We sat outside of the cafe under a yellow umbrella and sipped cool drinks. I stared down the street thinking about what Matt said. The weight of his words. The love in which he spoke them. And I knew he was right.
Being away from home provides introspection that I cannot hear due to the monotony of life. The same, the routine, the traffic deafens me to the silence. And in the silence I hear things I normally don’t.
The completion of a 568 page book, the pace in which I run, the way I eat, how I drive… it’s excessive. His words stung so deep because they were true. I flipped my fork over and back in a continuous pattern so I didn’t have to look at him. Him and his blue eyes being more gentle with me than I’ve ever seen.
I finished the FrauenKonferenz on Saturday and felt like a failure. Like I couldn’t find my rhythm. Like I was a crazy American who made a stoic group laugh, but questioned what they retained. My fear of failing and not imparting God’s glory crept over me like a monster as I plopped on my bed after the conference. I wanted to run away. And then eat something fattening. And then sleep.
And that’s what I did.
The next day is when I picked up my book and lost myself. Matt said I deserved a break and said we should have a relaxing day. No email. No internet. No schedule. Give me an inch and I’ll take a hundred miles. For the next 48 hours I obsessively competed with myself to finish the book, to lose who I am in the pages of who Minny was.
As a child, I lost who I was in the characters of strength in the movies I watched, the stories I read, the tales I wrote. For example, as an 11 year-old, 178-pound MexiRican girl living in Los Angeles county, I read every single Sweet Valley High book because I wanted Jasmine and I to be Elisabeth and Jessica, the thin, blond haired, blue eyed beautiful twins from Sweet Valley. Except we weren’t blond. Or blue eyed. Or lived in Sweet Valley. But for hours I lived the stories of others so I didn’t have to live my own.
The ice cubes clanked in my glass and I swirled them around trying to ignore the truth that was staring at me in front of my face. You lose yourself in what you do, so you don’t have to face who you are, Matt said in a way he’s never said before. And that’s when I lost it. I grabbed my cup and took a long swig, tilting my head back to keep the tears in my eyes. But they slipped down my face and rolled onto my lap.
I felt like I was standing on the cobblestone road, under the yellow umbrella, naked for all of people of Fussen to see. I had been exposed, discovered. And I sobbed because I couldn’t pull the blankets over my head and eat food in secret like I once did as a child. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t hide. I had to listen.
The principle lesson for me wasn’t to figure out if getting lost in a book is bad. What struck me deeply is that I run from who God created me to be. And in running away, I loose my identity in the characters I wanted to be. I want to be as structured as A, B, and C. But I’m more like %, 2, and Q. But this is me. God made me a beautiful disaster.
My percieved failure is ironic. The feedback is coming in and I’m amazed to know the simple words spoken touched an 18 year old girl and an 82 year old Oma [grandma]. The customarily quiet and reserved women broke free to laugh with me, at me, and stumble through the seminar to learn about who God is, how He loves us, and who He created us to be.
And in my case, it’s a beautiful disaster. 
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