the Hardest Part

June 26 - In the words of Bon Jovi... I "wanna make a memory. Wanna steal a piece of time." Perhaps not in the way he suggests... but I want to do so all the same.My world does not make sense.There is this one piece of time that belongs to me... my eyes are heavy with tears and frustration. The clock is about to strike midnight and a cool, September rain has begun to fall. I am sixteen years old. And dad comes home. He tells me to put on my shoes and a hoodie. Come with him. And so I pulled my hood over my head, and we began to walk around the block. Life was moving too slowly. Like watching water boil. I was sixteen years old, with a part time job, wanting something to happen. And it just wouldn't get going.Nearly three years later, I need to take a walk like that again. I need to pull on a sweatshirt, lace up the shoes, and go walking in this rain and talk to my dad. Not because life isn't moving. But because its moving too fast. Because time is, or feels like it is, slipping through my hands. And I am not getting anything done.I wondered back in March when I didn't get the Bigstuf internship, what God wanted me here in Kentucky for. The summer is only halfway over now... and I know. June 1st, my family needed me here. June 16th, my littlest sister needed me here. In two weeks I'll be headed out to Denver... on a vacation that just might refresh my soul more than the internship ever could have. And so I realize that things are happening. I realize that life is happening all around me. Perhaps I lament the lack of pictures taken, of flowers picked, of picnics eaten, of dirty hands washed. What I do not regret... what I cherish more than anything... is the way I have grown close to my family lately. And two members of my family drug me out to play volleyball last night. And in the humidity and sunshine, I got sweaty and hot and tired. And I felt a happiness rise up in me that I hadn't felt in ages. Just because I got my feet dirty.I told Marty that I was afraid I was going to make a fool out of myself... I am nineteen years old and until last night, I had never played volleyball before in my life. Marty shook his head and smiled. "The hardest part is just getting here, sweetheart." And he repeated himself. "The hardest part is just getting out here...." Oh how true.How often do I stop at the door? Keys in hand, idea in mind, hope in heart, and stop before I ever make the first real step? Before any progress is made? Or when the job is halfway done... I let my ambition fail me. Discouragement sets in. Self-consciousness. The idea that everyone is watching you.... waiting for you to fail, to fall. I need to learn to laugh at myself. And then maybe the world would make a little more sense.And then maybe I would delight in dirt again. Rejoice in sweat and sunburns and wind-whipped hair. Go out on a limb... feel the rush of new life. Goodness. This is the hardest part.