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I woke up at 6:45 am with the sun pouring in, like, “Haha Whitney! You’re not happy but I am! It’s so great to be the sun! You don’t have to worry about getting hurt or worrying or being sad about anything! I just shine, all the time! It’s so great! Too bad for youuuu!”

I usually stay in bed for a good 15 minutes after my roommate’s radio wakes me up, just praying. I love starting my day like that.

But today the sun kept taunting me and all I could say were a few ums and really big sighs, trusting that He, the Author of all languages, is fluent in my primitive meltdown reversion tongue. I was going to make a Tower of Babel joke but everyone expects that of a Christian college girl, and I hate just being what everyone expects.

I’m planning my lesson for youth group on Wednesday and I’m talking about the tongue and the importance of our words, struck by the irony that I can’t even bring myself to say much right now. I love words and right now none are quite coming to mind.

I’m including my horrible 8^th grade picture in my PowerPoint for the lesson, to keep the snoozers awake with the burning memory of my double chin and metallic hair. If that doesn’t keep them wide-eyed, the nightmare of the picture will surely jolt them back into reality…and back to my lesson. If you can keep the attention of the snoozers, you can keep the attention of anyone.

I’m thinking of that picture and I’m remembering all the drama that is being an 8^th grade girl. And always thinking that everything was life-and-death.

He didn’t come to church today, I’m gonna die!

All my friends are having a sleepover and I can’t go, I’m gonna die!

I’m going to a brand new high school next year with 2000 kids, five of whom I know.

I’m gonna die.

And I’ve had those reactions even past eighth grade. Boys that found someone else, abandonment of youth leaders, HORRIBLE dates with gingers. Being the only single one. I thought I was going to die.

And I did.

We try to tell everyone that they’ll survive when they get smacked in the face with something huge and overwhelming and scary. They’ll make it through, they’ll survive.

I am telling you, I did not survive any of those things. I died.

Each time, He killed a small part of me that was holding on to something more tightly than Him. Every letdown, every lonely night, every heartbreak did indeed kill me.

I was going to write my next blog on how I love going through things that are hard. Tuesdays and Fridays are my hard workout days. I make myself run four miles at 7.7 miles per hour. I can currently run four miles in under 31:30, and my goal is to do it in 30 by May.

Then again, I’ve had other goals for May that probably aren’t going to happen either…off topic.

Anyways, those two days are the worst. I’m sweating so badly by the end and if you know anything about me, you know I hate sweating. The last half mile is pure death, and I am sure I am going to collapse.

But it is the best feeling walking back to my room, knowing that I just ran four miles in 31:30. Not everyone can do that, you know. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am.

I’m learning new pieces for piano and it’s TORTURE. Starting over with new pieces. Learning them slowly, note by note. Going over measures over and over again. It is tedious and mind-numbing and sometimes I catch myself staring at the notes until my eyes start going crazy and they look like little bugs crawling across the pages.

But I finally have the first couple pages to the point where you can make out what it’s supposed to sound like. And guys. It’s so beautiful. I cannot wait to have it all down. Seriously. And that is what pushes me back to the practice room night after night.

That’s what makes me love the tedium. Because someday, it’s going to be an awesome song.

It was going to be a great blog, wasn’t it?

Well, it’s one of those face-smacking, wind-sucked-out-of-you kind of days, and I’m gonna die.

Not anymore in the sense that I used to say it. I’m not devastated and I’m not destroyed. But I know He’s killing more of me. And that when there’s nothing to say, when there’s really nothing to do, I can trust the process of death. And rejoice that it will be said, “It is finished,” whatever “it” is that needs to die.

And smile that He never just leaves a wasteland to rot in its hopelessness. That is not our God. He grows something better, something we usually don’t expect, and something a lot of times we didn’t even think we wanted. He raised His Son after three days, with a glorious resurrection and a powerful hope, and I don’t doubt He can and will do that again.

He’s called me to lay a lot of things at the altar. He’s asked me to give up the things I was clenching so tightly to. Some of those things it’s taken years for me to lay down. But those were only parts.

I think we have to get to a point where He wants us to lay ourselves down. Not just things or circumstances or people. But ourselves. Humbly, surrenderingly, sacrificially. Lying down at the altar.

The sun is still blinding me and I think I can still hear it laughing. But I’m choosing to look through the glare and see a much improved version of my 8^th grade self, I’m choosing to run through the heat to get to my four miles, and I’m choosing to listen past the sun’s taunting laughter to hear the song I’ll soon be able to play.

And declare loudly, boldly, and joyfully, “I’m gonna die.”