Strength Faithened

You know those times when the connection between your brain and your mouth is momentarily snapped? You end up saying things like:

“Will you stow to the gore and get me some ghosted rarlic?”

Hopefully you’ve said something similar and I’m not just a weirdo English major who’s read Shel Silverstein’s Runny Babbit too many times. (Well, I am, and I have. But let’s move on.) Generally, linguistic slip-ups like these just fing a smile to my brace. But one particular instance of this “Runny Babbit talk” stands out in my memory as genuinely important.

If I remembered who said it, I’d give them credit, but I don’t. All I remember is that I was in a religious setting and someone, quite by accident, used the phrase “strength faithened”. Of course they’d meant “faith strengthened”, and that’s how I took it at the time. But the Runny Babbit enthusiast inside me stowed the original words into one of my mind’s numerous fandom boxes.

Fast-forward a few years. I’m living on my own, hundreds of miles away from my parents and childhood home—supposedly a big girl. Yet I’m in my parked car bawling into the steering wheel.

Nothing earth-shatteringly awful had happened to me or any of my loved ones for a very long time. I was healthy, financially safe, and surrounded by great friends. But I had some questions I felt only God could answer that I felt weren’t being answered, despite the fact that I’d “done my homework”. So I was ticked.

I gave the longest, wettest, ventiest prayer I can ever remember giving that night. I’m not proud of the things I said. After listing my woes and frustrations and questions and crying enough tears to fill both my car’s cup holders, I finished with the following summary:

“I feel like I’ve always been a pretty strong person—always been able to keep going when things got tough. I’m still trying to be strong, but I feel like that’s not getting me anywhere. I can’t go on like this.”

I returned to my apartment with no more answers than I’d started with and went to bed. The sleep brought me a little peace and a lot more sanity; I woke up ready to view the previous night rationally.

So I started thinking. I remembered what I’d told God about trying to be strong. And then to the top of my mind floated that Runny Babbit-esque phrase: strength faithened. But why? As I let my brain keep sifting, pieces of my prayer echoed back to me. One word stood out in each of them:

“I know You’re wiser than I am, but you don’t seem to understand what I’m going through.”

“I know You want what’s best for me, but it doesn’t seem like you’re giving me what’s best.”

“I know I’m supposed to be learning and growing, but these experiences don’t seem to be helping me.”

Did I really know the things I said I knew? I searched within myself, but didn’t have to ponder long—I knew I did. I'd known them for years. That was part of the problem: each of those truths was a given, so basic, too simple. How could they possibly help me with my complicated problems? That’s when an image unfolded in my mind, and I realized how hard I'd been making things on myself. .

I saw my questions or burdens as a boulder blocking my path, my personal strength as a lever, and my faith as a fulcrum. With every “but” in my prayer, I was choosing to ignore truth. I was kicking aside my faith and trying to be strong without it. And that was about as effective as poking a boulder with a stick.

Without faith, my strength was useless. The only way I was ever going to move the boulder was by placing the lever on top of the fulcrum—in other words, letting what I believed be the foundation of my power. I needed my strength faithened.

So I went to work. Instead of dismissing the truths I'd known since my childhood, I clung to them. I repeated them to myself every time concerns threatened to overwhelm me. It didn't work immediately. But when I chose again and again to actively trust what I already knew, every “but” eventually became a “so”:

“I know You’re wiser than I am, so you must understand what I’m going through.”

“I know You want what’s best for me, so You must be giving me what’s best.”

“I know I’m supposed to be learning and growing, so these experiences must be helping me.”

Things were still hard. I still didn’t have the answers I wanted, and I didn’t like living without them. But my path had been cleared.

And so, with strength faithened, I move forward. 

What I’ve Learned About Dating From Job Hunting

I hate job hunting. It’s a boring, whiny, and universal statement, but true. I recently relocated despite having no promising job prospects in the area, and I’ve spent about as much time searching for work as my psyche can handle.

Why did I move to a city jobless? Because it’s where my boyfriend lives. And, at the risk of getting a few choruses of “Duh”, I really like my boyfriend. He is completely worth the six awkward years of dates and non-dates and not-supposed-to-be-dates-but-ended-up-as-dates I had to go through before finding him.

When I thought about it, I realized that job hunting and significant other hunting are similar. Stunningly so. Maybe I’m just slow on the uptake and everyone else figured this out years ago, but the parallels were quite illuminating to me.  

Honest but Confident

In creating my resume, I’ve had a hard time finding the balance between talking myself up and truthfully depicting my talents. For instance, I’d listed the Excel program as one of my skills. But after taking (okay, bombing) an online Excel test, I realized that I’d forgotten a lot of what I’d learned. Thus, I moved Excel from my “Expert at” list to my “Familiar with” list. After all, I’d hate to get a job and find that I’m expected to set up crazy formulas I’ve never used in a spreadsheet.

Talking myself up was even tougher. I mean, can a few volunteer hours for an arts organization count as public relations experience? But my mother reminded me that I had done legitimate PR work for this organization and done it well (hooray for people who pump us up!). She convinced me to include the position in my resume.

These same principles apply to dating. Granted, we’re not “selling ourselves” to potential dates the same way we are to potential employers. But we will be giving ourselves: our strengths, our weaknesses, our personalities. The people we date—or at least the ones we date seriously—need to know what they should and shouldn’t expect from us. But in honestly acknowledging our shortcomings, we must also keep our confidence. Because we are awesome! It hurts us not to believe that. And our potential dates may miss out on knowing us if we don’t let our awesomeness show.

Looking in More Places

  

I had a phone conversation with my younger (and married and impressively employed) sister the other day. She asked how the job hunt was going; I said I was doing it online and had found limited success.

“Most jobs aren’t posted online, Sis,” she told me. “The only way I got my job was by talking with everyone I knew. That’s when I started hearing about positions I’d never even caught a whiff of when I’d been searching exclusively online.”

The idea of leaving the ease and security of my computer didn’t thrill me. I grumbled a bit before realizing that I’d done the same thing years before in terms of my social life: I’d glued myself into my comfort zone. Only after being dragged to a dozen not-my-thing social events with not-my-type people had I made the variety of friends I enjoy today. Most of my favorite dates came from this pool of people.

We can’t expect to find our special someones within our comfort zones. Whether it’s joining a new club, hanging out with people we haven’t before, or simply leaving our movie caves, we have to not only keep looking, but look in more places.

Picky vs. Selective

  

Timing also makes things tough. Ideally, I could get a job in my field that will yield relevant experience, but I also need to start making money before my savings are drained. I’ve found myself asking, “How long can I wait? At what point should I stop being choosy and take what I can get?”

A fair question, too, in terms of finding a spouse. On one hand, most of us know (or think we know) what we want. But we’d rather not wait years for the perfect candidate—if he/she even exists. So what do we do?

First of all, we’ve gotta be open to more possibilities than the “ideal”. Just like I could miss an exciting marketing job if I only type “writing” into my search bar, we could pass up great relationships by refusing to go on dates with people who may not be our preferred type. I don’t have to take every job I apply for, and we don’t have to marry all the people we go on dates with (thank heavens). No need to be too picky.

But we shouldn’t drop a spouse the same way we quit a job if things aren’t going well. For relationships, we have to make a list of the nonnegotiable traits we need most in a life partner: religion, work ethic, outlook on life, whatever. And we can never give up on finding someone with those traits, no matter how long it takes. That’s not being picky; that’s being selective. It’s something we can’t afford not to be when choosing the person to build our lives with.   

Don’t Freak Out!

  

Job hunting will always suck. Always. And no matter what job I finally acquire, it’ll have drawbacks. But chucking my laptop across the room in frustration won’t improve my chances or my well-being.

Neither will freaking out about our love lives (or lack thereof). I know as well as anyone the insane levels of clumsiness, tedium, and pain reached in dating. But we can’t dwell on those. Isn’t the whole point of dating to find someone who makes us happy? We will—as long as we don’t give up.

So I’ll write another cover letter. I’ll ask another friend if they know of anybody in my field who’s hiring.  I’ll put on the slacks I hate ironing to look presentable for another interview.

Then I’ll come home and kiss my boyfriend. :)  

Disney Princess Hunger Games

Originally appearing in a blog for one of my Lit classes at BYU last year, now resurrected in my personal blog. Names have been changed. Sorry the picture isn't of better quality. Hope y'all enjoy the post, anyway. :)

“It’s gotta be Mulan.”

“Why not Merida? She’s got some sweet archery skills.”

“But does she also have hand-to-hand combat, swordsmanship, and the brains to wipe out an entire army with a single cannon and some snow? I don’t think so.”

It’s our second round of Disney Princess Hunger Games in as many days, and the Gamemakers of Apartment 9¾ are hard at work. We’ve got two whiteboards out: one with a map of the New Orleans arena (drawn by Wes, a native of that city) and the other with a list of characters and events. I’m not sure whose baby this idea was, but we’re the village raising it.

We’re pretty weird. But it’s a good weird . . . I think.

Courtney, our Head Gamemaker, sits Gandhi-style (as opposed to Gangnam Style, although Courtney does have talents for dancing) atop an end table, marker in hand. “The map is done, yes?” she asks Wes, who nods and holds up his work.

“‘Waterlogged ghetto’?” Daniel asks, peering at said region of the map.

“Chalmette,” I tell him. “My turf. But it was dry long before I got there, Wes.”

“It is pretty ghetto, though,” he says, dodging the elbow I shove at him. “Except for the Brad Pitt houses.”

Leann wrinkles her nose. “Multiple summer homes in one city? Typical Brad Pitt.”

“They’re not his houses,” I clarify. “After Hurricane Katrina, he paid to have all these apartment-style houses built in the spot that had been hit the hardest—gave them away. Nice of him. They were supposed to be trendy, but mostly they’re just ridiculous.”

“Right?” Wes says. “Their bright colors are pukeworthy.”

Stephanie creeps into the room—probably trying to hide her dressy shirt and curled hair—but gives herself away when she steps on the now-empty bag of Leann’s homemade popcorn. We finished it long ago—I don’t think Leann ate more than a couple handfuls.

“Look who’s all ready for her date!” Courtney squeals.

“You look great!” Gretchen tells Stephanie. “If he compliments your hair, you can thank me. Are you leaving right now?”

“Almost. I’ve just gotta put on my legs.” She rolls up her jeans and straps on her braces.

“Aw—you’ll miss Mulan winning the New Orleans edition,” I tell her.

Jake winces for me. “Actually, Mulan is dead.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since we lit the city on fire.”

“I thought we’d decided on a swarm of nutria rats.”

“That’s not ‘til later.”

A knock at the door fails to interrupt us. “Come in!” we all shout without looking up. In walks Tanner—one of the cutest guys in the complex. Someone who, in my brain’s idyllic fantasy world, actually thinks I’m borderline cool. I remember what we’re doing and wince.

“What are you guys up to?” he asks before spotting the whiteboards. “Oh my gosh—Disney Princess Hunger Games? Are you guys serious?” Before we have time to answer, he rushes on: “Rapunzel is going to win, right? She’s got crazy arm strength from hauling her stepmother into her tower all the time.”

Yeah, we’re a good weird.