Promises in Pencil

I’ve never been a fan of using pencil. In fact, I pride myself as a fancy pen person. I love the feel of my Pilot G2 05 as the smooth gel ink glides effortlessly across the paper. In college I arrogantly took my Calculus and Physics exams in pen. I couldn’t stand the idea of the faint ghosting of frantic erasing all over my exams.  Sometimes now, I even bust out my quill pen and ink well to write in calligraphy. That act, dipping the iron tip and placing each stroke feels incredibly intentional; almost concrete, each word full of meaning. No room for error and no eraser for mistakes.

However, when I write in pencil it feels hesitant, uncommitted. Like when people I loved used to promise me things and I knew they didn’t mean it. I grew weary of their empty words; tired of their lies. I became adamantly opposed to saying I promise; calloused and bitter towards people who carelessly threw them around like a cheap imitation of sincerity.

Yet, I’ve been drawing promises in pencil for quite some time now. I pencil in my best guess and promptly smear it with the hopes that when I miss the mark, it is nearly illegible. I leave it in the sunlight knowing that the rays will bleach the graphite. I bargain and barter and make false claims signing my allegiance in pencil hoping that when it’s revisited, He will have forgotten and my faded signature will be unrecognizable.

I imagine that the One who sees infinitely more that I can grows just as weary of my penciled promises and hollow words as I once did. He knows when I beg and barter to do better if He would only______ that I’m just searching for a means to an end, trying to gain the upper hand. I can only claim ignorance for so long. Imitation will no longer do, for You, I cannot deceive. 

Birdcage Religion

The First

It seems like we all have a fascination with firsts. We carry fond memories of the first time we rode our bikes or flew on an airplane. There are all sorts of emotions tied up in firsts, most of them include excitement and adrenaline but some of them include heavier emotions like pain, suffering and disappointment. Up to a certain point in my life many of my firsts were all enveloped in guilt and shame and lies. I don’t remember my first lie, but I know that I became imposingly good at it. It felt quite natural to string together a delightful sounding phrase to confuse or distract whomever I was duping.

I did just that the night I had my first kiss. I told the boy I wanted to kiss that he had to help me finish a scavenger hunt, that I had to find the cutest boy at camp and kiss him for ten seconds. He obliged even though we were in front of campers and counselors and he was 5 years my senior. I was quite surprised that my lips felt tingly and even more surprised when I felt his tongue touch mine. I found that to be weird and a little disgusting but I played along like I knew this whole charade backwards and forwards. When a counselor approached to break up our little love fest (after all it was a Christian camp) I spouted off another lie blaming a giggling group of nearby girls for daring me to commit such a scandalous act.

The truth is I didn’t know those girls and I didn’t even know the name of the boy I had just kissed. I didn’t have a scavenger hunt to accomplish nor did anyone dare me but I did know that my older sister had a crush on him and that she had just seen the whole thing. So when someone asks about my first kiss I say it was a boy at camp mainly because the only thing I remember now is that he wore a neon green backwards baseball cap and had bad breath. It was as unromantic as my second kiss which occurred in the middle of the dance floor on homecoming night my freshman year of high school. I assured my date that he was the fourth or fifth boy I’d kissed and I made sure all my friends saw our sloppy session during “Amazed.”

I continued this trend of deceit with many firsts that followed my first (or second) kiss. The first time I slept with someone and the first time I drank too much I pretended like I was a seasoned veteran and I recounted the stories like they were normal occurrences. All those firsts were a train wreck, a desperate attempt at social integration and acceptance but there is one first I’ll never forget. A first that makes all other firsts pale in comparison. I’ll never forget the first time I felt loved. There was no shame or deception, no lies and no plea for acceptance, just love. There was adrenaline and joy, excitement and anticipation and for the first time I didn’t have to be anybody but me.