Seven years ago, I sat in the back of my parents’ mini van on the way to my first college tour. My mom and I were chatting away about all of the exciting things that would be coming up in the next few years: graduating high school, moving into a dorm and of course, dating college boys. It was during that conversation that my mom encouraged me to make a list — that is, a list of traits and characteristics I was looking for in a guy. This way, I would have standards to go by, making it much more difficult for me to settle for just any boy who came along.
To the girl who will marry my little brother,
Let me start off by saying that this isn’t one of those letters where I try to be the super intimidating, over-protective older sister so that no girl will think she’s good enough for my little brother. That’s not the goal here. In fact, that’s the exact opposite of my goal. I want you to know that I’ve been praying for you longer than you probably realize. I’ve asked God over and over to bring you into my brother’s life at just the right time, and I’ve asked that you would be the Lord’s absolute best for my little brother. I’m fully confident that He is going to answer that prayer, which makes me even more excited to meet you.
Six years ago from yesterday, I loaded up my 2005 PT Cruiser with my tie-dye bedspread, my brand new backpack and boxes full of dorm decorations and ramen noodles. I packed that car from the floor to the ceiling and drove off to start my freshman year of college. It was one of those moments when I didn’t know if I was more excited or terrified, but either way it was an unforgettable feeling.
For a lot of people, college is your first taste of freedom. It’s an awkward limbo back and forth between being a teenager and attempting to be an adult. It’s (at least, if not more than) four years of nothing but learning about life on your own, about love and friendship and about a bunch of random crap that you’ll never need to remember after finals week.
Less than two weeks ago, I moved out of my parents’ house into an apartment. So let me just start off by saying that adulting is a real struggle. I’ve been dealing with the electric company. I’ve fixed a toilet. I’ve learned that putting an envelope in the freezer for two hours won’t actually unseal it (thanks for nothing YouTube). Other than that, though, I’ve felt pretty prepared for life on my own, and I attribute a lot of that to my upbringing.
One of my all time favorite things to do is go to concerts. Whether it’s big, small, indoors or outdoors, I’m always down for some live music accompanied by shameless dancing. So when I found out Sam Hunt was coming to town this month, I didn’t hesitate to buy tickets. I knew going into the concert that I wasn’t super familiar with any of the opening acts, which meant I’d have plenty of time to do one of my other favorite past times: people watch.
I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who enjoys waiting. In fact, if you’re reading this and you actually like to wait, please be my friend, and teach me your ways.
I personally hate waiting. It’s uncomfortable, confusing, aggravating and it often seems pointless at the time. It doesn’t matter if it’s something as simple as waiting for coffee in the Starbucks drive-thru or something as important as marriage, waiting sucks.
When I was only five years old, my parents bought me my very first journal, or diary as I liked to call it back then. It was pink and purple and had Minnie Mouse on the cover. It quickly became one of my most prized possessions. However, I didn’t quite understand the concept of dating my entries…so instead of writing the month, day, and year at the top of the page, I wrote the name of my kindergarten boyfriend, since he was my “date” at that point in my life.
Nevertheless, I wrote in that journal all the time. And then when I filled that one up, I bought another one, this time one with a lock and key, because my middle school secrets needed the extra protection, obviously. (Insert eye roll here.)
It didn’t take long before I filled up that journal. And then another one. And another. Everywhere I went I had at least one journal (or three) with me at all times.