becka lippy

I think when I was younger, I assumed that life at 28 would be settled and almost boring. I mean, really, don’t you already have it all figured out by then? But we don’t, do we? When I look around, I see so many of my friends in very complicated situations. My heart rejoices with those who are getting their dream jobs and starting that special relationship they have wanted for so long. I grieve with those who are suffering with the tidal waves of rocky marriages and post partum depression. Life is just plain complicated. I’ve been thinking about what it means to grow older and how in our culture there is such a negative stigma with aging. It doesn’t take much cultural observation to see that our cultures (in the States and Chile) look down on aging. “Fight it!” the culture tells us.   There is something sad about getting old, seeing the years pass you by, your body doesn’t work as well as it used to. But in older (and wiser) cultures, there was honor i

A friend of mine just broke up with her boyfriend. I was chatting with her, trying to love her from afar. It got me thinking about my own break up oh so many years ago. I thought I'd take a moment to look back on some of the emails from my time with Jason. As soon as I typed in his name to search for those emails, I felt a wave of nausea rush over me. I pushed through it and opened the emails that held the conversations between Jason and me... far from love letters, but little notes that made me remember all that I felt for him. After a minute or two, I was so overwhelmed with nausea that I had to stop, close my computer and walk away. Such an intense reaction to reopening up the past made me wonder. What does it look like to move on? I'm not in love with Jason anymore (obviously). I still wish the best for him, hope that he is doing well, and somewhere deep in my heart I still love him. Given the chance to be with him again, no thanks. Yet, I have such a strong reaction to re

Yesterday I realized that I inherited something from my Mormor. "Mormor" means mother's mother in Swedish and it's what we call our grandmas in my mother's family. My mormor came over from Sweden when she was a girl. I have never been close to her. I hate to admit that when she died a few years ago, I was living in Chile and I was more upset about my mom being sad than the actual loss of my mormor. Part of my distance to my mormor might be geographical, she always lived on the other side of the country. Or it might have been other factors. But whatever it was, we never shared a close relationship. My mother told me stories about her. I knew she had been an archivist in the field of physics. I knew she had found love later in life with my grandpa John. I knew that the women in our family are strong and commanding women and that she was the root of that legacy. But I until yesterday, I hadn't realized that I had inherited something even more particular from my

I'm not sure where to start. First would be a confession that I am just plain BAD at keeping up this blog. It comes and goes in seasons. But I think often about what I would write if I did write a blog post. Some of the ideas are: -how I have little patience for other people's change but require others to be very patient with me. -how I have learned that I am more gringa than I want to admit and I might need to just stop fighting that -how I am learning to say "no" to various things in life (responsibilities that I tend to take on even though I don't need to) -what an incredibly sweet time I had on the church retreat this weekend and how God challenged me to count the cost of following Him and to believe that having Him truly is worth everything Those are just some of the ideas that come to mind. But for now... I'll head to bed. GOODNIGHT!