Divine Imperfections

Growing Up & Stepping Out

We’ve passed that same spot every Tuesday night for nearing a year. But something about this evening compelled me to stop and take out my “big camera,” as friends have always dubbed it.

 I had no idea at the time how much I needed that, but I did.

 

 

For the last – well a while, now – words have failed me.

My trusty hobby/habit/escape of writing has seemed impossible and not enough, all at the same time.

 

I’ve been wrestling with the ideas I’ve held dearest for all of my life, and that battle has left me exhausted, scarred and silent.

 

It’s not the first time this has happened to me, but it is definitely the longest drought I’ve had as a writer.

 

And it’s been hard on my soul, if I’m telling the truth (at the risk of sounding melodramatic, which I probably am). 

 

Among the many thoughts weighing on me, is the pestering question, “How do I step forward in faith, when the mustard seed that grounded me as a child, has become the very thing holding me hostage as an adult."

I’m truly anchored by hope, but at a time when my heart’s desire is to set out to sea.

 

And so it’s hard to know how to grow, how to take the next steps,
how to become the person I believe I was designed to be,
when it goes against so much of who I was taught to be.

 

 

When I broke out the camera, I did so to capture the storm clouds rolling in. I’m so sick of the rain. Even the lakes are sick of the rain.

But for some mysterious reason, seeing the almost-rain, felt magical somehow.

The eerie shadow they cast on a field of grain…

The clouds created a haunting scene of wildflowers growing, and muddy trenches, and so many signs warning people to keep out.

 

 

 

I wanted to wade into the middle of it all, but decided not to get my shoes dirty.

I wanted to disobey those signs.

 

But instead I stayed safe, at the edge.

 

  

And I think that’s been my biggest problem all along. 

I want to be safe, comfortable, and the “good girl” I was raised to be.

I don’t want to rebel. I don’t want to shirk tradition.

 

I want to fit in, and be liked.

 

I want to go with the flow. I don't want to ruffle feathers.

I certainly don't want to disappoint anyone, or feel rejected by the family of faith that was so essential to my childhood.

 

 

But the problem is, what was once safe and comfortable, has become soul-crushing, for me. 

Because trying to stay in one place for so long, trying to grow - but only so much as seems acceptable to others - has stamped out the creativity and desires I have.

 

 

Instead of trusting myself, I’ve put my trust in others under the guise of believing I was putting my faith in God. 

And that has created a horrible mess that I’ve been trying for years to unravel.

Which, I think, explains the frustration and the silence, but hardly makes clear where I must go from here.

 

 

 

So many clichés are running through my mind right now, which is probably a side effect of watching too much TV (and yes, spending way too much time on Pinterest).

 

 

 

“Bloom where you are planted.”

 

“A flower does not think of competing with the flower next to it. It just blooms.”

 

 And my favorite, as of late, and the only one unrelated to flowers…

 

 “A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”

 

 

That one resonates with everything in my head.

Those stupid rattling thoughts I can’t seem to let go of or sort out.

 

 

It’s not like I think I’m some special flower that needs an acre to bloom, or some crazy nonsense like that.

It’s not that I think faith, in and of itself, is stupid or foolish or naïve.

 

And it’s not even that I want to walk away from everything I’ve ever known and believed, and trusted, much less to run in the opposite direction.

 

 

It’s just that it makes me angry – and feel a little stupid - to realize how long I was worshiping not a mysterious, almighty Creator, but a boxed-in idol.

An idol that claimed to love me, while telling me everything about the way I was created was sinful and wrong.

An idol created by men who refused to do the frustrating work of true faith, which is dependent on leaving space for the mystery.

 

Real faith requires stepping out of comfort zones.

It means risking and failing.

 

And most of all, it means living. Really living.

Not hiding from the world, trying to stay safe.

 

I don't know much, but that can't be what we were made for, much less saved for... to simply survive.

Surely abundant life is bigger and better than that.

Surely true freedom is more radical than that.

 

 

So… why pictures? Why break out the “big camera?”

Wasn't that we were talking about? 

  

In many ways, lately, photographs are speaking the thousand words I can’t seem to find.

They’re capturing the irony that is merely existing in a world with warning signs posted in fields of wildflowers.

 

 

I don’t know if anyone will relate to these rambling thoughts, or even these photos.

But if you do find yourself wanting to step out of your comfort zone, afraid to muddy your shoes… 

Afraid you won’t find a path to walk if you take one too many steps off the road most travelled…

 

Just know that you’re not alone.

 

There are more of us than we think, standing at the edge weighing our options.

Wanting desperately to wade into the unknown, but afraid what it means for our futures.

 

 And I think it's okay to be afraid. Princess Diaries taught me it wouldn't be courage without the fear.

But I can't let the fear control me. 

 

 

Honestly, I don’t know what comes next or where exactly I’m supposed to go from here, only that I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering. Waiting. Stuck.

 

I’ve been on the sidelines long enough.

I have to step out, step forward. 

I’ve been a good little girl long enough.

It’s time to grow with abandon. 

 

Maybe what we some of us need most to hear, isn't to bloom wherever we were planted.

But to bloom where we are, now.

The Waiting Room: What I REALLY Want to Say

Every woman I know is waiting on something.

 

She’s waiting till she knows which school to attend, or waiting to find that first big job after college. 

She’s waiting for the right guy to come along, or for Mr. Right to put a ring on it.

 

She’s waiting on a promotion, or maybe a change of pace.

She’s waiting to have her first real home and put all those HGTV hours to good use. Or she’s waiting to replace the washer that just went out, the roof that leaks…

 

She’s waiting to pee on a stick and see positive news.

Or, she’s gotten the good news, and stretchmarks, and now she’s waiting for her little blessing to arrive already.

 

She’s waiting for a rambunctious rugrat to enter grade school, or for her overly-scheduled pre-teen to get his license so she can finally retire from chauffering…

She’s counting down the days ‘til her stubborn teen leaves for college… or waiting for her prodigal to come home again.

 

She’s waiting for the results.

Or for retirement. 

Or for the bottom of her proverbial cup to fall out.

 

 

The point is, she’s waiting. 

Every woman I know is waiting for something.

 

 

 

And what can I say to her? 

What words can ease that all too familiar sting of the stuckness?

 

 

Sometimes even words of true wisdom come too soon.

They seem too trite to touch the softest parts of our heart. The mushy, vulnerable parts that only a privileged few even get to see.

 

 

Many an otherwise-goodwilled and gracious woman ends up wanting to punch people in the face.

Because well-intentioned or not, some words of “wisdom” or “perspective” hurt more than they heal, especially for a woman fragile from the waiting.

 

 

After much deliberation, and time, and prayer and reflection, not to mention sitting around in my own waiting room, there is only thing I have to say to the other women, waiting with me.

 

“Waiting sucks!”

  

And boy do I mean it.

 

It’s not nearly enough granted; I know that.

But maybe, it’s a start.

  

Waiting sucks.

 

We all know it. 

We have all been there.

So why are we so reluctant to admit it?

 

It’s infuriating, feeling helpless. Feeling trapped.

Imprisoned not by chains, but by circumstances.

 

 

I’ve been told that waiting is character building. And I have indeed seen women transformed by painful seasons of waiting.

They’re not always changed for the better, though. That’s something else that rarely gets said.

 

 

Time alone doesn’t heal all, fix all. 

In fact, time can be a great breeding ground for bitterness.

 

 

As a fave rom-com puts it, “Time wounds all heals.” And it totally can, if we’re not careful.

 

 

But waiting doesn’t have to be a time for cultivating contempt, for throwing a pity party, or for picking at wounds that have just started to scab over.

 

It is possible to hear something other than our metaphorical clocks taunting us.

 It’s possible to hone in on something other than opportunities that seem to be passing us by.

 

 

There is a subtle choice that presents itself in the waiting room.

It’s an invitation that arises so quietly, so covertly, it’s no wonder it often gets overlooked.

 

But it’s there nonetheless; it’s a choice to dwell on something bigger than our suffering, something truer than our feelings.

It’s a choice to recognize Someone at work, even there, in the waiting.

 

 

That Someone is a great Physician and a Healer, and He isn’t leaving you alone in that crowded, germ-infested waiting room.

 

He isn’t with another patient.

 

He’s not some wizard hiding behind a curtain, who delights in keeping people in the dark.

 

He’s right there alongside you, Someone who knows well what it means to wait.

He promises to diagnose and treat your deepest hurts.

But even more comforting, He also empathizes better than anyone, and He takes joy in sitting with you.

 

He is honored to wait patiently with you.

Even when your patience has long run dry.

 

Because He delights in being there for you, and He longs to be there with you.

That's what I know to be true, even when I don't feel it. At all.

 

 

I think one of the peskiest truths about life is that we get to make a great many choices – which bread to buy, what music to listen to, which friends to confide in, where to vacation this summer – and yet, ultimately, we have relatively little control in how our lives turn out.

We can’t predict when it will rain, when someone will die, which of our friends will be first to get pregnant, or which celebrity marriage will last the longest.

 

We can’t foresee what lies on the road ahead, only make the best decisions we can based on the information we’re given.

 

So much of life is about taking leaps of faith and hoping for the best.

Which goes against so much of what I want.

(Uh, predictability. Comfort. A detailed, dated plan.) 

 

 

Sure, we can plan. We can research. We can pray. We can seek guidance.

And we should, absolutely, do all those things I think.

 

 

But at some point we also have to swallow the tough pill we’re all given, which is that we can’t control everything, no matter how hard we try.

  

Things are not in our control.

Things happen.

And we choose how we respond to them.

 

  

This has been such a tough week for so many.

A tough week that has followed tough months for so many women I know.

 

My heart breaks for the women who have lost homes, loved ones, all sense of security after the storms that have ravaged so many parts of our country. (Did I mention I originally wrote this TWO years ago, after tornadoes had hit? Sad and funny how true it all still is.)

 

Just as my heart still aches for those women I know that will spend another Mother’s Day aching for a baby to fill their arms. Another Valentine’s Day wondering when/if their Prince Charming will come. Another day wondering when the darkness will lift from their souls, and they will be able to smile again without pretending.

 

 

I don’t know exactly what you are going through, or what you need.

I only know that I’ve been trying to “finish” this post since February (2013!!!!), painstakingly pouring over every word, but I keep stopping short.

'Cause it still feels so small. So not enough to address the hurts we are feeling.

  

 

Truth is words will never be enough. Still, sometimes they need to be said just the same.

 

And these words are the ones I most need to say. 

To my friends, to my family, and to myself, here in the waiting:

 

 

It’s okay to feel bad, stuck, or even pissed (gasp!) about being here.

 

You are human, plain and simple. Feelings of frustration come with having flesh.

 

 

True friends – the ones you trust with the softest parts of your heart - know they won’t be able to make everything better. (They know ‘cause they’ve been there too.) 

So they won’t try to put a Bandaid on your deepest hurt, unless maybe it’s a really cute one that they know will make you smile.

 

 

But they will be willing to sit with you in the waiting. To be stuck with you. To cry with you.

(And to, let’s face it, eat as much ice cream/cookie dough/Paleo-friendly diet dessert you think is needed.)

 

Just because we can’t always change our circumstances doesn’t mean we can’t change.

  

Sometimes we need to act, for our own sanity. 

We need to do something, to fill the waiting.

 

We can volunteer to babysit. We can pick up a hobby. We can revisit an old love (like sewing, or softball).

We can encourage others by sending cards, saying prayers, showing up with a hug and flowers. (Never underestimate the power of flowers!)

 

 

We can even make demands, if we need to. To barter, to beg. To scream “Enough.”

To plead our case, on our knees before God, even if we doubt He hears.

Even in the moments it doesn't feel like He cares.

 

And I don’t say that as someone who has ever won a fight with God, but because the quickest way to get through conflict isn’t to dance around it. Unfortunately.

 

Sometimes we think He can’t handle what we really want to say. We think wrestling with him would be like starting a WWE Smackdown in the middle of a Sunday School class, or screaming at those stupid portraits of Jesus as a Brad Pitt-haired, blue-eyed Jesus.

But God is so much bigger than the boxes and buildings we try to stuff Him in.

He’s also a lot tougher than the softie, oil painting Jesus we’ve grown up with in those quiet church halls.

 

If He could conquer death, and the pain and humiliation of hanging on a cross, He must be more than able to handle our hurts and anger.  Right?

I sure think so. I trust so.

 

 

More than good Christian soldiers marching bravely on, I think He desires children that come freely to Him.

With their joys and their praises, sure. But with their pain and struggles too.

 

  

As much as my academic heart hates to admit it, all the work, all the research, all the effort in the world cannot ensure an outcome. (Unless we’re talking math, ugh math.)

No matter what we do, we can’t control the outcome of our actions. We definitely can’t control the world.

We can’t fix our friends’ circumstances anymore than we can fix our own.

 

The sooner we accept this, the sooner we’re able to be the women our friends and family really need.

 

'Cause they don’t need Super Woman. They don’t need invincible, or infallible.

They need present. They need honest. They need human, strange (and liberating) as that may sound.

 

 

 

They need you. And they need me.

As we are. Fully ourselves.

 

Not hiding behind masks of strength, or stone walls.

Just us. Waiting women.

 

Reluctantly waiting women. 

 

 

I could go on and on and on about this subject. I have already, geez, and I'm sure I will again. 

‘Cause like it or not it’s something I’m learning a lot about.

 

But this feels like a start, at least. This feels like the right place and time to start.

 

 

Thank you for letting me say what I needed to.

I hope you might find some comfort in knowing you’re not alone.

 

 

I pray that you might discover ultimate Hope in a Counselor, Comforter and Friend that knows exactly what you’re going through, and promises not to leave you there alone.

But also in friends willing to sit with you, in the flesh, while you wait.

A Sudsy Saturday

It seems like ages ago, now, that I started a blog.

At the time I was trying to deal with a heartbreak by focusing on the positives in life. I wanted to remind myself there were still reasons to hope.

 

I wanted an outlet.

I needed a voice.

So I wrote, as  I healed. As a way of making sense of it all.

  

Last year I lost sight of that, in big and small ways.

And I struggled to know how to come back from a place of not feeling much hope at all.

 

 

I didn’t feel like there was much worth writing about.

I didn’t feel like I had anything to say.

And I continue to struggle, daily really, with the meaning of life. The purpose behind it all.

 

 

I suppose I’ve embarked on what will be a lifelong journey of grasping. Searching. Reaching. Praying. Asking. Digging. Clawing.

 

For light. For air.

For hope.

 

 

 

Some days are better than others. Some easier. Some lighter.

But I’m trying, once again, to trust that even on the hardest days, there’s reason to hope.

 

And thankfully, when I remember to look, I can almost always spot some glimmer of truth.

And I so appreciate you letting me share those with you.

                                                

*This post was drafted on Feb. 18, 2014.
Funny how a year later every single word still rings true to me,
which is precisely why I thought I'd finally share.*

 

 

Last Saturday was one of those mornings that started on the wrong foot. From the second I opened my eyes I knew it would be a doozy.

I knew there would be unseen battles to be fought.

I knew hope would be hard to find.

 

And the first challenge hit halfway into making breakfast, when I realized we had no tortillas for the breakfast tacos Mikael was already preparing.

Deconstructed tacos, with just chorizo and tortilla chips might fly on Chopped, but I wasn’t about to have it.

 

So, very reluctantly, with messy hair and holey pajama pants, I got into our out-of-inspection vehicle and headed up the street to the ever-crowded dollar store.

Did I mention I’m not a morning person, and that this was pre-coffee?

 

Well it was, and I felt kinda like a monster, shamefully heading inside, looking the kind of hot mess I swore I’d never be (in public, unless there was a fire necessitating my swift home departure).

 

With cheap tortillas in one hand, and a pint of milk in the other, I barreled towards the checkout line, hoping to avoid any and all eye contact.

But when I rounded the Coke case, I was cut off by a little girl. One with blonde curls and pink cowboy boots.

She couldn’t have been more than three or four.

 

 

“Bubbles. Bubbles,” she said to her grandfather.

“When we get outside can I blow bubbles?”

 “Can you take this so I can hold my bubbles?” 

 

“Can I blow my bubbles now?”

 

It wasn’t the sort of tantrum begging I’ve come to expect so close to a rack of candy.

Instead it was a sort of dignified, earnest pleading, more like what you’d see in a courtroom than a playground.

 

 

She was blocking several customers’ way, including my own, but you have to be a total Grinch to hold a grudge against a cheerful toddler.

So I quickly gave up my grimace, and took my place behind her in line, as she pleaded her case to her very patient grandpa.

 

 

I don’t know if he granted her permission or not, but it didn’t matter. By the time he had started the checkout process, her excitement was simply too much to contain.

So there she was, all smiles. A precious little girl, blowing bubbles, in the crowded checkout line at the dollar store on a Saturday morning.

 

Completely undeterred by all the grumpy adults around her. 

As happy as I’ve seen any human in my life.

 

 

And watching her, just blowing and popping her bubbles, as if all was right in the world, even I couldn’t help but smile.

 

 

“I got that one,” she said, this time looking up at me.

 

She had to make sure I saw how great she was at popping bubbles, which I did.

 

 

“You got it,” I said, smiling bigger now.

 And then, the little cowgirl asked a simple question that changed the course of my day.

 

“Do you wanna try?”

 

She gestured to her tiny bubble wand.

 

 

For a second I worried about knocking the poor girl over with my awful morning breath, or what her grandpa would think about a stranger hijacking his granddaughter’s bubbles.

But the doubts dissipated quickly, when I realized what a heinous thing it would be to turn down such an innocent, selfless offer.

 

 

I did what any decent human being would.

I blew a bubble, or attempted it anyways.

 

 

“Oops; I’m not very good at this,” I said, when my lame attempt didn’t produce a single bubble.

 

But without missing a beat, she so graciously responded.

 

“That’s okay. I’ll show you how.”

 

 

And then she did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

At this point her grandfather had finished checking out, and was telling her it was time to go.

“That’s really good,” I said to her, as they headed out.

 

 

And yes. I’m a sap. I can be wildly emotional at times.

It was a bad morning. I was tired. And yadda yadda yadda.

But I swear to you, I teared up just a little as I placed my tortillas on the conveyor belt.

 

 

‘Cause for a brief moment I forgot about the cynical adult I’ve become.

I forgot about my bedhead, and bad breath, and the myriad of reasons I didn’t want to be around anyone – much less strangers – on that frigid weekend morning.

 

I forgot about our slow-leaking tire. And how much I hate that perpetually crowded dollar store. 

For a tiny glimmering second I let myself be ushered into a magical moment.

For a second I caught a glimpse at what life would be like if I believed, like a child, that life is fundamentally good, instead of some cosmic game of Mouse Trap, set to capture me while I run this rat race we think is life.

 

 

Years ago I remember seeing a movie, in which a father exclaims he would give anything to feel as excited as his kids get about bubbles. 

I laughed at the sentiment, but I didn’t really get it.

 

Until last Saturday.

When every bit of my soul-crushing adult cynicism, was confronted with the pure amazement of a child.

 

 

Seeing the delight on that little girl’s face, I finally understood what he meant.

 Kids get it.

Even Jesus said that.

 

It’s adults with the problems. The inability to truly see.

 

Honestly, I’ve spent a lot of time lately dwelling on how awful and hard and unjust life is.

I’ve expelled so much energy worrying about flat tires, 5-year-plans, and what to have for dinner, that there’s never much energy left to enjoy the little things that used to excite me.

 

It’s no wonder I fail to see all the beauty that exists, when I’m so caught up in focusing on all that’s wrong with the world instead.

 

 

Yes, grocery store runs come at the least opportune times.

Yes, cars need fixing. And bills need paying.

 

Yes; deadlines need meeting.

And stress. Stress. Ick. Adulthood = stress.

 

 

I get it. I get how hard it can be to simply show up each day.

To face the challenges that await, without cowering, or crawling back in bed.

 

 

Forget forcing a smile on your face.

Some days it’s hard enough to just remember to breathe.

 

 

Sometimes life seems utterly, hopelessly, impossible. 

But the little girl with her bubbles reminded me of something, that I'd like to remind myself (and you) of now.

 

In her simplicity, and her tiny cowgirl boots, she knew a secret I’d long forgotten.

A secret lost somewhere along the way.

 

 

Life is meant to be enjoyed, not survived.

 At least, that’s what her giggles and beaming face told me.

 

Happiness is meant to be shared, not hoarded.

 That’s what her selfless gesture taught me.

  

And when hope seems lost, don’t lose heart.

 There’s more joy than can be contained, right there for the making.

 

 

 

 

I’m off to blow some bubbles, friends.

I hope you have a wonderful (rejuvenating) weekend.

Long Time No Speak

Last night MIkael and I attended a junior high volleyball game, which was fun (and victorious!) but also a total trip.

Most days I conveniently forget I'm 30 - 12 whole years removed from high school, and way more than that from the dingy halls of Princeton Junior High.

But when you put me on a painfully-unpadded bleacher, and plop a bunch of stinky junior high boys down besides me (seriously, guys, deodorize!) it hits me like a ton of bricks (or a waft of that BO), how incredibly long it's been since I was a girl timidly walking onto a volleyball court, nervously tugging at my shorts (thank God they weren't spandex back then!) and secretly hoping the ball went to anyone but me. (God I was a bad athlete. No wonder that career didn't pan out.)

 

Fast forward to this morning, when I found myself frustrated, yet again, about having nothing to wear except ill-fitting "mom jean shorts" and dark circles under my eyes.

(#firstworldproblems.)

And it reminded me how utterly convinced I was in my youth, that my life would be totally made, if I could just get my acne under control.

 

Every Proactiv commercial would fill my little teen heart with hope, that someday I too could have flawless skin and the perfect life that would surely accompany it.

Suddenly all the boys would like me, and all my insecurities would fade away like the potmarks that'd be obliterated by those patented MTV-pushed products.

 

I wouldn't be afraid to walk down the hall, or take a hit from a volleyball, if only my skin would clear up.

Surely the pimples were my only problem.

 

 

If I could just get clear skin then I'd have the energy I needed - and the confidence! - to face life head on. With a smile. 

"If only I could be pimple-free, my life would be perfect," I thought, at thirteen.

What an idiot!

 

But really, not much has changed since then.

 

I still find myself worried about tiny problems on a daily (hourly!) basis.

I still find myself wasting a lot of time on the "If only..." bandwagon.

 

If only my pores were smaller, I would be so much happier.

If only I could fit into the shorts I wore last summer, I would be content. (Even though last summer I wanted to be two sizes smaler.) 

 

If only I had laser hair removal, and never had to shave again (haaaallelujah!), then I'd have the time to conquer the world - or at least mess with it, like Julie Bowen.

 

If only...

If only...

 

My Pinterest board is a rotating reflection of my perpetually discontented heart.

 

If only my pantry looked like something out of Martha Stewart Magazine.

If only my closet was filled with fall's latest trends, instead of the perfectly fine stuff I bought last year on clearance.

 

If only I had actually been doing all those yoga poses I pinned months ago, and now had a toned body to show for it.

If only I had taken to heart all those wise memes I collected, instead of letting them collect proverbial dust while I kept wasting time worrying, and wondering "what if?"

 

 

It's hitting me more and more, each time my back hurts a little, or I stare a little too long in the mirror, or at my clean and well-stocked if-not-magazine-worthy pantry, that this too is gonna pass.

All this stuff I'm surrounded by, all the vanity I'm chasing... it's all gonna pass.

 

 

And like Trace Adkins so wisely tried to teach me, some day I'm gonna miss this.

Some day, I'll look back on today and think "If only I had realized what I had back then."

 

If I get back into a size 10 or not...

If I shrink my pores or not...

If I never have a dream closet, or year-model car, or enviably-good hair, I can still be happy.

 

If only I choose to be thankful, for all that I do have. Right now. Today.

Easier said than done, but what a crazy simple concept.

 

I don't need more of anything to be happy.

I just have to be grateful, truly content, with what I've already got.

(Why has it taken me 1,001 Pins to that very-same-effect, to still not get it?)

 

 

Did I mention I thought I was losing my precious computer twice in the last month?

Each time I said harried prayers, "God, if only you'll make this an easy fix, I promise to take better care of it. I won't open 9,000 tabs in Safari and 'forget' to run updates."

And both times I found myself breaking that promise, though God - or the Geek Squad - did in fact come to the rescue.

 

This last time I thought I'd killed it (which turned out to be a kink in my charger's cord) I waited and waited in line, surrounded by grey-headed seniors.

Seriously, there were three women, like ghosts from A Christmas Carol, waiting beside me in the same uncomfortable backless stools.

 

One in jean shorts, not unlike my own, frantically asking questions about the benefits and drawbacks of Google Chrome, making me nervous just to hear her.

One angrily talking with a young man about her warrantied parts, who ended up wheeling off in a frazzled huff.

And one woman, the oldest of the three, beside me, looking poised and patient.

 

She was the only one to make small talk with me as I tried not to sweat or cry about the potential loss of my laptop.

She was kind, and  gracious, both with me and the poor overworked, (& pimply-faced) Best Buy employee. 

And I found myself sitting there thinking, "God, if I could just grow up to be a little more like her."

 

She had a tiny stain on the white socks she was wearing with her sandals. But her laptop bag was stylish, and she had a lovely smile.

More importantly, she was just one of those women that exuded grace under pressure.

You know the ones?

 

The ladies that never seem to sweat the small stuff?

God, I want to be like that someday.

 

Only, I don't want to wait 'til I'm 70 to develop that sensibility.

Just like I don't want to wait 'til my laptop is dying to appreciate it, or use it wisely (stupid updates!).

 

I don't want to wait 'til I'm 20-years-older to appreciate the skin I'm in now.

And I don't want to wait to enjoy my life - to really live my life - 'til it's almost over.

 

There's something to be said for planning for what's up the road, but it doesn't do me any good to spend all my time planning, or wishing things were different now.

I've gotta be present. And I've gotta be grateful.

 If I want to suck the joy out of this one life I've been given.

 

Maybe this is me classically overthinking things. It wouldn't be the first time or the last.

But maybe this is a wake up call, or a gentle reminder, or a cheesy cliche, that the little things really do matter. 'Cause I think they do.

 

And maybe gratitude for those little things - and the huge things, like being loved - plays more a part in our happiness than pristinely labeled pantry storage, or tiny pores.

 

I do know we won't be in junior high, or 30, forever.

So we should just enjoy this season in life, the very best we can.

 

 

And on that note, happy weekending, friends.

May your days be filled with the kind of peace and joy you can't even imagine yet.

FMF: Release

Tears. 

Anger.

 

Pressures.

Steam.

 

Those things need out. 

Scary as it may be.

 

You can’t keep it all bottled inside.

You can’t keep yourself hidden inside.

 

 

Fears.

So many fears.

That haunt your dreams.

Those too have to be set free.

 

Lest they run your life.

Lest they ruin your life.

 

 

It’s good to care.

To be compassionate. 

To love deeply.

 

Natural to want the best for those you hold dearest. 

But they can’t control you.

You can’t give them the reigns to the only life you’ve got.

 

So release the idea that your whole purpose is being there for them.

And embrace that your role is both bigger and smaller than that.

 

 

When the weight of the world is on your weary shoulders, it’s hard – impossible really! – to take even a single step forward. 

But when you release it, the need to control all things, fix all things, be all things, you can breathe again.

And when you are breathing again, those baby steps don’t seem near as difficult.

  

 

Celebrate the progress.

Release the past.

 

Mostly, show up.

Be present. Today.

Do your best today.

 

Let tomorrow worry about itself.

 

Exhale.

Inhale.

Repeat as needed.

 

 

Release.

Five Minute Friday: Nothing

Nothing. 

It’s my go-to answer.

 

 

 

What’s wrong? Nothing.

Of course, what I mean is everything.

 

EVERYTHING!

 

Life is so hard; there’s no way around that.

There’s nothing you can say to make it easier.

No magical cure for the troubles that plague us.

 

 

What are you up to? Nothing.

It’s my code word for avoiding the truth.

The truth is I feel stuck, and I’m sad about it.

I’m not moving forward. I’m not making progress. 

I’m treading water, ‘til my legs throb.

And still I’m barely keeping afloat.

 

 

I’m drowning, quite basically. And worse. I’m refusing to do a thing about it.

I’m not kicking harder and faster to beat the waves, at last.

 

I’m not screaming for help either.

I just keep… almost going under.

 

Nothing ever changes.

That's a fear most days.

 

 

What do you have to offer? Nothing. 

That’s what it feels like some days.

 

 

What do I have to give the world?

What can I do to make others’ lives better?

What can I do to make a positive difference during this blip of a life I’m given?

 

Nothing.

 

It’s what I want to say, what I feel inside. 

What I am afraid to admit. What I’m sure no one will understand.

 

  

 

Only somewhere deep down I know it’s not true.

 

I know that I’m not alone in feeling that way, but also that those feelings aren’t based in truth. 

 

Part of me knows nothing is hopeless, even if it seems that way some times.

 

 

 

 

But what can I do to really, finally change things?

 

For a long time I worried I'd have to change everything to see any difference.

I'd have to walk away from every thing I ever believed in, everyone I ever loved, in order to find myself somehow.

 

But now I'm thinking the answer is much simpler, and less painful, than all that.

I think the key isn't to change everything.

It's to not do nothing.

 

 

I can show up.

I can refuse to give up.

I can try harder.

I can ask for help.

 

I can take a break.

I can take baby steps. 

I can take my time.

I can take a deep breath.

 

Mostly I can admit I know next to nothing, and learn to trust that’s okay.

I can do something, and hope for the best.

 

*This lovely print is sold out, but you should follow the link anyways.
The entire website sells wonderful (& inspiring!) tees, posters,
and gifts that benefit different charities. "Do what you can."

Five Minute Friday: Grateful

 

Grateful.

 

Grateful takes work.

Grateful is good, but grateful is hard.

 

 

Jaded. That’s easy. 

Frustrated. All the time.

 

Disapointed, yes. 

But grateful?

 

 

For imperfect people.

Crappy days.

Flowers that will soon be dead.

  

A life that is so unbelievably far from what I had hoped.

 

It’s better in a lot of ways, this life I’m leading.

Don't get me wrong.

 

But it doesn’t look at all like I thought it should.

 

My photos are blurry and grainy and poorly lit. 

Not the sort of white and shiny thing it would be easy to promote on Instagram.

  

But does that mean it’s bad?

Does that mean my life is inferior?

'Cause it wouldn't look right in a magazine?

It doesn't look pulled from the "front page" of Pinterest?

 

 

Raw. Unedited.

But something to be grateful for nonetheless.

That's life.

 

That's my life. 

 

Lots of questions these days.

 

Lots of what ifs. 

And why on earths.

 

Frustrations, little and major, come with nearly every turn these days.

 

But still.

  

 

I see a smiley face sticker on the coffee shop wall.

And take a second to actually savor my next sip of latte.

 

And I pause from those pesky voicemails I have to return, to catch my breath first.

To refocus. To re-see.

 

 

 

Things aren’t so bad. 

In fact, life is pretty great.

 

Not always pretty, clean, or enviable. 

But then again, what place does envy have amongst the living?

 

 

Shouldn’t we all be too busy, and too present, in our own blessed lives, to be anything but grateful for the breaths we alone get to breathe? 

Those are my jumbled thoughts from the wire, words that mark a joyful reunion with the Friday free writers.

I really am thanking God for this weekend, 

For Jude Law, the Dreamers, and Anyone That's Had Trouble Sleeping Lately

 

Last night, I swear to God, I dreamed up an entire book.

I wrote a novel in my half-sleep, the movie version of which was to star Jude Law, and maybe Rachel McAdams as me, though Lena Dunham would  probably be a more suitable fit.

 

And for two minutes I laid in bed wondering if I should get up from under my body-warmed blanket, to write it all down.

The plot twists. The love interests. The mystery.

 

I knew I'd never remember it all in the morning. 

But I chose to stay in my comfort zone anyways.

And now the world may never have that "brilliant" story.

 

 

I woke up this morning feeling like I'd let a really good story slip through my hands.

And in the waning afternoon light the irony of it all is not lost on me.

 

 

I woke up sad about losing a story.

Yet I'm daily letting my life slip by while I do the very same thing.

 

I would rather stay in my comfort zone than do just about anything.

Than to write something real, and therefore scary.

Than to go out and try to make a new friend.

Than to do something so simple as signing up for a Michael's craft class.  (I'd hate to see me in a war zone, or trying to kill a spider. Geez.)

 

Don't get me started on having to admit when I’m copping out of what I really want to say, instead of bravely, boldly, speaking my mind.

I hate that!

Yet I refuse to change.

 

And I'm just wondering, at what point does this all end?

At what point do I demand that fear loosen its grip on my life?

At what point do I call enough “enough,” and take control of my life back?

 

And divine talk aside, I do have control over my own life.

Not the weather. Not whether I'll get a flat tire or not.

Not my height. Not my hip size.

 

 

But I do choose how I face each day, whether with dread or delight.

And in those little choices my life is built. It's based on the decisions I've made, and the decisions I've refused to make.

Sadly a good portion has been shaped by the latter.

 

I choose whether I remain in my PJ’s ‘til 4 p.m. or if I shower straight away and begin the day like a champ.

And I choose to swing through McDonald's or make a sensible sandwich at home instead. 

And so my story goes...

 

I get to choose. 

And yet I choose not to.

So many days I feel like life is something happening to me, because I fail to show up, or to decide what I want to do with my days.

I see the choices as opportunities to fail, instead of as an incredible, fleeting gift.

"A ladder to the stars."

 

 

Before I lose the evangelicals, and I don't mean that as a derogatory term (hi Dad!), I do believe a Creator exists. One that desires for us to live lives that please Him.

But I also believe that Creator wired us with free will, which was meant to be a gift not a burden.

 

I believe He understood something we lose sight of all the time, that Love is only true and real if it’s a choice.

And so He gave us one, no strings attached.

He gave us a daily, often painful choice, to put our own needs aside for the sake of another.

  

I believe that Creator expressed pretty clearly, through a story of His own - one of sacrifice and world reshaping - that what pleases Him most is justice and mercy, grace and love.

I believe He wanted people to care for each other, especially those in the most need.

And that He, Himself, met people where they were at.

 

 

I believe He exemplified crazy, society-baffling compassion for the marginalized, and unheard of disdain for the religious powers who’d been keeping them down.

I also believe it’s taken me 29 11/12 years to realize I am not playing the part of a beggar on the side of the road of America’s streets, but I am the rich, privileged person, who chooses on a nearly daily basis to stay safely in my comfort zone, rather than following the lead of Someone I claim to walk with.

 

I have sat on my incredible riches, my talents so to speak, instead of sowing them into all the things that really matter, none of which are purchased through a cable bill, or accomplished with mere internet action. 

Rather than finding ways to share my gifts, I have let the fear of failing, or offending, stop me dead in my tracks.

 

I have squandered so much time (and so many resources) trying to outrun and distract others from the plain and simple fact that I am a deeply flawed individual, who happens to be unreasonably loved.

And all this time all I really wanted to be doing, was the same thing I really felt like I should be doing, which was sharing how crazy amazing that Love is. How freely it was given, and how freely it was meant to be shared.

 

  

I stopped writing for a long time out of fear.

What if people think I'm silly, or foolish, or a biggot, or a heretic?

 

I took on other projects, maybe mostly as distraction from the call to "write hard and clear about all that hurts." (Great advice from Hemingway, or, you know, Pinterest.)

 

Mostly, though, I just got tired of feeling like all I had to say was the same thing over and over.

So I stopped writing, and even stopped talking to most of my friends and family members.

I was getting on my own nerves, and the only way I knew to fix it was to stop.

 

 

I hated the sound of my own voice, both literally and metaphorically.

So I shut up.

 

 

Grace and failure, and the exhausting nature of perfectionism.

Doubt and struggle and perspective changes.

I felt like a broken record it was time to stop playing.

Who wants to hear that over and over?! 

I sure didn't.

 

But after last night’s wake up call, I’m reminded of something far more brilliant people than I acknowledged long ago.

That what writing is really about, isn’t growing a following, or impressing others with one’s intellect and grasp of grammar.

 

It’s not about creating something Tweet-able, or groundbreaking.

It's not about anything new at all.

 

It’s about making sense of one’s own experiences, in light of one important constant:

The Love that binds all our winding stories together.

Love that makes sense of a way crazy, chaotic (and sometimes scary) world.

 

 

 

You’re not good enough.

You have nothing to offer.

You’re a fool.

You’re a mess.

You should just shut up.

 

You should just give up.

 

 

These are the accusations that haunt a creator who’s not creating.

I believe these are the questions that haunt us all when we shut down instead of opening up.

 

When I'm not releasing my words, my thoughts, I fail to reveal the lies for what they really are. They eat me alive from the inside out, and cause me to cower even more than I normally would.

They accumulate, like clutter, which grows like a parasite, 'til it's impossible to sift the rubbish from the treasure... 'Til it becomes one homogeneous, out-of-control mess.

 

And eventually I use those same awful lies to bring other people down, lest they escape the sad fate I've found myself in.

Misery loves company, and lies do too.

So I shoot them like arrows, meant to keep others from winning their own battles.

I try to keep them from daring to claw out from their own despair, their own questions, their own doubts. Because I don't want to be left alone.

Because I have lost sight of hope that there is an option other than this self-made prison, I want to hold other people in theirs.

 

 

Dramatic much? Yes.

But true nonetheless.

 

 

A long long time ago, now, I had a talk with some friends about how easy this Facebook-ed world we live in makes it to envy others.

When you’re flooded with other people’s happiness it’s easy to start feeling worse about your own state, especially if that state is sad, or alone.

 

When you're bombarded with other people's happiness, real or contrived, it makes it all-too-easy to believe that happiness, itself,  is some kind of limited commodity.

Something that must be fought for, instead of something that is simply found.

 

Get it now, before it sells out.

Find it now, on Fab.com.

Don’t miss your chance. This won’t be restocked later.

 Grab your happiness while the getting’s good.

 

 

And if every one one of your “friends” is beating you to it, there won't be any left for you.

 

It’s you or them.

That's the mentality this creates. 

And that single phrase – you or them – brings me back ‘round to that Creator guy.

And how the story He told was one of inclusion, not exclusion, though I think that gets lost in our American English Translation.

 

His story was about an invitation to all. Not those selected, or who opted in for the email blast, or who fit a target demographic, or hadn't already blown their last dollar or chance.

 

Happiness, the real kind, not the kind sold on Colgate commercials, was meant to be shared.

It was meant to get bigger and better the more it was given away.

 

And the only real happiness I’ve ever known (besides coffee) has been Love. Plain and simple.

Excruciating and Exquisite.

 

 

Connection. Community.

Laughter. Shared tears.

Life, as a unit. As a team.

As a "we."

 

Burdens halved and joys doubled.

That's Love, right? In one listed out nutshell.

 

I, for one, have gotten so used to the counterfeit, that it's hard for me to fully accept, and share the Love that doesn't rust or expire, get stolen or decay.

But I should would like to get back there. To remembering the taste of what truly matters, instead of the saccharine-y crap that's being peddled by the world/web.

  

For those of you who weren't around in the early 2000's, I started this blog many years ago.

At the time it was a story about a single girl just starting to recover from her first real heartache, trying to settle into life post-college, to navigate her way through a confusing, scary world.

 

And while my mailing address might have changed several times since then, the blog address too, and even my last name is new, the mission remains the same.

To tell my own story, not because you need it, but because I need to get it out of my head.

Lest it keep me up at night, from yearning to be told. To be made sense of. To be wrestled with.

To be let out into the world. 

 

 

I can’t promise what I write here will be interesting, or earth-shattering, or even coherent some days.

I can’t set up a schedule and guarantee I’ll stick to it. (In fact, the past tells me I absolutely will not.)

All I can say is that this will be my story, and I will tell it true.

And I'll leave the sifting up to you.

 

What's golden and what's garbage, you can decide for yourself.

I choose to write 'cause I need to, for me.

And I realized that today, after spending most of the afternoon alone with my lies.

 

 

Thanks to those of you willing to go along on this journey with me, and for those of you much braver in sharing your stories with us all.

The company, and the encouragement, is far more valuable than I can tell you. 

 

*And Jude Law, if you’re reading this, have your agent call me.

What I Learned: March Madness

 

 

1.)  The Princess Bride doesn’t have a weird plot twist I didn’t remember, involving a romance between Danny Devito and Holly Hunter. I accidentally changed the channel, and then spent 20 minutes of my life – time I WON’T get back - watching a horrible movie and rethinking my whole childhood.

 

2.)  It is difficult, but possible to disagree with someone respectfully. Conflict is inevitable in life. You can’t hide from it forever. (Especially if you insist on keeping your Facebook. Ugh, Facebook, officially the worst thing I just can’t seem to get rid of.)

But I’m really excited to be discovering that I have friendships that can handle tough conversations, and people in my life that will support me in spite of opposing views. It’s good to know civility still exists, even if the internet’s doing its best to kill it.

 

3.)  Roasting a whole chicken isn’t nearly as hard as you think. Thank you Crockpot and Pinterest. We have delicious meals for a week with minimal prep.

 

4.)  Samuel L. Jackson, tough as he seems, has been married for-ever (nearly 40 years) and has one daughter. The things you learn when you fall down the internet rabbit hole.

 

5.)  I was crazy stoked to discover that Tom’s is now selling coffee. But when it arrived – yay! – my excitement was short lived. We still don’t have a coffee grinder, which means those bags are just sitting sadly in our cupboard.

Someone, some fellow coffee fiend, please help me pick a reasonably priced coffee grinder!

 

6.)  Flowers and candles go a long way in making a house feel like a home. My simplest goal for spring is to have something green, and something prettily scented, in every single room.

 

7.)  When people say it feels better to give than to receive, they mean it’s a HUGE relief when the box of late Christmas, birthday, and Valentine’s Day gifts finally makes it out the door. And even better when that box makes it out of the car, and to an actual post office.

Also good is when you clean out your closet, and have a collection of (lovely, but ill-fitting) things to send to good friends instead of Goodwill. Long live giving. And may this spring-cleaning spurt last longer than cookies in our house.

 

8.)  Balloons just make me happy. Whether it’s the pale pink balloon, all alone, randomly floating along the curb of our street, or the slightly deflated ones lined up outside of McDonald’s. They try, balloons.

Even when they start to go flat. They keep bobbing up to the sky, doing their best. 

And you gotta love ‘em for that. I really do love them for that.

Even if I never, ever, can spell them right. 

 

9.)  Like balloons, bubbles are one of those things even cynical adults don’t outgrow.

You just can’t go wrong with bubbles. I wrote a whole post about the magic of bubbles a while back. (I should post that!) Also, there are really cool bubbles out now with all the Easter goodies at Walgreens. I may just have to invest.

 

10.) If you call it a cactus people will think of prickly mean things that hurt poor geckos in the dessert.

But if you call it a succulent hipsters (myself included) will shell out money for the world's most easy to care for flowers.

 

 

- Bonus Lessons -

If Monsters U is on I will watch it.

Parks & Rec is the greatest show ever!

It's always a good idea to start a blog with your friend
(especially if that friend is awesome and driven and an amazing cook).

Mint is the best. 

Stop at VFW garage sales.

Five Minute Friday: JOY

 

 Joy.

A word I love. Something I aspire to.

Something I was taught isn’t as fleeting, or fickle, as happiness.

  

Joy. Everlasting.

Joy abundant.

  

Joy.

  

I wish I knew more about Joy.

What it takes to achieve it, if you achieve it at all.

 

Maybe it comes to you, like a perfect autumn leave that makes its way to your path, forcing you to stop, in amazement, at the richness of its fleeting beauty.

Maybe it surprises you, like love, always to be found when you least expect it, or feel least deserving. 

Maybe it is loud, like tejano music filling the neighborhood while hundreds of people learn salsa moves in the parking lot down the street.

Maybe it is soft, like that ratty t-shirt you look forward to putting on each night. The one that’s paper thin from years of wear. Ugly, but perfect, in all its imperfection.

 

Maybe joy is like a long, tight hug after a long, hard day.

Maybe it’s unlike anything at all.

  

All I really know is I want more of it. I need more of it. 

I need to find, have, cling to, search for, share, celebrate, marvel over what Joy exists in this life.

 

*And that's five minutes. That's free writing. That's fun!

Here's where you can learn more about Five Minute Friday (which doesn't have to be completed on Friday at all)