Every year, I wait until the very end of wedding season to take down alllllllll the invitations from my fridge. My once cluttered fridge has some breathing room, my once over-used magnets are now free (every year I think I need to buy more magnets, every year I somehow make it work).
Every year I take my carry-on – which has permanently lived in the corner of my room for the summer, always in a state of unpacking or repacking – and gleefully stick it in the garage. It’s time for it to gather some dust; it’s time for me to get some rest.
And, every year, I write a blog post. It started the first summer I went to 5 weddings – which felt laughably ridiculous – and I was in this new, weird grove of writing about singleness on the internet. The next summer I found myself in the in the same exact place: 5 weddings, 0 dates. So I wrote one again. And again.
And forever? We’ll see…
Every year, I write about the cringe-worthy moments (getting seated with your ex, YIKES) and I write about the funny things that always seem to happen to me and I write about how tra la laa weddings alone aren’t so bad, tra la laa weddings while single can be fun, tra la laaaaaaaaa it’s fine, people. We’re fine.
Except that, this year was different.
This year, wedding season was hard. Read More
“Do you see me?” he asked.
He shared a brief glimpse into life as a Palestinian Christian living in the West Bank – the hardships of military rule, the reality of water rations, the acceptance of violence as the norm. He broke down and cried, as he told us of his mother dying of cancer in a hospital bed that he was unable to visit for political reasons. He bravely told us – a room of Americans – the pain he feels as an Arab, being automatically assumed to be an enemy. The pain he feels as a Christian, living in a predominantly Muslim area, of being pre-judged on a daily basis. The pain of a people group – and of a world – glancing your way yet quickly looking away …for they think they know you and your story, they presume the ugliness of your world might be too much for them to bear. The pain of not being seen. Read More
In high school, summer meant beach days, beach days, sleeping till noon, and more beach days. In college it was 3 glorious months of no classes, re-connecting with high school friends, and getting to read books that weren’t assigned to me. In this new post-college life I’m learning to navigate, summer seems to mean one thing: weddings.
And that’s a plural weddingS – with a capital ‘S’. I was invited to 7 this summer. Seven. Sadly, I could only make it to 5 of them (flights are expensive, Nor Cal is far!). But 5 weddings in 3 short months is enough, let me assure you. Read More