Dear Future Husband, I Don't Need You

Dear Future Husband,

So, I’ve realized a few things. Like, that I don’t need you as much as I thought I did.

I don’t need you for your jar opening skills because I have these handy-dandy jar openers that Suzy bought for me. I’ve opened three jars so far, so… guess that means they work. 

I don’t need you for something to lay next to in bed. I have a body pillow named George. He’s great.

I don’t need you for your singing ability or musical talent because I have some fire playlists to fuel my dance parties. 

I don’t need you to tell me if I look nice or not before I leave the house. I have a mirror and snapchat and twitter. They all tell me I look great, so I guess that’s covered.

I don’t need you to open my bedroom window for me when it’s nice outside, even though it’s too heavy for my hands. I just leave it closed and it’s fine. 

I don’t need your advanced math to help me calculate things that my first-grade-math-loving brain can’t handle. They put calculators on our phones now. They’re super legit. 

I don’t need you to cook for me. I’m getting really good at it. Or at least, making a few good meals to tide me over the times I don’t feel like cooking, and hey, if I don’t feel like cooking then who cares? Not me. And you’re not here. 

I don’t need you to make my bed for me. As frustrating as it is to try to stretch a fitted sheet over a large mattress on my own, I can do it. It takes me fifteen minutes, but baby, don’t rush me. I said I can do it. 

I don’t need you to scrape my windshield when it’s covered with ice. We’ve got defrost. And even if we don’t, I’m a Minnesota girl who has scraped windshields with her driver’s license before. 

I don’t need you to get me up in the morning with a cup of coffee, because I don’t drink coffee. 

I don’t need you to change my flat tires or oil. Mostly because I don’t have a car anymore, but even if I did, there are places people go. Or my dad could teach me. Or my sister, because she knows and heck, if my little sister can take care of her own car then I can, too.

I don’t need you to watch movies and shows with me. Buffy’s great during the scary parts and he never disagrees with my opinion. 

I don’t need you to build shelves for my things or fix my toilet when it breaks or restring my clothesline. I can just reorganize my books. I can fix the toilet myself. My clothesline still has a few years left in it… inshaAllah. 

I don’t need you to drive me when I’m tired. I just roll those windows down and keep on going. 2am and nobody else is on the road? That’s when One Direction is the loudest and I’m singing at the top of my lungs. 

I don’t need you to go to the grocery store for me. I know how to stock my cupboards and refrigerator, thank you very much. They may be completely empty by the time I work up the courage and energy to do it again, but I do it. I don’t starve. 

I don’t need you to motivate me to keep my body strong and healthy. I like the way I feel when I work out and I eat what my body needs. 

I don’t need you to keep me warm. I have fuzzy penguin socks. I have my best friend’s sweatshirt. I have a hot water bottle and a heating pad. 

I don’t need you to help me move across the world. I did it. On my own. Not quite sure how, but I did, so thanks, but I’m good.

I don’t need you to be the person who fixes everything when I’m struggling or in pain. I have my journal. Those pages catch my tears and my secrets and keep them perfectly. It has reflected back to me who I am and how I want to change and given me a safe place without judgment to be completely honest. Yes, it’s true, my journal can do nothing to help me when I’m unable to move or cook for myself, but I do have Jesus, and He’s a very good comforter. He also catches my tears.

I don’t need you, see? Not for those things. Not for this list that I’ve made thousands of times since I was little, outlining to God why I shouldn’t be single anymore, why I shouldn’t have to wait to meet you. But I’m here now. I’m 29. All the things I thought I needed you for… I don’t. Not actually. Sometimes the solution is not what I want, but there is a solution. The need is met. So I don’t need you to take care of my car or help me pay bills or do things around the house because I clearly have that covered. What I do need, however, are your eyes. Your laugh. Your soul. 

My pillow doesn’t talk back when I can’t fall asleep.

Dancing on my own isn’t always the best cure for a bad day.

I can’t hold hands with my journal. 

I want to look up into your eyes and see a person. I want a face to memorize, a laugh to grow old with, and a soul that is so rich and so deep that I can’t even see the edges fifty years down the road when we’ve shared everything. I want you. I want a friend who can see the tears in my eyes and hold me. I want a lover who tells me I’m beautiful without me asking how I look. I want a companion who brings out the best in me. I want someone to love, in the good times and the bad times, for better or for worse, in sickness or in health, because even though we may forget who took out the trash last or whose turn it is to clean the bathroom, we don’t need each other. We can wake up each day knowing we can take care of ourselves, but we choose to take care of each other. 

So, here I’ll be. Taking care of myself. Loving my life. Being awesome and conquering fears and obstacles that I never thought I’d be able to take on my own. I hope you’re doing the same, babe. You got this. Can’t wait to choose you because I want to. 

Yours always,

Baylea 

The Sand In The Oyster

Most of the time when I write a blog post I end up finding out more about myself, life, how my heart works, how life works, etc., so I desperately hope that is the case again tonight. Maybe this will just end up in my giant scrape pile of blog posts that had one good paragraph and no resolution that never make it. I never know unless I try, so here goes. 

I learned about oysters this last week. Oysters with pearls inside of them, to be specific. When you do science with a six-year-old girl, the pearl part is important. And maybe for twenty-something-year-olds, too, because I found myself thinking about the pearl making process a lot for the rest of the week. 

See, pearls come from pain. A grain of sand gets inside the oyster and in an attempt to make the pain go away, they end up making a pearl. I’m not a huge science fan so I’m not going to outline the process. If you’re really curious, google it; for me, the important part is that the pearl is made. Something that caused discomfort, something that hurt the inside of the clam, is turned into something that is breathtakingly beautiful. 

I don’t know about you, but I’ve had pain in my life. I’ve had little grains of sand sneak into my heart and it hurts. Sometimes it feels like an entire bucketful of beach has been launched at me and everything hurts and I can’t breathe and my one thought is, “God, there’s no way You can make this into something beautiful.” 

Because, guys, growing up with an autoimmune disease that breaks down your body before you’re even a teenager sucks. Moving to the other side of the world when you’re 15 is terrifying, and always feeling like you’re too far away from the people you love the most is a type of feeling I know so well. Wanting to be married and have your own babies is a real desire, but one you can’t just carry out on your own. It hurts being so aware of the flaws and weaknesses of your heart and trying to forgive yourself for, once again, doing the things that you promised you never would, never again. 

Sand.

Sand.

Sand.

It’s all over in my heart and I don’t like it. “Where’s the beauty?!” I ask. “Where’s the good thing that comes from this hard situation that You promised?” And maybe if I stopped crying for a minute I would hear Him whisper so quietly into my ear, “My love, it’s right there.” 

Right. There. 

Because, guys, I’m not who I used to be. I’m so far from perfect, but if only you knew the way my heart used to fly around, grasping at every little thing, hiding from the light and running wild in fear, you would know that the tangled mess of weeds is a little less prickly. A little. 

Maybe I forget about the word “process” and its meaning. Processes aren’t instantaneous. You can’t start a process and see immediate results, it’s the steady day in and day out of saying yes, of reminding myself that if God was faithful before, He’ll be faithful again and I’m so safe with Him. I look beside me and sure enough, He’s still there. 

“Aren’t you tired of this yet?” I ask, tears streaming down my face as I realize the thing that I thought was dead is still very much alive and roaring with a ferocious appetite inside of me. “This ugly beast has gotten the better of me again.” 

“But look at this!” He points to the very center of my heart and I can’t even see what He sees. I can’t see it, because I’m sure that the ugly, the broken, the dirty, the sand, is all there is to see. “I see the beauty.” 

He sees my beauty. When? Where? I mean, sure I see the tiny baby steps but what about the great expanses inside of me yet to be dealt with? It’s like entire black holes of failures and misguided intentions and flashes of passion that end in regret that are just waiting to spill out of me. 

“You remember this grain of sand?” He reminds me, gently. So, so gently. 

And I do, because it was one of the most painful ones, where I was snatched from my home and planted in a place I was determined to hate, and then I watched as my friends turned their backs on me, one by one, breaking every tiny shred in my heart that I had left. I’ll never forget the way it hurt to wake up and open my eyes, to walk down the street, to eat food and engage in conversations. 

But it’s not a piece of sand anymore. It’s one of my biggest pearls. I look back and in between the dark days of hating life and screaming into my pillow, I see the brilliant love of God carrying me through everything. I can’t deny it, the way He fixed my broken pieces. I learned how to dance again. I could smile and laugh and just breathe. He did that. He’s still doing that. 

Tireless.

Faithful.

Committed. 

Why does He come so close to me? I think about that sometimes. Why is He so happy to be with me? I mean, sometimes I’m alright. And by alright, I mean that I’ve done all that I was supposed to and now I feel like I’m good enough, but not really, because… really? Am I still trying to pull that card? Still reverting to my old ways of striving for perfection before I ask God to notice me? *sigh* Like I said, the deeply rooted weed patch is still very present in my life. 

It’s hard for me to look at the smile on His face as he asks to see more of my heart. “It’s ugly in there!” I argue, as if I’m not talking to The One who created every star in every galaxy and can easily see my poorly hidden secrets. Yet He asks anyways, and like an idiot, I think that maybe I’m just too far gone for Him. Maybe this part of me is unredeemable. The cracks go from my head to my toes and surely that’s too much? 

“Never, my love.”

And He’s smiling again. Why? WHY?!? I’m not… 

“Shhhh…”

And the light of His face is the most powerful thing in all of creation and He shines it on the brokenness that is my heart and nothing can stand against Him. Every chain that held me back, every lie that sucked the life out of me, every bent desire and faulty view of God can be— will be — fixed. Every day it’s fixed a little more, as much as I say yes to. Every day He asks to work on me. Not because He’s impatient to rid me of my flaws, but because He sees the beauty of what is yet to come. I can’t see what He sees because it’s not all there yet. 

But it will be. 

One day. 

Because, guys, when God says He’s going to complete what He started in you, He means it. Not in a rough, “let’s get this over with” way, like a parent trying to bathe an unruly child, but like a steady companion in this journey of life.  “I’m with you,” He says. “Always. Everywhere you go, I’m with you, and I will never leave you to face those broken parts of your heart alone. I know they seem overwhelming, but they don’t overwhelm me. Yeah, you have cracks from the top of your head to the bottoms of your feet and there are black holes of darkness waiting to spill out of you, but I already know them, and I’m here to turn them into beauty. I can fill you with lightening slices of wonder and galaxies of grace and warm embraces of mercy. Let me fill you with beauty. Let me turn these grains of sand into pearls.” 

It’s the invitation that I’m sometimes the most reluctant to accept, but why? Isn’t He like the father in the prodigal son who ran to embrace his wayward child and rejoice over him even as he smelled like pigs and famine and who knows how many days on the road? Does famine have a smell? All I know is that if God can see every single particle of my being, see my end from the beginning, see the depths of my weaknesses and still have an overwhelming ocean of love for me, then saying yes to His invitation is the only thing to do. 

But refiners fire?

Yes.

But north winds on my garden?

Yes.

But the world hating me?

Yes. Because, do you see this pearl? This is the pearl that came from learning that God is faithful despite a very bitter situation that made me want to spit everything out of my mouth and drink the comforts of the world. I poured myself out before Him, gave up everything and opened myself up until I was completely bare before Him. I learned that only He satisfies. Only He can take the mess that is me and turn me into something beautiful, something filled with light. He is a faithful God and who I am doesn’t scare Him. My hurts are not too much for Him to turn into something beautiful. 

Well, here I am; at the end of my post. Maybe someone else needed to also be reminded they they are not too much. Your sin is not too much. Your hurts and grains of sand are not too much. What you’re feeling is not too much. He doesn’t look at you (at me) with weariness and a sigh, because He doesn’t see me with the same eyes that I see myself. When I look at myself I sigh. When I look at myself I shake my head. I see weeds and stubborn thorns, but God sees the tiny buds that are popping up, putting down roots and soaking up the water in the soil of my life. He sees what I cannot, and He smiles at me. Perhaps we should smile, too, because this is a process, and it’s long, but it’s not hopeless and it’s not unto nothing. Right now I feel sand, but one day I’ll see pearls because God is faithful. Every time. 

I feel colors.

The thing about being a deep feeler is that you feel things deeply. Like, way down in the pit of your heart where you don’t want to feel things because it’s just a little too much. Loss. Anger. Loneliness. Love. Heartbreak. It’s all right there, so close, so deep, and you have to feel it. You have to breathe through the mask of whatever emotion it is you’re feeling. The world around you is suddenly bathed in some kind of color and it’s all you can see, all you can taste, all you can feel. 

Feel.   

Sometimes I feel things red. Red, like the blood that pumps through my veins. It’s bright and stains against White so that everyone can see it. Unrequited love. Passion. Dreams that I’ve cradled against my heart since the day they were born. This color spreads and reaches far, sometimes farther than I wish. It touches untamed places of my heart and I struggle to keep it under control, but sometimes Red is too much for me. Small doses, pinpricks on my skin, these are fine, I am stronger than that. But when the knife tears down my skin and all is laid bare and Redcovers me from head to toe… I cannot manage those feelings. Red makes me stare at the sky and wonder about the beauty of stars, it makes me dance when I should be walking, and it breaks me into pieces when I have no reason to be broken at all; except that I am red now. I am red and pain and everything hurts. 

Sometimes I feel things blue. It’s cool and steady, heavy along the back of my spine and I feel it trace its way through my bones. These are tears. Heavy ocean waves of grief. Cold shadows of my past, my memories that sink into me when I’m unguarded. Blue takes my breath away. Sometimes the blue makes me feel like I can fly with the way it pulls me up into the velvet sky of what used to be and how lovely it all was, but then my wings are ripped from my shoulders and I plummet down, down, down, into the icy depths of loneliness. It’s the regrets that nag at my mind, and the “what if’s” and the “goodbyes” that are outlined in diamond tears and wrapped up in navy-colored silk. Blue is my blanket when “right now” feels empty and unknown. It makes me slow, but sometimes slowing down is important. He is my wise old friend who remembers with me, cries with me, then stays always a step behind me. Sometimes I need Blue to be close, and sometimes he is too close.  

Sometimes I feel things green. It’s there, an itch that fights inside my mind and my heart. It feels like a weed growing up and around my gut, sucking life and twisting tightly until I’m all shriveled and dry. She comes to me on my wild days. I can’t fight her. She’s temptation that will not be denied and she is envy that makes me blind to every good thing in my hand. I’m shoved deep into a forest of shadows and I run and I run and I run, but no matter how fast and how far I run, I never find the edge. I blow about on every wind and I know that I am nothing more than chaff when Green is in control. Spending nights with her are sleepless and long. Green is my enemy. 

Sometimes I feel things purple. The way I hold my head high and walk with confidence and know that I am loved and accepted. Purple is rare. I treasure Purple. I wrap her around me like a cape and adorn myself like a queen. But Purple is fickle. One day she will come with the beauty of my heart, the clear thoughts of truth and gentleness of spirit. Other days I find her when my outward appearance pleases my reflection and I know that eyes will turn towards me. I struggle to consistently identify Purple rightly. Sometimes I’m sure it is her, when really it is a fleeting trick of the eye that leaves my heart pricked and sore. Sometimes I shut her out, proclaiming I do not deserve her. “Leave me!” I cry at her. “I’m not worthy of Purple!” I list the names of those who know and exude Purple and I wish I was them. Then I realize that I can be; I can choose Purple. Purple can be constant, her different hues shining in the different flickers of light, but she can always be with me. 

Sometimes I feel things yellow. Soft. Delicate. Whimsical. Pretty. I find the warmth under my feet as I tiptoe through patches of sunlight, and I feel it all the way in the center of my being with the smiles, the laughter, the golden sunsets and lilting melodies. Maybe that’s why my favorite sound is my best friend’s laugh; because it’s pure yellow. Yellow makes me swallow sweetness and fills me with the purity of babies snuggled against my chest, small children reaching for my hand, a dear friend telling me that they thought of me, and a song that shakes every shadow and cobwebs from my insides. Sometimes I think I might break Yellow, or lose her forever. Sometimes she mixes with Blue in an overwhelming feeling of pain and joy that I can’t talk past the lump in my throat or see through the happy tears in my eyes. She lights up memories like stars in the dark, reminding me that some things are so yellow, so bright, so perfect and brilliant that even time will never cause them to fade. I love Yellow. I can’t make her come, but I can find her when others can’t if I put my mind to it. She’s quiet, like a secret, but a happy secret that takes joy in being discovered. 

Sometimes I feel things orange. The rush, the busy, the push, the pull, the “what in the world?”, and “how on earth?” Orange eats me up from the inside out. Devours me, taunts me, ridicules me. Be faster, he whispers. Be better, he jeers. Go, go, go. Orange is a liar. Orange is a frantic frenzy to everything he touches. He lights up the accomplishments of others and pulls my eyes away from who I am to who they are, and suddenly I am no longer purple; I am not good enough. I stay up until two am with Orange, not for the chats, but with the tossing and the turning, the double-checking and the second-guessing. When he comes, I must be perfect, and if I fail, he glares in my face until it’s all I see. I don’t see my purple, or yellow, or red, or blue, I’m just a failure and surely it is all I will ever be. He has a tight grip. I’m getting better at fighting him, but he’s incorrigible, and I must battle him daily. I find I am stronger than he is when I open my mouth and ask for help. 

Sometimes I feel things gray. Nothing. Can you feel nothing deeply? It’s numbing. I don’t know. Sometime I feel nothing and it’s there, pressed up against my heart. I don’t understand it. I guess sometimes I welcome it, hoping for a reprieve from green, or red, or even blue. Or the world has slammed me in the face with reality and poison and I feel too small to matter so I call for Gray. She’s medicine, I guess. Hello, medicine. But not really, because Gray does nothing. It cocoons me, but I don’t emerge as a butterfly, I’m still just me; gray and, oh! There’s another color. Hopefully Yellow. Hopefully Purple. Maybe even Red, just a little bit? All I know is that I’m no longer gray. Goodbye, Gray. 

Sometimes I feel things brown. Brown is complicated. I need Brown, but too much of Brown and all I am is a muddied mess that covers every other color that might try to save me. I need to remember my frailty and my weakness, I need to remember my flesh and bones are from this slowly dying world, but too much remembering and it’s like quicksand, sucking me down and deep and there’s no air down there. Orange tries to be friends with Brown, but Brown is a steady color. She’s the earth that sticks to the bottom of your feet and leaves behind your footprints. Brown remembers, too. She remembers everything; from the very first moment that she was created and when God pulled Adam out of her and shaped a man. She also remembers the serpent, and sometimes Brown can pull me down until I’m clogged and heavy, stuck in a mire. She is unbothered by whether or not I walk with her safely or if I stumble and fall; it’s all the same to her. She’s a unifying color, though, when we allow her to be. We all have weaknesses. We’ve all fallen short. We can use her to build a common ground between us, but we must continue on from her as well. She is not our home. 

Sometimes I feel things white. The absence of color? Or, at the very least, the absence of me. It’s the absence of selfish desire and broken pride and wounded desires; it’s just love. It’s love for the people, the places, the future in front of me. Sometimes I’m sat with a beautiful soul and all I feel is white and I can’t do anything except feel that glow for that person. I think that maybe they make the white and they’re the reason why I’m all lit up on the inside when I am with them. I feel White in the “pinch me” moments when I can’t believe that I am where I am, that my feet are standing in the sand and dust that might cause others to be orange or brown, but in that moment, in that instant, it’s all white. Sometimes my bluest moments were once white. Sometimes my whitest moments are stained red. Like I said at the beginning, Red shows up the best against White, leaving no one to imagine what color you once were. White and Yellow love to dance together, but I know that White is the strongest, most enduring, longest-lasting feeling. Some people in my life will always be outlined in White. I’ve found that there are people who were meant to be eternally white in my memories that are now just mostly blue. Sometimes I want to give up on White because other colors bleed into her and I can’t always focus on what is important, but White never gives up on me. When I feel things white, everything comes clearly into focus and, deep breath, okay, yes… this is why I am alive. White is worth the battles with Orange, and the falling from the blue sky to the blue water, and the brown stuck to the soles of my feet from walking alongside someone who needs a little help, and the redredred that soaks into my very core. And when I am white, I find that I am also purple, but only the very purest shade of it. White cleans away all the green. All the gray. All the ugly, too-much brown. White is the greatest of all. 

So, I feel things deeply. I feel the pain and the regret and the shame and the brokenness until I can’t breathe, but I also feel the freedom, the joy, the love and the hope. I feel the memories that ache, and I feel the dreams that have not yet been fulfilled, but I also feel the promises that have been kept and I feel the faithfulness of God’s goodness. My heart knows that deep cries out to deep, and I never want to ignore that call.

Mark My Skin...

I want to mark my skin like a map sometimes.

A timeline.

A compass to my heart so when they look at the constellations I’ve drawn on myself, they’ll know where my Northstar is. They’ll see the planets of my heart, the way my whole life revolves around a burning sun of passion.

They’ll see the mark of my soulmate, two interlocked circles, hooked and unending. Or maybe it’s a paperclip, reminding me that she’s there to hold my loose pieces together. Or maybe it will just be her initial, small and simple and forever.

I want to look at my thigh and see a bolt of lightening dedicated to my sister - because she holds enough electricity in her hands to keep pumping life into my heart when I’m slipping away. She’s my jolt of honesty, my powerful display of loyalty and undying devotion. She has this way of making people notice her, just like a flash of lightening slicing through the inky dark of the night sky. Maybe beside it I will write, “your voice is the soundtrack of my summer” because summer ’09 changed us. The way we flashed together, close and shining, then split apart with the pain of electric shock coursing through every joint of my body.

On my arm I’ll write the name of my country and dedicate it to the ones who grew up with me. No one can take away those years, no matter how far away and fuzzy they may seem. Those moments, those markings carved into my heart like the ink I want on my skin.

I’ll probably get another one for the boy who I wanted to be in love with me. I don’t know what it would be, though. Maybe a bicycle, because one time he came on a bicycle to see me. That one time, when I thought maybe he really did love me. Or maybe I’ll put a guitar, because I used to picture us together in the future and he was always holding one. That was my favorite part.

For the year 2010 I’ll just put the world “ALIVE.” Maybe on my back, because I don’t want to be reminded of it too much. I don’t mind the January-to-March 2010 where ALIVE meant full of life, waking up happy, going to sleep satisfied and discovering a rhythm that touched a piece of my heart like nothing else had before. But the April-to-December alive I can live without looking at; the crying at 2am, feeling like I’m gonna puke, hate everything but still waking up every morning alive. It happened, though. Just like Mehdi.

Yeah.

Him.

How do I mark myself deep enough for him? Do I put down “Sam”, because he called me that? Just him. And I still feel an ache from my chest to my throat when I remember. Yeah. I’ll do Sam. I’ll put it right down my side where no one can see it unless I want to share him. But I probably never will.

On my hip will be the shape of a globe for my mom and dad. Not because they are my world, but because they gave me the world. Shaped my life to help me see and understand the world. Literally lived out in front of me the importance of going out into the world. When I feel like the world is falling apart around me, they’re always there to help me pick up the pieces. I know they wouldn’t really appreciate the gesture, but I’d get it anyway. I’d highlight two countries- Morocco and China- the birth countries of my siblings. Maybe I’ll also put little stars all around the globe, one for each sibling, each in-law, each niece and nephew... I want them scattered and brilliant, yet all hovering there on the other side of the atmosphere, my beautiful beacons of home and unconditional love, reminding me of where my feet touch the ground and when I had glasses and bangs, but believing I can always shine brighter and fall faster and be more beautiful than I think I can be. I’ll also put “Auntie Pop” on my arm in a font that looks like a typewriter because my oldest nephew called me that, once upon a time, before he knew me and I knew him, and it never stopped being my favorite. He doesn’t call me that anymore, but I really wish he did. Then beside it I’ll put an Amish hat and bonnet. I’ll stare at them, hating the sight but desperate to love them at the same time. My brother's choice changed my life and as much as I felt abandoned three times over by the decision, I love who my brother is and idolize him just as much now as I did when we were the only two kids in the family and he was my first best friend. 

On my leg, just above my knee, I’ll put some phrase in creole, because here I am, two decades later and I still remember, “mwen pa koné” and how disgusting their fried spaghetti and ketchup was. Or maybe I’ll do a tarantula to commemorate my favorite Haiti story of killing thousands of baby spiders with my sister until we killed the mom. Man, she was huge.

On my wrist will be the outline of an airplane with the words “come back… be here” because I wanted him back. He loved me even when I was being ridiculous and I never told him, but if he asked me, I would marry him.

Somewhere in the middle of my body, in the sea of words and music notes covering my back, will be “HYG” and if you know, then you know. And you know how much it meant to look back on when it was all over.

Another word is “Insatiable” because it’s my favorite word and it’s how I want to live my life; chasing down adventures and stories with an unquenchable thirst. And the notes? Minuet in G Major by J.S.Bach; the piece I memorized and performed as an 8-year-old girl. They put my picture in the paper because I received marks of “high distinction” and I don’t even think we ever bought a copy. But it doesn’t matter now - the notes are on me, hugging me, constantly wrapping me in melodies, reminding me of the beauty that comes from hard work and determination. Intermingled with the notes are the words, “Everything is a story.” and a giant letter A for all my brave heroines who have shared their stories with me. I can have one shoulder covered with the question, “What do you think about when you stare at the sea?” and on the other I will have the last thing Alyson Abidi learns about balloons, right before she leans her head on her Danny's shoulder and you read the words “the end.”

Then I’ll have “The End” because I never cease to shiver with a sense of finality whenever my fingertips write those words, pressing the keys almost reverently, feeling the sobriety of the moment. With a story ending there’s always a time of mourning the characters and setting, moving on from your friends to discover a new story, a new character, a new day dream… Maybe I’ll put the word "dreamer” back there, too, as an ode to the reason why I barely finished high school in time to be considered class of 2006.

Another memory from 2006 is seeing Becky at the base and having one of the best visits I can remember. My sister wrote “Becky did this” on a roll of toilet paper. I saved the square. Etching that onto my skin after the way I crawled under her skin all those years ago seems poetic. I think she’ll appreciate it. I’d like to think she’ll remember, too; the way I wanted to mark everything in her world with myself so she never forgot me. She never did, and I’ll never forget her either, even without the tattoo plastered down my spine.

Not everything can be captured with words, though, which is why there will be cherry blossoms, mountain ranges, a plain, white church building and Bab Oujloud all running down my arm in a waterfall the same way Oum Rabaya ran down the side of the Middle Atlas mountains. They touch and mix, blurring the lines of my life to create a paradox of time on my arm, alluding to the little girl who grew up in that plain, white church, that became the girl who saw mountains in Mexico and Thailand, and who smelled cherry blossoms bloom outside her house. Years later she traveled almost daily through “The Blue Gate”, but she was always that same girl who grew up going to that plain, white church that had a cross on the steeple.

There will be a butterfly for my grandma, and a tennis racket for my grandpa. I don’t know what to get for my other grandpa. I don’t really remember him. I carry his name, though. His blood is in me and while it doesn’t show on the outside, maybe that’s enough?

A glow stick on my shin to remember that “glow sticks equal trust” and three hearts, one for each of the sisters of my heart. I know it’s cheesy, but if anyone is worth getting cheesy over, it’s them. From chick-flicks, to ice cream, to sleepovers, to five hour long conversations in the driveway, to traveling the world, they’ve stuck by me. I don’t know how I deserve them, don’t know why they tucked me into their hearts without a second thought, but they push me deeper with every vulnerable secret and hug laced with tears. I would cover every inch of my body in cheesy tattoos if it showed them how much I love them.

And this is where I pause, because how much more do I put on display? Do I put “bubblegum” and Gandalf and torsil frogs and llamas on my skin? Do I share the broken, bleeding heart spread over my chest from the times people loved me deeply, then left me permanently? Do I let people trace over the words, “Bayleas really are amazing creatures” and “Vancouver, you were lovely tonight” and “Fake Mom” and “Abbie’s song” and allow them to prod for explanations when there are none? None that can really convey all that they mean, anyway. They’ll never know that Abbie’s song was actually all our song and it sounded the most beautiful when we sang it together, and when we sang it at the farm, two days before Faith’s wedding and we were given 4 days of heaven together, I thought my heart would explode right out of my chest.

Do I put, “waiting for your call” on me forever? Could I handle looking down every day remembering when he said that could be our song, not knowing that three years later it would make so much more sense?

And if I write, “Won’t you stay till the a.m.” around one ankle and “you make me strong” around the other, would it be too heavy for me to even pick up my feet when I have to turn and walk away… again? Why can I never stay with you? Maybe I’ll add the line, “Everything comes back to you” while I’m at it. Maybe that will give me the strength I need to leave you; because I know I’ll always come back.

If I write any date at all then maybe it should be 05/31. It would be for 2016 and 2017; two days I made or acted on big, scary decisions that I knew would change my life. And here I am, changed twice over because of those dates in time. I’ll stamp it on my shoulder so those numbers can push me forward.

I wonder what May 31st, 2018 will bring me.

There aren’t many spaces left on my body, probably, the inches of canvas being used-up and claimed as memorials to loved places, faces and pages, but I can’t be done yet.

Little brother #1, who started out so little and grew to be a best friend. I’ll dedicate a space of skin to him. There are so many things to choose from, but I want it to be perfect. I’ll probably settle on “#berthaandearl” to combine our shared love of social media and signify how we’ll grow old together.
Little brother #2 was never very little, but he is tender, and “Hold me, Niall” is a good way to remember that.

Little brother #3 get’s a splash of color with one of his brown eyes because I prayed for him to have those eyes, and then he was born and there he was; my brown eyed baby.

Little brother #’s 4 and 5 will be touching, hands together and never letting go because that’s what I want to do with their little hands forever, and because they were made to be brothers, no matter that they were born on opposite sides of the world with two different sets of parents.

Baby sister gets a jewel. I don’t know what kind, but a beautiful one, because she is a treasure, and that’s what her name means in a language she’s never spoken but is part of her heritage because we made her a part of our family.

I want to mark my skin - split the surface and bury dark lines that can never be erased under the pale and the freckles. Maybe because if my skin remembers, I won’t have to remember alone. Or maybe because if my life is there, my story and my secrets and my devotion, I’ll feel more comfortable, like a blanket of who I am is covering me like a friend. I’ll touch the ink and feel the story. The sun will kiss it, my tears will wash over it, and my children will know me by these patterns that have shaped their mama into who she is. 

But right now I am blank. 

Clean. 

Open. 

Closed. 

Covered and naked all at once.

Sometimes I wish I could peel back my skin and show the world who I am. Sometimes I want to draw on my body the highs and the lows, to wrap them around me and let them anchor me into the path I am on, to keep me from flying away and forgetting who I was made to be. Proclaiming the mercy, grace and faithfulness of the Lord. Write it on my arms and over my back until everyone knows who I indelibly and irrevocably am from the inside out.

So, yeah, sometimes I want to mark my skin and hold myself together by inking stitches onto the seams of my body. The stitches would be the names of the people who have held me tightly to keep me from spilling out when everything goes crazy and hazy and I can’t see straight. Do I give myself an outline, a ridge along my edges and curves so people know where I start and stop? Then people will know when I invite them into myself, when I allow them to cross lines because I trust them. Or maybe I’ll create a galaxy of fingerprints belonging to everyone who has touched my life. They would reach from the back of my neck to the base of my spine and circle down my legs to my toes. It would be all the people I love the most along with the people who brushed against my shoulder at the airport, or gave me a word in the check-out line at the grocery store.

But then I think, maybe, maybe putting them on the outside of me will take away from the sacredness of these things? Maybe just coloring them onto my heart is the best, because then no one can mock or sneer at the ones that I love. So I leave myself unmarked, because if I start, I can never go back. I can never undo that first penetration of the needle into my skin, the tiny dot bearing witness to the moment where I chose to say yes to wearing my heart on the outside. That moment in and of itself is a moment to remember; the moment I marked my skin. The moment I began my map.

My timeline.

My compass…

I feel like the thing that drives me to want to wrap myself in my stories is the desire to be known. For all the parts of me to be seen and accepted. And I feel like that maybe I just need to stop wishing I was known on the outside, and know and remember and meditate on the fact that I am known.

I am fully known.

Over and over and over, I am known.

The weaknesses, the secrets, and the pieces of myself that I would never consider putting on my skin because I never want to be known by those things: They are known.

The pain, the strengths, the revelations… I am known.

The way that I love is known. The way that I express myself is known. The days that changed my life are known. I don’t have to sketch it over myself from my head to my heels and hope that people can read between the lines, because there are lines that I myself have forgotten, but He has not.

He knows my lightning bolt of a sister, my Starry Sky of a family, my “come back… be here” love for my friend and the song lyrics wrapped around my ankles. He knows, and He understands, and He loves me. Maybe the only mark I need to make on my skin is that word. 

Known.

And when I feel the desire to mark myself, to fill in the blanks and reveal the depths of my feelings, I can look down and know that He sees it all as clearly as if I did have it on my skin. My hopes, my dreams, my wishes… my future.

I am known.

Peace can wrap around me. Joy can cover me. Assurance of God’s love will mark me from the top down. That is my map. He is my Northstar. He is the center of my solar system that keeps me spinning around and around and around. He has marked me, and that mark will last into eternity. Whether I mark myself or not, there is no removing this piece of me that tethers me to His heart and that…

that is my mark.

My Broken Body: A Love Story

My body is broken and has been since I was a baby. I wasn’t born that way, but I don’t remember the two months of my life before the sickness set in. I don’t remember being a few months old and never learning how to crawl properly because my wrists hurt. I don’t remember being one year old and screaming when my mom got me out of my carseat because my body was stiff and to move it caused me pain. I don’t remember it, but I know what it felt like, because I still experience it to this day. 

I was barely three years old and dressed in a pretty pink dress with flowers on it when I went to a hospital that had a giant fish aquarium in the waiting room. There was a doctor there who told my parents what was wrong with me. They finally knew why I limped when I walked. They finally knew why my knee looked funny; I had a disease.

The chronic illness that took over my body is named Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis, aka JRA. The Juvenile part was there to remind me throughout my childhood that I had the kid version. As an adult I don’t know if the J still applies to my sickness or not, so sometimes I leave it off. Kid version or not, JRA broke my body. 

I’ve met people since getting older who have had arthritis set in as adults and they look at me and say, “And you’ve experienced this your whole life. I’m so sorry!” And sometimes they cry, and I think to myself, “Yeah, but I don’t know anything else.” 

What is it like to walk without pain? 

What does it feel like to be able to grab onto things and twist off lids and pump gas without wondering if you’ll be able to do it yourself or if you’ll have to ask for help? Again. 

What about waking up and literally being able to jump up and use every part of your body? 

What does that feel like? 

I’ve never lived like that, so I don’t feel that loss the same way as an adult who has that torn away from them halfway into their lives. I feel sorrier for them in a way. Not that I don’t feel the loss in my own way, because believe me, I do, but it doesn’t feel the same. 

I honestly don’t remember ever being told I had JRA, I feel like I was just told so many times until I was old enough to understand it. I didn’t have a moment where my parents sat me down and said, “Baylea, this is why you’re different.” I also don’t remember when the bone changes started. They must have started when I was young because I remember one summer I could sort of do cartwheels with my grandma, and the next summer I couldn’t even try because my wrists had grown so much worse. 

Things didn’t get really bad until I was twelve. That’s when I started going to the doctor’s again. My neck became affected and my hands hurts when I did certain things with them, like washing the dishes, cutting vegetables and using scissors. All I did that winter was lay on the couch and read, which sounds like a lovely thing, right? I still remember the feeling of new pain, pain in places that hadn’t hurt before. Pain that was worse than it use to be. I was watching my peers grow up and embrace their journey into adulthood and I was on the sideline wishing I could be like them. 

My body is broken. My knees swell up until I can’t walk. My wrists ache, and my hips get so stiff I walk like a pregnant lady with a nine-month bump. I can’t grip things because my hands are weak. When I eat something that stresses out my body the first thing to start aching is my right shoulder, and my feet have walked so many painful miles, sometimes to the point where I don’t think I can go one more step. But I always do, because that’s what I have to do. I wake up in the morning, feel pain, get out of bed and feel more pain, slowly warm up my joints and hope that as the day goes on, some of the pain will dissipate. A lot of the time it does so that I don’t even remember I’m in pain. And some days, like this past week, I feel so much pain that I can’t do anything except cope.

My room is a mess at the moment. I hate it. I have a basket of laundry and a half-empty suitcase from my trip to Turkey. I have checks I need to mail in and a pile of clothes to put away, but I couldn’t even handle getting dressed. And I hate it, because I don’t want a broken body. I don’t want knees and hips that don’t work right and hands that hurt too easily and dealing with an overworked body that wakes me up in the middle of the night with an ache that goes all the way to my bones. 

But this is what I have. I have a broken body. I’ve lived a life of limitations and that’s just what I’ve had to go through, and I am thankful. Guys, I am so thankful. Because I’m the first one to say that I’m not strong enough to do things on my own. The story of my life is to lean into the strength of others. My family. My friends. Jesus. I can’t live on my own because I’m not capable of doing the things I would need to by myself. I’ve had to push through really hard things, but do you know how amazing you feel on the other side of really hard things? Having a broken body doesn’t mean I can just move houses or schools or find new friends to escape my problems. This body is with me until the day I die. There is no cure for JRA. There is no way to regain what I’ve lost aside from a miracle (which I do hope and pray for). 

I have learned the sweetness of persevering until breakthrough. 

I have found comfort in the fact that Jesus was a man, who knows the weakness of human flesh. 

He knew pain. 

He knew loneliness. 

I know Him in ways that people with healthy, whole bodies will never, ever know Him and I honestly wouldn’t trade that for the world. He has been my friend when no one else had time for a girl with a broken body. His body broke for me so that one day my body won’t be broken, and I think that is the most beautiful thing in the world. I long for eternity in a way people don’t understand, because their bodies aren’t broken. 

In two years I will have had this disease for three decades. That’s a long time to have a broken body, but it’s also a long time to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that in my weakness, God is my strength and my friend. 

I Didn't Always Live In America: A Love Story

On my Facebook bio I have the phrase “I didn’t always live in America” because my heart needs people to know that it belongs someplace else. I don’t always talk about it because coming back to the states was complicated. Not in the on-again-off-again type of complication, but like two lovers forced apart because of situations and circumstances type of complicated. I didn’t always love that place, but when I finally fell in love, it was for forever and I can still feel the ache sometimes even though it has been six years, eleven months and twelve days since I said goodbye. Didn’t really say goodbye that day, though, did I. No. Like I said, it was a forced separation. 

You know how you can look at someone and love so many things about them that you don’t even know where to start? That’s how it is for me with Morocco. I close my eyes and I think of the mountains. Summer days by the fresh water springs with the freezing water that will numb your feet within three seconds of dipping them in. The sound of the water rushing past as you eat tajine and fruit in the shade, laying back on the berber carpets and reveling in the coolness in the midst of summer heat. When it was hot, that’s where you would go; up, up, up to where the spray misted off the frigid mountain water, creating rainbows that shimmered in the sunlight. You would sit and eat and talk in simple shelters that shade you from the blazing sun that used to turn my skin dark. 

The long twisty, curvy roads covered in dust, slowly crumbling from the years of use, past the tall forests of trees and orchards. Wide open spaces where you can see hundreds of sheep and black dots of nomadic tents where families would live for a season. Even in the mountains the green of plant life doesn’t stay forever and you look forward to the beauty of things coming alive after a winter snowed into your chilly home. Warmth comes and trees bloom, grass grows and the sun turns everything from gloomy cold to the bright stepping stone to summer that is spring. Instead of snow, we get cherry blossoms and buds that will one day become apples. You look down from the high points and see miles and miles of green spread out before you. If you live there you know that in a few weeks the heat will turn scorching and all the green will die until the fall rains come back, so you soak in those moments. You breathe in deep and smell the distinct smell of mountain air and animals and flowers in the sun, and your heart swells. And then you add the people, the food, the beautiful babble of Tamazight and Darija and my heart just bursts. From the tiny villages to the bigger towns, there is always a welcoming smile, a pot of tea on to boil, a new word or part of the culture to learn and a laugh to be had. The people are the same everywhere, though, from the mountains to the coast. The kind of kindness and hospitality that would invite a stranger into their home and feed them the only food they have in the kitchen. The kind of friendship that would give you a place to sleep and help you overcome whatever cultural obstacle you face. The ones who laugh with you when you blunder through a new word or situation you weren’t prepared for, telling you that you’re doing great and they welcome you to their country. The ones that stand between you and the those who would take advantage of you whether it is because of your gender or nationality. The ones who take you under their wing and show you how beautiful life can be in the most northern and western country of Africa. They invite you to weddings and engagement parties, music festivals, baby showers and to the public bath. They answer your myriad of questions, call you their sister, put their arm around you when you walk down the street, help you buy clothes and beg you to teach them English, all the while correcting your pronunciation and expanding your world with every friend they introduce you to. 

Sometimes I close my eyes and picture the city. The cities are large, crowded, noisy… fascinating. All the excitement of crossing the road at the perfect moment, catching a taxi to take you across town because it’s too far to walk, smelling the mixture of exotic spices, exhaust, and freshly baked bread. Everything is literally right there as soon as you walk out your door. Hanouts where you buy two eggs at a time because you only need two eggs for this meal and you can just buy more next time you need one. If you live in the right neighborhood you could go to the corner and buy an ice cream cone for a durham, but then later two dirhams, because inflation, I guess. There were the two main roads where the middle median is wide and there are fountains, benches, palm trees, twinkling lights strung across like power lines and the murmur of gossiping housewives, laughing children and exuberant teenagers. You’ll see football games in any open square, candy and cigarette stands every half a block and bump shoulders with smartly dressed businessmen. Brown and yellow buses rumble past, shiny cars honk at every little thing and bright red petit taxis dot the roads like a ladybug’s spots. Well, they were red in my city. You could tell which city you were in by what color the petit taxis were. Blue? You’re in the capital city. Green? You’re in Ifrane. White? Oh, you’re down south in the Hollywood of Morocco where they filmed Kingdom of Heaven and Babel. 

But my favorite part of the city was the old city. I love the winding pathways that work around corners and buildings, sometimes becoming too narrow for anyone to pass through. The way the paths dipped down and then came back up, walls closing in around you, and then leading you to a wide place. I loved the places where every shop was a butcher and you would smell them cooking their meat for you right there, spiced and ready to stick into a half of a piece of khubs. Or where all the olive sellers were in a line and you could see bucket after bucket of green, purple and black mixed with things you never thought to mix together. You can smell exactly where the bakeries are when walking down the street. Woman carry their unbaked goods and come back for them when it was ready, the smell and the steam wafting up from under towels where the food is kept warm. You could stop a hundred times by Beboujloud and find something to eat; a juice shop, a sandwich shop, a rotisserie chicken place where you buy a whole chicken with sides of rice and fries. Be careful of donkeys, though. Listen for the men to shout, “Balak!” and move to the side until they pass. They might be carrying cases of pop, or large boxes of things to be sold at a tourist shop, or maybe they are pulling a garbage cart. Either way, they don’t stop for you and I know from experience that a metal crate hurts when it bumps your arm because you weren’t paying attention. Also, the tunnels have amazing acoustics and singing at the top of your lungs with a group of your friends at night is a memory you’ll never forget. 

Of course, there are other places in Morocco. The beaches with burning sand and waves from the Atlantic or the Mediterranean, depending on where you are. Humidity that makes you feel just as damp and sweaty as you did before your shower. The ice cream tajine in Agadir, the ferry port in Tanja filled with every language and color of skin you can imagine, the beach town of Mehdiyya where you can stand in your kitchen and see the sun setting over the ocean through the window. The cities and villages in the far south where the endless expanse of the Sahara desert lies and where they live in mud houses and eat spicy food and wear black sheets called Lzars when they leave their houses. 

I miss the familiarity of the place that I love. The way I could smell the wood burning stoves in the winter and cedar when I walked past the woodworking shops. The dinging of metal workers, saying hello to the people at the cafe who spoke English, making up stories about the faces I saw every day but didn’t ever meet. The colorful sea of gorgeous headscarves and jellabas that move around you as you walk through the streets, and the huddles of friends and families on the steps by the square, soaking in the late afternoon sun. I miss my mind and heart coming alive as I learned a new language and culture. I miss all night dancing at weddings and having belly dancing dance-offs with my friends and learning what they were learning because they thought learning was fascinating. I could go on and on about the shibakiya and harira during ramadan, or eating sheep’s tongue on the first day of Aide, or our neighbors bringing us couscous on Friday’s because they love us. I could tell you how I wore headscarves and rode the bus and learned the national anthem, but I’ll stop. Like I said, I fell in love hard and once I unlock the memories I have saved of that place the words come gushing out. 

It’s a beautiful place. 

A beautiful place to call home.