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I only wanna be with you

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

There are certain things in this world that bring an added bounce to my step (when I’m not on crutches, that is!) There’s a vibrant red flower growing beside the walkway to my apartment. I can’t help but smile as I hobble past it. As I walk the halls of Reese Phifer, I can glance out the window at Bryant-Denny stadium. Magic. The crispness of the Alabama air as autumn moves in finds me breathing a contented sigh. But none of these (some of my favorite things) are what’s on my mind this evening.

Sunday afternoons also have that mysterious charm about them. Even in the heat of summer, I love to stroll along the riverbank, silently thanking the Creator for the many ways He reveals Himself. Perhaps then I’ll enjoy the brief drive to my favorite coffee shop. Computer and/or notebook in tow, I’ll often huddle into myself at the second table from the door. Between sips on the day’s beverage, I’l try in vain to capture my delight with words.

After many grins shared with the other patrons and a casual survey of the way the early evening light spills onto the stage, I’m off again.

Less than a block away, a treasure trove lies in waiting. Still rejoicing in the day, I’ll meander toward a store so revered that its likeness can be found on my bedroom wall.

I step through the doors and I’m greeted by the cashier. He sits atop his stool behind a counter cluttered with discs and magazines. Lost in such a publication, he won’t look up again until his assistance is needed.

I mentally recall my “to buy” list before I flip through racks of used music. My goal is to come out of here no more than ten dollars poorer. (I don’t always succeed – this week, both Hootie and the Blowfish and the Indigo Girls followed me home.) I’ve never left without finding something I wanted, whether I purchase it or not.

After making small talk with the clerk, I slip behind the wheel of my new car. I slide the CD in and sink back into the soft leather. The goal is to lose myself in the music, exploring ebvery instrument’s nuances and projecting myself into each emotion.

I want to soak up all I’m able. The process will repeat itself within weeks, leaving with me new friends to understand.

I’m tired of being alone, so hurry up and get here

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I wonder if my cynicism toward romance is rooted in personal insecurity.

One of my favorite ‘love songs’ by John Mayer neatly sums up my feelings on the subject:

Sitting home alone on a Friday
Flat on the floor looking back
On old love (or lack thereof)
After all the crushes have faded
And all my wishful thinking was wrong
I’m jaded, I hate it

I’m facing an inner struggle that I’m not certain I can resolve. I don’t believe that I am loveable, that a fallible human being could truly care for me.

Oh, but I do long for that manifestation of my Heavenly Father’s love for me! It is too tempting to push the notion of love away ‘ to determine that I’ll never fall for it. A life as a career woman wouldn’t be so bad.

But to set myself firmly against a gift that my Lord could hold in store for me is less than holiness demands. My deepest desire is to be made holy, to be perfected.

The idea still frustrates me. I have been the initiator in the relationships I’ve been in. I’ve never dated a guy who not only brought out the best in me, but challenged me to grow spiritually. (In fact, they’ve all done just the opposite!)

I dream of being pursued. I refuse to settle for less. Too often, my type A personality rears its manipulative head. The temptation to control relationships is difficult to beat ‘ especially when I know some guys would welcome it.

But it’s crucial that the man be the spiritual leader of a couple. I insist upon being chased after because of that principle. If I hunt a man down and initiate the relationship, I have no basis for confidence that he’ll be a trustworthy driver when I let him into the driver’s seat.

That’s not a risk I’ll take. I’m a grown woman with goals, desires, and ambition, but that doesn’t make me a feminist. I believe in the biblical model for marriages. If we can’t strive to uphold that standard, I’m better off single.

I realize that my ideals are lofty. Perhaps they offer explanation for my singleness ‘ so be it. I’ll be an unmarried woman for the next seventy years if that’s how long it is before a man is welcome to fill that role in my life. Rest assured that if he ever steps into that part, I will spend every remaining day striving to love him and submit to him as the church does to its Head.

Mr. Whoever-You-Are, I’m willing to put forth time and effort if you will do the same.

I do believe – help my unbelief!

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’m surrounded constantly by romantic notions. Few forms of media refrain from throwing relationships in the face of the consumer. My roommate is head over heels for her boyfriend, who takes pride in leaving mushy messages on our answering machine. Many weddings approach, one of which will feature me marching down the aisle in a dress matching those of several close friends. Even my bedroom ‘ my own personal sanctuary, my chance to escape the swoonyness ‘ throws my own girlish dreams back at me.

Despite this constant deluge of input, I’m mystified. I don’t understand how a man comes to love a woman.

Oh, and vice versa. That’s a crucial note to add ‘ love reciprocated leaves me awestruck.

I’ve developed my share of crushes over the years. Believe it or not, there’s even been the occasional boy who is charmed by my wily ways.

But this is a game of hit and miss, and my tally marks lie predominantly in the latter category. Sure, there have been offers to pursue relationships that were almost tempting. Occasionally a truly stellar guy will develop ‘feelings’ for me, and the recognition of how great a catch he is leaves me wishing that the interest were mutual.

My dreams are bigger than that, though, and he deserves better. I grew up on Disney movies. To this day, I dream of a prince falling in love with this princess. The words ‘happily ever after’ conclude my daydreams, however fanciful that thought may be.

Perhaps I’ve chanced a meeting with said prince, but he’s failed to make himself known thus far.

With so many people in this world, I can only hope that somewhere there is a man that I will love, who will love me as Christ loves His church.

Faith.

Williams, AZ

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

As the coastline slipped away, miles of desert stretched out before us. In a small coupe pointed north, we pressed on into the dry heat that enveloped the car.

With carmel frappucinos in hand, we turned eastward. “Wilmington, NC 2,445 mi” – a site we wouldn’t see in the near future. While cacti and desloate mountains passed by our windows, cool summer afternoons on the Atlantic were only a fantasy.

Even still, spirits soared inside that hopeful Honda. Two pairs of eyes darted about, soaking in the ever-changing landscape. Eventually semi-arrid desert gave way to something greener and more vibrant. The land was calling us home.

Our hearts were lifted upward as we reached the evening’s stopping point. A quaint town centered on a historic road offered to house us. We accepted graciously as its people and its environment welcomed us.

Wandering from shop to shop, we noticed that strains of music filled the air. Every restaraunt offered a live performer. Where gaps may lie between diners, locals enlivened the streets. Five women gathered beside a pick up, singing and dancing as one pounded on her Martin six string. Across the block, an authentic Civil War band provided a free show. The city’s charm was unavoidable.

–Williams, AZ 080203

Honeysuckle memories

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Windows down, I accelerate as I merge my Camaro onto US82. Sunshine and springtime fill the car as I fly toward my destination. The familiar fragrance of honeysuckle fills my lungs as I inhale deeply. With a single breath, I’m whisked back to my childhood. Though my body remains in this lovely March afternoon in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, my memory takes me sixty-seven miles northwest and some seventeen years into the past.

While my parents look on from a distance, my sister and I rush to the fence at the end of the driveway. Springtime always announces its arrival with a mass of honeysuckle vines that act as a dressing for the plain chain link fence they rest upon. Birds and insects may crave the sweet nectar of these flowers, but they’ll have to fight to obtain it. At 525 Rollingwood Road, two small girls stand among the flowers, their grins large as they feast on one of nature’s delicacies. I breathe in and memorize the scent of spring chasing away the winter cold. Years may pass and circumstances may change, but when honeysuckle fills the air, I’ll always be taken back to this spot.

Restless heart, hear me calling

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Dawn breaks early through my plantation blinds. I’ve been tossing for hours, drifting in and out of sleep. My mind has been racing, making lists of things I need to do and catalouging all that I’ve accomplished.

This light won’t help me return to sleep.

I’m drowsy as I lie here in this tangle of sheets, but rest will not come. I’ve surrendered instead to the urge to write. My eyes can barely see these words as I scribble them onto this notebook page.

Perhaps a mid-afternoon nap will be in order.

The lines that serve as guides on this page have long since escaped me. In this early morning light, only the first few words of each line are visible to me. Such is the angle at which my head lies.

I am so tired. Sleep, come.

I’m too young to be a parent

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Explaining forgiveness to a ten year old is a difficult task.

After a dispute of sorts with his friends, my brother walked into my bedroom for advice.

“Do you think I should ever forgive Kevin and Kayla for what they did?” he asked me, his face still blotchy from his tears.

I cocked my head to the side and listened as he explained the situation he’d just experienced. As he spoke, I underwent a mental struggle. How can I explain the need for forgiveness to so young a child?

When he stopped talking, his eyes met mine expectantly. He didn’t want to hear what I had to say – he wanted me to take “his side” on it. Instead, I weakly explained how not forgiving someone hurts us worse than it does them. I tried to tell him that, while we should be wise in who we spend our time with, remaining angry at a person does no good. I tried to give him a lesson in holiness.

He disagreed.

Before I have children, perhaps someone will write a manual to relating to them. Something along the lines of How to Speak and Act Like a Child would be of great use to me.

Things I have learned from writing my first-ever news article:

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

1. Editors can be difficult. This hasn’t changed any since my first newspaper experience (Fall 1999 – what do you mean we don’t cover country music because you don’t like it?), but I had forgotten how true it is.

2. Keep your editor happy – he is your boss, after all. (This rule is true even if he’s the same age and education level as you.)

3. It pays to be a jerk. Get on the phone and keep calling those sources, and if they won’t speak with you, email them. You’ve got to get your interview at all costs.

4. Write, edit, and re-write. With writing, there’s always room for improvement. Perfection, in this profession, is a myth.

5. Experience is worthwhile. Sometimes I want to quit, to storm away and say “I don’t have to take this” — but I do have to take it, and I’ll probably be a better journalist for it.

Let’s fall in love – why shouldn’t we fall in love?

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I saw the UPS man stop in front of my apartment building and said to myself, “That better be for me.” When he knocked on my door moments later, those words echoed in my mind. It’s almost my birthday – my roommates better not be receiving packages now!

After I signed the UPS man’s pad and chatted with him about playing guitar (I was practicing when he arrived), I was alone and free to inspect the box in my hands.

It is delightful to hold a package addressed to you from amazon.com when you possess only a small idea of what may be inside. During my brief walk from the front door to the kitchen, questions tumbled over one another in my mind. “Who is it from?” (I had my guesses.) “What could it be?” (I was betting on a CD, based on the CD to book ratio on my wish list and the weight of the package.) “Which CD is it?” (I’ve really been craving some jazz today – could it be that Diana Krall CD I’ve been wanting? Or perhaps the Toad CD that’s high on my list – I could go for some rock as well.)

Once inside the kitchen, I reached for the scissors and sliced away the tape that separated me from my gift. (Have I mentioned that I love presents?!) I pulled out the several layers of packing material and found beneat them a small silver gift wrapped package. Aha! A CD it is indeed! Is there a card attached? (Surely there is. Who sends gifts anonymously?!) I pulled the CD out of its oversized box and held my new toy in my hands for the first time. I pulled the packing list off of the pretty paper. Yes! There’s the card! And what do you know – my guess on the sender was right. How fun!

(Clearly, it doesn’t take much to make my day!)