For Good

Most of this winter has felt like keeping my head down to ride out the storm. It's not been all bad, but surely all intense-- both glowing moments and dark, but that leave me feeling parched emotionally.

It's funny how the most crucial times in life often feel the most nauseating while we are in them-- that is, before we know they are important.  We just. want. to be. done.  Or I do, at times. I'm hoping I'll look back at this vocationally confusing season of life, and appreciate my struggle for what it led to.

I'm not sure if I've talked much about my own story here, but to understand the present we must always take the past into account. We are all scarred and stunted, punctured and propelled in our own ways, ways that others might not guess.  

I slept 7 years of my life away, gripped in sleep's parasitic clutches, that gave my body no real rest.  I'm Narcoleptic. It feels strange not having mentioned it here before-- I even searched to make sure, and I haven't.  I've attempted plenty of times, draft after draft, but in the end my story seemed too big or messy to fully relay in one post.

Sidebar: Isn't that the lie we all believe?  That who we are, the pain we've felt, is just too much? Whatever our brand of suffering (I've become convinced that no two can be compared) we don't want to bare our hurt, or our old wounds to the world.  I've learned though, that if we can trust God with those things, the beauty he grows out of them will amaze and heal us (and others).

For the past 5 years (since I found a successful treatment for my disorder), my struggle has been figuring out how to live with a 7 year gap-- in my social, emotional and physical experiences.  How to move forward, and not let the bitterness that God has largely freed me from, to come creeping back up around my throat.  Because the truth is, that I missed a lot. A heck-ton of normal experiences that I sat on the bench and watched through a clouded haze of semi-consciousness.

Close friends (and people in general) grew distant in that time of my life, and I can't really blame them-- what I was going through was hard to understand. Cataplexy, a symptom that causes sudden loss of muscle tone as a reaction to emotion, robbed me clean of my joy and openess with others-- I couldn't laugh, get angry or embarrassed without my speech slurring, knees buckling, or full body collapse.  Not exactly an easy thing to explain to your teenage peers.  After even just a year of this (much less 7), I learned to disconnect, to stop feeling or interacting with anyone that might cause me to.  It's taken me years after successfully treating my Cataplexy to believe and trust that I could laugh, or allow myself to feel deeply again-- as I am particularly wired to do.  Thankfully, 5 years out though, I can say that I do. :)

Scars still remain, like they do with any trauma, both tangible and emotional. I didn't walk the expected academic road that our culture requires, or have the opportunity to develop my gifts in the safe, experimental environment of a school. I'm just now experiencing true, deep friendship (which I am so thankful for!) in my life. But if God can heal my heart (and he has), he can redeem my loss in this life, and even use my perspective and hurt to bring change and understanding.

I always think of Joseph when I think about my story, that he spent 11 years in slavery and God used him mightily-- surely my 7 lost years are redeemable too.  I do believe and have seen in my life, that he does use all things for our good.

153 Fish

I'm so bursting with excitement today!  I've actually come down a bit by now, but the glow of being so provided for by my heavenly Father and seen in the tangible way that I was yesterday, does not fade quickly (nor should it)!  I've had such a weird and interesting season the past few months, lots of unexpected changes and lurches along the way-- some big (my nephew!) and some small (my loveseat).  

I've not written very much here about my business as a vintage clothing dealer, but the past year has been a struggle.  Since I'm in close proximity to Chicago, finding stock is a constant battle.  Locating it is one thing, but getting it in the company of other hungry dealers...complicated.  I've encountered peers along the way, some pleasant kindred-spirits and others self-serving, competitive jerks.  I myself absolutely have within me the ability to throw my proverbial weight around, to abuse my gifts of a quick tongue and a sharp mind to get what I want-- but I don't.  I learned a long time ago that I do not want to be that person-- though it often means humbling myself and not retaliating. In that I have had to trust that God will provide, when and what He so desires.  And friends, yesterday He did in a big way!

I decided in the middle of the week that I wanted to attend an estate sale this weekend, something I haven't done as much this year as in years past.  I had let my negative experiences discourage me-- experiences of foul play and political moves on the behalf of other dealers, right before my eyes.  This was both infuriating and disheartening, and I let it keep me away a lot this year.  But a few days ago I felt a surge to get back at it, I found an interesting sale and planned to go Friday morning.  Friday morning bright and early, my Father allowed me to be blindsided with emotional realization, with pain and anger at myself about areas in my life where I might not be putting Him first.  Not exactly the best state to enter a vintage war-zone in, but I responded and let my heart be broken before God.  

In the end, God designed the most unusual and beautiful circumstances for me to walk into at the sale yesterday.  My freshly raw heart expected the usual chaos, but found a sale full of vintage clothing, and void of other dealers.  What in the heck.  That's pretty much all I could incredulously think when I realized.  Not only more stock than I could hope to find in one place (I've only twice encountered the like), not only was I alone to actually take my time, but the woman who owned and wore the clothing was present at the sale!  Because most estate sales are company run I rarely have the opportunity to come face to face with the owners and story holders.  Dorothy was such a blessing to my heart, telling me which pieces she made, where she purchased or wore others and all sorts of tidbits about labels and days past.

It amazes me daily how well my God knows me, knows what will delight me to my toes and what I need in each and every moment.  It makes every struggle and trial so obviously necessary in hindsight, for where would my joy come from without them?

And what's more, He feels that way about all of us.  What a guy!

Sigh. Sorry for the novel, I just had to tell that story!

Needless to say, a large shop update will be coming soon!  I still have things that needed listing from before this sale, so I have my work cut out for me!

If you are curious about my title, it comes from John 21:1-14 which was the focus of She Reads Truth this morning.  Crazy, because it so fits with my day yesterday!

Details

{dress} - vintage 50's, thrifted

{shirt} - J.Crew

{cardigan} - vintage 50's, thrifted

{tights} - ModCloth

{heels} - Seychelles

{necklace} - vintage, antique market

Soft: Peices of Story

I have recently realized more than ever that it's okay to be soft, because truly I am.

I wear on my body every day, garments of softness, femininity and grace.  I'm beginning to wonder though, if my motives for that have perhaps been to find a balance-- an element to equalize the hard and silent way that I often automatically present myself to the world.

Growing up (in more ways than one) softness was not encouraged in my family culture, neighborhood or general reality.  Gentle figures were not respected, nor did they have control of their lives, so the small, blue-eyed girl that I was, watched and decided that softness was death.  But the young heart that beat in my chest was, as it is now, full of honest tenderness.  I cared deeply for people and animals alike, asking why that person was sad, or why that dog didn't have a home ("Mom, can we keep/help him please?").  

Some of my dearest and clearest childhood memories are of animal rescues, or hurting people. Led by my gentle Mother, we tended to a baby deer, a snapping turtle (yep), a baby crane, other birds and a couple of stray dogs.  One of the latter was a golden retriever that I spotted wandering our street and followed, only to discover that his paws were torn and bleeding, having run a long distance.  My family fostered the dog for a couple of days before he found a new home.  Around the same age (7 or 8 I believe), I had an encounter with a gypsy child while on a trip in Ireland, confused and distraught I implored my Father for money to put in his dirty, broken McDonald's cup.

The heart that God put inside me sang and wept in those moments.  Later in my life, though, I would desperately try to kill it-- first out of shame and then to survive the Cataplexy that crippled both my heart and body.

There is much more story there, but in the past few years my torn, neglected heart has thawed and revived tremendously!  God has allowed deep, infected wounds to heal, but re-training my brain to un-clench my heart is easier said than done.  I suppose I'm conditioned.

I'm quite well versed in the darker emotions-- bitterness, woe, wist, hurt, anger.  Learning to let myself feel soft things, however-- joy, humor, affection -- has been gradual and hard work but I've come a long way.  Oh the shell of a girl I once was!  Just last night, the church service I attended was on the loving-faithfulness (Hebrew: hesed) of God, and how we can remember and see it's reality in our lives.  Friends, my story is so freaking full of God's hesed!  Loyal to the end, even when I felt I was too far gone-- not so.  He has so redeemed and rescued my heart and will continue to.

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Photo credit to my lovely friend, miss Katie Dunbar.

Arrows

The grace I mentioned at the end of my last post is so desperately needed in this moment. 

I've been blessedly and painfully convicted tonight of a fatal flaw I've long battled with: my verbal tone. We all have things that we struggle to tame and grow out of, traits that have developed usually in response to hurt or injury sustained along the path we've traveled. Hurt people hurt people.

For a couple years now, I've naively believed I had the temperature of my voice under control.  No longer was I the snarky teenager who refused to be wrong and shot her syllables like arrows.  I had endured a large amount of humbling at the hands of life, a season I often describe as one in which every shred of self righteousness was "beaten out of me".  Morbid I know, but it illustrates the feeling perfectly.

Slowly the sounds that have left my mouth and shade my words have become sharp again. Gradually, like a slow bleed with no marked turning point. That sharpness has crept into my need to control, it's slithered into my jokes and even into my statements of concern or alarm, confusing and unintentionally inuring those I value. My words are not to blame, but rather the way I utter the sounds they are made of. Arrows indeed, and I'm just as bloody by them as my loved ones.

So here begins a new chapter (or perhaps a return to an earlier one) in which I breathe deeply, mourn and tend the wounds I have caused and decide to take my thoughts captive anew-- each day, moment and situation that I open my mouth.  Then sacrifice the shame within me as I allow the cleansing blood and grace of Christ to cover me (again, and not for the last time).

God, please keep making and growing me.

Lately {9.21.13}

I've been waiting for trains, among other things...

I went to the library for the first time in forever...but haven't read the books I checked out.

I've blinked impressively in photos...

I've crossed paths with moths repeatedly...?

I've been back to childhood places.

I've been finding all of my missing lip balm in the pockets of my winter clothes.

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I've realized lately how many pictures I take on my phone, that are never seen or used for anything.  So I decided to put them to use here, to tell the story of my recent life.  

I kinda like it.

Welcome.

Hi, I'm Erin.

I am an artist and a historian at heart, someday I hope to fully fill the shoes of what those words mean to me.  Presently, I work admin by day and as a vintage clothing dealer by night (it's more of a split week, than a day/night thing really).  I paint and write in the moments between and dream throughout it all.  A large part of my life is also devoted to volunteering w/ two high school ministries in my area and maintaining a healthy lifestyle.

I am not completely new to the blogisphere, this blog is a new, deeper extension of my old blog.  I made the move for several reasons:

• Wishflower was about what I do and what I like.  It was not about who I am, which became a problem for me.  One I wanted to change.
• Once I decided to make a content change, I knew a new name was needed.  One not to reflect only my shop or my interests, but to reflect my story.
• I'm fickle.

Though I adore and am fascinated by history, art and our natural world (and will continue writing about these things), those things are not who I am.  My true love, and foundation in life is Jesus Christ.  He loves me when I don't even love me, and gives me hope in this crazy, broken world.  He taught me to love people again (including myself), and to see the sometimes messy, ugly parts of our lives as beautiful oppertunities for growth.  I've fondly realized, that may actually be why I'm so often drawn to dusty, old relecs. :) So much character and quality, but many times damaged and/or covered in dust, grime, cat fur (yeah), general uglyness.  It takes a loving, appreciative eye to find the value sometimes.  Exactly the way I believe God sees us (and has seen me) as beautiful even through all of our mess.

I hope to document that growth here, learning as I go.  All the while still sharing the other areas of life God has lit a fire in my heart for.  Amazing things ahead, I think.