the love shown through the pain is never cliche.

There was a knock on the door this afternoon as I sat on my bed. I opened it to a florist delivery man and two vases full of tulips. After signing the necessary paperwork, I carried the heavy vases to the dining room.

Who on earth could these be from?

Alisa and I each received a bouquet, and beneath our names and address was her cell phone number. (I didn’t realize it was her number at the time, I just recognized the area code.) Based on the area code there, I wondered if her parents had sent them. (That would have been extravagant, I thought, especially since they’d already sent her gifts!)

I ripped open my card, eager to solve the mystery.

I had to blink back the tears to salvage my mascara.

My friend Kathleen, who knew that it had been a difficult week for me, had sent the flowers. She told me later, “If you can’t receive flowers from a boy, you should get them from a twin!”

Hey, according to at least one web site, tulips mean eternal love. I’ll take God’s love any day.

Maybe tulips are my favorite flower after all.

Tulips are this girl's best friend

Out here, hope remains

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

There you go working good of all I have
Till all I have’s not that bad

I’ve had a rough week… and it’s only halfway over.

On Monday, I made a deal with myself. If I finished a certain number of assignments by 1 p.m., I would drive to the outlet mall in search of a coat I’ve been eyeing since September. (Rumor had it that this particular coat had made its way to the Gap Outlet at the bargain price of $49.99!)

But before I left, I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t shopping to make myself feel better. I was feeling pretty yucky – just generally unhappy with who I am and how I’ve been behaving. I realized that this errand was going to be more about the drive there than the destination (although I did want that coat.)

‘Cause I know the road is long
From the ground to glory
But a boy can hope he’s getting some place

The 45 minute-long drive was productive, indeed. After listening to the song of the week (“One More Girl” by Patty Griffin) once more, I switched to a CD that I knew would provide an appropriate background to my prayers.

But you know, I’ve seen so much
And I explained it away

I’ve had so many doubts lately – not about my faith, mind you, but about my life. Am I ever going to be successful? Is this the right career path for me? (I know it is, at least for right now.) Where should I go to church? What about these friendships – are they genuine?

But I get turned around
I mistake some happiness for blessing

As the trees of I-20 passed by my windows, I was reminded again that just because I’m happy doesn’t mean it’s right. I don’t know why that thought came to me or how it applies to my life right now, but it did hit home. When I’m not happy (like today!), I wonder what I’m doing wrong.

But just because I’m not happy doesn’t mean that I’ve screwed up. (Does it?)

Given a chance and a rock, see which one breaks the window
See which one keeps me up all night and into the day

See, these things have been keeping me up at night again. I’m worried about my future, and I know that worry isn’t what God has for me. I know that, just because I can’t see where I’m going now, I’m not necessarily going to be a failure. (And let me tell you, this perfectionist becomes nauseous at the very thought of failure!) When I feel like everything is going wrong, I’m being overdramatic. My concerns may be valid, but that doesn’t excuse placing them ahead of my faith.

Let’s give it up
Sad bones
‘Cause we all fall on hard times
But you don’t have to stand up all alone
Just put your hand in mine

I continued down the worst stretch of interstate I’ve seen, still prayerful. What about my relationships? I fear that I’ve been too sarcastic and too much of a know-it-all in many of them. What I intend as a joke may instead hurt someone that I care about.

In others, I’ve been selfish. I’ve held people that I care about to expectations. When they aren’t met, I’ve been disappointed and hurt. That’s not fair. These relationships can’t be bent to my ideals – especially not when the other person doesn’t have an understanding of them!

When did it get so hard to feel
When did my heart get so afraid to love

And even though I care for these people, I’m afraid to open up to them. I don’t know where the line is between too much vulnerability and too little – so I’ve been erring on the side of too little. I’ve figured that it’ll prevent some of the pain that I might experience from too much. But I wonder, has that “too little” been a source of pain instead?

We wouldn’t have to talk above the crowd
We wouldn’t have to talk so loud

I don’t know. I don’t understand a lot of things, nor do I know how to make sense of them. (This entry may not make sense to you… but that’s okay. I think it’s more for me than anything.) Right now, I wish I could just sit in a room with the people I miss. We wouldn’t have to do anything in particular. A round of Clue would be okay… or we could watch a few hours of “Friends.” Maybe we would get tired of television and host an impromptu evening of karaoke instead. Just being able to see some of the people I miss would warm my heart. I’d even go out for Mexican, if that’s what they wanted to do.

If I may pose a question it’ll only take a second
Cause I know that it’s getting late.
And depending on your answer I might have to pack
And make a daring daylight escape

Somewhere in the repentance of the past few days, I started to reminisce. I’m mourning friendships lost and hurts that have since been healed. I’m examining patterns in my life and wondering how I can change them.

But more importantly, I’m striving to cling to the hope that my Jesus offers.

It’s the only thing I can do.

There’s 40 acres and redemption to be found
Just along down the way
There is a place where no plow blade has turned the ground
And you will turn it over, ’cause out here hope remains

A half-pound of coffee and a reminder of where my value lies…

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Alisa and I are trying to be more conscious of our health, so far as it relates to our coffee intake. We both love our legal stimulant, so we brew at least a couple cups a day. We’re concerned about developing addictions, so we decided to make the switch to decaf. Therefore, when we ran out of coffee this afternoon, I decided to drop by the Starbucks on campus to replenish our supply. (Sidenote: Never purchase Starbucks coffee at the grocery store. I spotted it on sale at Target one week and thought I was getting a good deal. Later, I discovered that I paid $6.50 for a half-pound of coffee that sold for $5.20 at Starbucks.) Decaf isn’t quite as good in my book, so I figured we better invest in some good decaf if this is going to be a successful venture.

After class, I drove across campus to complete this mission. I had a cup of cheap Maxwell House coffee today, and I don’t want to repeat the experience if I can help it. (Music snob? check. Dating snob? check. Food snob? check. Coffee snob? you guessed it – check.) I parked behind the student center, jogged over and climbed the stairs to the level where Starbucks is housed. I breathlessly approached the doors that stood between me and my eight ounces of magic beans. Then, foolishly, an attractive young man stepped in my path.

“A new salon is opening in town,” he told me. “We’re doing a promotional offer for fifty women on campus. Has anyone approached you about this yet?”

I sighed. Anyone who knows me well can testify that I don’t like to spend a lot of money on my appearance. Oh sure – I’m high maintenance enough. 😉 But I am nearly the definition of a bargain shopper. Even my nicest clothes and biggest indulgences were on sale. I don’t go to fancy salons. I’d rather save the money for that pair of pinstriped slacks that I spotted on sale at Gap.

“How much do you spend on a haircut?” he asked.

“Fifteen dollars.” (I didn’t mention that the figure I gave him included tip.)

“Wow – you’re one of the lucky ones.”

He went on to tell me about the gimmick he was promoting. For the cost of a haircut – a $40 haircut, that is – I could experience all of these fantastic salon services! Whoop-ti-do.

The thing is, I briefly considered signing up for this deal. Sure, $40 isn’t so much for the list of services he showed me (which included highlighting and a 25 minute massage, among other things.) But I certainly don’t need to blow $40 on my appearance – at least, not in such a temporary, fleeting manner.

No, but I considered it because I have been feeling uncomfortable with my appearance over the past few days. I thought about forking over $40 – a sum I don’t come by easily – because my hair has looked frumpy. I thought about handing that guy – just a random guy who may not be who he says at all – the equivalent of a week and a half’s groceries because my skin has been breaking out and it makes me paranoid.

You know what? I think I’m a fairly cute girl. I’m generally happy with my appearance. But I’ve felt out of sorts for the past few days, and I considered this as a way to boost my self esteem.

That’s a sad state of affairs. It’s a good thing I didn’t have the $40 with me to give him.

(And for those who were wondering, I ended up spending $5.30 on a half pound of decaf Sumatra. I’ll let you know how it is.)

And it’s you I see but you don’t see me

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Mmmm. It’s been ages since I’ve spent a weekend alone. Chris Martin is crooning at me from my television set as the rest of the band provides background. A bottle of my favorite “low carb light beer” is perched atop my history notebook – an able coaster while I pause from this paper. (Lest you think me an alkie, it’s one drink. Any more than that when I’m alone leaves me worrying about myself. 😉 ) The aforementioned notebook is kept company by a host of library books. A stack of some 50-odd magazine and newspaper articles will soon join the party. My apartment is hoppin’ tonight. 😉

Though this weekend promises to be slow, I think sometimes sacrificing a good time in favor of something else is worthwhile. For one, it’s not often that I have the apartment to myself at night. I don’t miss it, really, but I feel that I should take advantage anyway. A little CJ time never hurt anybody!

More importantly, my intent is to invest my weekend in schoolwork. Yeah, I’m a stick in the mud. But besides authoring a brilliant paper that will examine the characteristics of journalists at the turn of the 20th century, I’m freeing myself up for the next week.

On Tuesday evening, I’ll arrive in Jacksonville, Florida. This will be my first trip home in four months. I’d say it’s about dang time! Until now, I’ve never missed Jacksonville. When I moved away in August of ’99, I never looked back. Then, my only regret was that I was still in state. Now, I’m counting the days till I head back. Bring on that “wretched little town”! 😉

I’ve grown quite a bit in the past four months. I was reflecting on this earlier today, and realized that I could probably utter those words after any given four month period and they’d be just as true. Still, this is a natural time for reflection. I’m not the same girl today as I was the last time I was in Jacksonville – nor do I think I’ll be the girl I am now on my next visit.

Growth is a beautiful thing. (And on that note… back to the history paper.)

When she says she wants somebody else, I hope you know she doesn’t mean you

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Old patterns are hard to break. I’ve been challenged to revamp some of mine lately, and it’s been an interesting process.

Take my study habits as an example. Though not a genius, I’m a rather intelligent girl. I breezed through high school with a GPA worthy of scholarships and honor societies. I may have studied a total of five hours during my years there. College years found me at Florida State, where I quickly learned that many of my advanced placement high school classes were more challenging than my college coursework. I graduated in three years with little effort and plenty of play.

That attitude is no where to be found now. A weekend away from the books is a special treat and requires advance planning. Time management skills must be honed. I guess I’m preparing for the “real world.” 😉

Similarly, my interactions with others are under scrutiny. A friend called me on my mind games recently. I’m such a girl, and I know that I play games. (I admitted as much in that conversation.) Since then, I’ve been mindful of those games. My inclination is still to beat around the bush on a couple of issues. I’m adjusting my way of thinking – slightly! – to another. After all, it can be fun to joke around – I think sarcasm is really the sixth love language. 🙂

Let’s not forget the aforementioned football loyalty struggle. I won’t readdress it, but it does merit similiar attention.

All of this reminds me that life is constantly changing. I wonder if there comes a point when that statement will no longer ring true. After I’ve “settled down,” will life retain this element of insanity? Will I be bored if it does not? The answer awaits down the road, I suppose.

Be careful with me – I’m sensitive, and I’d like to stay that way

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

You wanna talk defense mechanisms? I’ve got ’em.

I like to think that I’ve progressed quite a bit in recent years, but I know they’re still there. It still doesn’t take much to rouse them.

For example, if I’m feeling insecure, you better watch out. I’m likely to turn sarcastic and perhaps even more competitive than usual in an effort to protect myself. If I’m afraid that you’re going to blow me off, I’ll probably put you in your place before you get the chance.

I was reminded of this particular idiosyncracy earlier this week. I don’t know why, but sometimes I talk a big talk. I’m little miss trash talker during the football season (and frequently out of season!) You better watch what you say about Alabama or Florida State football around me, because I’m not going to take it lying down.

Still, sometimes I grow tired of this little charade. Scrappy though I may be, I’m a girl. I hope never to be “just one of the guys,” though that’s a fear I harbor when it comes to talking ball with the boys.

Football, therefore, can pull out those defenses I still harbor. I don’t like to be wrong, and I don’t like to be out talked in a mud slinging session. I should bow out gracefully like the little girl I still am. Instead, I’ll work my feminine wiles or my football knowledge for all they’re worth (or worse still, a deadly combination of the two!)

I’m a mish-mash of idiosyncracies. Some find that lovable; others find it annoying. Take your pick.

Memories #4

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

The basement of Strozier Library will always be a scary place in my mind. As a freshman at FSU, I vowed to avoid checking anything out of that library if I could help it. It was a naive promise, and one that was broken within several months.

I reluctantly accompanied Heather to the library one night. I was desperate to get out of the dorm (it had been a hard night with a lot of tears), and I needed to do some research anyway. It was on that night that I paid my first visit to Strozier’s basement.

I can’t remember what book I was looking for or what kind of assignment I was on, but I found myself in front of rows and rows of crankable bookshelves. Have you ever seen these things? They’re used in tight spaces to cram in as many books as humanly possible. Before you open the aisle where your book is being held hostage, you have to peer down surrounding rows of books. The last thing you want to do is crank open a case and trap someone between rows of books.

As I’ve already explained, I was feeling rather emotional on this particular evening. Instead of distracting me, the library heightened my fears. I sat on the floor between two sets of shelves and cried. I couldn’t find the book I wanted, the boy I liked wasn’t interested in me, and the library was creepy. I was blowing things out of proportion, I know, but I sat on that basement floor and wallowed in my self pity.

I’ve grown up a lot in four years (as one would hope!) I spent two and a half hours of my Saturday in Gorgas Library. Again, I sat on the library’s bottom floor, this time prowling through Readers Guide to Periodical Literature, volumes one and two.

The musty smell bothered me, but I plodded along in my search for materials. When I left several hours later, a lengthy list of sources in hand, I reflected on that night four years ago. I’ve matured, not only in my use of university libraries, but in my relationships with men and in how I deal with my emotions. (Thank God I’m not still the child I was at 18!)

Memories #2

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

October 25, 2002

“I know that I’ve acted as though I’m interested in more than just a friendship… I wanted to let you know that I’m not going to pursue that.”

A general air of icky-ness had surrounded me all evening. Those words settled around me, carrying with them an unwelcome but expected wave of nauseau.

I had been uneasy all evening. After a potluck dinner with my Bible study, I met several old buddies of mine for a night of line dancing. I was quiet that evening, observing the interactions of those around me instead of contributing my thoughts to the conversation. So much had changed in the past months, leaving me isolated from this group that I once called “friends.”

Bring on the dancing, I thought to myself. It was a night where losing myself in music and motion would be therapeutic.

I drove to Stetson’s separate from the group and listened to country radio as I waited. Carolyn Dawn Johnson’s “Complicated” hit home more strongly that night than ever before, and I sobbed as I listened. Something was about to change, and I could feel it coming on.

Hours later the aforementioned blow struck. Through tears, I wrote in my journal, “Reasons Why” on repeat in the background.

God, thank You for the freedom this brings.

Freedom, indeed.