I struggle with makeup. The mention of it brings to mind the words "fake" and "plastic". It's very easy for me get up on a soap box and preach about being yourself and loving your body, to say that if someone likes you, it should be for the real you instead of something you build every morning - and then I go touch up my mascara.
I didn't wear makeup until my sophomore year of high school. I can't remember my mom ever wearing any, so it must have been my older sister and cousin who brought it to my attention. I started with just mascara, then eye shadow, then eye liner. Currently, I stick to mascara and a little eye liner most days.
Every now and then, I pause in my routine, one finger pinning my eyelid still, my nose two inches from the mirror, and wonder Why am I doing this? If I am perfectly created in God's image, why do I feel the need to do this every morning? Even the word itself makes me inwardly recoil: makeup. Am I using this stuff to "make up" the image I wish I was? Ugh. Or am I just "accenting" what the Lord has given me? I try to talk myself into believing the second option, because that doesn't incriminate me as being dissatisfied with God's creation.
There are days when I look in the mirror and think "Dang, girl! You lookin pretty fine!" and skip the make up and feel wonderful. But there are also days when I look in the mirror and think "Oh boy..." before attempting to paint on some confidence.
So what do I do on those days?
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Friday, October 19, 2012
Field Hockey (My Love Story)
One week ago today, I played my last high school field hockey game. It didn't feel any different, and I still haven't processed that it is over. I got myself psyched up, went hard, and played the game I love. But this time, when I walked off the field, I wouldn't be going back to this team - not this season, not next season. And it breaks my heart.
Fifth grade was my first year of public school. Making friends wasn't terribly hard, but after spending four years in a 3rd world country it's pretty much impossible to fit in - and that's a whole other blog post. The time that I finally felt I belonged was during the floor hockey tournament. Every fifth grade class makes up a girls and boys team to play in a tournament against other classes. We named ourselves the "Grenadiers", chose a captain, and made t-shirts and friendship bracelets and posters. I played defense, and found my first "hockey high" when we won our first game. We lost the second game, and I sobbed as I walked across the parking lot afterward. I remember blubbering something along the lines of "But Dad, I just want to keep playing!". It was then that the idea of field hockey lodged itself in my mind. If I joined that team, I could play not just a few games, but a whole season! And that was the first glimpse - it was love at first sight.
I attended a summer clinic, and the August before seventh grade found me bugging my mom to hurry up because I needed to be early to try outs. I played two years under the guidance of Coach Smith, who, in her own words, turned me into a "little scrapper". How that woman put up with 30 or more middle school girls for that long is beyond me, but she was an amazing role model. In 7th and then 8th grade, I slowly fell for the fierceness and intelligence of the game. That was the first date.
When I nervously moved into my first high school workout, Coach Smith was there too. As the new junior varsity coach, she cheered me through the daunting first 4-3-2-1 run. It was also then that I got to know Jen Everetts, who has become one of the most influential people in my life. Head coach of GA Field Hockey, she is a force to be reckoned with. I moved up to varsity my junior year, and was so proud to yell "Devil Pride!" before each game. I was falling for this sport, and falling hard.
This year was my senior year, and it was like no other year. Not because of the wins, because for the first time since I came to the high school the team didn't make districts. I came into preseason the most in shape I had ever been and came home from each practice filled with an energy that didn't make sense when compared to the physical work I was putting in. I was taught a huge lesson in teamwork when we hit a slump after the first few games. The frustration and helplessness I felt at being part of an excellent team who had a terrible record did not leave when I walked off the field, but instead permeated my entire day. I learned that even if you have eleven talented athletes on your side of the field, you will get run over if you don't work together. After playing what Coach called the best game she had ever seen her team play, I was enveloped in euphoria. I invested heart, soul and body in this team. This year, I married field hockey.
As I look to next fall, I am almost certain that I could not stand to go through the month of August knowing that somewhere, girls are sweating their way through preseason - and I am not among them. I need to play. What college hockey will hold, I am not sure. I can only hope that I will find something that can compare to what I have been part of at this school. I really enjoy the sport, but it is Coach and my teammates that made me fall in love with it.
The feeling of accomplishment when you walk off the field so sweaty that turf sticks to you. The ringing thud of the ball hitting the back of the cage. The knowledge that you are part of something so much bigger than anything you could have done on your own. That is field hockey, and that is my love story.
Fifth grade was my first year of public school. Making friends wasn't terribly hard, but after spending four years in a 3rd world country it's pretty much impossible to fit in - and that's a whole other blog post. The time that I finally felt I belonged was during the floor hockey tournament. Every fifth grade class makes up a girls and boys team to play in a tournament against other classes. We named ourselves the "Grenadiers", chose a captain, and made t-shirts and friendship bracelets and posters. I played defense, and found my first "hockey high" when we won our first game. We lost the second game, and I sobbed as I walked across the parking lot afterward. I remember blubbering something along the lines of "But Dad, I just want to keep playing!". It was then that the idea of field hockey lodged itself in my mind. If I joined that team, I could play not just a few games, but a whole season! And that was the first glimpse - it was love at first sight.
I attended a summer clinic, and the August before seventh grade found me bugging my mom to hurry up because I needed to be early to try outs. I played two years under the guidance of Coach Smith, who, in her own words, turned me into a "little scrapper". How that woman put up with 30 or more middle school girls for that long is beyond me, but she was an amazing role model. In 7th and then 8th grade, I slowly fell for the fierceness and intelligence of the game. That was the first date.
When I nervously moved into my first high school workout, Coach Smith was there too. As the new junior varsity coach, she cheered me through the daunting first 4-3-2-1 run. It was also then that I got to know Jen Everetts, who has become one of the most influential people in my life. Head coach of GA Field Hockey, she is a force to be reckoned with. I moved up to varsity my junior year, and was so proud to yell "Devil Pride!" before each game. I was falling for this sport, and falling hard.
This year was my senior year, and it was like no other year. Not because of the wins, because for the first time since I came to the high school the team didn't make districts. I came into preseason the most in shape I had ever been and came home from each practice filled with an energy that didn't make sense when compared to the physical work I was putting in. I was taught a huge lesson in teamwork when we hit a slump after the first few games. The frustration and helplessness I felt at being part of an excellent team who had a terrible record did not leave when I walked off the field, but instead permeated my entire day. I learned that even if you have eleven talented athletes on your side of the field, you will get run over if you don't work together. After playing what Coach called the best game she had ever seen her team play, I was enveloped in euphoria. I invested heart, soul and body in this team. This year, I married field hockey.
As I look to next fall, I am almost certain that I could not stand to go through the month of August knowing that somewhere, girls are sweating their way through preseason - and I am not among them. I need to play. What college hockey will hold, I am not sure. I can only hope that I will find something that can compare to what I have been part of at this school. I really enjoy the sport, but it is Coach and my teammates that made me fall in love with it.
The feeling of accomplishment when you walk off the field so sweaty that turf sticks to you. The ringing thud of the ball hitting the back of the cage. The knowledge that you are part of something so much bigger than anything you could have done on your own. That is field hockey, and that is my love story.
Monday, October 8, 2012
When I Run
I hated running. I really did. This is kind of ironic, seeing as I am in my 6th season of field hockey - a sport that entails a whole lot of running. Trying to condition during the summer each year was pretty much torturous. Sprints? Even worse. I am short and solid and not built for speed. So on the day during preseason of my junior year when coach asked us to drop our sticks and line up on the end line, I immediately started to dread it.
Ohhhh are you kidding me!? Just try not to be last, Mariah, don't be last. I dug my cleats into the rubber of the turf and set off down the field with my face set in a grimace. To the end of the field. Back. End. Back. I was tired. My calves burned. My chest heaved in ragged breaths. As I started my 3rd sprint, I was overwhelmed at the thought of continuing, but as I hit the fifty yard mark, something surreal happened: a voice pierced through the doubt and fatigue swirling in my mind and said words that I will never forget:
Stop. Look at your body. Look at what it can do. Your lungs fill and empty, your muscles tighten and relax, your arms and legs pump. This is a gift. You can RUN.
I lifted my head, and a grin spread across my sweaty face. I lengthened my stride just to feel the wind in my hair. I was a being made by no less than the Creator himself. Who was I to be miserable? I was a miracle!
As I conditioned this summer, that moment of joy stayed with me. I started to enjoy running. Not in the adrenaline-junky, eight-miles-at-a-time way, but I enjoyed it all the same. During an internship in Philadelphia, those three and a half miles along the Schuylkill in the evening were a welcome escape from the confines of a tiny apartment, as well as a chance to stop thinking a mile-a-minute and focus only on the pounding of my feet and the rush of my breath. Even at home, runs became less of a chore and more of a routine - a chance to be reminded of the ability I had been given.
This preseason, when I felt too tired to keep going, when I was tempted to jog instead of sprint, when what I had done seemed like enough, I reminded myself of that moment. I smiled, lifted my head, and rammed it up a gear.
When I found the beauty of my body, when I finally saw the gift I had been given, when I could thank the One who gave it, then I could rejoice in each step I took.
I liked to run.
Ohhhh are you kidding me!? Just try not to be last, Mariah, don't be last. I dug my cleats into the rubber of the turf and set off down the field with my face set in a grimace. To the end of the field. Back. End. Back. I was tired. My calves burned. My chest heaved in ragged breaths. As I started my 3rd sprint, I was overwhelmed at the thought of continuing, but as I hit the fifty yard mark, something surreal happened: a voice pierced through the doubt and fatigue swirling in my mind and said words that I will never forget:
Stop. Look at your body. Look at what it can do. Your lungs fill and empty, your muscles tighten and relax, your arms and legs pump. This is a gift. You can RUN.
I lifted my head, and a grin spread across my sweaty face. I lengthened my stride just to feel the wind in my hair. I was a being made by no less than the Creator himself. Who was I to be miserable? I was a miracle!
As I conditioned this summer, that moment of joy stayed with me. I started to enjoy running. Not in the adrenaline-junky, eight-miles-at-a-time way, but I enjoyed it all the same. During an internship in Philadelphia, those three and a half miles along the Schuylkill in the evening were a welcome escape from the confines of a tiny apartment, as well as a chance to stop thinking a mile-a-minute and focus only on the pounding of my feet and the rush of my breath. Even at home, runs became less of a chore and more of a routine - a chance to be reminded of the ability I had been given.
This preseason, when I felt too tired to keep going, when I was tempted to jog instead of sprint, when what I had done seemed like enough, I reminded myself of that moment. I smiled, lifted my head, and rammed it up a gear.
When I found the beauty of my body, when I finally saw the gift I had been given, when I could thank the One who gave it, then I could rejoice in each step I took.
I liked to run.
Monday, October 1, 2012
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