Say hi to 17 year old Lily. My junior year of high-school was a rough one. I felt alone in life, I had many insecurities, and I was desperate for attention. This picture is one that always makes me smile. The spring of my junior year all of my acting out culminated to the ultimate grounding. Right after this, me and my parents left for vacation. I was in a state of misery where my parents were my only friends. For the first week, I watched Ice Age 2 eight times. One afternoon my parents found me in the position you see photographed above. Lying on the bed, with my snorkel mask on, using it to breathe from under my pillow. I was sunburnt and miserable. I remember singing muffled songs, mostly my sad song, through my beloved snorkel. And yes, I have a specific song I sing when I'm sad. I actually have two, one for when I'm mad sad and one for when I'm just sad. So there I was. The reason I love this photo is remembering how hard that season was for me, and how God brought me through it. I was so young. There are days like today where I feel like that kid again. I am so blessed by the memory of God's grace in my past, to help me hold onto the promise of His grace in the future. Philippians 2:13 for it is God who is at work in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure. -Lily
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I’m not a reader. I wish I was. I am surrounded by intelligent people who love to read. They find value in written wisdom and are entertained by stories typed-up on paper. I like that. I like that a lot. My experience with books usually includes this routine: 1. Read chapter one 2. Skip to the end 3. Forget about book completely But occasionally, my extroverted, rabbit-trail, over-active mind is able to focus long enough to be completely captured by several pieces of paper bound together. I have a confession to make about the books that make it to my inner circle: I’m a literary rebel. Yes, my name is Lily Fairman and I am addicted to stubbornness and obscure books. I want to love a book because I love it, just me. Therefore I avoid books that I “must” read or are #1 on the market. I want to make a special connection with my book that I don’t have to share with 50 million other people. Book intimacy, is that too much to ask? Ironically no matter how adamant I am about being different, there is always someone just like me. Thus I have found, it takes more work to be different than it does to embrace being the same. Because of my literary rebellion, my reading list is odd and can seem made up. My personal favorite over the years is a book I picked-up at the Portland airport. Powell’s Books was having a sale so I bought “A Three Dog Life” for six bucks. The back cover explained a tragic tale of a woman with a brain-dead husband. Only Grey’s Anatomy can top that! I was prepared to cry, skip some pages, and throw it away at my destination. I have never been more surprised by a single piece of literature in my life. I read every word of that book like I knew her. I laughed more than I cried, which I did a good amount of. Frequently I re-read it just to remind myself of the joy and wisdom trapped between its pages. I even have a page ripped out and laminated. Abigail Thomas is the author. She feels like a friend, and in many ways I hope to grow-up to be like her. She wrote with joy, humor, and ground-breaking vulnerability. Her wit and vibrancy was toxic. When I read her memories and her thoughts, the words took me over. Her tone was freeing and humorous, not depressing and bitter. She titled her memoir “A Three Dog Life” because the Australian Aborigines on cold nights would sleep with their dogs, and particularly cold nights were called “Three Dog Nights.” Her story as she writes it is a beautiful record of pain, loss, strength, and finding freedom. A story of her “Three Dog Night.” The most inspiring part of Abigail’s memoirs is her love for her husband Rich. The two of them met from a personal add she put in the paper. She was 45 he was 56. They got engaged and then married a few weeks after their first date. Thirteen years later, Rich’s brain was shattered when he got hit by a car. He suffered from permanent brain damage. Soon after the accident Abigail was forced to put him in a long-term care facility. Abigail did not give up on Rich then. Even as he slipped in and out of an unreachable world of memories she couldn’t control, she learned to love him the way he was. She embarked on a new life with three dogs, lavender soap, shopping, loving a husband who could not always remember, and writing. The page I have ripped out and laminated is a beautiful declaration of love between a man and a woman. I want that page in my mind, I want it to inspire me and become a part of my story. This is what dear Abby wrote: “There He is, sitting in his chair, newspaper in his lap. I experience simultaneous feelings of joy and dismay. I have a sudden vision of life without Rich. It would not be like falling through space without a safety net, it would be like falling through space with a parachute but not planet to land on.” This is her writing to her husband who can not always remember her. A husband who is not aware of the world or the life he was a part of for so long. Every detail is irrelevant because at the end of the day, the man sitting there is Rich. She still loves him. There is more. Abby continues: “I bought myself a pair of costly running shoes long ago, and for a brief period (two days), Rich and I ran together -or rather I attempted to run and he jogged at my side- and I made it about two blocks before collapsing. It was fun. I forget why we stopped, maybe it got too hot. Rich kept a running log for thirty years. His entries included the weather, time of day, where and how far he ran. If he felt strong he said so, if he weakened he made not of when. Rarely did other details make it into his book- this wasn’t a diary, but on April 8, 1988, after the weather and other physical facts he wrote: tomorrow-
She remembers their love for them both. If I ever decide to be married, my goal is to love my spouse with this kind of love. My hope is to be this loyal to every friend I ever have. Don’t be a literary rebel like me. There is so much to be gained from a good book, it’s worth taking a gamble and reading a few bad ones.
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AuthorMy name is Lily. Archives
October 2016
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