This is not okay.

I have moments where I know that things will not be okay.

I was surprised to find an email in my inbox from Jeremy at 2 in the afternoon. He normally emailed me from 10pm-5am, my time. And the length of the email upon opening it surprised me.

As I read the email, I couldn't believe the words my eyes were taking in. I had to read the email twice before the gravity of it settled like a heavy weight in my stomach. Before I could stop the tears, they were rolling off my cheeks onto the keyboard.

This is not okay.

He is not okay.

I am not okay.

The horrors of war are okay when they are safely contained on a movie screen. Or confined to the pages of a book that a stranger wrote. But when they are from the person that you love, when they are as fresh as the blood of innocent lives lost, or a village still smoldering, then it is not okay.

My body aches. My heart aches. There is absolutely nothing that I can do or that I can say to offer comfort in this situation. This seems to be as wrong as the world gets. I pray, but for what? That Jeremy can see what he saw and somehow be okay? That he can get back to life in the states and be happy again, laugh again, after witnessing what he has seen? That whatever and whoever is left after an air strike can move on with their lives without a body of their child, or their husband, or their wife to mourn over? Christians, in these circumstances, would seek to see those affected come to Christ out of these kinds of circumstances. But what Muslim is going to seek after the God of the men who just ended their lives? What hope is there in such destruction? What kind of light can pierce that darkness? I don't see any. You can't tell people that "It will be okay."

It will not be okay.

Fall and the Mega Awesome Playlist.

I am sitting on the front porch of my grandparents house, listening to Derek's "Unfinished and Untouched Mega Awesome Playlist!" Yellow, by Coldplay is currently playing, and it fits the mood of this autumn day quite nicely. The elementary school across the street is getting ready to let out, and parents are lining up down the block to pick up their children. Across the street at the play ground, one tree is beautiful, brilliant shades of gold and orange. The rest are stubbornly remaining green for a few more days or weeks. Children shout as they play a juvenile version of Ultimate frisbee across the street at the ball diamonds.

This is my first day off in a week, and I am rather enjoying the lovely day. Every thing seems to have that 'right' feeling. Of almost perfection. Because surely nothing can ever be perfect. Perhaps perfect would be having Jeremy sitting on the porch swing next to me, but I'm sure I would find other things to long for even as he sat beside me.

I've recently developed a strong aversion to accepting the present. The present, as in present-tense. Now. This very moment. I avoid it like the plague. It is rather unfortunate, because I could probably be making much more of the here and now if I didn't spend all of my time missing the past and longing for the future. I also spend an absurd amount of time thinking about 'the Ghan' as it has been affectionately titled before. I think that it is probably natural to spend so much time thinking about the war, seeing as it pretty directly involves me now, whether I want it to or not.

Life definitely isn't how I expected it to be a year or so ago. But I feel fairly certain that this is where I'm supposed to be. I guess I should just accept it.

The rhythmic thumping of clothes being tossed around in the stainless steel dryers that line the wall are occasionally punctuated with the chirruping of the arcade games on the other side of the laundromat. The bright florescent lights illuminate the table I am sitting at and glare off of the table top with epithets carved in the surface acknowledging who will be together forever, who is a whore, and who is a bitch. I sat with my head bowed, facing the windows and the automatic doors that open at the slightest hint of movement, letting in the last few chill breezes of a late September night. In the glass, I can see the reflection of a guy sitting in the far back corner of the laundromat, hunched over his cell phone. I sit and wait for my friend Kara to return from the bathroom, absorbing the sense of loneliness that has consumed me for the past two days.

Loneliness that is temporarily relieved by a brief email at two o' clock in the morning. Loneliness that is wearing me thin. I am hoping that in the next few days the loneliness will retreat to whatever place in my heart it is lurking and let me feel happy again. But in reality, this loneliness is going to be a long-term companion. Perhaps I'll just get used to his heavy company.