Better: of superior quality or excellence

      Sometimes I look at myself and think..."I should be better." I should be a better listener, be more diligent, more trustworthy, self-disciplined, should make better grades, be a better friend, take better care of myself, juggle responsibility better...do everything...better. And then I wonder if other people think the same thing.
     Do people look at me and find themselves disappointed in who I am, in comparison to who I could be, or should be? Is it possible that I fail to meet the expectations of others based on the fact that I am called to greatness, yet settle for mediocrity?
     I find myself wondering this a lot...probably a lot more than I even should. To an extent I want to throw out the, "You shouldn't care what other people think about you" card, but then there's is this nagging truth that people should be able to look at my life, my actions, my words, my thoughts, my love, and see that it is, in fact, better than what they have tasted and seen in this world. Shouldn't my life be an example of a better way to live, a better way to fight this battle? After all, that's what Jesus was for us. Better. Better than the late nights that consisted of a nauseating amount of alcohol, ending with your face in a toilet bowl...better than the days exhausted by trying to impress and fit in, ending with a pillow soaked in tears and night of restless sleep because you know you have to wake up the next day and do it all over again...better than the crushing pressure of a future with little hope beyond what you, yourself, can conjure up in what little imagination this world has left you...better than the cheap love you can find in the eyes and arms of the next available warm body...He was better, is better.
     I almost find myself wincing at describing Jesus with such a simplistic word, or notion, but then I remember that simplicity is His best friend. Perfection will some day come, but what I want to strive for now is simply to be better...better than yesterday, better than a year ago, better than now-

In the Eyes of Justice

Had to write a "Justice Narrative" for class, so I thought I'd share...

 “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing…” –Edmund Burke

            I was sitting at the diner last night with Grace and Courtney, laughing at how Grace thought the word “brothel” meant “soup,” when a familiar face walked past our table. At first I couldn’t put the face to a name but then suddenly, like a train going full throttle, it hit me. It was Tommy. Immediately this wealth of emotion, full of pain and bitterness washed over me. My cheeks felt as if at any moment they would catch fire and spread flames throughout my entire body. I went numb, but at the same time felt intensely aware of my body movements. Should I say hello? “No, no, ignore him…don’t say anything…he’ll never notice,” is what I kept thinking over an over. I was wrong, he did notice. He stopped right in front of me. His mouth twisted in a crooked way and for a second I thought, no he actually was, he was smiling at me. Smiling? How could he smile after everything that had happened, everything I had done to him? I guess it’s time I explain why this encounter was so gut-wrenching and terrifying for me…

            In High School, I guess you could say I was part of the “in-crowd.” I was head cheerleader and not terrible looking (though looking back, I wonder if ppl were blind…), the combination of which made me some kind of god-like creature within those walls. My boyfriend, Captain of the football team (does it get more cliché?), thought he owned the world. His little minions, and now that I think of it, I guess me too, also thought the world rested in his hands; what he said went, what he did, we followed. One day after cheerleading practice Randall (my boyfriend) thought it would be funny to play a prank on this kid named Tommy. Tommy had gone to school with us since I could remember and was always a little strange. He didn’t have a dad (that we knew of), and his mom worked like three jobs, or something awful like that. He was quiet, reserved, always kept his head down in the halls and had no apparent friends. I remember in fourth grade, Ms. Kimmel’s class, a note got passed around that Tommy was “gay.” A lot of us didn’t know what that meant at the time, but still thought it was pretty funny. Tommy got beat up on the playground at recess that day by some of the boys in our class. I remember feeling sorry for him, but also felt like he probably deserved it if he was “gay,” whatever that meant. Kids can be so cruel sometimes, an example of that I am about to tell you.

            Randall came over to me and some of the girls on our team and told us all about their “evil little plan.” Operation Destroy Fag is what he cleverly called it. I was told that I would instrument the whole thing, which I’m not going to lie, made me feel powerful and proud. I was told the plan and that it would take place tomorrow afternoon, same time. The next day I spent in somewhat of a hellish state. I wavered between whether or not what we were going to do was right and if I actually wanted any part in it at all. Eventually, the pressure of popularity forced me to resist my moral thoughts and agree to continue with the plan accordingly. After 6^th period ended, I slipped a note into Tommy’s locker. The note read: “Tommy, I know you won’t believe this, but I’ve had a crush on you since ninth grade. I was too scared to tell you before, but I want you to know I dumped Randall hoping you’d be my boyfriend. If your answer is yes, meet me on the football field at 4:00 this afternoon. If you don’t show, I’ll be heartbroken. Hopefully yours, Ashley.” It was irresistible, fool-proof. Tommy showed at the field five minutes early (what a nerd), and we were all eagerly waiting under the bleachers. Before I even knew what was happening there was a whirl of commotion around me, and the next thing I knew, Tommy was tied to the goal-post half-naked, bleeding, crying, begging. What should I do? Untie him? I didn’t have the strength. Call for help? No one around cared. Cover him up? With what? My mind raced for what seemed like days, and pretty soon I found myself standing on that field alone, just me and Tommy. He pleaded for me to help him, begged for mercy…the smallest ounce of it. I said nothing. I walked away and pretended like the scene wasn’t real. Tommy missed the rest of the week at school. Eventually, he returned, but it was as if that day never existed. He acted like nothing ever happened; same old Tommy, head down, quiet, reserved, talked to no one, kept to himself. Sometimes I would cry myself to sleep thinking about Tommy and what we did to him that day. The shame, embarrassment, ridicule we bestowed upon him. He was just a kid. I never told Tommy I was sorry for what I did. Actually, I never spoke to him after that day…

            Looking into his face now, I felt sick. I was embarrassed, ashamed, angry at myself for the injustice I had done him. His eyes though, his smile, they were warm and welcoming. Not bitter or full of rage, just calm and quiet. We said hello and he went on his way. I thought for sure that would be the extent of our encounter, and honestly, I was relieved. But, before he got up to leave, he slipped a note on our table. The note said, “I forgive you.” He proceeded to leave his number and address and asked if we could get coffee some time. I went to the bathroom and sobbed for a solid fifteen minutes. I couldn’t believe what just happened.

            In the next few weeks, I worked up the courage to call him and take him up on that coffee. We sat in a corner booth for hours talking, laughing. The man who sat in front of me was hopeful, his qualities quirky, yes, but enchanting. All those years, and I never took the time to know him. Saying I “missed out” would be a complete understatement.

            Tommy told me he works with a child advocacy group in the area that focuses on the issues of bullying and harassment. He travels the country lecturing, conducting seminars, and mentoring kids just like he used to be. Tommy is a hero to many, including to me. I can never erase what I did, can never take it back, but what I learned from Tommy is that it is never too late to right a wrong, never too late to change and move forward. I found forgiveness in the most unlikely of circumstances, and my hope is that I will offer mercy and forgiveness to others in much the same way that Tommy did for me.