The past few months have been really hard for me. What started out as, I thought, a few healthy and helpful questions concerning my faith quickly grew into a hiddeous and crippling monster of doubt. My relationship with God struggled. It struggled a lot.
Sometimes I hated him. Sometimes I didn't even believe that he existed. I wanted to. I wanted to believe so much that it hurt. But, sometimes for weeks on end, I couldn't. My faith in God was, slowly but surely, slipping away.
I remember one day in particular when I was really, really upset about something. Something that I have always found to be the most helpful thing to do when I'm upset is to pray about it. I don't mean I would just sit down and say a few words. I hate talking, and that includes talking to God. So, instead, I would take three hours and write out what I was feeling and thinking and wanting and needing. I would write a letter to God, so to speak. And, in the end, my thoughts would be in order, and I would feel a sense of peace.
But that day, I sat down, and I wrote out my prayer. If you can distinguish yelling from talking on paper, my prayer that day was a scream. It was one long, painful scream. I remember starting out, telling God that I was handing the control over to him, because that was what he wanted, and because I wanted nothing to do with myself and my situation anymore. But, even as I wrote it, I knew that I wasn't even close to giving up my power struggle. I just wanted things to get better, and I knew that writing down a prayer had always helped in the past.
After I finished throwing my problems at (rather than giving my problems to) God, I remember writing an apology. I felt that I had been mocking and manipulative. As if you can manipulate God. It was a long apology.
But what I remember most is the fact that, after I finished writing, nothing at all had changed. I didn't feel better. My thoughts were just as jumbled as ever. And I realized that not a single word of that prayer was meant for God, because I didn't believe he existed.
That was a hard realization. It was a painful realization. But it's wasn't a shocking realization. Because I had felt my faith slipping away over time. Doubt had replaced faith as my companion, and that realization was simply a statement of a fact. Nothing more, nothing less.

And then something happened.

As a graduating senior, people often did (and do) ask me what I'm going to do. What I'm going to be. What I'm going to become.
About a week ago, I met a man my mom works with. He, like everyone else, asked me what I plan on doing.
I hate that question. It's always created this awkward, flustered moment for me. I often reply, embarrassed, "I want to write but..." or "I might be teacher..." or "I'm not really sure..." Many times, all three come out of my mouth.
But, when he asked me, I looked at him and, without a moment's hesitation, told him that I was going to be a novelist. He looked at me in surprise, because I'm pretty sure that's not what he was expecting. But, I promise you, I was one hundred times more shocked with what came out of my mouth than he was.
I told him flat out that I was going to be a novelist. Not that I wanted to, but... Or that I might end up teaching, but... There was no doubt in my answer.

I'll be the first to admit that it was a stupid answer. It was impractical. It was unrealistic. It was improbable. It was illogical. It was unreliable. It was stupid.
It's not smart, and it's not practical, to set my mind to being a novelist. I'm setting myself up for failure and disappointment and hardships and trouble.
Deciding to be a novelist is not safe. And for the past eighteen years of my life, I've been so concerned with finding the safe route that I've lost sight of what I want to do. I've lost sight of what I need to do. I've been so caught up in preparing myself for a safe, practical, steady career that I've completely ignored what really matters.

When I told that man that I was going to be a novelist, I realized that I would rather be living on the street than be a teacher. I have nothing against teachers. I've had some brilliant teachers. But I knew, at that moment, that I would be miserable for the rest of my life as anything but a novelist.

And the thing is, being stupid and unrealistic and impractical and daring and bold and reckless and illogical and certain to fail is something that we've been studying in youth group and that seems to be standing patiently, waiting for me to realize that it's there and that maybe it's not so stupid and unrealistic and impractical and daring and bold and reckless and illogical and certain to fail, after all. Because I've finally realized that God is there to do the stupid, unrealistic, impractical, daring, bold, reckless, illogical, and certain to fail parts for me, because he's God and he can. And he's here. And he's real.

I'm not trying to say that things are perfect, especially with God and me. They're not. They're not at all. My relationship with God is fragile and badly wounded. But it's a relationship again, and I'm willing to grow and heal. And that's what I'm going to do.

This Is Why I Love My Parents:

Dad: So, I'm going to move this and put that there.

Mom: Okay, can you move the table there so Chelsea can put her ghetto blaster on it?

Me: My what?

Mom: Your ghetto blaster.

Dad: Gini, you're not being PC. It would be called a 'cultural blaster' now. Or maybe a crank box. But I think crank might be a drug, so that wouldn't be appropriate, either.

Me: What are you talking about?

Mom: Your radio.