“What would it look like for you to walk away from the opinions of people who don’t see the dream?”
How do you stop caring about other people’s opinions? Especially when they’re wrong? How do you shut off feelings of frustration when people don’t understand you and your desires?
When I was 15, I had the start of a hellish year. I grew up fast, in some ways. I had precious relationships ripped from me, relationships all the more precious because they were so rare in my younger years, and the aftermath was raw.
And somehow that fire burned my vision. I saw so much more clearly. I started to see people as people, as flawed, tragic, beautiful beings living in a story.
I also started to write stories that mattered. I started to write what I knew.
I started to dream last summer, dream impossible things. I’ve always wanted to tell stories…stories that wrestled with the reader. I wanted to tell the stories that I had been given, and somehow I ended up at Oglethorpe. As a friend pointed out not long ago, I somehow didn’t end up in the film major program at a different nearby art college.
I know I’m where I’m supposed to be, and for some reason I’m in this major with no prior experience except loving well-told stories. Production and technical stuff is fine, but that’s not where my heart is. What kindles my bones is writing. I’m taking mostly technical classes, but you gotta pay your dues.
I’m a film major at a secular university, and I’m also a Christian who doesn’t want to write ‘Christian films.’ I’m tired of ranting about the unpopularity of this stance. I could completely lose the point of this post in a long list of the problems I have with most ‘Christian films,’ but I’m not going to do that.
I’m going to give you a strand of the dream.
My faith isn’t something that I scream in people’s faces, and yet I’m confident that it exists. It’s not just the ring on my hand, it’s an underlying current. It’s my core. I might shift my center of balance from it and fall on my face, but that doesn’t change its place.
The header of my blog is ‘Chasing Woven Glass Through The Storm.’ This comes from a chat one Friday a long time ago, where the idea of life being a tapestry began. It’s the idea that there is a cohesive story being written, a giant glorious pattern being spun by a Weaver. It’s the idea that faith and life can be intermingled merely by living.
It’s the idea that if I let the helmsman keep His course, all of my stories resound. And I want to be able to say “The stories are True” about everything I touch.
Some of this means not listening to the voices. The past month has been a difficult one in that regard. I love to try to help everyone, fix everything, and please everyone.
Sadly, that’s a) impossible, and b) keeps me from what I ought to be doing.
My being okay on the inside can’t come from people.
And sometimes that means walking away from the opinions of people who don’t love me for me. It doesn’t mean no longer being nice to people, or no longer talking to them. It means listening to Someone who knows my value, and the opinions of people who point me in that direction. People who love me as I am and get the dream.
I am alive. I am in love with the colors of amber and crimson and green and gold and every starry blue. Every single capillary in my body is alive, every sinew to the cells building and rebuilding my bones is woven with an identity. My place, right now, is to tell stories. That is the glass of my threads, and as long as I hunt for the Storm above the tapestry…the stories are True.