Divine Imperfections

Five Minute Friday: Rhythm

 

I’ve never had great rhythm, which is very Baptist of me I know.

But it’s also pretty frustrating, since I would love to be able to dance.

 

 

My mother is a great dancer; she’s got natural rhythm and grace.

Me, notsomuch. I mostly flail, with music in the background.

 

 

I toss my arms and my legs about, with deliberate force but unreliable speed.

Simply put, I spazz.

And it is neither graceful nor cute. (At least after the age of five.)

 

 

In junior high band I was decent at tapping my shoe with the percussion line. But if the director threw in one too many eighth notes, things started getting sloppy.

I never did master the perfect rhythm it takes to meet a set mid-air for a glorious spike either. Hence me ending my volleyball career much earlier than I would have liked. 

And in spite of being included in the sixth-grade drill team (which was like a twisted consolation prize for those who didn’t make the cheerleading squad – there was so very little velvet for my pudgy butt to squeeze into) I never could, nor can I now, command a dance floor.

 

It only makes sense then, that when I get one too many things juggling in the air, or when I bite off a bit more than I can chew (like gum while walking), that I start to feel frazzled. 

And frazzled is of course code for FREAKED OUT. 

 

My instinct is to panic when I feel overwhelmed.

 

I'm like a giraffe learning to walk on a halfway frozen pond.

My legs give out under me, and I find myself on my butt.

 

Cold. Discouraged. Tired. Sore from so many falters.

 

I am not one to be graceful under pressure.

I’m lucky if I’m mostly able to keep on my feet.

 

 

And I wish I was one of those girls that could handle all things with grace, like Audrey Hepburn’s doe-eyed characters clamoring their way through dance moves and laughable predicaments.

 

I wish I could have perfect hair, and not miss a beat at work while still managing to keep an immaculate house and hot, home cooked meals on a candlelit dinner table each night.

 

 

But, I’m not Audrey Hepburn, or a character in a movie. Or a ‘50’s housewife. Or a classically-trained dancer (like my mom).

I'm the spazzy young girl in a sequined leotard, with the unsure smile. The one that only ever learned one real tap move.

And I’m that sixth-grader holding a clarinet, confidently tapping my toe along with the beat, until a change of pace comes along and throws me totally off track.

 

I’m that awkward girl in the back of the drill team, uncomfortably squished into spandex, hoping no one notices all my many missteps.

I'm a spazz. A mess. Lacking in gracefulness.

 

But not lacking in grace.

'Cause thank God there is enough of that to go around.

Unlike dance moves, and rhythm, it is not in short supply.

 

It is abundant, and encompassing.

And it covers all the bruises from my falls.

 

 

I was never good at looking ahead in the music, to see what shifts and changes were lying in wait on each coming page.

But even if I had mastered the art of reading sheet music, life’s steps aren’t so clearly laid out.

 

 

I don’t think there’s a no note by note, play by play, guide for how to get through this life, though many people have tried to tell me there is.

 

They offer expensive self-help books. Or point me to highlighted passages in their Bible’s. As if the words in Genesis should be treated like something printed from GoogleMaps.

Turn right here. In .03 miles take a left.

 

 

That’s a nice notion. And it’d sure be handy. But I don’t think we were meant to see every step coming down the road.

That doesn't sound much like faith to me.

 

In fact... 

I think faith is more like accepting an invitation to dance to a song you don’t know
than it's like taking cues from your car’s GPS.

 

 

I think it’s about trusting your partner to show you the way, one step at a time.

About trusting He won’t let you fall, or look like too much of a fool.

 

 

It is easier to face the tough parts of life trusting that God is there for you, and walking, swaying, with you through whatever you face.

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Or uncomplicated. Or that it comes naturally to all who believe.

 

Some people (like me!) struggle, taking steps of faith.

Some people (like me!) struggle trying to dance that rhythm of grace. 

Some people (like me!) spazz and freak and fall, a lot.

 

But that doesn't mean God isn't good. Or real. 

And it doesn't mean the dance isn't worth it.

 

Lately I’ve been fumbling even more than I’m used to. I’m missing notes, and missing steps. And it's tempting to give up altogether, as out of sync as I feel.

 

But I’m also learning. And growing. Painfully slowly. 

Through trying. And failing. And trying again.

 

 

I’m living, in and out of rhythm. Missing steps here and there.

But continuing in this dance all the same.

Thankful for a God who doesn’t disregard me 'cause I'm sometimes disgraceful, or insist I master all the moves before inviting me into the dance.

 

And thankful for people on this same journey, that know what it is to foul up royally.

People that extend grace themselves, as they learn the moves.

As we learn a new rhythm.

Here I Go Again

I start, and stop.

I type, then delete.

I open a new document, then close it quickly.

 

I try, then I don't.

I'm stuck.

And I don't know where to go from here.

 

Writing has always been the thing that's come easiest to me.

Not math. Not art. Not talking (ughhh talking).

 

Writing is how I've best expressed myself.

It's how I've gotten things off my chest, preserved my sanity.

 

But lately I find myself stuck in a cycle.

I want to say something, but I don't know how, or if I should.

It all seems so silly. I feel very silly.

 

Who am I to say anything anyways?

 

So I draft posts I never publish.

I sit on ideas, or I bury them down deep. 

 

It feels like months have passed, with me barely scratching the surface of what's going on in my heart and my head.

And now I'm here, with so many thoughts (too many thoughts), thoughts I haven't shared, thoughts I haven't even made sense of for myself.

And with all these pesky ideas floating about, unchecked, it's hard to figure out my next move.

In a few days I'll enter the last year of my 20's. And that feels big, in a way I'd like to avoid.

I always get nostalgic around the date of my birthday, but this year it's worse.

This year it's full-blown overwhelming.

 

It's just so confusing how I got here.

It's like I went to bed worried about getting my driver's permit, and woke up here, with adult responsibilities.

 

I feel like I missed a class everyone else took, a class about growing up, learning the ropes of adulthood. 

And it weirds me out knowing I'm "old enough" to have kids, to buy a house, to do a lot of things I'm not doing right now.

It weirds me out seeing people my age look their age, and act their age, when most days I still feel like a foolish fifteen-year-old trapped in an unfamiliar body.

 

Don't get me wrong. I'm thankful for the great things that have happened in recent years, things I couldn't have imagined at 15.

 

I'm thankful for my husband, and new friends, for a job, a place to live and two working vehicles.

I'm thankful for my family, and living close enough to see them often.

I'm thankful to have old friends. I don't take that blessing of time for granted.

 

But I also feel stuck a lot of days, like I'm spinning my wheels.

 

What comes next? What should I do? 

How on earth do I spend this next fleeting year?

 

At 15 my plans were pretty clear. Finish high school. Finish college. Marry Paul Walker.

I had an idea where life was headed, and the steps how to get there.

 

Now, there are more questions than answers.

And there is no clear map. No Cliffs Notes. No easy, right way.

 

There's just life, one step at a time.

One day at a time, one year at a time.

 

Oy. I wasn't ready for this.

But here I am anyways.

 

I've toyed around with the idea of a bucket list to accomplish before I turn 30.

Maybe I will set that as a goal. But maybe life is enough of a goal.

 

I've also done a lot of thinking about this little ol' blog and where I want it to be headed.

But maybe a well-devised plan isn't the key to the kind of success I want.

 

Mostly I've just been scattered, and stuck, and overwhelmed.

(All familiar words if you've been here before.)

 

They're words I'd love to avoid, but words I may have to embrace instead.

'Cause they don't seem to be going away. And I'm tired of trying to outrun them.

 

Maybe it's silly to put this, of all things, out there.

I could've done a "Stuff I Want for My Birthday Post," or "Unique Ideas for Honoring Mom."

 

But here I am, putting my scattered thoughts on "paper."

Sending unfiltered, unorganized ideas out into the world.

 

'Cause maybe I'm hoping someone out there can relate, to the feeling that they missed that crash course in growing up.

Maybe someone else out there is struggling ungracefully through this shift into adulthood.

 

Maybe someone, anyone, needs to know that she's not alone, in not knowing what she's doing, while doing it anyway.

'Cause that's exactly where I am, not knowing how or why, but doing it anyways.

 

Writing and deleting.

Starting and stopping.

 

Taking one wobbly, unsure step at a time.

One day, and one birthday at a time.

 

I'm lookin' up, for now.

(We'll need to talk again when it's the big 3-0 I'm staring down.)

Five Minute Friday: JUMP

I want to jump up and scream.

I want to do anything at all. 

I want to react. I want to move.

 

But instead I sit, glued to the tv.

 

I'm scared the phone will ring.

 And I’ll be forced to fake a smile.

 

When there is no being professional today.

There is only spontaneous sobbing.

 

As I watch the news.

As I wonder what this world is coming to.

As I put myself in the shoes of wives whose husbands never returned home from the fire... 

Mothers tucking their babies into makeshift beds on cold gym floors at night, instead of the warm, safe cribs they are used to at home.

 

Life is so unfair.

It is awful, what has happened.

 

What continues to happen.

Daily it seems.

 

Tragedy.

Heart break.

Catastrophe.

Disaster.

 

My heart is heavy. 

The flags at half staff. 

 

And there’s no escaping it.

 

In my newsfeed. On the TV.

It’s all anyone is talking about, and I know why.

 

Because we can’t believe it, what has happened.

 

Some people are quick to help, to run in when trouble arises.

 

But others are jumping on bandwagons. 

And jumping to conclusions.

 

Jumping ship, before their political party goes down in flames.

 

Some want to shift blame. To cast stones. To name call.
 
They're chomping at the bit to make this a topic for debate…

 

While others are just trying to figure out where there next meal will come from. 

Or if they’ll ever walk again.

Or how to make their kids feel safe, in a world that seems to have fallen from its axis.

A world that has jumped course.

 

 

I hate not having answers.

I hate not knowing when things will get better.

 

So I pry myself off the couch, anxious to be doing something.

Anything.

 

Even if it is throwing sample shampoos and not-so-new tennis shoes into a box slated for donation. 

Even if it is hugging my husband every time I pass him in the hall.

Even if it is muttering humble, stunted prayers...

 

Why? How? What do we do now?

 

I can’t bring back lost loved ones, but I can be grateful for my own.

I can’t provide a home for those who’ve lost theirs, but I can offer a few of the comforts, the luxuries really, that I so often take for granted.

 

I can’t turn back time, or put the world back into an orbit that doesn't involve daily violence, and unspeakable tragedy…

 

But I can drag myself out of bed again tomorrow.

And I can utter those same small prayers.

 

And I can trust that will be enough.

'Cause it's all I can do...

 

With a heart this heavy.

And with hands this small.

Music Memory Monday: I Need a Hero

My initial response to tragedies, big and small, is almost always the same.

I want to curl up in the fetal position and cry, preferably under a blanket, so I can shut out and hide from the world.

 

When this is physically impossible, or after I’ve worked up just enough nerve to brave life outside the blanket, my secondary responses kick in.

 

Sometimes (like today, in light of the Boston Explosions) I turn to distractions, to take my mind off the troubles.

I spent the evening soaking in the sun and shopping for new plants, a chance to focus on new life, instead of tragic ends.

 

Sometimes I zone out instead, and become completely numb to anything and anyone.

The problem with this method of “coping” is that it’s hard to pull out of a zombie-like existence. And living on auto-pilot for any length of time, seems like a waste of precious breaths.

 

But ultimately, when the distractions cease, or I wake back up to reality, or I pull the blanket from over my head (or it gets taken from me), I must face whatever woes the world has thrown my way.

 

And it sucks. Can we say that? 

Sometimes, facing this messed up world we share sucks.

 

 

Don’t worry. This isn’t where I post a picture of a cat and say something about hanging in there.

Those words are too trite to touch on a hurt of this magnitude.

 

What I will say is that I’m thankful we don’t have to face hardships alone.

I’m thankful for heroes that run in when they’re needed most, like those we saw today.

And I’m thankful there’s A Hero we can call on any time.

 

(Yes; the graphics are cheesy. But I love the lyrics.)

 

Weeks ago I listened to this song on repeat, while going through a tough time personally.

Tonight I’m so thankful it’s written about Someone who cares enough to hear each of our small, silent struggles, yet powerful enough to offer healing for the deepest wounds throughout the world.

In this quiet living room. In Boston. And beyond.

 

We may not know why bad things happen. I sure don’t, and I won’t pretend to.

But I am thankful that deep in my soul I know the bad stuff isn’t the whole story.

 

Above and beyond heinous acts,
there is always bravery and goodness and HOPE.

 

Hope is the result of seeing heroes in action.

And Hope exists in knowing that eventually Love always wins.

 

I pray that something here, in this song or even this confession of my own cowardice, might give your heart some hope.

 

Hope to face tomorrow.

To cry as needed.

To cope...

 

Knowing you're not alone.

 

"A hero who'll dare to find me, fly to my rescue and crash through the wall. 
Announce my freedom, bring me to my senses. 
Gather me into His strong arms, and carry me on to safety."
               - Chris Rice


 

Music Memory: Then Sings My Soul

It was his grandpa's favorite first.

And then it became his.

And now, I get weak in the knees when I hear him sing it. It gets me, every time.

 

It was one of the first songs I ever heard him sing, in fact.

At the little home church responsible for our meeting.

 

I sobbed that first Sunday I heard him sing, because I knew my life would never be the same.

They were happy tears, tears of overwhelming gratitude.

But they were mixed with just a hint of fear, as so often accompanies gigantic life changes.

(Funny how that works.)

 

"Then sings my soul, my Savior, God, to Thee. How great Thou art."

 

 

He is a good God, I believe that at my core.

But I doubt it sometimes (often, if I'm honest).

When times are hard. When bills are due.

When my patience is thin. 

Or my burdens are heavy.

 

Still, when I see a hauntingly beautiful sunset, or smell honeysuckle for the first time each spring...

I can't imagine that coincidence brought those things about.

Just as I can't believe it was mere coincidence that brought us together - Mikael and I.

When I watch the love of my life pour his heart and soul out through a microphone and a hollowed piece of wood, I know that life is bigger than what I can see on a daily basis.

I know there is Divinity at work, because I see it at work in and through him.

 

In spite all my doubts, all my struggles, I trust that He is a good God.

Some moments the trust just comes easier than others.


Listening to my husband sing is one of the moments that faith comes easier. And I'm incredibly grateful for that.

Saturday Mikael and "the boys" (see above) performed a free concert in my hometown.

And while I was busy "preparing" for that show all day - getting the gang pumped up on coffee, running last minute errands, trying to learn the difference between phosphor bronze and 80/20 bronze strings ...

What I didn't do, in my manic state, was take a single second to mentally prepare myself for what was about to happen.

 

In fact, had my dear friend not been there to point out the magnitude of that concert, I might have missed it completely.

Thankfully, she was there, my oldest friend. To point out the obvious truth I was missing in my haste. 

 

Entering the gymnasium where we had played volleyball together...

Where we attended pep rallies, and shared secrets, and developed crushes on all the cute older boys...

 

It struck her, what a special moment that was...

Walking into a dimly lit room, where a bearded man stood confidently behind a mic.

 

She looked at me and said, "Can you believe it?"

 

And I couldn't. I really couldn't.

 

Her wise question is all it took for a flood of memories to sweep over me.

 

So many sleepless nights wondering why my latest crush hadn't called.

Trying in vain to win hearts, with humor. Or the answers to our history homework. Or tighter jeans. 

 

Wondering if anyone would ever like me, in spite of my blemished skin and hidden insecurities.

Worrying, that I'd never be able to trust someone enough to let him truly in.

 

Back then I was sure I'd die miserable and alone, surrounded by cats that would eat my remains. (Maybe that's why I still have a rough time around cats.)

All because the boy in seventh period hadn't noticed my (poor) attempts at flirting.

Or because my tenth-grade crush cared more about keggers than trying to woo my needy heart.

 

But Saturday... all those bittersweet memories played quickly, like a music montage, capped off by an unimaginable joy:

 

Watching a man who has and will see me at my worst, a man who knows my toughest struggles, my biggest fears, and loves me the same.

 

It reminded me how grateful I am, for a great, loving and patient God.

One bigger, and infinitely more wise than I could have imagined at 17.

 

One I know will continue to astonish me for the next 30 years of my life, and more.

One with the good sense not to give me everything I ask for, and instead to make life a little more challenging and a lot more interesting.

And so much better than the plans I sketched in my composition books.

 

This God has long been in the business of catching people off guard.

And taking them down paths they never dreamed they'd go.

 

And I, for one, am thankful He works in mysterious ways.

Leading us precisely where we need to go, in His own perfect (bewildering) time.

 

Oh Lord my God,
When I in awesome wonder
Consider all the worlds
Thy hands have made
I see the stars
I hear the rolling thunder
Thy power throughout
The universe displayed

Then sings my soul
My Savior, God, to Thee
How great Thou art
How great Thou art

Five Minute Friday: Broken

Broken.

 

I think of all the teacups and dainty porcelain dishes I pass at the thrift stores and antique shops.

I think of who those cups must have belonged to.

I wonder if they were cherished at one point.

 

I wonder if they were tossed away because they were broken, or perhaps passed down to someone without an appreciate for fine China.

 

I wonder what it would have been to live in a time when people took time to sit and talk over strong tea and scones.

I wonder what it would have been like to live in a time when people fixed things that were broken, instead of tossing them to the side.

 

Broken.

 

I think of how it feels to be sick, as though your body has betrayed you.

I think of the uncertainty. The stress. Waiting for results.

 

I think of the anguish over wanting so badly to fix things, knowing (in so many cases) that you can’t.

I think of waiting. In a doctor’s room. In a hospital room.

 

I think of all the times I’ve been there. All the times my friends have been there.

And I think of how badly it sucks to be there, waiting to find out if what’s wrong can be healed.

 

Broken.

 

I think of worn-out sneakers. Severed friendships. Teddy bears hugged so hard their noses have faded and their ears have fallen off.

I think about all the things in life that have been broken, that are broken…

All the things in my life that I have broken, or disregarded when they no longer looked shiny and new.

 

 

I think about how easy it is to get caught up in replacing the things that have aged or tattered…

I think about how often I want to start fresh, start over, instead of trying harder with what I’ve got.

 

And I think about how much I would rather be part of a restoration process instead.

Not because it's easier. (It's not.)

But because it's worth it (as most difficult things are). 

 

I love nothing more than when I see something old made new again.

When I see something broken repaired.

 

A classic car. A mended friendship. A glued together teacup.

These things are beautiful. 

Not because they are perfect, but because they’ve been lovingly repaired.

 

 How I long to be at the art of repairing.

 

Fixing what is broken.

Restoring what is lost.

 

Redeeming, through love.

 

There’s no greater act. 

And there’s no greater need.

 

 

I can't think of a more fitting or beautiful word to have prompted posts this Good Friday.

(You can read more thoughts on "Broken" at the Five Minute Friday roundup. The quote above is from Leonard Cohen's song Anthem, which was discussed at church last Sunday.)

 

Brokenness, and restoration have been on my mind a lot lately.

Especially as we approach Easter.

 

And speaking of, there's one part of the Easter story, in particular, that I've always loved.

It's when the Temple curtain is torn.

 

It indicated that the inner sanctuary - where only the highest of priests was ever allowed to enter, and only one day a year - was now open to all.

 

That curtain, something the people considered incredibly important, sacred, was destroyed...

So that a new church could begin.

A better one. 

 

One meant to invite people into the presence of God, instead of keeping them out.

And that, is beautiful!

 

It's amazing how even the darkest day in history is speckled with light.

I think that's what hope does.

It finds the light seeping through the cracks.

 

Related articles

What Are You Watching For?

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Five Minute Friday {broken}

Throwing My Palms In

At church last Sunday our preacher talked about how the people celebrating Jesus’ arrival on Palm Sunday did so without really knowing what was going on.

It was like they were excited for the parade’s sake, without a clue what was about to happen.

 

And what has stuck with me about the sermon isn’t just the people’s confusion over the triumphant entry. It is how easy it was for them to completely miss the point.

 

 

The Jewish people wanted a king to come rule their earthly kingdom.

Instead they got a man with unkempt hair, calloused hands, who washed people’s feet.

 

 

They didn’t get some scholarly superstar, they got a guy who hung out with sinners and asked a lot of questions (one with a real penchant for pissing off the religious rulers of the time).

He didn’t seem to want power, much less a throne.

 

Instead He wanted children to freely come to Him.

He wanted blind people to see, and poor people to eat.

He wanted his closest friends to go out and invite others into the fellowship they shared.

He wanted to hang out on fishing boats, dine with tax collectors, and shirk almost every social norm of the time.

 

 

He wanted equality for the outsiders and freedom for the oppressed.

And He wanted for people to love God and to love each other.

 

 

I grew up believing that I understood that about Jesus.

I thought I understood Jesus, in fact.

 

But lately I can’t help but wonder if I was wrong.

I wonder if I too have missed the point, His main points.

I wonder if I’m not so different from those confused people laying palms on the ground, without really knowing why.

 

The people at that first Easter-week parade might not have understood Jesus fully, but if I’m honest with myself, neither have I.

And I'm beginning to think the man they saw riding into town on a donkey, looked a lot different from the Jesus I’ve imagined all these years.

 

 

During election season I had a really hard time sitting idly by while people tried to tie Jesus to their political platforms of choice.

 

“Stand up straight Jesus. Be still Jesus. Don’t say that Jesus. Now smile pretty for the cameras.”

 

 

It sickened me to see My Savior so misrepresented, capitalized on.

But I didn’t – or I refused to – stop and realize the co-op of Jesus hardly ends there.

 

 

We want Crest-whitestripped Jesus to sit in the front row of our church on Sunday mornings.

We want Him to be clean-shaven, and easily controlled, like a Manchurian candidate, instead of the Son of Man.

 

 

A carpenter, rough around the edges, hipster-ish Jesus might fly at brunch in Austin on a Saturday morning.

But when Sunday rolls around we prefer Him in a pressed suit and a trimmed face.

We can’t impress company with a sandal-wearing man at the dinner table, so we make subtle changes to Him.

We dress Him up in our image.

 

 

And the changes we have made might have started subtly, or occurred so gradually over time, that we may not even realize what we’ve really done.

 

We’ve fashioned “God” in our image.

And I think that’s worse than failing to recognize Jesus for who He really is.

 

 

The older I get the more I question the shiny, boxed-up Jesus I so easily accepted as a child.

 

Do I really want a Savior with a Mattel logo in the corner?

One that can be purchased, with a coupon, from Mardel: Christian Bookstore?

 

Sure, that cuddly Jesus I grew up with was handsome, and blue-eyed, and easy to relate to, ‘cause he seemed so much like me.

But it’s hard to find that Jesus in the pages of the Bible.

It’s hard to picture that soft-spoken, meek Jesus having run-ins with the Pharisees.

 

It’s hard to reconcile the man I’ve imagined, with the Jesus of Nazareth that rode in on a donkey on the first Palm Sunday.

 

 

I don’t want to trade in my curly, blonde-haired, carry-him-in-my-pocket Jesus for a rugged, hard-to-understand man that lived and died long before I was born.

I don’t want to rethink everything I’ve ever believed (just as I’m sure the Jewish people of His day didn’t want to either).

 

No one ever wants to have her world rocked, or her secure, simple faith shattered.

No one wants to have expectations crushed, foundations questioned.

No one excitedly invites doubt to creep in.

 

But I’m wondering if profound faith, by nature, must remain unfathomable.

And I’m wondering if Christ was meant to be understood, as much as He was meant to be encountered.

And I’m wondering if I’m willing to let go of everything I thought I knew, in order to truly meet a man that changed the world with his radical ideas and unconditional love.

 

 

I used to approach Easter with confidence, gratitude.

I was thankful I had figured God out, and considered myself on his A-Team.

 

This year I find myself far less sure of myself or my place.

I find myself facing more questions than answers.

But I’m surprisingly grateful.

 

Because this feels like a chance to throw palms down before a mysterious Messiah.

This feels like a chance to start fresh.

What Are You Watching For?

My recent shoe salvation got me thinking about what else might be in my possession in need of a little TLC.

So I was delighted when a rare organizing session of my poorly neglected jewelry selection unearthed lots of forgotten treasures in need of a little care.

 

One piece in particular caught my attention. It was the Winnie the Pooh watch I wore through my teen years.

I wore it so much the band had to be replaced several times. 

I must have stopped wearing the watch just about the time I last replaced the band though (either in a failed attempt to seem cooler, or because I had a snazzy Pink flip Motorola as a time piece). Because when I found it the thing looked good as new.


Since I’m no longer keeping up any pretenses of coolness I was excited to get it a new battery and start rocking that sentimental accessory again.

So Mikael and I paid a visit to a local jewelry repair and watch shop.

 

Pooh in tow (yes, I said “Pooh in tow"), we spoke with the man behind the counter.

He couldn’t have been cuter, (I love mustached old men) and offered to fix my watch right away. Only when he put the new battery in nothing happened.

The adorable little bees that are supposed to flit about as the seconds tick did no flitting.

“Pooh’s no good,” he said.

 

Mikael later confessed that the man’s statement made him want to giggle, something I found incredibly endearing.

But I was really sad at the time, like, on the verge of tears sad.

And it’s not like that watch is the only remaining artifact from my oddly nerdy adolescent. (Hardly.)

It’s not like it’s the only gift my parents ever gave me, or that I wore it for luck during all my UIL competitions or something. (Also not true.)

 

It’s just something that once meant a lot to me, that I let sit around in a drawer for years, and when I did finally get around to fixing it, it was literally too late.

And I hate that feeling.

I hate knowing an opportunity has passed.

I hate knowing a door has closed for good, if it was a good door that is.

 

The shoes I saved (with a great deal of help from a washing machine) were a tangible reminder for me about the power of redemption.

They showed me that I shouldn’t give up on something just because it seems like a lost cause. And it was a very good lesson.

 

But what that poor Pooh watch taught me is that the time for restoration is limited.

Time itself is fleeting, fast.

So if something matters to us...

We should act, now.

We should set to work, instead of putting it off.

We should begin quickly, instead of assuming there will always be more time. ‘

 

Cause there won’t always be more. Sometimes the bees stop flitting.

 

I hesitated to share the story of the broken Pooh watch, because I know it’s very silly.

It was a very trivial thing to be sad about, in the tangible sense.

 

But my Eyeore-like walk around the mall that day really got me thinking… about time, and about restoration, and about how those two go hand in hand.

 

I first wore that watch when I was in my teens, just a kid really. I had my whole life ahead of me, and I acted like it, as so many teens do.

I spent half of high school being reckless and stupid, and the other half waiting around for life to happen to me.

I kept thinking if I just got a boyfriend then I’d be happy. If I just got my license… If I could just hurry up and graduate…

I kept waiting for these milestones as signals to dig in and really start my life.

But instead I just kept passing them by.

I just kept waiting.

 

Well I’m 28 now. And I know that’s not 98, but time flies by much quicker than it did back then.

At 18 I couldn’t imagine pushing 30. I couldn’t even imagine making it past 21.

Now I feel like 40 will be here tomorrow! (And 70 will be right behind that.)

 

Time goes so fast. Sooo fast. Yet I forget that, on a daily basis.

I still sit around waiting for life to happen, like I’m 17 with all the time in the world.

 

But I’m not. And I don’t want to be either. I don’t want to go back, or fast forward.

I just want to use this time I’m given, instead of trying (in vain) to save it…

I want to stop waiting, and start living, as if time were precious, priceless, because really, it is.

 

And don’t worry.

This isn’t some morbid diatribe against youth, or a rebel YOLO cry.

This is my aging eyes opening, and my priorities changing...

This is my lesson from the Pooh watch.

 

I’ve spent so much of my life waiting…

For things to get easier.

For my fears to subside.

For directions to be clearer…

 

That I haven’t done nearly as much living as I’d like.

And I desperately want to change that, while I still have the time.

I want to stop waiting for the right time, and just start.

 

It’s time to start!

Dreams Do Come True: On Being a Band Wife

I was really bummed I missed #MusicMemoryMonday yesterday.

Instead of whining about it, though, I've decided to live by what could be my life's mantra: "Better late than never."

Here are some belated thoughts on music, more specifically, about being married to a musician.

They're words I wrote several months ago, during a winter retreat, but ones I wasn't brave enough (ready) to post then.

 

After spending Saturday feeling like a nerd at my own husband's rock concert, I realized just how much I need a reminder myself, of the lesson I learned that weekend.

Whether you're "with the band" or not, maybe you'll find some comfort, encouragement.

- - -

This isn’t quite what I had in mind when I agreed to go to camp with my husband.

Him out exploring with the guys from the band, me laying in bed with tummy troubles, in a room that smells like wet carpet and years’ worth of lingering BO.

 

I thought just choosing to be brave by coming here, stepping out of my comfort zone, would be enough.

I thought it’d get easier after getting here.

I thought I’d realize all my worries were in vain, that I’d get so “wrapped up in the Spirit,” that all my “worldly” troubles would cease to exist.

 

I thought wrong.

 

I expected overt, immediate miracles to happen.

Instead, I am realizing that I can’t outrun my cold, or myself. 

 

I am learning slowly, very begrudgingly lately, that most of us don’t have a Paul conversion, a blinding moment followed by a 180 degree turn.

We don’t go from killing Christians to giving our very lives up for Christ.

 

We go from moments/years of self-loathing and struggle, to giving up, going before God, and then trying again. And again. And again.

 

We spend much of our lives wishing “walking the faith” worked a bit more like magic, wondering when things will suddenly be different… 

All the while quietly, stubbornly refusing to move much.

We want a better life. 

We just don’t want to work for it.

Or even bend for it.

 

I spent most of last night struggling to sleep, fighting coughing attacks brought on by a cold that’s moved from my head to my chest… trying all the while not to wake my poor, sleeping husband who was inches away from me on a double mattress that is half water bed, half trampoline.

 

And let me tell you something. 

This is not the “victorious life” I thought I was promised.

 

This is not the dream I had for myself, the one I thought would magically happen because it seemed good, which I thought meant it must be God’s will.

This is a nightmare, an embarrassing, awkward nightmare. 

But this is my life. Right here. This messy, seemingly God-forsaken moment.

 

And in my physical weakness, I'm forced to question my self-reliance. I'm forced to face the truth, that I can't do everything well all the time.

I'm forced to see myself as human, fallible, a mess even.

 

But I also get a chance to see where true strength comes from.

I see an opportunity, to develop some healthier thought habits.

I have a chance to take a deep breath, and to remember this as a spiritual retreat.

I have a chance to stop trying so hard, and simply be.

Strange experiences, like being sick at church camp, would be a lot easier, I’m sure, had I not created such unreasonable ludicrous expectations in my youth.

As a teen attending Christian camp, the musicians’ wives always seemed like the coolest people on campus.

 

They always had just-came-from-the-salon hair. They were edgy (at least for Southern Baptist circles). That meant they had nose rings, pink streaks, or fashionable scarves around their necks, even in summer.

They had perfect skin the second they woke up, and eyeliner that didn’t smear, even after the perfect amount of unattainably cute crying during really moving songs.

 

They were beautiful. Flawless really. 

They were outgoing, and cool.

 

They never looked like they were trying too hard. They didn’t look like they were trying at all, actually.

They just exuded awesomeness.

 

And they couldn't be more different than me.

 

As a musician’s wife of going on thirteen months now, I have yet to show up at a gig with fresh makeup, or a nose ring.

I have shown up with a sweaty brow from unloading heavy equipment from the back of our beat-up Jeep, and tired eyes from late-night practices, photo-editing, and arguing about another visit to Guitar Center.  

I don't exude awesomeness; I reek of trying too hard.

And deep down I'm not trying to be better, or to do my best.

 

I'm trying to keep up with the Disney-ified version of a Band Wife I bought into in my youth, instead of accepting my role as Mikael's wife, instead of learning the delicate art of being me.

 

This trip in particular has been especially memorable, in that I couldn’t be farther from the glamorous images I have pinned in my mind.

 

I sweated so profusely during last night’s “worship” set, that I felt like the evil witch in Wizard of Oz. 

It’s only 11:30 a.m. as I write this, and already my cheap eyeliner is inexplicably smudged.

 

Instead of spending the morning out shaking hands and exuding a level of coolness that teen girls can aspire to, I ate a cold sausage biscuit, alone, in a giant dining hall.

And that was followed by a not-so-spiritual “quiet time” here in the smelly room, struggling with tummy troubles, and wondering why I’m not at all like those glamorous wives I saw growing up.

 

I’m a grunt, a roadie, and a weak one at that.

I go nearly catatonic in large groups of people, and speak so softly in regular conversation that my husband can barely hear me.

 

Despite weeks of advanced notice I ended up packing so frantically for this trip that I forgot essentials like tennis shoes, and a hairbrush. 

"Clearly I’m not cut out for life on the road, much less looking pretty behind the 'merch' table," the evil voice whispers over my soul.

 

"I am ill-equipped at best. Awkward in my own skin," it taunts.

And yet, here I am.

 

I’m a woman, married to a musician, one I prayed for, one I love...

A man I vowed to stand beside, for better or worse, in sickness and health, and through all kinds of band stuff…

I can't let the insecurities I let stop me in my teens keep me from becoming the woman, the grown-up and the wife I want to be... 

But I also can't sit around waiting to be made into something different, while stubbornly refusing to budge.
  

 

I know now, more than ever, that I will never be the “Band Wife” I looked up to all those years at camp.

If she does exist, she is certainly not me, a gal with perpetually chipped nail polish and a heavy sweater under pressure.

 

But I am also learning that those weaknesses don't disqualify me from being a good band wife.

And they definitely don't mean I can't be my husband’s best wife.

Because what my husband really needs isn't a hairdo and a painted-on smile.

He needs for me to show up, the real me...

 

The one he promised his life to, for better, for worse, and for those "nothing to wear" times too.

 

It's time I stop dreaming about the life I wanted as a kid, and time to start taking steps towards the life I want now, as a woman, and as a wife.

 

It’s time now to roll up my sleeves and work towards the “abundant life” I was offered as a Christian, instead of waiting for it to fall from the sky.

It’s time to act on what matters to me, to worry less about what doesn’t, and to find my footing as my husband’s other half, knowing my dress size and hairdo do not define me.

It's time to show up, as my real self, trusting that's good enough.

 

Being a good wife isn’t about perfect salon hair.

It's not about pore-less porcelain skin.

It’s about living out the commitment that was made, in sickness and in health.

It’s about giving one’s best, for better or worse.

 

It’s about standing by his side, cheering from the sidelines, or manning (womanning?) the merch table as needed. 

 

But mostly it’s about being present. And supportive.

And proud to be a band wife, proud to be his wife.

 

And I am, so proud (and thankful) to be married to a man whose helping me to become my best self, flat hair and all.

 

Five Minute Friday - HOME

HOME

 

I used to think home was the three bedroom home I grew up in, the one with the converted garage to give each of us kids our very own room.

 

But then I left for college, and experienced freedom for the first time. Sure I had a rubber duck themed bathroom, but I was an adult. I had bills. I was free. (HA.)

 

 

When I finally moved back to my parent’s house I missed all the creature comforts I had enjoyed out on my own.

 

I missed my own sparsely filled fridge. I missed my knick knacks, my kitchen towels. All these tiny things that made me feel independent, that made my tiny apartment feel like my home.

 

I traded them in for a roof over my head, and one of those bedrooms I’d grown up in.

But suddenly that house seemed smaller than before, still it offered security I needed in uncertain times.  

It came with a support system I needed, as I navigated my early twenties.

 A few years later I left again.

 

And as soon as the boxes were unloaded I excitedly hung art and organized my cabinets. I picked a new shower curtain and bedding to reflect my changing tastes.

 

I felt settled. I was thrilled to be back on my own.

 

Until…

 

I missed my family’s company.

 

I missed people to laugh with at our favorite shows, to talk to after a hard day, to drink coffee with when I woke up.

 

I missed, love, what really makes a home. I missed sharing my life and space, even if it meant having a ridiculously crowded fridge.

 

 

 

My husband and I were only married five months before we decided to move.

 

Without jobs lined up, or a new apartment in a new city, we moved in with family.

 

And that was hard. Incredibly hard.

 

 

Once again I missed tiny things that had made our apartment feel special.

 

The dishes our friends gave us as wedding gifts. The tiny silver bells they rang at our first kiss.

 

Putting them in storage crushed my heart a little, even though they were just things.

They represented freedom, a fresh start, our beautiful beginning.

 

Boxes, and boxes, tightly sealed in grey duct tape represented a time of waiting. Another season of uncertainty. A blank slate stretched out indefinitely before us.

 

A giant question mark on our calendar, our timeline.

 

- - - - -

 

As the months have passed the grip those things have on me has lessened. I still miss them sometimes, my blue canning jars and our good colander.

 

But my heart is accepting a truth that can’t be boxed away.

 

I’m learning that home is what we take with us. Something thieves and rust and poor packing cannot destroy.

 

Home is internal. It’s what the Israelites took with them when they left Egypt, and what we took with us when we left Waco.

 

It’s what we keep with us even now, with the boxes in storage, and the future still unclear.

 

It’s peace that surpasses understanding and the promise of brighter days ahead.

 

It’s love that fills our days with laughter, and community, and coffee, shared.

 

It is life shared, under one roof, wherever that is.

 

 

HOME



 

Last week I discovered a lovely community of writers that participate in five minutes of free writing each Friday, each week with a different prompt, today's obviously being "Home."

You already know I LOVE alliteration, so I really couldn't help but participate in this great idea, FiveMinuteFriday.

 

Only I'm new to this "free writing" thing, and a very bad creature of habit, so I cheated a little.

The italicized words above (and everything after the dashed line) were added or edited after my five minutes was up. For goodness sake I felt like I should 'fess up to that.

Thanks for grace as I learn to self-edit a little less, and to trust my heart and typing hands a little more. :)