if ur a quilt, i'm a quilt

This is weird, but I've been thinking about quilts lately.

I have this amazing cousin who always makes quilts for life events; when I was a kid, she took some of my doodles, turned them into patches, and made me a blanket. At the ripe old age of 22, I've got a lot of these dudes.

Everybody loves blankets. They're comforting, ya know? I'm a firm believer that if you snuggle up real good under one, there's no way the monsters can get you.

You clench your little fists, hold on tight, and feel this overwhelming sense of safety and love--all from a good, fluffy blanket.

I think that's a pretty good example of life. We grasp onto what we can, what we think is a pretty dope blanket--grades, relationships, drugs, alcohol--anything that could give us comfort, fight off the cold, keep the monsters at bay.

Why is it so hard to take a step back, open our clenched fists and hold out our open hands to receive love?

To just look out on the world and say, "Hey girl, you're not so bad at all?"

I don't think that question can be answered broadly. It's too specific. We're a conglomeration of our stories, of the broken pasts we try to hide--how can we hide, when we are each a patchwork of experiences, of pain, joy, and love?

In my mind, this analogy of a quilt making up a soul is working--you know how each patch is a different scene?

Here's mine:

Scene 1:

Everyone is lined against the white wall. Is that Julie? Will? I'm bent over the armchair; Mom is behind me.

Hospital. Why?

It's kind of creepy when old people have those things in their noses. Why do they have them there? and--oh, he's smiling at me.

Sing?

Okay.

I won't forget that smile. I can't forget it. That's the only memory I have of my grandfather, Papa. It always hurts when the family tells stories about him. I'm jealous, you know, because life isn't fair and I've always wanted to know him. Why does the pain linger? It's been 20 years. Why do I still cry?

Scene 2:

He's driving; we're going to meet some friends at the Polynesian and take the monorail to somewhere in Disney. I've got my earphones in, but the sound off, because he's on the phone and I'm suspicious.

"No," he says, "she's completely oblivious. I don't know, maybe I'll tell her tonight"

--quietly now--

"I love you too."

He had driven out of the park, by accident. I got upset, asked him why wasn't he paying attention?

I didn't know how to confront him, how to ask why wasn't that my mom?

Scene 3:

Christmas. I love Christmas. It even snowed this morning--our first White Christmas since I was a kid.

Mikey and Lizzy already went over to his cabin; Lizzy came and got me later.

What do I even say?

We haven't spoken in months. I've known the truth in my soul since before Disney. That just confirmed it.

Why do you decide now--Christmas Day--is the time to say, "Well, yeah, I've slept with women other than your mom, but I NEVER cheated on her because we were separated?"

Then:

"We're going to lose the house. I'm going to have to declare bankruptcy."

But can we keep the piano?

My dad was always the "fun" parent--my mom made sure I did my homework, ate my veggies, cleaned my room. I'd suspected he was cheating for two, maybe three years. No one would talk to me, and I was left to those suspicions with a rising sense of distrust of both my parents.

He lied to me for years. He still does. I wish he was the person he was when I was little. I think. I don't remember much of the good. It's been such a long time of the bad.

Scene 4:

NOT that feeling again, God. Don't you make me feel that feeling, so help me.

Every time I feel that, I know I have to do what I'm thinking about doing, and I DO NOT want to.

Yeah. Fine. I'll do it.

It was the youth Halloween lock-in. My PEOPLE. I'm pretty sure I had already been killed about 7 times in Mafia, had 10 cups of Mountain Dew, and was a BOSS at Sardines.

But this was worship. We were all emotional and coming to terms with acknowledging our vulnerabilities--that it was okay to let people in and bare our souls. Emily had put a chair inside of a circle of people, for us to sit in when we felt led to share our stories.

I knew I had to talk about my dad, but...

There was this hole in the pit of my stomach; I wanted to crawl into myself, become a turtle, run away as fast as possible, move to another country.

How to trust?

When the people who are supposed to support you abandon you, that's a pretty tall order.

I love these people, but are they worth the depths of my soul?

I'm pretty good at keeping things together. Will they look at me the same when they see the brokenness?

I told my story, about what had happened since Christmas--people started putting hands on me. Etta, then Alexis, Peyton, Brett--who else, I don't know. I wasn't alone, abandoned, unloved, judged. I was seen. It was enough.

Scene 5:

This isn't a specific memory. I'm a conglomeration of the people who have shaped me. Here are a few.

Etta: saw this weird blonde girl in the back of church one Christmas Eve service. It's that Alex kid's sister. I don't know, seems kind of cool.

FAST FORWARD 2 months and we're tricking people into believing we're twins.

FAST FORWARD 11 years and she's still one of the most constant people in my life; wise; weird; kind; beautiful. Soul sister.

Emily: we're at Clemmons Kitchen with my mom. Our waitress is named Peaches. For some reason, super influential moment in our lives. Que

transformation into Mother Peaches.

I want you to understand how much this woman has sacrificed for me and the rest of her babies. Always present doesn't come close, but it's

the darn truth. Jesus-loving, game-enthusiast with a penchant for talking like a grandma and Madea.

Mr. Bo: behind his desk, slightly flustered, chuckling at life, always ready for an in depth Game of Thrones analysis. Or just a hug.

Toss me a Shakespearean insult (or just some insult gum, your choice).

Jacqui: so if you have EVER watched my Snapchat or Instagram story you know. A soul sister if there ever was one. Kombucha and gin gins.

Weird beyond belief. Wise--gives you the impression she's really cool, but actually just wants to touch a corgi butt.

My mom--too much to say--my family, Ms. B., Keith, Becky, Dona, George--

Who are we but a mix of the people whose love has shaped us and made us?

We are made of memories, experiences, people. Ultimately, we're made of love.

This whole quilt analogy, a patchwork of scenes, works for me. Seeing moments of impact and influence shows me why trust is hard, why loving is easy, WHY I am. It's hard to look at yourself in the mirror and realize that the glass isn't broken. But it's so worthwhile.

I don't know, man. I just have this feeling that if we take time to sit with ourselves and see ourselves, we might be able to see each other better.

End of 2018 thoughts with Joyner.

amen hallelujah bye