There is something about watching people pick out spaghetti sauce, and knowing they will cook and eat a meal together, leave dirty dishes in a sink together, that makes me ache.
Confidence is less like a characteristic trait for me and more like a fluid scale influenced by several external variables that I have a bad habit of internalizing.
I have a significant other. His name is JJ, and he’s a bird.
“It’s just that because the universe is expanding, that means it goes on forever, and forever makes now seem pointless,” I told Luke one day.
When I’m confused, I need the motions. I need to plant the mustard seeds. Watch them grow, and even watch them die.
But the elephant is still there. Always there. And on day four, my co-worker and I decide that we just need to talk about it.
Hi. My name is Cassie. There’s forever a part of me stuck in the loop of crawling in and out of bed.
The woman in the white sedan will go home, call her best friend, and say: “I started crying in the drive-thru today, and they gave me extra napkins.”
Seagulls—by land, sea or any other name—are seagulls. They’re annoying birds, but they’re honest ones.
When I tell people that the high schoolers painted a building, cleaned up weeds and replaced broken doors, people ask me what the building is for. “Nothing,” I say.
Because once you’ve been compared to mayonnaise, things can only get better.
Let the sky be wide open and full of good possibilities. Wonder why the sky is blue. Wonder how the earth suspends in space. Wonder how you came to live under this beautiful blue sky in this small corner of the universe.
Every time I have doubts, I ask myself where the line is between settling and compromising. Is this really not working? Are we really not right for each other? Or am I just unrealistic, idealistic, and CRAZY?
I’m twenty-four and should move somewhere far away and then move again once I’ve grown familiar enough to know exactly where to find packets of yeast in the store.
You’re always wondering what it means to live a good life. Someone sat at a table the other day, watched you wipe down a counter, and asked you if you want to serve coffee for the rest of your life.
So lately I find myself trying, instead, to think less often about my insecurities and shortcomings, and to focus more on the person in front of me who is accepting me for who I am.
“Can’t you feel that?” Pastor said one Sunday. “Can’t you feel that breeze?” I could. I was pretty sure it was the air conditioning kicking in.
So I scoop the Cherry Pineapple Parfait, listen to Katy Perry, and wonder if any of my effort will ever make any difference or if I’ll always be as powerless and obsolete as a plastic bag drifting through the wind.
So often my mind races about circumstances I seem to have little control over that it’s nice to be able to fix something so easily. At the end of the day, it’s nice to be able to bow my head and dip my hands in soapy water and rinse away the dirt.
“Now,” he says. “I don’t wanna be out there with a root canal. So if we don’t see any whales, and you’re gonna pout about it, I prefer you get off now.”
And so I have to wonder if life is less about walking a road and more about building one. I wonder if it matters less how far we’ve been and how much we’ve seen.
My bird tried to fly away last week. JJ lives inside a cage inside a house, and I feel bad for him and his wings because it must get a bit cramped behind the iron bars.
In any drama, after the curtain falls, the heroes are left to stare at stage makeup without the lights. They are left to create their own stories without ornate settings and scripted climaxes.
The stories from history seem recycled: different characters, sometimes different conflicts, but always the same plot. And I know that writing these words doesn’t go far enough.
But, five years later, it’s enough. It’s enough for me get over my insecurities and care about someone. Someones. The someones I grew up with.
Just be kind today. No matter how you feel about where you are, no matter how you feel about what you’re doing, just be kind.
I wonder about the sins that God really cares about, and I convince myself that $2.00 probably doesn’t really matter to God, right? But probably it does.
Whenever I was out by the family pool alone, which was often when I grew into the double-digits, I would perch at the end of the diving board, take a deep breath, and step off.
And yet, when we fail to be our best to those we love and those we hardly know, I find it difficult to believe that it’s how we hurt people or how we’ve been hurt that defines us.
Thanksgiving should not come from comparing what we have ticked off on our fingers to what our neighbors do. Thanksgiving should be an actual experience of gratitude.