whitney dziurawiec

I love the light. I love it as it first peeks above the horizon, stretching as far as it can across fields and through breaks in tree branches. And I love its last good-byes in the evening as it hangs on every golden leaf it can reflect off. Light gives me so much hope, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that God starts, continues, and ends every day with it. And even when it is dark, there is always still a little bit of light. It is speckled in the Christmas tree and glowing around the banister. It is twinkling outside the window next to me and flickering in the candle on the table. It is gleaming from the TV in our basement in accord with commentators’ voices and fans’ yells. It rumbles by, leading car after car down the dimly-lit streets. It dances in the fireplace. Light appears on my phone with messages of “Happy Thanksgivings” and late-night catch-ups with my roommate. Darkness is so beautiful when we allow light in. An eerily dark room can be made warm and peacef...

I’m a big traditional person. Like, sit in your regular spot at the family table kind of traditional. I’m that girl that will fight for that. And today I almost threw multiple tantrums. If it weren’t for the whole “thankful, content” theme of the day. First of all, I had to prepare my stomach for two feasts. All other years we go to Nana’s on one day and Grandma’s on another. To make things easier. But no, today we changed it up. Today we did both in one day. Today I probably doubled my normal calorie intake. Not normal. Strike one. I was already thrown off and we hadn’t even gone to anyone’s house yet. Oh, and then at Grandma’s 1:00 pm feast we all decided we’d have our meal buffet style. What. No. Grandma, we always pass the dishes around. What are we doing? I refuse. So I sat down at the table but no one brought me a dish. After awhile of waiting to see if anyone else would be as livid as I was that we were having our Thanksgiving meal buffet-style , I walked over t...

I’m sprawled out on my bed with wheat thins and leggings and theology books. My Christmas Time scented candle is melting and Sarah’s gone, so I feel a little lost. My birthday came and went and here I am, 21 years old and spending my Monday night re-evaluating my life. Again. I actually have time on my hands now and I don’t want to waste it or spend it thinking too much, because thinking can get me into trouble. I just read the book of Malachi and after I finished the last verse, I remembered that following that verse, there were 400 years of silence. No prophesies, no words from the Lord. No encouragement, no advice or counsel. Nothing. For so very long. Sounds familiar. And I found myself turning to the book of Esther…a book that never mentions the name of God. Though the story is thick with His moving hand, His name is never acknowledged. And through it we can see the subtle, mysterious, often times hidden hand of our all-knowing God. I think we have come to expect God to say...

Guys, I’m going to be 21 soon. Which doesn’t mean anything since I won’t really drink. I guess it’s cool that my driver’s license is now horizontal… but I can’t even enjoy that because my picture is so horrible. My mom says it’s cute and that I always look like that. If I look like my new 21 license picture all the time, then I have been living a lie the past 2.1 decades. And a re-evaluation may be in order. My room is hot because the radiator was left on too long. Those things can misbehave if you take your eyes off of them for one second, that’s one thing I’ve learned in the past 21 years. And my recital is tonight. I crunched the numbers and have probably practiced close to 100 hours this semester. 100 hours of the past 4 months of my 21 st year of life were spent in the practice room. Call it what you will—it’s funny how when you’re doing what you’re made for, stuff like three hours of practicing per day isn’t as miserable as it sounds. Though it sounds pretty miserabl...

I think this is the 8 th time I’ve tried to update this? Words just aren’t coming out. And my hair has been in pony tails and buns lately. And it has been a chore to get myself out of sweatpants and into jeans. My room’s a mess, my throat is full of gunk, I didn’t wear makeup yesterday, and I’m refusing to deal with anything. Refusing. This isn’t me. Normally life doesn’t get to me. I do my hair every day. Sweatpants aren’t even tempting. I pick up after myself. I LOVE doing my makeup. And I give myself those self-talk statements every time I’m feeling down. Keep going, Whitney. Don’t dwell on it. Keep running, keep focusing. Get up, get out of bed. Don’t ask those questions. You may not want to do this, but you have to. Don’t you want to please God with your attitude and thoughts? Go. Run. Believe. Don’t doubt. Faster. Harder Don’t stop Asd;lfkjadso;i Well I threw a tantrum the other day. It was as if I was in a race and I just stopped mid-way and said I’m done a...