Is it just me...

... or is dating just freaking exhausting?
... or have single men given up church?
... or should Bruce Willis NEVER do that hairstyle EVER again?
... or is everyone just way too busy to remember me?
... or are my parents avoiding being alone together?
... or are most romantic comedies centered around broken commitments?
... or is that the STRANGEST version of Snow White in existence?

Trusting God in the middle of this mess

I so struggle with trusting God in so many areas. Especially with this whole dating/marriage thing. There's been some bittnerness in the wedding being cancelled after God told me to wait on Joey. I don't quite know how to interpret the fact that I did what God told me to do but that it didn't end the way that He showed me. The night that I sat on the beach in Destin and talked to God about the whole way that our relationship had gone, I heard that I was to wait, that he was the guy. God has made more sense to me at the ocean than anywhere else, and this time was no different. The name that I chose then that I would name my daughter one day was Marina Faith. It means, "lover of the sea," and the Faith part is self explanatory. I can't imagine that I would ever use this name now. It was a promise that I heard God speak to me regarding my relationship with Joey. If God always keeps His promises, what does that mean in the context of this situation? I know His voice. I know what He said. Does this promise no longer exist?



I'm not sad tonight, just wondering many things. It's been three years that I have been full of the knowledge that I was meant to marry Joey. And now I'm confronted with knowledge that seems familiar, foreign, scary, yet exciting: It's more than likely that I've not met who I'll marry.



If God keeps promises, but told me Joey was the one I was to marry, and now that's not going to happen, what do I do with the promise of children that He spoke into me?



I know that there are people that desire so much to marry that never did. I know that there are people that desire children more than their next breath that never have them. Why would God give us these desires but then withold the fulfillment of those same desires?



So much that I don't understand right now. It's ok that I don't understand, but it's so hard to trust. I'm fighting to do it daily.

About the date:

It did not go well.
Oh my.

What I'm doing with my life

1. I just made manicotti for the first time.

2. I signed up to be a part of the Thomas Nelson Book Review Bloggers program. Very excited. They are sending me Ted Dekker's Green. Free books. :D

3. I joined a gym today.

4. I have a date tomorrow. We'll call him B.

5. I talked myself out of spending money today.

6. I went grocery shopping yesterday and plan to eat at home for the next week. (Unless someone else is paying, of course.)

7. I joined the choir at church.

8. I am looking for a cake decorating class.

9. I am looking into going back to school next semester for Organizations Communications.

10. I am in week 3 of my Beth Moore study. This week the big challenge is realizing that I am to treat myself as though I am holy since I am being sanctified. What do I watch? What do I listen to? How do I behave on dates? How do I speak? What do I read?

After I got over the shock and devasation of the break up, I realized that I am not stressed out nearly as much as I was. We were afraid I had an ulcer; I feel fine. I'm sleeping better, and I'm actually happier. Yes, there are still sometimes that I miss him, and there are times that I wish that we could be friends one day, but I still think that this would be unwise.

I like my life now. There is a lot of room for improvement of course, but I'm working on it. Next project: get in to the habit of doing laundry weekly and actually hang it up rather than just wear it out of the basket...

Hey! Read! Comment!

So, I'm writing a book. Here are the first three paragraphs. What do you think?

The only beautiful thing about my childhood home was Beulah, a centuries-old duchess of an oak whose trunk sprawled across our lawn. She was a kind dowager, allowing the three of us to climb into her arms and hide from the world in the folds of her leafy gown. Being the only girl, I suppose I was the only one of the Davenport children that Beulah entrusted with the secrets of her name and station. I was the quiet one, the only one who sat still long enough to hear everything she whispered in the breezes. I lay in the cradle of her branches for whole summers, spent autumns swinging my legs high above the ground. Brendan and Blaine wouldn’t have heard her had she tried to confide in them; their boyish voices had no volume but loud and no speed but rapid and constant. To my brothers, the identical twins of us three triplets, Beulah was simply the easiest place to hide from the ever-watchful eye of our mother. To me, she was the guardian of my dreams, the comforting collector of my tears, the soother of hurts, and the confidante that faithfully listened as I pondered, sifted, and wrestled through every problem that shattered the earth beneath my tentative awkward feet.

Someone set fire to Beulah once; I’ve suspected my whole life that it was Father. She didn’t burn to the ground, but there were scars to be sure -- a charred brittleness to the side of her trunk that faced the house, and I had watched paralyzed as one of her branches had splintered, her leaves glowing like molten gold as it crashed to the ground with a deafening crack. The fire department had appeared at our house as if by magic and the fire was doused within minutes of their arrival. Even tired and shrunken as the fire had left her, Beulah still towered proudly over me as I stood in front of her for the first time in sixteen years. Her leaves waved to me gracefully in the breeze, welcoming me back to a place I had promised myself when I left for college that I would never see again. Had Brendan not called with the news of Father’s death, I would have kept that promise. I longed to climb up and hide now; shut out the world, to again be the little girl that could create worlds and kingdoms to block out the grayness of her life. I couldn’t keep putting off meeting my family after so long. I turned from my old friend and leaned against her trunk, forcing my eyes to settle on the house where he’d been discovered.

The house hadn’t changed. The boards that had once been white were now mostly bare with large splotches of peeled paint. The post that Father had kicked in on my fifteenth birthday was still broken in half and rotting along with the rest of the house. The windows were filthy. I crossed the dusty lawn with its sparse patches of grass and climbed the stairs. As the door opened, sticking on its hinges just as it had when I left, I was assaulted by smells both familiar and strange. Stale tobacco smoke. Spilled scotch. The litter box that likely hadn’t been cleaned in a month. The sickeningly sweet smell of too much gardenia scented potpourri that Mommy had used desperately to cover up the other odors. Things were tidy, though, and several cleaning supplies sat on the kitchen counter as though they had just been pulled out for their yearly use in the spring.

Get a room.

Yesterday at Barnes & Noble (where I go to read, do my Beth Moore study and just drink coffee) I saw a married couple about my parents' age enjoying not only their coffee, (a cappucino for her and a frappucino for him,) but also each other's company. They sat across from each other, leaning forward and staring into each other's eyes like two young college students on a seventh date, but with all of the comfort and confidence in each other that probably came from 2.5 children and 5,000 mornings of his seeing her with no makeup and 5,000 nights of her thinking his bald spot is actually kinda sexy. They laughed, they talked, they sat quietly... but they weren't watching anyone but each other.

I wish my parents looked at each other like that.

How am I doing?

Very well, thank you.
Karen Jones kicked me in the rear, pointing out that we don't have the right to be angry with God. After Christ's work on the cross, if He never did anything else for us, never showed up at all, we'd still owe Him everything.
Thank you, Karen.

So of course I'm talking to God again, and I'm going to a Beth Moore Bible study. See? I was going to be married. After all, Beth Moore does require the same strength of commitment. The study is already tearing me up.

More on that later.

I am dating again. I figure, he says he's never coming back, I know I want to get married one day, I'm definitely not getting any younger, so dating it is.

More on that later as well.

This weekend I am joining the choir.
I am currently looking for affordable places to move once A gets married. I will then begin looking for a dog. A very tiny dog. And after I have HER spayed, I will buy her an adorable little sweater. She will be named after a princess. She will be very obviously a girl's dog.

Can't get a male dog yet. That's reserved for much later, when I can get a boxer that I will name Harvey. He won't wear sweaters, but he WILL have Halloween costumes.

Have a wonderful day my friends, and hopefully you will hear from me much more frequently.
Love as always,
C

Mr. Darcy - what's all the hype?

I've begun to think that all the women that are head over heels for Mr. Darcy haven't ready any other Austen books other than Pride and Prejudice. He's quite challenging to be sure, and hey, everyone that knows me knows I dearly love a good challenge and can be quite persistent. (Just tell me it won't happen. I dare ya.) Here's the thing about Mr. Darcy: you never know where you stand. I get quite enough of that in real life, thank you. If I'm going to choose an imaginary nineteenth century hottie, you better believe I wouldn't choose one that keeps me clueless.

Go read Persuasion. (Captain Wentworth, I'll marry you. You don't even have to get rich first! I swear, he has got to be my favorite Austen man. "He had nothing but himself to recommend him." Oh my.)

Go read Sense and Sensibility. (I read an essay that called the match between Marianne and Colonel Brandon insipid. Are you freaking kidding me?!? He teaches a 17 year old girl how to get over herself. He's a miracle worker This is one instance in which you should definitely watch the movie. The Emma Thompson one. Just the shot where Colonel Brandon sees Marianne for the first time was enough for me to lose my heart to a way too old for me Alan Rickman. I got my heart back when he showed up as Severus Snape. Hot he's not in the Harry Potter movies.)


Go read Mansfield Park. (I dare you to find a more encouraging, kind, principled man than Edmund. Yes, he may falter a little bit when a pretty girl is involved, but when she shows herself to be a morally bankrupt priss (now I ain't saying she's a gold digger...) he completely and voluntarily gives her up, sees the error of his ways and falls in love with Fanny Price, who almost succeeded in changing the morally bankrupt gold digger's even more morally bankrupt brother.)

Go read Northanger Abbey. (Mr. Tilney is sweet, kind, intelligent, honorable, funny, flirtatious, encouraging, a great dancer, and tells you when you're being completely stupid - but only when you deserve it a whole, whole lot. Then he marries you because you're just so darned fabulous in spite of your stupidity.)

And please, please go read Emma. (If you ever happen to meet a man like Mr. Knightley, bring him to me immediately. Oh my goodness. Gorgeous, rich, kind, funny, intelligent, a good friend, keeps you accountable for your actions... take away rich and I still want to know if he exists. If he does, can I have him for Christmas?)