The day from the movies.

My brother once said that if his life ever stops feeling like a movie, it's time to change it up. I don't think I need to change anything for a while.

About three months ago, my scooter started having trouble with the carburetor. About two months ago, it got so bad that it started dying on me at stoplights, and I got desperate to get it fixed. So I got it to a shop (rather, a friend of mine did... but that's another story) that was recommended by this friend's friend, and even despite bad reviews online, I decided I'd trust this friend's friend and the one positive online review. The mechanic had my scooter for a few days while I was in Fresno, and I picked it up the day after I got back. It ran well! Hooray!!!

Two days later, I was riding to work on a 50mph four lane rode, when something in the engine snapped, and I coasted to a stop on the side of the road. This whole day is another story, too. But I'll just sum it: a man picked me and my scooter up and gave us a ride home in his truck. He seemed like a cool guy, and he proved to be in our short acquaintance. (Dear Jesus, thank You for keeping me safe.) Once I got home, I called the mechanic, and he said he'd pick up my scooter and take it to his shop to figure out what was wrong with it and only charge me for the gas. Oh, good! How reasonable of him!!

A few days later, he called and said that the whole top half of the engine would need to be rebuilt, and it would cost $600. I thought about it for a week, and decided that having a new engine for $600 would be less expensive than a new scooter or motorcycle or car, so I decided to go for it. He had me pay a $400 deposit (oops... never again), and said he'd have to order parts and wait for them to get there, then put in a bunch of hours... it'd be a few weeks. Okay, I said, as long as I get a well-working engine, that was fine with me.

A couple weeks later, I called him to see how it was going and when I could pick it up, and he said he was still waiting for a part; call back next week. This went on for the next month. "Still need a few days, call back next week," shop is closed, "a mechanic quit on me leaving tons of extra work, I'm doing all I can for you," shop is closed, yada yada yada.

On Saturday, I asked them to make it a priority and have it done on Monday. Last night (Sunday), I talked to a good friend and she helped me see that I really have the right and need to demand my scooter back. So I decided to go get it, unannounced, the next morning (this morning).

I was really nervous about my decision, because while I was infuriated and ready to punch someone, I was concerned about what might go down. I don't think I've explained this: the mechanic is in his 50s, about 6'3", 250lb, has a long goatee and bald head with flaming tattoos up his arms and neck, has a very powerful and angry presence. He seemed civil and nice unless I asked too many questions, which held me at bay for much too long. So when I decided to go demand my scooter back, I knew I was walking into something that could be quite--how shall I put it lightly--unpleasant.

I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn't relax. So at about 1am, I turned on my computer, got on facebook, and watched some netflix. A friend from church was online, and we started chatting. He asked how I was, and I told him what I was planning to do the next day. "Want some back up?" he asked. YES, PLEASE. Because I knew he would be with me, I was able to get some sleep.

So Brandon and I went to the shop together. The mechanic said he'd need another week because he had to order more parts (right...), and I asked him to write down the day it would be ready and sign it. "No. I don't do that s***." We asked him why, and he said it was a waste of his time. "So waste five minutes of your time for me, and write it down," I said, in a far more stern voice than I ever thought I'd use with a man of his stature. (Honestly, I'm pretty pleased with how tough I was with him.) He said no (in anger with profanities), and Brandon said that if he didn't, we'd call the cops. (I had my phone out already.) He started yelling, ripped of his glasses and pushed towards Brandon, and I dialed 911. My attention was split for the next while as I tried to talk to the person on the other end, but I remember asking for a card with their address on it (ha! Awkward...), getting yelled at to get the f*** off this guy's land, walking to a spot one foot away from his driveway, and continuing the conversation with the sheriff department (I guess I got transferred to them at some point!).

The mechanic yelled that he'd give us back the scooter and the money I paid, too, and he put the scooter (and pieces) next to us on the side of the road, still using very rough and (supposedly) intimidating language. (At this point, I wasn't afraid of him. I mean, I wasn't going to ask him to hit us or anything, but I hadn't peed my pants at his first outrage, so I wasn't afraid of him anymore. Instead, I laughed and shook my head... which is more angering than language and threats, I know. So hah, big tough guy.) One of the younger mechanics (also a big guy, though a bit apologetic and caught in the middle) came out with an invoice with stuff written on it and said that it stated that I was getting all my parts back, and if I signed it, I'd get my money back. "How much money will I get back?" I asked, interrupting the 911 call. "Uh... $300," he responded. "No. I gave him $400. I want $400." "Okay," he said, "but you'll have to talk to Sam about it, and he probably won't give you anything." I decided to risk it.

After a while, a deputy sheriff came out and asked what the trouble was. I explained everything to him, and told him that I wanted my $400 back. He told me that he couldn't make Sam pay it back, but he could go tell him to. His job, as an officer, was to keep the peace. So he told us to stay outside while he went in and talked to the guy. (Thank goodness we didn't have to.) He came back, saying that the guy wasn't going to pay anything, and said that if we want to pursue this, it's a civil case. Okay.

During the wait before the officer arrived, Brandon made arrangements to leave the scooter with the mechanic next door while he and I drove across town to pick up his dad's truck with which to take my scooter back to my house. (Have I said already how glad and relieved I was that he was there with me?! Oh my goodness.)

So that's what we did. Though the truck ran out of gas on the freeway and Brandon had to siphon some into the tank (and probably swallowed half a gulp). Poor Brandon! After seeing what his body went through in trying to get rid of the gas, I would not even want the crooked mechanic to drink a sip. (Although... no! Happy thoughts, Sarah!)

Finally, we got back to the scooter and started loading it. One of Sam's mechanics came over and said, "So how's it workin' out for ya'?" I wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or apologetic. I decided he was being apologetic, so I said, "Man, how is it working for that guy?!" in a friendly I-fear-for-your-life tone. "Eh, it's fine! We've been friends for fifteen years!" "Okay," I responded, "you must be on his good side. Good for you." Sam was standing in his driveway, laughing loudly. (Oh! Earlier, when the sheriff and we were leaving, someone called out in a very mocking tone, "Have a nice day!" I looked back into the dark shop and flashed a huge grin. Sir, you will not make me unprofessional no matter how hard you try.)

I tied down the scooter, and aside from one tip (that was the truck bed's fault, not mine), there were no more incidences on the way home. Except for being pulled over by a cop, of course, who told us (at the end of some questions) that he pulled us over because the scooter looked suspicious, but we didn't look like criminals. Aside from that, we got home just fine.

We unloaded the scooter and parts and headed out on the road again to get some FOOD and switch cars, then go to the beach and play music to relax. (It was about 3 or 4pm at this point.) We were relieved that the day was done. But it wasn't.

The truck broke down on the freeway, and after a few hours of waiting and towing, Brandon and I finally got to his car, went to In-N-Out (the most delicious I've ever had), then he took me home.

Dad and I talked through the day, and he said that he hasn't paid the bill on the credit card that I used to pay the mechanic with, so he challenged it, and hopefully the guy won't get the $400 at all. It sucks that my scooter is ripped apart, but I have it back. It sucks that it all went down the way it did, but I know that I can be tough and strong, and still stay professional even when a big scary guy gets angry. And I know that a lot of people love me (you facebook peeps are awesome!) and are interested in my life. And I have another good friend who was there with me and for me the whole day, and even drank some petrol. (Please don't ever do that again, Brandon.) And I banked on God's protection, grace, and justice, and He came through. And now I'm showered, cozy, and safe, and am thinking about talking to my roommate (who is a lawyer) about possibilities.

So today, the day from the movies, we won.

What the heck am I supposed to title this as?!

Today was one of those days that I realized I'm an adult. I'll tell you about it.

This is the first autumn I've experienced since the first one after my mom died. I hadn't expected this, but there are a lot of emotions tied up in seeing leaves changing color, breathing in the crispness (yes, even in San Deigo... sometimes), and hearing early Christmas music. The holidays are a very emotional time, really. Most of the emotions that are publicized are positive, like happiness, thankfulness, and contentedness, but for me (and for many), the holidays bring up less-light emotions, like sadness. (Side note: If I or anyone else ever seems cold to you or like we don't share in your happiness, please don't take offense and have patience with us. We're coping.)

Okay, okay. Everyone knows that the holidays can be hard and horrible. The point of this post is not to educate you on an already known phenomenon; it's for me to tell you about my day. Apologies. I will now get back to the topic.

For the past few days, I've been feeling down. Over the past two and a half months, I've figured out a few of my signs of grief, and I've been experiencing them: Less cheery, more easily overwhelmed, need everything to be perfect and perfectly controlled (by me), and the sensation of hunger is a comfort. The results are that I've been quite stressed and losing weight (which I don't really mind at all). Working five busy nine hour shifts this week didn't really help me relax, so when I finally arrived to today, I felt as I would imagine an Olympian would feel having just finished preliminary race. (Okay, that might be a bit dramatic. But you get what I mean.)

It always takes a while for me to let things go and chill out. One day isn't usually enough time. I enjoy two days off together, because during the first day, I can procrastinate. (I love procrastinating. It makes me feel powerful, free, and in control.) The second day, I've rested up enough that I have the energy and motivation to everything done. So I woke up concerned that I wouldn't be able to relax by the end of the day, which added to my stress load. (Oh bother.)

BUT. I did laundry, washed my sheets, cleaned my room, and fed myself (though I can't remember what I ate), then forced myself to take a nap. And I slept. Not very deeply and not for more than two hours, but it helped me rest. Then I decided to pack up my messenger bag with my journal and Bible, and headed to Panera. (I walked, because my scooter is still in the shop. My goodness, I'll be so happy to have that back!)

(I feel like I'm rambling a lot. It's been happening lately. Even in person. Oh well. This is just how I can communicate right now, I guess.)

Anyway... I sat at Panera for a while. I ate, journaled, and rediscovered Isaiah 30. (So good.) Feeling a bit more refreshed, I called a dear mother-figure friend and chatted my way to Target, where I realized I'm an adult. (FINALLY! Shew, I've taken a roundabout way to get to this point.)

I realized that I don't have any Christmas decorations--nice, lasting decorations--that I've purchased for myself, for my home. I've relied on family decorations or handmedowns, and those just won't do anymore. I have a home, and I get to decorate it however I want. (Yes, even before Thanksgiving.) Oh, and this is the first year that I've actually had a job that pays enough to live on, so I felt content and justified in splurging.

I ended up getting lights and a snow globe. And once I find the perfect things, Charlie the Blue Betta Fish is going to have a white plant and white pearls in his bowl. (It will set off his fins beautifully.) I also got slippers (which will hopefully help my knees adjust to use again every morning). And Dove chocolates. And new shoes for work.

See? I'm an adult. I spent hard earned money on myself and my home. The time for waiting for a home of my own is over--because I have it. Granted,  I expected to have a home with a husband by this age, but what the heck. I get to do everything exactly the way I want, and in this control-freak mood I've been in lately, I'm enjoying it.

May your nose be red with cold and your eyes behold colorful leaves. Also, may your pain be turned to strength and your hopes be turn to realities. Hang in there, everyone. This is not the end.

Peace,
Sarah

A slightly delirious muse

Today, I have the dangerous urge to think about all things that mean Home. Like remembering what Home smelled like, sounded like, felt like. And who was there on a quiet afternoon stolen away from college studies. Listening to a sewing machine whirring away, chatting about cool stuff I learned in class with the one person who always seemed interested (and tried to not seem too grossed out), and waiting for the last person to come home from work. Going outside to feed a large red animal (no, not Clifford), sitting with her and watching the sunset as the feed is munched by her big jaws, smelling the sweet alfalfa and grain.

It's just so beautiful. I knew I had it good.

Maybe when I have my own home I'll stop waking up and feeling like I'm in the bed I grew up in. And maybe the longing for the home I used to have won't be quite as deep and tugging. I don't know.

All I know is, I'm homesick. Homesick for a home that's gone, for a person that's gone. Sometimes life sucks, I guess. But they say it's worth it. And besides, there are other good things going on. I mean, come on. I lived in New Zealand for a while. Now I live in San Diego. And there's a city full of people I love that I can always go back to and visit. And there's facebook, keeping everyone connected. So let's raise a glass (of Guinness, please) to hope!

Life does not always require understanding

Think about it.

If you're going for a walk, you don't think about what muscles you're using. As you walk along, you'll notice the people around you, the music that's playing on your ipod, the colors of the cars driving by, the smell of the air. Basically, you aren't thinking about the mechanics of the electric pulses from your brain, down your nervous system, to your motor muscles, making them move in a constant falling/catching motion that we all know as "walking." Most of us don't even understand it. We don't need to understand it in order to do it--we just do it.

The only understanding a child needs to have when her dad says, "Jump! I'll catch you!" is that her dad is trustworthy and fully capable of catching her. That's all she needs to understand. She doesn't need to understand why he's asking her to jump, though sometimes it's obvious. If there's a fire in the building and she's trapped with a window as her only escape, it's plain why her dad would want her to jump to the safety of his arms. But sometimes it might not be so obvious. And she doesn't need to understand the father's task of estimating how far out his daughter is going to jump, how much time he'll have to correct any guesses as her foot leaves the windowsill, and how to catch her with enough strength to stop her fall and enough gentleness to hurt her as little as possible. These are considerations that she doesn't need to know--that she doesn't need to understand. If she tried to understand it, she'd freak out.

In the same way, if someone sat down with you and told you everything that the most-studied scientists know about the form and function of how you walk (complete with colorful diagrams), it would take days--years to understand it fully. During this amount of time, you could be doing something else. Like seeing the world. Experiencing different cultures and different people. Getting married. Raising a family. Speaking to nations. Writing music. Making millions. Who knows?? Don't get me wrong; it's good that people dedicate time and energy to study the body. But it's not something that everyone needs to understand. Why? Because we don't need to understand things in order to do them.

Now I'm getting to my point--the inspiration of this post.

I don't understand what God is doing. I really don't. But I don't have to. All I need to understand is that He's trustworthy and fully capable of leading me, communicating with me, hearing me, loving me, and keeping me.  Because He's God, for goodness sake.

Trust in the Lord with all  your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5-6

P.S. The whole chapter of Proverbs 3 is pretty amazing and thirst quenching. Read it here.

Filing.

Over the past four months, I've had to get rid of a lot of stuff. Actually, it began before I left California. As I prepared for this year of adventure in NZ, I got rid of a lot of stuff that I didn't want to bring or store. Wait... it began before that, when we had to clean out the house we grew up in when it was sold. Hold on... I guess this is something that continues as long as we breath. Sometimes it's possible to get away with not sloughing stuff off, but the time inevitably comes when everything has to be reckoned with, and I don't mean Doomsday.

Of late, "getting rid of stuff" doesn't mean physical stuff. As I've been filing at work, Father has been using it as an example, teaching me good things. With filing, He said, "Just as each of these papers has its particular place, so do your memories and emotions that are attached to them." In the solitary hours in the lonely filing room (affectionately known as The Dungeon, where Annoying People are sometimes sent for Solitary Confinement... not that I'm annoying--braving the room is in my job description), I revel in His comforting (though sometimes uncomfortable) presence. He brings up memories that haven't been touched for months or years, and He says, "You've grown up and matured since then; how do you see it now?" We look at it together, amend and/or forgive (if amending and/or forgiveness is necessary), then tidily put it away in its proper place where it can easily be found again when necessary.

It's a very tedious task, as filing papers can be. I get home tired and exhausted, sometimes relieved, sometimes grieving. Because with every memory to be filed away, I have to let it go.

I've been blessed with a very enjoyable life (enjoyable for the most part, anyway), so remembering isn't painful. Saying goodbye to them is.

When will the goodbyes end? I don't think they ever will.

If I ended the post here, I'd be in danger of leaving you and myself depressed. So here's an encouragement:

Just as it's a time of Goodbye, it's also a time of Hello.

I'm making new memories. So are you. We're continuing. We're getting to new horizons. We're discovering more about ourselves, others, and Holy Father! How amazing is that??

This joy of The New keeps me going. I guess we don't need unexplored lands to be pioneers. Just be willing to say Goodbye.

Dancing

Sometimes when one lists things to praise God for, the reason is because they feel really happy and joyful and can't help but let the praises overflow to the written word visible to others. Other times, the reason is because one feels depressed and very unhappy and decides to list things to praise God for as a therapeutic exercise--a "yet I will praise the Lord, for He is good and has given me good things" proclamation, if you will.

This post, dear reader, is of the former category. I just feel so happy! I tend to be dramatic, so everything is either a crazy celebration or a battle to the death... and for the past few months, I've felt myself going through more fighting than dancing. (Neither is better than the other; they're different kinds of good.) So while I know there will be more "battles" in the future, I will savor this happiness and use its energy for this list of praises.

- Holy Father created me! Not only did He think about creating me, He did it. And now that He's done it, He hasn't rejected me or neglected me. On the contrary, He promises to help me, keep me, love me, like me, be with me... forever. All these next praises are because every good and perfect gift comes from Him.
- I have a job. One that won't end in a week or two. One that is with kind and interesting people. One where they like me and are glad to have me. Last week, I was worried about where I was going to find money because I couldn't bear to wash windows anymore (couldn't handle the 80% rejection) and busking was also close to becoming unbearable. In addition to that, I'd become spoiled by the job in the vineyard, where I worked with people--people with whom I could carry conversations through the whole day and actually start investing in relationships. Going back to windows and busking seemed lonely and fruitless. (Or should I say "grapeless"? Bad joke. Sorry.)
- I have friends. Whether I am able to hang out with you in person, over skype, or through facebook, I appreciate that you like me and that some of you even like me enough to want me to fight or dance harder, and that you exhibit this by encouraging or exhorting me. You know who you are (I think... do you??). Thank you.
- I went for an exercise excursion this evening. (I've ceased to call them "walks," "jogs," or "runs," because they usually involve all three to some extent.) At one point, I decided to run up a hill to a certain point. I knew it was going to be difficult, and that I was going to want to quit at 3/4 of the way up. So I said to myself, "Okay. It's not going to kill me. At the worst, I'll throw up and/or faint. If that happens, someone will find me eventually since I'm in a neighborhood. And that probably won't happen, anyway." I decided on where I'd start running and where I'd stop, and I did it with determination. A funny thing happened near the end: my legs actually went slower and slower. I didn't want them to, but they did! Every single step was a battle! I ended as soon as I was *maybe* at the decided finish line, and I was wheezing and coughing for the rest of the way up and down the hills towards home. It was quite uncomfortable. But I did it. And I didn't die. Or faint. Or throw up. I almost wanted to die, though. But I didn't do that, either. Instead, I proved that I was stronger than the momentary discomfort. (Heck yeah, I am.)
- As I stated before, these things are possible because (read carefully)....

Holy Spirit is with me. He promises to help me, to hold me, to cherish me, to train me, to guide me, to have relationship with me.


That reminds me: Relationship.

Sometimes, it seems like a relationship with God is viewed as one-way. Some see it as them talking to God as if listening to them is the only thing He wants to do. Others see it as them listening to God, as if talking to them is the only thing He wants to do. Both are mistaken. Because it's a relationship, being two-ways. See? YES, God likes to listen to you. YES, God likes to talk to you. He likes both! He likes the interaction that is in the nature of relationship. If He wanted you to be a drone, He would have made you a drone. But He didn't want a drone (and still doesn't). He wants a friend. A daughter/son. A lover. Someone with their own will. This has been blowing my mind for a while now. I hope it blows yours, too.

That's all. Thanks for reading!

P.S. I think my writing style is better when I'm slightly depressed. This post that I'm writing in a happy frame of mind is a bit scattered. Apologies.

On Success

I went to the beach yesterday with a group of friends. It was beautiful! The day was mostly sunny with some big puffy clouds meandering across the sky, the breeze went between pleasantly playful to dramatically fierce, and the water... the water was a beautiful green from a distance and clear from up close. It was a bit bracingly cold at first, but once my body numbed to it, it was delightful.

The whole day was pleasant and I could tell you about everything that happened, but I'd rather focus your attention on one element.

While most people in our group were trying to catch waves with boogie boards, there were a few people who were trying to catch the waves with nothing but their bodies, called "body surfing." It looked so cool! So the second time I went in, I asked them to teach me how. It was harder than using a board, because it involved a lot of waiting and much more precise timing, but I found it more fun because of the extra challenge.

I missed most of the suitable waves. I could tell because I'd jump forward (towards the shore) right before the wave broke, then kick... but I'd feel the wave pass me and leave me where I'd jumped. I could always tell when I'd missed it.

The interesting thing, though, is that I couldn't tell when I'd caught one. It didn't feel like I was surging forward towards the shore, driven by the strength of the sea; on the contrary, it felt like chaos. Sand, water, and bubbles rushing at me from all directions, threatening to get up my nose and drown me. Really, there were a few times when I could have easily freaked out, not knowing which way was up or if my head was above or under water. But I always remembered something a good friend once told me: "If you're in a wave and you don't know which way is up, just relax; you'll float to the top eventually." So that's what I'd do.

After being blustered by all this chaos for a moment or two, I'd reach for the bottom with my feet and be surprised at how shallow the water was. I'd stand up and look around, and realize I was quite a few meters closer to the shore from where I'd been just moments ago. My instructor-friend would look at me with a huge smile on her face, and she'd say, "You did it! You caught a wave!"

So in the chaos, in the uncertainty, even in the fear of not knowing what was what, I'd been succeeding.