For the Sake of Beauty...Part Dos.

We all do dumb things. Some of us hold firecrackers too long. Some of us attempt the atomic challenge at Buffalo Wild Wings (and wake up with regret). Some of us pet the cat the wrong direction (and wake up scarred). And some of us even try to skate off rooftops and end up parkouring the concrete with our faces.

A few weeks ago, I did a very dumb and very foolish thing...

I left angry.

The story goes something like this: My friend (who shall remain nameless...again...because that's what you do in blogs) and I were having dinner and some margaritas with a couple before I had to catch a flight back home. Now, there have been a few times that I've drug my feet and have been late for a flight. Once was because I was in the middle of a serious conversation with the same friend, and I didn't want to leave it unfinished. 

I blame the other two occasions on ridiculously long TSA lines (45 mins plus). 

Granted, I work for the airlines, so it wasn't that difficult to catch another flight...even if it was the next morning. 

But that's beside the point. 

So anyway, I was kind-of dragging my feet (but not by much). She reminded me that it was time to leave, and what I remember saying was, "Alright, let's go," and then her saying, "Okay, well let me use the bathroom first."

Another five minutes.

Then, we finally hit the road. The airport's only like...ten minutes away. Cut-off time for checking in bags (I had a bag) was in five.

Psh, we can make it, I thought.

And then, out of nowhere, she says, "You always do this!"

We've had this argument once before.

The last time I missed my flight, I had to stay overnight on her couch, so she had to come back to pick me up. She was upset then because she felt like I didn't appreciate her time and potential plans. It seemed like, to her, that I missed my flights on purpose...just so I could hang out with her a little longer.

Which may have been a subconscious truth...because as you may have guessed (especially if you've read part one)...I'm crazy about the girl.

And that, of course, complicates everything.

But! ...it wasn't a deliberate, conscious decision. 

Anyway, I tried to explain that I didn't miss flights on purpose. I only missed that one flight so I could finish, what I thought, was a very important conversation. 

I know. I know. You're probably thinking, "Sean! You missed a flight...just so you could finish talking?!"

Yup. 

I fly for free. Different priorities. 

Sue me. 

Anyway, we got over it (I thought) and moved on.

But then, here I am, and she's arguing the exact same thing she did almost a month before. 

I think the part that ticked me off the most was that she said, "You do this all the time!" when I had, in fact, only done it once. 

(I fly through DFW a lot)

I'm a stickler for accuracy...and for not being wrong, of course.

I know. Petty. 

I let her vent for a little bit as we drove to the airport...but right as we drove beneath the barrier arm and entered the airport...something snapped. All I could feel was this blame, shame, and misunderstanding literally pouring out of her mouth and over me...wave after wave...and I wasn't going to have it any more!

"You make me feel like shit!" is all I remember saying. And I don't cuss often...despite what you've heard. And there was something about love thrown in my tirade somewhere, but I'm pretty sure it was covered up by all the excrement. 

But there is something I remember very well. 

She pulled up to the drop-off point. Now, you have to understand that every time before, I've left her with a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a see you soon, a call me when you make it home. 

This time, regardless of what was said, all I know is that I grabbed my bags, slammed the door before she could finish talking, and walked away angry. 

Some of you might blame it on the two 'ritas. Some might just call me an asshole (which I was). Some of you might pull the double-punch and blame both. But regardless, as the minutes passed, as I got my boarding pass, as I made it through security with my bags, as I found my seat on the plane, as we taxied away from the gate, as I sent her a quick text saying, "On. Love you," as a hasty, makeshift patch to what I had just done...as I wrote out an even longer apology...regret began to flood my chest.

You know the feeling.

That painful ache of realization that you just did something you couldn't erase...and that in your selfishness, you said things you could never, ever take back. 

An hour and a half later, I made it safely to the ground, but I went home in silence and fell asleep.

And then I woke up. And for whatever reason, the only thing I could sense was that I had made a terrible, terrible mistake in leaving like that. What if that had been our last meeting? What if, God forbid, I never saw her after that?

But even more importantly, if I loved her as much as I said I did, if I loved Christ as much as I claim, why would I even allow myself to touch the surface of such heartless words and careless exits...no matter the reason?

            "Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger..."

                                                                                          -Ephesians 4:2

I heard that verse many times growing up. But what surprised me more was what the rest of it said:

       "Therefore, laying aside falsehood, speak truth each one of you with his neighbor, for we are members of one another. Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not give the devil an opportunity. He who steals must steal no longer; but rather he must labor, performing with his own hands what is good, so that he will have something to share with one who has need. Let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth, but only such a word as is good for edification according to the need of the moment, so that it will give grace to those who hear. Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, by whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you. -Ephesians 4:25-32 

In a matter of less than five minutes, I became the antithesis of that entire passage. And no matter what she had said...none of it was her fault, and she didn't deserve to be spoken to in such a manner. 

In those few moments, what did I steal? What did I tear down in her instead of build up? And what does that say about my "love" for her and about our friendship?

Instead of focusing on the beauty of who God has created her to be, instead of listening to her and trying to see the situation(s) from her point of view, instead of approaching her concerns with a humble heart, instead of trying to understand, I lashed out in some selfish, adolescent rant in an attempt to prove myself right.

And I never could have been more wrong.

So, like before, to her, though I can't say it enough, I say, "Thank you for your friendship, for your patience, and I apologize for how I've treated you."

And to everyone else, never let your pride be so important that you tear someone down, especially someone you love. 

And never leave angry. 

"Midnight" Part 4

I haven't seen the stars in almost two years.

30th street, I sigh. I lift my eyes and gaze upward into a cloud-covered blackness carried by city lights and sounds. I probably look lost and foolish walking down the sidewalk with my head craned back, staring toward a dismal heaven. Big cities aren't meant for stargazing. It's one of the many sacrifices, I guess. I lost a sense of 

beauty when I moved here.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy the city. The lights, the sounds, the speed; It's a sensory symphony of modern man. There's always something going on, even at 3 a.m.

Especially at 3 a.m.

But I come from a natural place—nothing like this chaotically organized, colossal maze of concrete and steel. There are mountains and trees where I'm from. Springtime is explosive—a proverbial picture of God speaking. Summer is thick and full of activity. Autumn is Earth splashing paint across the hillside. Winter is pure. The stars are infinite.

It's true. I counted, once. 

But as I grew older, I ceased to see the beauty. It's like staring at the same point for too long without blinking. The center blackens until all that remains is the outer-rim.

Try it sometime. 

In the end, I needed to blink. I needed to experience the world outside my own. I didn't want to fade through life like everybody else. So, I moved here. 

A week afterward, I met her.

29th street. A low rumble of thunder penetrates from somewhere far above. A few drops of dying rain struggle toward the earth.

Actually, I ran into her…literally. 

It was just outside of a convenient store on a Sunday afternoon around 2:30. She was carrying chocolate, and I was jogging around the corner. She was wearing glasses, and I was wearing headphones.  She was putting change in her purse, and I was looking the other way. Not on purpose, of course. I thought I heard a dog barking behind me. We converged in front of the double-glass doors outside of the store and tumbled over each other onto the city-stained sidewalk.

We were best friends after that.

28th street, I glance upward. The clouds are beginning to break.

However, somewhere between me helping her up from the littered concrete and my most recent birthday, like these worn-out Nike sneakers, everything fell apart. 

Or something fell apart, and the rest followed.

In fact, it reminds me of Jenga, the game where you stack the wooden blocks into a miniature Leaning Tower of Pisa and then slide individual blocks out one by one until it collapses into a laughable mess that the loser is left privileged to clean up. Or it reminds me of this homeless man stretched out across the bus stop bench. Perhaps he had an organized, happy life once-upon-a-time, a life that made sense. But one by one, pieces were shoved out of place until the whole of it came crashing down and left him lying here in a cluttered pile of unintentional, circumstantial consequence.

27th street. The traffic light flickers sporadically above me.

Whatever it reminds me of, my heart is a suffering heap of flesh and emotion, and I'm the loser left to clean up.

And I have no idea where to begin

"Midnight" Part 3

My toes feel like raisins.

You remember, like those Sun-Maid raisins in the small, red box your mother gave you when you were a kid. You wanted a snack, which meant you wanted cookies, which meant your mother gave you raisins. Mothers tend to do that—replace the good stuff with healthy stuff only grown-ups like. They refuse to understand.

Actually, my toes feel like prunes. Raisins are too small.

I never did like prunes.

45th street, I pause. I glance left down Jackson Ave. for Mr. Jackson Ave., but he seems to have stumbled off after some other destiny. I sulk beneath the traffic-light and wander on.

The street is empty like a Sunday morning drive. A few pieces of paper melt inside collecting rain puddles, drowning information no one cares to read. The dark buildings tower over me like empty monologues asking questions, but like usual, I don't answer. 

Dominating structures never care to listen...

...but if walls could tell stories, I'd be the first in line to hear them speak.

44th Street. I kick a lonely beer bottle toward the curb. I watch as it skips over the edge and plunks into the stream. It clinks off the bottom and bobbles down the street behind me toward a nearby storm drain.

That one's on me, I mumble as it quietly slips between the iron teeth.

Do you drink? She asks me as I trip across 44th street.

Not anymore, I reply indifferently.

Why not? She tilts her head, faking concern, allowing those deep, curious eyes to make up for it.

It never helps, I state, matter-of-factly. I still wake up with me.

She fades into a passing street-lamp as I approach 43rd street.

Flashbacks are like forgotten songs. You're in some random place and out of nowhere this recognizable tune catches your attention. You gravitate toward it because it's familiar, and then you remember why.  Every thought, every feeling, and every image attached to that song invades your mind like a foggy introduction. After a few seconds, the uncertainties clear and the wounds are re-opening. 

And like a madman, you willingly continue to listen. 

Like a madman, you willingly continue to hurt. 

Like a madman, you willingly continue to play back your rejection again, and again, and again, until finally...

32nd street.

I stop. I glance up at the elevated sign and turn around. The rain has let up for now. A few lazy drops embrace the sidewalk as they tumble down from tired rooftops. A worn-out yellow taxicab drenched in mud and midnight passengers wanders around the corner and passes by without a second thought. 

Time flies when you're having flashbacks.

Actually, it doesn't. I just got lucky. Time saunters off for a stiff drink when pain is involved.       

31st street, I say in habitual fashion as I continue to walk. A black cat watches me from across the street.

That's right. You stay put, kitty. I've had enough tonight.

"Midnight" Part 2

Everyone has a breaking point.

I never did like that phrase. It conjures up an illusion that we're acting, wearing ill-fitted masks and employing facades we never reveal until it's absolutely unintentional. Does that make sense? A breaking point—an unintentional breaking point.

If you say it slow enough, it seems to make sense. 

Maybe.

The rain isn't letting up, and I'm far from getting dry. The next store is a good two blocks away, and I'm miserable.

46th street, I mutter, never close enough.

I hate chocolate. No, I actually like chocolate, I just hate the memories. Actually, I love the memories. I just hate that they are, in fact, only memories. So why am I stumbling through this rain shower at 2 a.m. trying to find a store with chocolate that ignites memories I hate to replay?

Good question. Breaking point.

And my breaking point was her, and she loved chocolate.

And this rain is making me cold, reminding me of her.

A black cat skittered across the street, losing its hind legs in a stream by the curb and then its body in a trashcan. That seems to happen more often—black cats crossing my path. I've never been the superstitious type, but with all my bad luck lately, I may join the club. But it wasn't bad luck I was having; it was just me. That's what hurts the most: knowing that you are the bad luck. You are, in fact, her black cat. And like Trash-Can-Kitty, you're soaked and stumbling through the filthiest, lowest point of your life.

And you're alone.

47th street , I read as I pass beneath the sign and glance for cars. I think the store 

is on 48th, but in this weather, I'm not so sure.

I really don't know what happened. I never saw the array of dominoes that fell against me, finally knocking me through my own breaking point. I've always considered myself strong. I guess that was my greatest weakness and ultimate downfall.

It's like tumbling into the ring with a Ninja, believing yourself to be a natural master of Kung-Fu, when you are, in fact, just a 135 pound weakling containing no experience with round-house kicks whatsoever except for the one that's soon-to-be introducing itself to your well-manicured face.

What's our measurement of "strong" anyway?

And what does "strong" describe, emotionally speaking, except that we conceal our feelings better than others? I've always heard it said that bottling emotion is a bad habit that soon leads to explosive situations.

Then again, 'A fool vents all his feelings, but a wise man holds them back.' That's a proverb, I think.

The lonely traffic light blinks incessantly red as I pass underneath. 

I love colors in the rain. They're saturated and much more vibrant than on ordinary days. They're rich with life, even lonely traffic lights. Perhaps that's another reason why I love rain so much. Perhaps I have the potential to be vibrant and colorful in the rain instead of ordinary. Perhaps that's why I'm walking in the rain. I guess I just need to find some color first. 

And when I do, I guess I just need to light up and flash a bit.

48th street, I sigh. There isn't a gas station or an open store. There isn't even a closed store. I turn a few circles, as if it would help, but it doesn't. There's still no store.

How inconvenient.

I slowly make my way back from where I came. Back home. Home is a studio apartment in a seven-story building on 23rd street. 

Twenty-five blocks, I scold myself. My feet begin to ache. I could keep walking in hopes of finding another store, but twenty-five blocks is my breaking point for tonight. 

The rain is letting up a little. Small rivers begin to rush against the curb toward thirsty storm drains. A few pieces of trash float along like lost ships at sea, carried wherever the current desires.

It reminds me of being a kid. I remember folding paper ships and sending them to their doom at the hands of curbside waterways. Then again, I didn't think like that as a child. It was terribly fun to chase the boats as they bobbed and twisted in the murky-brown water. Eventually, they would either sink or disappear into the gaping mouth of a storm drain, lost to whatever monsters lurk beneath our feet. I lived in a smaller town then. It was nothing like the big city.

I feel like that now. A boat tossed in the rain, rushing out of control toward a deep, dark hole in the ground along with all the other trash.

And for all I know, this ship has already slipped over the edge

In the morning...

It's too easy to fall into the routine. 

And don't get me wrong...routines are nice. They can keep us focused, keep us directed, keep us on track. 

But when it comes to creativity...when it comes to some strange version of "originality" and spontanious creation...sometimes you just need to quietly climb out of the box and stumble into whatever's lying on the outside. 

Will you find it by taking a new route to work?

Will you find it by saying hello to someone you wouldn't normally say hello to?

Will you find it in a kiss, rather than a hug?

Will you find it in the morning, rather than in the evening after a day's work has worn everything out?

Personally, I never write in the morning. 

I sleep. I wake up. I check Facebook. I shower. I rush to work.

Unless I've had a bizarre dream, I never take the time to write in the morning, even though all the other professional writers say I should.  

But today I have, and it feels nice. 

It feels refreshing. 

And I might just give myself more time to do it tomorrow. 

Shake yourself up a bit and take a look around. 

And if you find the time, tell me what you find. 

"Midnight"

This is a short story I wrote a little over five years ago. Some of you may have read it before, but in an attempt to jump-start this "writing more often" kick, I'll revisit my past for a little while. 

This story was written in seven parts, so over the next seven weeks, I'll post each subsequent part on Monday. Hopefully, in the midst of all this, I'll get into the habit of writing and posting other things throughout the week as well. 

We'll see. 

But for now,

"Midnight"

I

It's raining.

 

Scattered drops of water entangle the street-lamps with reflections of a heavenly nature, but darkness still remains. I wander alone, doused in a heavy rubber raincoat, faded yellow and torn in two places near the chest---a metaphor, no doubt. I left my rain boots in the apartment, so my feet slosh around inside my worn-out Nike sneakers. I'll get a new pair someday. Perhaps the streams are what carry me as I splash across the street toward an empty colored wall of an old abandoned building. I can never tell anymore. An emptiness, empty as this alleyway I stumble through, envelopes the outer rim of a heart I no longer feel.

Don't ask me that again, I mutter. It’s over now. 

I never did enjoy wandering thoughts---especially at midnight.

But it wasn't midnight. It was briefly after 2 a.m., and I still hadn't found an open convenient store with the chocolate candy I was looking for. I've tried three already.

How inconvenient.

It was on mornings like this that I found myself questioning who I was --- the inner core --- the solid foundation of what I thought was reliable, because I've come to find that it isn't so reliable after all.

A tall man in a dark raincoat topped with a hood has been following me for the past three blocks. Not unusual, especially in the big city, even more-so downtown. A couple of those gruesome detective movies begin to scroll across my imagination as I round a corner. I'm tempted to run and find an empty doorway to cower in, but everyone knows that the people who try to run and hide always end up dead. I figure I'm screwed either way. If this guy is really after me, I don't think my tired legs can carry me far enough fast enough to do me any good. But he isn't out to kill me, yet. I cross 45th street and he turns right onto Jackson Avenue, tripping over the curb and almost splattering himself onto the sidewalk.

I love rain. It carries with it an emotional sense of intelligence. I know cheesy, right? Intelligent rain. But think about it. Every time it rains, people are compelled to do at least one of three things: sleep, read a book, or watch a movie. Alright, I take that back, rain actually makes you lazy. But the person reading the book must feel at least a nudge of intelligence before they fall asleep by the window. As for me, rain brings memories. 

It never fails.

Mostly.

The first memory is usually of a person, or if I'm really awake, of a few people. It's usually their faces followed by a feeling of regret for not keeping in contact, or for letting them go. Depressing, I know. But every once in a while there's a rare face that ignites feelings of joy and sweet nostalgia. Or, if I'm lucky, it’s a face that I hope to see tomorrow. But those are rare these days because I live alone now. I live in a big city far away from the people that remind me of rain --- in a good way, at least.

From now on I'll probably think of Mr. Jackson Avenue who followed me for three blocks and smile. 

We can all use a laugh at someone else's expense every once in a while.

My Own Catch-22

I've sat in the dark for too long. 

There's a part of me that hates social media. Privacy aside (or lack thereof), it's a constant reminder of everything I don't like about people. 

Or better yet, it's a constant reminder of everything I don't like about myself. 

Yet, I'm addicted.

If you haven't noticed yet, I can be a pretty cynical person.  And if you ask enough of my friends, I have the bad habit, despite my best intentions, of being an asshole.  

But what's that have to do with anything?

Well, be it words or music (or the occasional tree-sketch), I love to write (or at least the idea of it). And anything written, in my own, general opinion, isn't worth anything unless it's shared with someone else. Granted, I understand that many people write journals and diaries and poetry and songs for themselves alone. 

And that's fine.

But I've always been under the impression that if you have any sort of talent when it comes to putting something on a page, be it words, art, or musical notes, then you should share it with someone else. Not for the sake of attention, or money, or fame (although those can be some perky benefits), but for the sake of connection with others and inspiration for others in the midst of a broken world. 

And in this age of social media, lack of opportunity for artistic exposure is no excuse. 

As for myself, I've done my best to refrain from sharing too many of my creations for the simple fact that I believe deep down that the expression of these creations isn't good enough. 

But good enough for what? A record deal? A book deal? Fame? Fortune? Attention? Respect?

Heck, I don't even write enough for any of that. 

Or...is it just not good enough to be remembered for?

Like most people, I don't want to be remembered for something shitty (if I can be so blunt). And like most amateur (or aspiring) artists, I think that's what our general impression of our own work is. 

One big fat turd. 

Which, I'll be honest, most of it is.

But they're our turds. And they're still important. And those little nuggets of our own creation, which many times stink and function about as well as a sloth in a horse-race, eventually turn into something more:

beauty, inspiration, and significance for someone else.  

So, thanks to time alone and to certain friends, I'm going to try and come out of my proverbial closet and write a little more often.

And sing more often.

And create more often.

And most importantly...share more often.

Some of it might inspire. Some of it might not. But I hope that all of it gets us somewhere eventually.

Even if it's just a few laughs. 

It's a great big world out there, and we've all experienced it differently. 

Let's share it with each other.

For the Sake of Beauty...

Just because something is beautiful, doesn't mean it's right. And just because something is right, doesn't mean it's beautiful.

It's strange to think that a year ago today, I was still going to college in Texas. Change is inevitable...and change can come on so quickly. One day you're enjoying the company of friends and not worrying about all the bills or the hours or the prospect of "responsibility," even though you know you're preparing for it.  You're still learning, and a sheet of paper with red ink is infinitely safer and much more forgiving than experience and hindsight.

You follow?

I've lived most of my life knowing what I enjoy, and I've pursued that flippant feeling of happiness (even if unintentionally). Were I honest with you, and for those who know me, my general disposition is a mellow one. I'm not easily excitable (I don't think), a trait that has come in handy in my profession (the airlines). And even if I am excited...unless it crosses some sort of intangible threshold, it doesn't show. I look about as excited as a sloth relaxing in the sun...even though on the inside there's a 10 year old boy running around, anxious to see what's next.

But in the pursuit of that feeling, I've found nothing but failure. My life isn't what I hoped it would be 10 years ago. I'm almost 30. I haven't written the Book. I haven't recorded the Album. I haven't gotten the Girl. I haven't started the Family. And thanks to Facebook, that all encompassing, seeing eye, I get to see where I've fallen short compared to my peers. I'd like to think it's because I'm following in the footsteps God has laid out for me, but at times, I'm not so sure.

But I'm not complaining...honestly. Because I've learned that what is beautiful isn't always right.

The pictures in my head, the dreams, to me, are beautiful. But for now, for this season, they're not right for me.  Should I still pursue writing and music and love and growth? Most definitely. But in just the last week, I've learned a very important lesson about myself: I focus too much on what I don't have...and not enough on what I do have.

And I've got a very beautiful friend to thank for that.

The story goes something like this: I met a girl six months ago and my heart leapt at the sight of her. She was wearing a red dress, smiling, and had the biggest blue eyes I had ever seen.

She also asked me about the guitar I was carrying. Score.

And then, over the next six months as I got to know her, all that beauty was seemingly diminished by who I thought she was.

When I was in school, they'd give us these comparison charts using intersecting circles. You know the ones I'm talking about?

They're also called Venn or set diagrams (thanks, Wikipedia).

For about the first five months, in my head, the circles of our Venn diagram were miles a part. They always say you have to have stuff in common for a relationship to work, right? Well, if our circles did intersect, it was only on a very basic level (we work for the same company...we breathe oxygen...we both still have 10 fingers and toes...you know...the basic stuff). But everything else "they" tell you you'll need in a relationship just wasn't there.

I could go into more detail, but the point is, deep down...I really liked this girl. 

And deep down, she really annoyed the hell out of me.

And I know I annoyed the hell out of her, too.

Because of our differences, I could never see a relationship working out...even though there was, initially, something mutual there. And because I liked her so much, and because it conflicted with everything I wanted in a girl, I tried my hardest to put it off...to emphasize that I just wanted a friendship...to keep my heart as distant as possible so I didn't end up making some sort of mistake and find us 3 years down the road with intersecting knives in our skulls.

Seems to be the reoccurring theme in my life.  

And then, about a week ago, something changed.

I was working out of a different city, assisting with the management of an airport going through a rough transition. I was going to have some time off over the weekend, so I invited her out for a visit. She had lived in the same city a few years ago, knew some friends she hadn't seen in awhile, and it was near the beach.

I know, right? Perfect setup.

And then, of course, everything went wrong. I won't bore you with all the details (there are pages of them), but all of our plans fell through. Her return flights overbooked, and we ended up making a last minute drive 600 miles back home so she could make it to work in time.

I think it was on that drive where everything changed. For 6 months, all I could see about this girl was everything she didn't have. All I could focus on was how she didn't fit inside the box I had created inside my head. I never really saw her for who she really is. And as those miles rolled by, as I thought back on the last 6 months and what I really knew about this girl, and as she sang and danced at the top of her lungs to cheesy country songs to keep herself awake...

...I realized that who she really is, outside of my own selfish expectations, is pretty amazing.

Who she is, is someone who makes me think outside the box. Who she is, is someone who won't put up with my bullshit. Who she is, is someone who loves to laugh and have a good time. She's not ashamed to be goofy. She's not afraid to sing at the top of her lungs off-key even if she doesn't remember all the words. She cares about the well-being of her friends. She loves her family and wants one of her own. She loves God and is faithful to her church. She's adventurous. She loves to travel. She doesn't like drama and she wants her friendships to last.  She's creative and can come up with the craziest doodles at the drop of a hat. She loves conversation...even if it's about frozen grapes. She loves camping and the outdoors.

And who in their right mind wouldn't want to be a part of all that?

It took a crazy weekend and a random road trip for me to realize that I had been looking in the wrong place all along: at myself.

I know it's cliché, but God does work in mysterious, wonderful ways. I'd love to be able to tell you that I shared all this with her and that we're now pursuing a friggin' amazing relationship.

But we aren't.

I shared my feelings with her (most of them, anyway, but not as eloquently as above) and explained that if she wanted to pursue a relationship, I wanted to as well.

But she doesn't.

And you know what? That's alright. Because despite my revelation, we are still very different, very hard-headed people who might be better off as just friends. At the end of the day, I care more about her happiness...our mutual happiness...and our friendship than my loneliness.

And because, at the end of the day, what is right isn't always beautiful.

Not yet, at least.

But God is here faithfully finishing our stories. And though she and I may never be together, I know that our friendship, and this season, will serve to lead us in the direction we need to go.

Even if it isn't in the same direction.

So to her, I want to say thank you. And I'm sorry for judging you so quickly.

And to everyone else: don't get so caught up in what you think your life (and relationships) should look like and miss all the beauty that's actually there.