Some strange mixture of sadness and apathy. Cloudiness, dimness, drained. My soul is tired and bruised. I think "What can I do? What can I do to make myself feel better?" I don't expect an answer, but I get one. It floats across my mind and I feel my soul lift its head, like it's hopeful.

Metal music.

It's exactly the thing, so perfect I don't even hesitate to get my earbuds. Even in this state of heaviness, my body moves easily for my music.

I put in the earbuds, connect my phone, and hear the first few notes. I smile. My soul unfolds in a way that feels like stretching, blooming. The ragged melodies fit into the rough edges of my heart and complement them, making me feel whole. It's beautiful, and the music and I rise together, on a journey. It's complicated, but so controlled, so planned. Wild, but guided. I let the music tell me what to feel, and as the music resolves into its key, I resolve with it.

inspired by As I Lay Dying, An Ocean Between Us
"Separation," last 1:15 of "This is Who We Are"
favorite tracks:  "An Ocean Between Us," "Forsaken," "I Never Wanted"

Souls are Songs

Every soul is a song.

There are different instruments, genres, tempos, lyrics, voices, messages, depths, audiences. It’s all music, yes; but at the same time, each song is radically different.

Deep within your soul song is harmony, running through each note with thrilling depth and revelation.

Harmony is your purpose, path, desire, goal. It's always there, but you have to hear it in order to sing it. Sometimes you recognize it out of nowhere, and you wonder how you missed it before. Sometimes other people have to point it out to you, sing it with you, to get you to notice it.

Sometimes you lose the harmony, especially if it’s been a while since you’ve sung it or listened for it. It’s always there, but you’ll stop hearing it if you aren’t careful.

There’s more than one harmony. You have alto harmony, and soprano harmony, and variations in between.

Sometimes you can only be hear or sing one harmony, but sometimes you can hear multiples. Then you have to choose which best suits your voice. Or, if you’re singing with someone else, you pick the harmony that best complements his.

Songs can be played with different instruments to get different effects. It depends on what instruments are available, what effect you’re going for, and for whom you’re playing. But your song is always the same, and usually a certain arrangement will suit it best.

Our souls were composed by one who delights in His music. He delights in sharing it; he delights when it’s listened to, analyzed, and appreciated.

He loves all His songs and He created each with a unique harmony. He eagerly awaits the day when each perfect harmony will be hummed, and every song will reach its glorious full potential to awe, inspire, convict, and transform.

~Stephanie

Happy Enough to Die

{inspired by Florence + the Machine's "I'm Not Calling You a Liar"}

"I am happy enough to die."

That phrase confused me as a kid. If you're happy, why would you want to die? Doesn't it make more sense to die when you're sad?

Well, in a way it does. But who wants a death like that? Who wants to die with a broken soul leaking from his eyes? Who wants to die with a smashed heart tearing its way through his ribs? Answer: No one.

An ideal death--if that can be a thing--is a satisfied death. You leave this world with a smile, and few regrets. You relinquish your grip on life with a confident wholeness, knowing you've done what you were here to do and you're ready to face what comes next. For some people an ideal death might be taking a bullet for a loved one; for others it might be a quiet, anticipated passing surrounded by friends.

But whether you envision your last as moments heroic or nostalgic, one thing's for sure: you don't want to die miserable.

Some moments are beautiful and whole enough to be your last. "I'm happy enough to die" doesn't mean, "Wow, life is so great that I think I'll leave now." It means, "I can't imagine a more perfect ending."

It was just this year that I really began to understand being "happy enough to die." As to be expected (considering how I am), the moment that enlightened me wasn't breathtakingly romantic or overwhelmingly sweet. I think my first "happy enough to die moment" took place in a vehicle driven by a friend. We were driving along, listening to music, laughing, talking, and one of those Well-This-Was-Definitely-A-Poor-Driving-Decision moments occurred.

I didn't panic. I didn't really feel alarmed at all. I remember continuing to laugh and be happy, thinking, "Well, if I'm going to die, I really don't mind dying with my best friend."

Those moments--when you can close your eyes and feel joy like a tangible thing in your heart--are the moments in which you wouldn't mind dying. There's something satisfying, poetic about your last breath being a laugh, your last glance being full of love, your last words being happy. No one genuinely wants to die crying, full of hatred and spewing cruelty. Everyone wants to die happy.

I think the moral here is clear: No one knows when death will come, so if you want to die happy, then live happy. Seize every moment, give every smile. Laugh lots, forgive fully, live intentionally.

Live happy enough to die.

~Stephanie

Is Yesterday Still a Friend?

When I was younger, I used to be really arrogant. {*irony meter explodes*} I loved to hear poems or songs or stories and dismiss them as "stupid" because they didn't speak to me. I thought I was so much wiser beyond my years, and that if there was anything to be gathered from a work, I'd be able to gather it--at age twelve.

Daddy and I talked about these things a lot. He was never rude or judgmental, and he never mocked or laughed at me. He would listen to my conceited little tirades about love and life and then suggest that I might come to understand the song better as I experienced life.

My dad's profound strength in humility always caught me a little off guard, and made me at least give lip service to the fact that maybe I didn't know everything.

At twenty, I know more than I did at twelve. However, I'm also acutely aware that I don't know what I'm doing half the time, and the other half I'm quite possibly wrong anyway.

I like to think {and I hope I'm right} that this admission of ignorance has made me less judgmental and more open to new understanding. Now, when I encounter a song, poem, or story that doesn't speak to me, I try not to write it off. I consider it from many angles, play with potential double meanings/puns, apply it to different scenarios, and look for symbolism.

Sometimes, I'm pleasantly surprised. One of my favorite revelations deals with a line from a Shinedown song:

"Now that you've lost tomorrow, is yesterday still a friend?"

A few summers ago, after trying to make sense of that line for a long time, I decided that I had not yet experienced that phenomenon. The words made sense, but the spirit of the concept was lost on me. I decided to continue to love and listen to the song, hoping that someday I would understand what it meant.

I think I finally do.

We live our lives toward a future. Sure, we all have those nights when we decide to live in the moment and make a poor decision {and by that I mean eating that third chocolate bar, of course}, but overall we are goal-oriented people. The way we live our lives today reflects what we're ultimately striving for.

This might mean making good grades...so that you can get into a good college/get a degree.

This might mean investing in a relationship...so that you can spend your lives together.

This might mean saving up your money...so that you can travel over the summer.

More or less every decision is made with "tomorrow" in mind.

But what if you were suddenly disillusioned? What if you suddenly discovered a truth that undermined your future?

What if you realized you had read the wrong chapter in your biology book?

What if you realized your special someone had been lying to you?

What if you misplaced your money?

This new knowledge means that you have lost the "tomorrow" you were striving for.

Knowing what you know today about tomorrow, would you have acted differently yesterday?

Would you have checked the syllabus again?

Would you have demanded answers sooner?

Would you have taken your money directly to the bank?

Now that you've lost tomorrow, is yesterday still a friend?

It's a beautiful, sad question, one that I finally understand. I'm oddly proud to be able to say that. I'm thankful to my dad for teaching me how to listen to things I might not understand, so that I can be prepared to understand them when I'm ready.

~Stephanie