Inside This Mind.

11.28.2005 * 9:31 p.m.
It's raining.

I wish I had been wearing my pink golashes tonight. I would have jumped in puddles.

We had him taken away. I hate that, but sometimes life reaches narrow points where options are limited.

And I don't know what else to tell you.

11.27.2005 * 6:37 p.m.
More than personal.

Have I ever told you about my brother? Have I told you about his beautiful eyes that look so much like my own? Have I told you about his lyrical writings that dance on a thin tightrope between genius and insanity? Have I told you about his mental illness? The way that life is normal, good, routine, smooth, healthy and then *BAM!* like a load of bricks hurled into your stomach at neck-breaking speed you are reminded that life for him is, in fact, truly none of those things? He's okay. We're all okay. Right now things are normal and fine except that at no point in the past four years has everything ever been "fine" and the more I live and learn the more I come to realize that there is no such thing as "normal." I should work on eliminating those words from my speech. A point I'm trying to make is that my family is all safe and home, and that's good enough right now.

My thoughts have bounced in so many directions today. They've been in three countries with six different missionaries. (I wonder how the Spaniard is in Texas, I wonder if the seven baptisms they had scheduled went through, I wonder if he dreams about me the way I sometimes dream of him at night, I wonder if it's silly for me to love him still.) They've dwelled on friends in Santa Barbara and strangers sitting next to me. I sat in church trying to figure out why I felt so tired, why my eyes were so heavy. Then I remembered that I had a stressful night, a stressful morning, and that crying always makes my eyes feel strange later.

I have prayed in a lot of places. I used to search out God on the second floor of the UCSB library. I talked to Him while riding my bike to school on the streets of IV. I have poured out my soul in bedrooms and bathrooms, church buildings and temples, mountains and beaches. But the inside of my car has heard more of my prayers than any other location. I sit down, close the door and feel like I'm in a phone booth. I can yell and scream if I need to. I can plead and cry and hold nothing back. Other people can see me, sure. Some might even hear me, okay. I don't care.
I've sung happy songs in my car. I've screamed out in anger and frustration in my car. I've cried on my man in my car when I felt lost and afraid of my future. I've snuggled in my car when I felt peace and certainty. Today I pleaded desperately in my car.

In this particular situation I don't know how to do any good on my own, but I do know that I can be an instrument in someone else's (much larger and more capable) hands. I know that I can make a difference if I'm guided, if I am directed, and right now that's all I ask.