Searching for jazz in painted deserts

Grayson Moody gave me his copy of Blue Like Jazz in the summer of '06. He'd driven about an hour from Visalia to Bakersfield to have lunch with me over break because we missed each other and he's just awesome like that. After amazing mostaccioli at Frugatti's, we parted with a hug, and he gave me an already weathered copy of Don Miller's top seller. He said his dad had read it first and jotted some notes down here and there in the margins. He himself had highlighted a few sentences he found profound or meaningful. He told me to tackle it with a pen also and to experience it fully by almost interacting with the book. I really miss Grayson. We had some good talks.

About a week later I got on an Amtrak bus in Bakersfield headed for San Diego to spend time with my old room mate Amanda. On the bus, I slept mostly and talked to Luke a little on the phone, but on the train, I curled up in my window seat and cracked open Blue Like Jazz, my favorite pen in my right hand. His writing style is what got to me first. It's almost cliche to say it now, but I really felt like he was just sitting there, telling me about his life, explaining God's love for me unlike anyone ever had before. I fell in love with his casual and conversational methods and I can't really explain it. I just knew that's what I needed to do, too. I had discovered creative non-fiction, and I was not turning back. When I got home from San Diego, Dad asked me how my trip was. I said I'd had fun, but I'd learned one thing about myself. "Dad," I said. "I want to be a writer."

I don't know if you've ever experienced this, but I absolutely love words, especially song lyrics, so when something fits a situation, a scene, an emotion so perfectly, I literally explode inside. It drives me crazy because I want to express how incredible it is, but I can never find the words. It's just amazing. This book was like that for me. Every page I was literally speechless at both the style and the message behind it. I'm usually very critical of Christian criticisms (hence why I wrote my final paper in Bib Lit on why Rick Warren is a modern day false teacher), but for some reason, I felt as though Miller was speaking the truth. I jotted down notes, drew smiley faces in the margins, and interacted with the book. So many times I've run into the perfect person in the perfect situation to pass the book on to, but I just can't let go of my copy with its tattered cover and Moody & Son's notes right along with mine. It's OUR book. I'm not ready to let someone else into my particular club. Buy your own copy. You'll want to hang onto this one.

I bought Miller's two other books Through Painted Deserts and Searching for God Knows What and am tackling them this winter break. I'm halfway through Deserts and he's still got it. I desperately want to have coffee with this man and just talk about his experiences, but mostly his writing. Sometimes I really feel like I'm reading my own words. I just need to go out and experience something so I can write my life down, too. I sat here at the family desktop tonight and, turning to my mom, said, "I really want to meet this man. So for like a graduation present, if you could arrange that, that'd be great." She laughed and sarcastically agreed to working that out before heading to bed. I went to Miller's website just a few minutes ago and clicked around a bit before I came to "Appearances". Lo and behold, in April of this coming year, he's coming to Fresno Pacific University. Looks like I won't have to wait until graduation. The reasons why I transferred keep popping up everywhere. God is crazy. He's like music, or rather music is like Him, I suppose. He's so amazing that I sometimes can't find the words to express Him. This is one of those times.

Turn around

I'm cutting my Thanksgiving break short and heading back to school on Saturday. I slacked off a bit too much this semester, and I'm right at the point where, if I push hard enough, I can make it out alive. That being said, I have to read two and a half full novels this weekend, and write two papers. I'm off to my room now to curl up with the next assignment for Children's Lit. I'm a little too sleepy to tackle the book for Bible Lit.

I just wanted to say that I'm beginning to feel whole again. Last year around this time, I just couldn't get out of bed, I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe. I didn't have any focus, and God was not a part of my life, at least I wasn't trying to include him. Being at FPU has been amazing. I have friends, I have decent grades, and most importantly, I have God again. I say this because I don't want you to think because of that last post that I'm crying in the corner and near emo depression. I'm not. I'm not sad. I just miss him, but beyond that, things are really great. Becca and Tiff, they're phenomenal. Isaac, Jesse, Lauren, and Loren, gosh, I have so many incredible people in my life these days. Thanks, guys. Really.

Today is Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for my family and my health, of course, but I'm thankful for this second chance. I can't wait for 2008. I'm ready for a completely fresh start.

Ash and Snow

When I was younger I could wear shorts through December and never think twice. It might be because I've lost some weight since then, but it seems as though, once I turned 16, I can't seem to keep warm. I've tried sweaters, I've tried scarves, I've tried boys, and still the goosebumps rise. Sometimes it's so cold, it burns. That concept always fascinated me. Starting a hot bath and running my 7-year-old hand under the water, the sting of the water feeling like ice, and suddenly an instant burn. I think it's hot water's own source of camouflage. Cold water, to my hand at least, is much less threatening. I'll stick around for a while. It reminds me of a swimming pool or a drinking fountain, good signs of a childhood summer. The pierce of heat comes only after I have allowed my senses to accept the nostalgia of cold. I am unprepared, and it burns.

He was like that. He came as a comfort, but left so suddenly, and oh, how it burned. He's still there, in my head, spinning circles, taunting me. He came as a pillow, as comfortable as childhood summer, and he kept me warm. He gave me his jacket and rolled me up in his blue blanket. It was, after all, the cold that brought our hands to touch for the first time, my head to find his shoulder, and my arms to cling to him. We planted ourselves on that bench, under a blanket, chilled to the bone, because it was the only place we could be together. And so we were.

I can't seem to keep warm now. I try jackets, I try mittens, I try superficial hugs with superficial boys who cannot compare. I miss our nick-names, our secret handshake, the shoe in the door. I miss french fries, the corner table, kissing with our glasses on. I miss his chocolate eyes that are windows to his soul, the way his eyelashes curl, and the way he found walking without holding hands unacceptable. His smile stretched when I embarrassed myself, but his arms always stretched further. I miss green sweaters and blue sweaters, brown shoes and black shoes. I miss the way he made me feel happy, excited, bubbly, confused, intrigued, hopeful, infinite. Most of all I miss the way he could never hold me close enough. With him, my covers were softer, the coffee was smoother, the sun was brighter. I was warm.