Everest

Climb. Forever climb.

And, seemingly, forever fail.

The summit stands unattained, out of reach. Every time I'm beaten back. Every time I give up and return to base camp. Every. Single. Time.

I want the top. I want it. I want that freedom.

But, trudging back into camp for another time of defeat, I break down in tears. I can't do it... I just can't.

That's right.

The Voice is so near, yet so soft. I look around through tear-blurred vision. I catch sight of Someone standing there, but I take Him to be another mountaineer.

He continues. You can't. You can't do it. YOU never will.

He wipes away my tears. You can't. But...oh... I can.

I've yet to touch the summit.

But because I can't... He'll make sure that I do.

Unconventional Childhood

I've been digging lately. Not in the traditional sense; as in, dirt. More like a very unconventional sense; as in, the past.

I've discovered that there was something I had a long time ago that I don't anymore. I'm not sure what it is, really.

But suddenly, as I hear these songs that I grew up with; as I see the pictures; and too, as I'm feeling the unique pressures that being 20 holds... I want it back. The innocence, the laughter, the sweetness and magic of my childhood.

Jesus said that we were to be like little children if we wanted to come at Heaven. Heaven is my ultimate goal--but in my walk of life, He moves me further away from conventional childhood every day. And in some ways, that's okay.

But I'm beginning to see more and more that He wants to kindle an unconventional childhood in me: an everlasting, childlike trust, sweetness, innocence and dependence on Him. I'm learning; albeit, a bit slowly.

I miss the little girl.

But I'm praying for the day when she will be a woman after God's own heart.

In an unconventional sort of way.

Mini-Me

Gravel crunched, headlights faded and the inner-car lights got switched off. A door softly opened and shut, footsteps tip-toed to the door and a key turned in the lock. The footsteps paused inside, and then after a moment bare feet stole quietly to the living room. Another pause, then to the closed bedroom door--and then silence.

I peeked into the bedroom, knowing full well my mom and siblings had no idea I was here. My mom sat on the bench, reading a bedtime story to Lily. She thought I was Haley and didn't even bother to look up when I peeked in. But Lily did.

I love sneaking home. I love surprises--they're just too much fun. However, my brief trip home this time brought some interesting soul-searching with it.

You see, though I don't live at home anymore, I still do.

I never would've realized it, actually. But recently Jessica bequeathed her old tape player to me; and I, with much joy, went into my room to listen to the 5 or so tapes I've had hanging around and couldn't listen to. And that's when I ran across the old tape of me.

It's me, my mom, and Haley singing. My mom had the foresight to record us on an old cassette recorder, and memories live on to this day in those audio clips. It brings back a flood of what I used to be, how I used to be...and what I became, what I was; and, consequently, what I now am not. It was fascinating.

Listening to myself talk when I was 6 years old is highly entertaining. My voice has changed alot since then. But when I went home last weekend, I heard myself talking again... only, my name is Lily Rose now.

She sounds just like me. She looks like I did when I was her age, with the exception of the dark hair I had. In so many ways, she is just like me...

And I cringe. Am I worth being "just like"? 

I can only hope and pray that this little "mini-me" will learn sooner the lessons I've had to learn as a teenager. 

And while she grows, I'm going to be listening. 

Because I've learned alot about myself from those old recordings.

And from her.