~Natalia

I wrote about the mountains and the falls and the valley view.

And the more I wrote, the more I missed that California Park.

I didn’t think, before the trip, that I’d find Yosemite quite so wonderful.

But I absolutely fell in love with it.

And I’m rather hoping to return again, soon.

~Natalia

I walked to the beach today.
Up LaSalle, down Oak,
across Michigan.
And these two,
together in the big city,
she held his finger and they walked.
I don’t know them,
and soon I passed them.
But I walked slow, for a moment,
to stay behind them
and watch
their downtown
handholding
walk.

~Natalia

He slept there last night. Fell asleep with his Elmo milk cup, dark little hands tucked under his soft cheeks. I heard him when I went to sleep, his breath rattling, shaking. He’s got a cold now, and he coughed and sputtered in his sleep; rubbing his itchy nose in his dreams. I fell asleep in the room, listening to his sleeping breath alternate even, resting, with coughing. But he left the room sometime during the night, and it’s quiet now.

I get up, shuffle across the hall to the bathroom. The old, dark, wooden floor creaks, just in one spot. I hit that spot, accidentally. My backpack, overnight bag, is in the bathroom. I find my pants, step over the creaky floorboard to my closet, flip through dresses, skirts, tops, to my purple work shirt. Brush teeth, hair in a pony tail, bathroom light off.

In the kitchen, I stand against the counter, eat a yogurt. There are five different bottles of vitamins in the cabinet, labeled with black Sharpie. N, mine. G+L, the little girls. T, the mother. I eat two of mine, the gummy ones, in the dim light of the kitchen.

The kitchen window faces a brick wall. Across, offset by two feet, someone’s laundry room looks into our kitchen. Between, there are two cement walkways, a thin strip of green plants between them. It’s the middle of May- spring- even though it’s still chilly, and the sun is rising quickly, casting pale white light onto everything in its path. The flimsy plants glow bland green in the growing light.

My ride will be here soon. I find my pens, shrug into my yellow coat. I’ve only brought flip-flops home, but I’ll be barefoot at the pool, anyway. I step into the living room, past the front door, to glance out the front window. The blinds are closed, though; this couch room, play room, school room, living room has been transformed into a bedroom.

The mother sits in the corner, at the very front of the house, rocking the baby boy. It’s hard to breath lying down when you’re sick, and 3am, she woke up with that little boy, and now they’re both sleeping there in the rocking chair. She’s pulled the special grey blanket- her Christmas present to herself- around them both, and his head is slumped, tired, against her. Sitting up against her, he breathes clear, easy.

Later, in a couple of weeks, the little boy will leave; he’ll return to the mother who gave birth to him. But for now, he sleeps on the blue sheets and he eats out of the Cars bowl in the seat at the end of our table. For now, we love him and teach him and feed him and dress him. And the mother, she gets up at 3am to change him, rock him, love him.

~Natalia

A second day,
here’s a commute last week.
The train’s empty,
deserted,
at 10 in the morning.

~Natalia

The school year will end
in just a week’s time.
There will be tests and work
and packing,
and we hope to chill a bit, too.
Amongst all that, what I have for you,
are some pictures from the year
that’s just gone passed.

Today the shot
is some tulips I found
bright,
pink,
in front of the clock tower.

~Natalia

Ahem.

I’m physically tired. Someone this morning apologized for her own exhaustion, telling me she was “moving in slow motion.” I would have responded, but I was moving and thinking in slow motion, and didn’t come up with a comeback quick enough.

I’m academically tired. Next week is a week full of finals, and today seemed like a great day for every stressful thought I could imagine related to exams to plan on repeat in my mind. I worried today about things I’ve never even thought about before. And finals weeks doesn’t even start for four days.

I’m relationally tired. I’m tired of letting people down. I’m tired of feeling as if I’ve let people down, even if I haven’t. I’m tired of saying too much. Tired of not saying what I should. I’m tired of apologizing. I’m tired of wracking my brain, wondering what I’ll have to make amends for this time. I’m tired of dreading leaving my school friends- family, really- in a week.

I’m tired spiritually. I’m tired of working, working, working. Doing, doing, doing.

Just tired.

Don’t read a downer post, friends. I didn’t come here to drag you into my woe. Read my tired, and then hear this: I’m gonna get through. There’s a big world out there, and these are small things, and do you know the biggest thing? God. Really, truly.

He is wise and strong and sovereign and gracious and His love is less determined by what I’ve worked so hard to do and rather more by His own depth and mercy and grace.

Him and I, we’re getting through.

~Natalia

But nothing looks just right for tonight.

I thought I’d be less worried.

But finals are next week and worry grows heavy and dark.

I thought I’d be exhausted.

But God gives strength, rest, grace, and I’m plugging right along.

I thought I’d miss my friends, my school family, over the summer.

Now I know I will.

I thought. I know. I’m worried. I’m hopeful. I’m sad. I’m anxious.

I thought, passing the black night water of the river, rolling fast past Lincoln Park Zoo, that I’d rather just control it all.

But control is synonymous with worry, and God is so sovereign, I can only trust Him.

So I know. I believe. I trust.

And I’m getting through just fine; I’m doing so very well.

~Natalia

you look good.

Read the mirror, she says. You look towards the reflective silver, even though you know what’s already there. It can’t possibly be true, though. Can it? You don’t feel like you look good. You didn’t look good this morning, did you? Standing in front of that mirror, you toss your hair behind you with a careless flick of your hand. It bounces. Flops. Frizzes. That doesn’t look good.

You doubt the mirror. Doubt those words.

You don’t like what you see. Slip jeans off, slide on a skirt. Rummage under a pile on the bed, pull out a scarf. Kick off your sandals, dig in the closet for your flats. Pin hair back. Pull it down again. Curler. Straightener. Hair spray. Pony tail. You change.

The mirror doesn’t change.

It’s there when you march around the room, feeling confident. Jeans fit right, top looks nice, cardigan matches. Mirror saw that. Mirror saw when you squinted hard, too. Unhappy. Dissatisfied. Toothpaste, bed head, eyes brows raised, incredulous. Saw that. The pucker lips face you make when you walk out the door. The way you shrug your shoulders quick when you walk past. Tilt head right, tilt head left. Mirror sees it all.

you look good.

The message hasn’t changed.

You might disagree, but only one can be right. You or the mirror. I’m inclined to agree with the mirror. Have you heard it said that you are your hardest critic? It’s true. You’re the one who sees the way the shirt bunches. The way the eyeliner rubs. The way the shoes fit, the hair falls, the pants sag. You see that. I don’t. We don’t. Your eye is tuned to see and to condemn. To pick and fault. To critique yourself.

I don’t see those things. They don’t, either. We’re too busy noticing everything wrong with ourselves.

The mirror sees, though. Sees, watches, and doesn’t change. The pile of discarded clothes on your bed grows bigger. The time to go to class clicks nearer. Your frustration builds higher, but the mirror doesn’t change at all.

you look good.

You and I, we’re really the same in this. Don’t you think I know what self-conscious is? Don’t you think I throw clothes across the room, kick them under the desk? Don’t you think I change six times some days, whining to myself all the while? I’m no better, no different.

The mirror, though? The mirror knows the truth. you look good. Inside, your unique heart, passionate about what He’s made you to love, growing, fighting a little more every day to be more you; more you in Him. Outside, your hair, your smile, your eyes, your style. you look good.

You really do.

~Natalia

It’s 11pm- maybe later- but not the promised midnight, and maybe I’ll not stop by, not catch up, anyway. I lie there, feet tucked askew under the blue guitar someone left out. My computer is propped on my chest, I’m scrolling aimlessly; reading blogs, mostly.

But the post I wrote just moments ago- the prospect of another Sunday- weighs heavy on me, the headache of frustrated tears not shed builds behind my eyes. I’m tired, too.

The door swings in, Nelle and a friend trip past the miniature pink throw rug, burst into the room. I remain where I am, sprawled on the couch. I flip my computer closed, slide it under the black Ikea coffee table, on top of a pile of white computer cord. I don’t know this friend and introductions are tossed back and forth as she sinks on the other end of the couch, moves the blue guitar across the room.

I stay in the room awhile longer. It’s getting late- almost midnight- and the two girls are preparing for the night; it’s been a long day and I catch snippets as they rotate around the room. Nelle pins her hair back, washes her face, tells me about the bus driver who took a wrong turn, just for them. Our new friend brushes her own hair, rustles through her suitcase, pulls pajamas out, tells me about the hispanic man whose question they couldn’t understand.

I lie there, tired, and watch night settle into the city, settle into the room.

Soon, almost suddenly, I stand up. Leaving my computer cord, I take my computer; water cup, homework pages, highlighter balanced on top. Two doors down, I pass my room. It’s past midnight, she’s back from work now, and I decide I do want to visit. I leave my computer on the floor outside my door and the faint hallway light reflects dull off its scuffed cover.

She’s on her bed, somewhere under a pile of black pillows and purple blanket, when I push through the door, two past my own. She looks up when I come in, probably expecting me to be her roommate. But I’m not and she smiles, nods a welcome. I sink onto the bed on the other side of the room. I ask about her day, maybe, or maybe I say something else- I don’t remember. But I remember the day I first met this friend- we were sitting in the lounge, she wore a printed tanktop- and these two years have grown communication strong. So she’s up there on her bed, tall because of the bed risers, and I’m over here on her roommate’s bed, and we talk.

We talk about church and friends and God and knowledge and boys and food and summer plans. She reads a quote from Augustine- she loves theology, loves study and I love her for that- and we laugh, too. Later, her roommate comes in, sits on the bed next to me. It’s late, we realize: almost 1am, but we just keep talking, only stopping now and again to remind each other of the time, exclaim that it’s late, and roll into conversation once again.

1:30am I stand up. I click the little lamp off, the one by the window, wish the pair goodnight, and then step towards the door. I’m halfway there, moving slowly, when she calls me back. It’s a joke, but this exchanging of stories and thoughts is too inviting, and I don’t want to leave yet. I sit back down on the bed.

Sometime around 2- even then a little after- I get up again, tell them goodnight again, leave. Collect my computer, water, papers from the hallway, push quietly through my own door. I slide my computer onto my desk, toss the papers alongside, and collapse onto my own bed. I’m tired, of course, but the weight of worry, of frustration, of isolation, has lifted in those talking hours. No one’s alone in this, really. We’re all together walking, talking, living, breathing through life, one day, one night, one conversation at a time.

~Natalia