To create

I'm an excellent consumer. And I don't mean that in the wasteful, materialist, gluttonous sense. I mean, I can be wasteful, materialistic and gluttonous but that's not what I"m talking about. My favorite thing to consume is books. I read hours a day, fiction, history, current events, whatever I can get my hands on. I love the ideas and worlds. I eat them up mentally, as one would eat a fresh apple on a summer day.
I also love to consume on pinterest. What great ideas have people come up with? How do you stay motivated? What are tips for the perfect morning? I rarely put any of these things into action, but it's definitly my second favorite form of consumption.

I'm great at consumption, but always just figured I wasn't a "creative" person. And in the most common sense of the word I'm just plain not. I can't draw or compose music. I can't cook without a recipe really or play a musical instrument with any sort of style or grace. I get excited about ideas but have trouble implementing them. I used to think I just wasn't born to "create."

I think now though that consumption and creation are a different side of the same coin. If you fill a balloon with water, it will eventually burst from fullness. If you squeeze that same balloon, eventually all the water will be gone and you're left with nothing, no matter how hard you squeeze. I don't think it's possible for anyone to only consume or for anyone to only create, even me.

I mentioned above that I can't really cook without a recipe. That's true, it's rare for me. But cooking without a recipe is only one way to define creation. I can cook. I can bake. I can start with 10 separate ingredients and make something completely different. I can have flour and cocoa and sugar and eggs and baking powder in front of me and an hour later I can give you a cake. I created something.

I took piano lessons for 3 years and I was bad at it and I didn't enjoy it. Now I wish I could play. There's a piano in the lobby of my office, and a few times a day when no one is around I sneak over to it and softly practice "For the Beauty of the Earth." It's painfully slow work for such a simple piece. But I can play most of it. Where there was silence, I created music.

So if we look at the word "creative" as being able to make something out of nothing, no one is truly creative. The only true creator is God, the only being to really create something out of nothing. And  humanity bears the image of God, and in return we create in our small ways. I don't have to be upset that I'm not a creative person, because it's not possible not to create. We just don't do it from ex nihlio as our creator did. In a way, my lopsided strawberry cake and my awkward, pained playing are whispers of the creator.

It's not Ok

A dear friend lost her mother today. She called to tell me and I knew what had happened before she said a word. This friend is a warrior, a trooper. She minimizes her pain out of habit and when she heard my shock and pain she started to say "It's ok" but stopped herself in the middle. She knew not to say it's ok. She knew she shouldn't because she had to be honest with her best friend. She didn't say it was ok.

And it's not ok. Every fiber of my being wanted to reach out to her, appear in person and yell, as loud as I could "It's NOT OK."

My cousin lost her father a few months ago. Her mother came to my shower, months after her husband's passing. I asked her how she was, and she held back her tears. It's hard she said. I knew that this event was supposed to be for me, but I wanted to tell her she could cry for him. It IS HARD I wanted to shout.

Death is not ok. It wasn't meant to be. The pain we feel, even if it's inevitable, is not ok. It's not supposed to be easy. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

God didn't make us for death. In the garden of Eden he meant for death to not exist. No one should ever know the loss of a loved one. No one should know what it's like to experience cancer, heart disease. mental disease. These things are not written into our being.

We experience death, so much pain and suffering, and our insides scream at what's happening. It's not because it's natural, it's because it's not what God intended us for. If you ever needed proof that this world is not our home, look upon death. 

God meant us for abounding life, pure and eternal. Sin entered the world. We learned, from our parents' knee, that death is a part of life. Oh, dear one, it's not. 

Death is not part of the original plan of God. God never wanted us to know the suffering of death. It is not ok, it is not easy, it was not part of what God had for us. 

God has a remedy, of course. He would never ask us to carry a burden that was too big for us. Yes, people die, against what he originally intended, but they live again. We will see those God has saved in heaven. 

It's a small conciliation, I know. Right now, it does seem that way.  Believe me, I know. But when we rail against death and people console us saying, "Death is a part of life" and that death should be embraced, I squirm. 

God watched his Son enter the world. He watched the lies told against him. He watched the brutality. This is NOT OK! This is not how it's supposed to be. I hurt for others, I hurt for myself. I wonder if I truly understand what it was like for God, to watch the son he sent, massacred at the cross. 

Fight against it. Fight against the feeling to make it right. It is so wrong. It was not how it's supposed to be. Everything in your being tells you that. This is wrong. Perhaps that feeling is a whisper from the other side. 

Turn your eyes on Jesus, who took death on the cross. Know that it's ok to say this isn't ok, and to hope for a true Eden, which will happen. Perhaps we feel so wronged at death because it is wrong. Death is not what was intended for us. 

My Mom's Favorite Books Are My Favorite Books

I don't remember how she convinced me. I don't remember if she had to convince me at all. I only remember toting around my giant old copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn around with me and finishing it at a family reunion in Indiana.

I had always been a reader, although not the kind of reader my mom would have liked. I begged her to bring me home the next in the Sweet Valley kids series and being crazy with joy when it appeared on our dining room table on Friday nights. My mom lamented that I wasn't reading Black Beauty. I'm just proud that I was so excited over books that I would rather read them in one sitting than watch television.

After being utterly delighted with A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, I started to listen more to what my mom suggested. She was OLD as far as I was concerned, but she got that one right. I still read Sweet Valley kids and The Babysitter's Club, but when she brought out her old copy of They Loved to Laugh it was unlike anything I ever read.

I read the book utterly enthralled. Is this what reading is? Not just a mild interest in what will happen to my favorite twins Elizabeth and Jessica (I was now reading about their middle school life in the seires Sweet Valley TWINS), but being utterly taken away with someone that I could not quite understand but still feel a connection to? 

After that, the next suggestion, Marjorie Morningstar, was an easy decision. I'm glad she waited until I was older for that. I finished that book devestated, but with a better understanding with what was happening to me. My mom had it right.

My mom had it right for a lot of reasons. But mainly, her greatest asset in all of this is that she used to teach high school English. I used to think of her as someone who could correct my grammar in homework, but her skills went far beyond. Could she actually size me up and decide what book would be best for me when? 

She didn't say a word when I picked up Of Mice and Men at the tender age of 12 and an avid animal lover. She frowned when she found out I picked up Along Came a Spider arbitrarily off our bookshelf without permission. She never told me no when it  came to books. She just suggested. And she suggested well.

A few years later, she remarked that perhaps I would like the book Rebecca. Again, she was right on target. From that I discovered Jane Eyre. I don't think she ever pressured me toward a book or discouraged me either. She knew me, she knew herself, she knew her training, and she placed  books before me.

Today, I reread A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, They Loved to Laugh, Marjorie Morningstar, Rebecca, and Jane Eyre every few years. I wish I could say that it's because they remind me of mom. I loved those books before she was sick, before she died. I love those books because she knew me, because she trusted me. I hope I make the same decisions for my child like she did for me. Placing them before me with the other crappy books, biting her lip, and hoping I found beauty in them. 

I am grateful to my core that I remember sitting around my dad, my mom, my brothers reading, and me being frustrated that I couldn't do it. I'm grateful that I got so upset that I couldn't read that I threw open a book in anger and stared at it with all concentration hoping that all it took was sheer will to understand what my everyone else found so fascinating. I'm grateful for Goosebumps, for Sweet Valley Kids, for Harry Potter.

I'm grateful most of all that my mom was right about those books. I'm grateful that I get to share them with her. And although I can't claim that I love these books because she is gone, there is a very sentimental part of me that's gets a little weepy when I read and realize that these are the lines she loved, her eyes read these words too, and we both loved them. 

Hopes for my future child

There are a lot of mom blogs out there and I read them all. It's helped me sift through what matters and what doesn't, for me at least. Maybe things will change in a few years, but right now, these are the most important hopes I have for my future kids.


I hope you love something and are really bad at it. I hope you're third string defensive lineman, choir ballerina, cover the absenteeism policy for the school newspaper. And I hope you do it anyway. 

I hope you love animals and are kind to them. I hope you beg me to go back for the dog on the highway when we're going to the school dance.

I hope you seek peace, even when you're in middle school and people strive on strife. I hope you keep seeking peace when it doesn't make you popular.

I hope you will be brave in your own way. Whether that means jumping off the high dive, trying out for a team, or spending a semester abroad in Italy. 

I hope you love books and the stories they tell. I hope you can get lost in the stories of biographies and memories and fiction when the world is too much.

I hope you love Jesus and trust in His promise to you, even when you're tired and don't feel like you deserve His grace. 

I hope you're not disappointed in the lack of toys and organized play you'll have. I hope you'll be grateful for the time you spent creating your own fun, perhaps pretending you're one of the boxcar children in a trailer in the backyard.

I hope you get in trouble for reading too much.

I hope you'll never beg us for a new phone, a new car. I hope you'll be grateful and have a contented heart. 

And dear one, who is not yet conceived, I hope you know how much I love you. I hope that you know that you're decisions have consequences, and although we can't take them for you, we'll take them with you. I hope you'll always be coming home. 

Between Tomorrow and Eternity

The Bible talks a lot about worry and anxiety. When I finally started to pay attention to what Jesus was saying about my propensity to worry my life away, things got a lot better, not perfect, but better.

I don't worry so much about today. When I pray the Lord's Prayer, I ask God to give me my daily bread and He always has. I don't worry about eternity. After reading Randy Alcorn's book on Heaven, I'm pretty dang excited.

I do worry about tomorrow. And the day after. And ten years after that.

I worry so much about the days between tomorrow and eternity that I almost can't enjoy the right now.

I've been running the last month. I've been doing Couch to 5K and I have been able to run every workout, even as it's gotten harder. But after I finish my runs, I think, well, I won't be able to do the next one, that one is really hard. I worry about what will happen when I do finish C25k. Will I run every day? Will I immediately train for a 10k? Will I have enough time? Will I stop running? I worry.

I've been cooking for me and Tom. I cook all our meals on the weekend and make our lunches everyday. I'm doing a good job. We're eating healthy, losing weight, and I'm getting some long overdue time in the kitchen. I love doing it. But I think, I'm doing it now, but how will I keep up once we're married? I don't know if I'll be able to cook every night. Our grocery budget will be too high. I'll run out of recipes. I worry.

I'm probably the healthiest I've ever been. I've been exercising, eating right, getting eight hours of sleep every night, even taking vitamins. I feel good, really good. But I'm pretty sure I'll get cancer in a few years. I worry about the treatment, about leaving young children. I worry.

I've been reading a lot lately. I've cut out TV almost completely to make room for reading, because I know I get so much more joy out of that. I work really hard on the weekends so I have less to do on the weeknights. I come home, don't sit down, and immediately tackle all the projects for the day. The hour or two I have left I use to read. I'm reading some great books, and I'm really happy. But then I think, should I feel guilty I have this time to read? Should I keep myself more busy? I won't always have this time. How will I be happy if I don't get to read? I worry.

I could go on, but I think those are sufficient examples. My life is a happy one. I'm making better choices, I'm working hard, I'm making time for what I love. But I worry.

The Bible clearly gives us hope for today and clearly gives us hope for eternity. Does the Bible explicitly give us hope for tomorrow? The only thing that comes to mind is the passage where it says that tomorrow has it's own worries. Boy, you ain't kiddin.

One of my favorite stories in the Bible involves my favorite disciple and Jesus. Peter sees Jesus walking now water and sets out toward Him. Then the waves inevitably come. He looks at them and as soon as his eyes are no longer on Jesus, his feet  begin to sink. Jesus reaches out and saves him and asks, "Why did you doubt?"

There is so much I love about that story. I love the confidence of Peter to get out of the boat. I love the emphasis to keep our eyes turned toward Jesus. I love that Jesus wasn't angered at Peter when he failed to see Jesus as he should.

I especially love that this passage speaks of my tomorrows. Today I am looking at Jesus. Today I am healthy, today I am active, today I am productive. Tomorrow I may be all of these things, or I may be diagnosed with cancer, I may be overcome with depression, I may burn all the food for the week. But the hope for tomorrow is really the same as the hope for today and the hope for eternity: to look upon Jesus.

I can always look full in his wonderful face. The things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace.

But you know what? If I don't look directly at Jesus and I begin to sink into the waves, He'll catch me. I may fail at my goals, I may die from cancer. I'd rather go trusting for today, being sure in my eternity, and looking full in His wonderful face.

What is there really between today and eternity? I have today because I'm here and Go has entrusted it to me. I know that I have eternity. Tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, is just bonus time. It is another day to choose to look at Jesus instead of the waves. Because I promise you that the waves will come. I know from firsthand experience that those waves can be devastating. To minimize the waves is laughable. To minimize Jesus is insanity. And one day, those waves will overtake you. I pray they overtake me looking at Jesus.

My Ramblings and Questions about What Happened in Ferguson

I'm not writing this because I think I have some amazing eye-opening thoughts that I think you need to know about. I'm not writing this to try to influence you. I'm not writing this to vindicate Darren Wilson or Michael Brown. 

I'm writing this because I'm mad at myself. I'm confused. I'm scared. I'm mad because I don't have a clear idea of what I believe. I'm confused about how both sides are so positive and there is so little reaching across the divide. I'm scared because I'm not sure if it was wrong not to not bring charges against Darren Wilson. I have a degree in race relations and I believe that the system is set up against minorities in America. Does not unequivocally backing Brown's case make me a racist? 

I'm writing this to set out clearly what I'm struggling with, instead of just this mess in my mind that doesn't make any sense. This is a brain dump for me. I'm writing this for my own posterity. If my kids ever ask, what will I say to them? I'm writing this so maybe I can enter the discussions clearly with real questions and well thought ideas. 

I'm hoping that if people do read it, they will enter in to a discussion with me, explaining what I'm getting wrong, answering my questions, and perhaps sharing some of their own conceptions. 

Michael Brown's involvement in a robbery and the THC in his system should have no bearing in what happened.

For me, this is not an argument I give much thought to, except to get mad when people use this as a justification. Stealing a few cigarillos and smoking a joint is not punishable by death. The robbery was reported to Wilson before he stopped those kids. He might have honestly considered them possible suspects. They were walking in the middle of the road and that's just not common sense. Wilson was doing his job when he stopped them, but if he did yell "Get the F out o the road" that's bullying behavior that I don't think he would have used if it was two white teenagers. But I digress. 

Why do people use the robbery and marijuana as some sort of justification? These types of crimes are given community service. Is it because it proves that Brown was not an innocent human being? Do people really want to play that game? Have you never been guilty of breaking the law? Never smoked weed, never broken the speed limit, never thrown a napkin out of your window? I know that robbery is a little bit bigger than these. He should have been arrested. He did a bad thing. I believe people actually take solace in his crimes because it makes what happened more justified to them.We are all  guilty in some way and most of us have time to repent. Brown was not given that chance. 

Was Brown surrendering or getting ready to charge? 

Some witnesses say Brown was about to charge at Wilson. Some say he had his hands up in surrender. Here's where it gets scary to me. If I say I don't know who is right, I'm afraid people will look at me as a racist who trusts policemen and the system and doesn't give crap about the words of Black men. I'm taken back to the 1940s in Mississippi where Black men lie and white police officers tell the truth. I don't want to be that person. 

Yet I do believe that black men are capable of lying, just as I believe white men are. I believe all the witnesses might have been protecting their own race in their statements, spinning what they saw or outright lying. 

The system is flawed and stacked against minorities in America. The killing of an unarmed Black man is a big deal and should be investigated. But what if Brown really did charge at Wilson? Wilson claimed that because of the attack he could not get to his other weapons. What if this 289 pound man was angry enough to charge him? Do we make a martyr out of Wilson because he was in the wrong place in the wrong time?  Do we automatically not believe a white man because of the many deaths of black men shot by white police officers? 

When the transcripts of the case went online, the first thing I read were the witness reports. I needed to know. I read a few. Some claimed his hands were up, some claimed he was charging. This is not an easy question to answer. I am poised and ready to believe that Brown was surrendering, because it would be the easier thing for me. This case would be clear cut and I would be let off of all this wondering. BUT WE DON'T REALLY KNOW. 

Absolutely Wilson could be lying. He could be a racist who didn't value a Black man in the street. 

Absolutely the witnesses who claimed he was surrendering could be lying. Although I believe they may have less of a reason for it. I'm leaning toward believing Brown was surrendering, but either way I am calling someone a liar and I don't take that lightly. 

Are the protestors and rioters justified? 

Now, I almost looked up some academic articles on protests and riots to find out the psychological, political, and social implications and results. However, with the transcripts of the trial online and my limited time for research, I just have made it that far yet. It's on my to do list. 

I don't understand how ruining your own neighborhood, keeping your kids from going to school, and committing crimes furthers your end. 

I also don't understand institutionalized racism and the desperation for justice and the anger that boils up from those wounds. What must you do to be heard if your entire system is against you? What do you do with all that anger? 

Sure people can say fight the system from the inside. That takes time and has meager results. But creating chaos doesn't have results either. Protests let the government know that a lot of people are not going to sit down when injustices are committed. Rioters make the government fear them. Should the government convict someone because they are afraid of rioters? I don't know about this. Once again, this is a brain dump. 

Let's talk about institutionalized racism

People get confused about what racism is. Not liking someone based on skin color makes you prejudiced. Having the power of a badge and targeting an entire race makes you a part of institutionalized racism. 

Black people can be prejudiced against White people. They don't have an entire justice system that has historically abused them, targeted them, and legally institutionalized them. There is no such thing as reverse racism. 

Why the use of deadly force?

Let's pretend for a second that we know for sure that Brown was about to charge Wilson. Wilson claimed he was pinned before and couldn't get to any of his weapons (tear gas, stick, etc). But by all accounts Brown HAD moved away from the vehicle. He was unarmed. Wilson honestly couldn't have used any other weapons? Why did he shoot Brown several times? The autopsy report mentioned at least three shots I believe. The head, the arm, the chest. I could be wrong on this, I read the report hurriedly, but I know it was more than one. Brown was high on marijuana, not meth. A single shot to the arm wouldn't have done it? 

Perhaps Wilson freaked and did the first thing he thought of. He did the wrong thing and he should be charged with it, even if it was a lapse in judgement. This is all still muddy to me but I will try to research it and figure out what really went down. 

So here's where I am. I am scared to post this but I'm also scared of the lack of real conversation that's surrounding this event. If you made it this far, share your thoughts with me, as kindly as your conscience will let you. 

God in the Middle

Most of you know this, but if you don't, I am a worrier. If there was an anxiety Olympics, I would win the gold. I have the kind of anxiety that is a medical condition. Every now and then I try to convince myself that I don't need Zoloft and that ends badly.

What a lot of you don't know is the intense joy that people with anxiety have. I don't have cancer! I'm not losing my job! My house didn't explode! The noise in the night wasn't a precursor to my death! Life is most excellent. Sure, it's a manufactured joy, but it is unbounded happiness.

Right now I'm going through some pretty intense anxiety. Threat Level in actuality is middling, but higher than low. It's a medical concern that most people would take notice of and then go about their day, perhaps mentally noting that if it continues to see a doctor. Worst case scenario for most people is, yuck, I might have to take some medication. But guys, I'm pretty sure I'm dying. I'm pretty sure it's cancer.

Right now, Jesus and I are buds. I'm talking to him more. I am the type of anxious person that I NEED to get to the worst case scenario and make peace with it. People handle their anxieties in different ways and for some anxious people you should never allow them to think the worst. With me, it's best to be factual: Ok, so if your house does explode, what then? Let's solve the worst case possibility. So my worst case right now is that I'll die before I get to be Mrs. Tom Stockman. I'll die before having kids. My family will be lost. When I get to that low, I talk to Jesus. Are you really enough God? If this is it for me, will it matter when I get to heaven? I am more convinced in the pain and anxiety that God is there and loves me than any other time in my life.

If I find out I'm perfectly fine, my joy in God will be unleashed. God is good. I not only get Jesus, who is absolutely enough for this life, I get earthly happiness too. I'll be euphoric and I'll feel like I really know God.

And then I'll forget. My sink will become clogged. Tom and I will fight. I'll get frustrated at work. It's not anxiety inducing and it's not joy-filled. It's in the middle. God isn't there.

Where is Jesus when I'm late for work? Where is Jesus when I'm snuggling Smoot? Where is Jesus in the humdrum frustrations and little blessings of life? Why isn't he there?

I know he is there. Somewhere. Perhaps it's because I don't feel like I really need him. Perhaps it's because I have created habit of only experiencing him in strong emotions. Perhaps I've turned him into the God of joy and the God of anxiety and I've never let him be what he really wants to be: God in everything.

I am a firm believer that God is who he is all the time, but our emotions keep us from seeing that. I believe in spiritual disciplines, although it's not in vogue anymore. I'm not very good at it, but I believe in regular and ritualized prayer, in fasting, in the habit of self-denial. I know these things are taught by Jesus. What I'm not applying is that they are there specifically for the middle. Of course we'll go to go God in the extremes, but what if we train ourselves in these things every day, every hour?

If I know God is there all the time, why can't I see him through the fog of the middle? I am trying to learn the lesson that I know God is teaching me right now. Reach through the humdrum, the daily diet cokes, the night time mystery reading, hold fast to the goodness that is available in the highs, in the lows, and in the middle.

Don't fear the little ones

One of my most humiliating memories is when I was working with a mission trip as a teenager. One of the tasks was working with small children and I asked for a different a chore. I would rather spend the afternoon spreading soil than interacting with those scary, honest, little creatures.

I've spent the last 4 years teaching elementary school children, babysitting my sweet nieces, and nannying kids ages 1 month to 12 years. 

And I'm not the least bit less intimidated by those scary, honest, little creatures. 

God brought me to this life filled with these small, energetic, messy bundles. They terrify me to the core. If you're boring, they'll tell. If you don't meet their most basic needs, they die. The pressure, the terror, and the ultimate joy. 

When I wake up and realize I have to teach these 3rd graders, or remember I'm nannying for the day, the first feeling that passes through my body is complete and utter terror. Do parents realize what they're in trusting me with? I'm supposed to not only keep these kids safe, I'm supposed to entertain, nurture, and teach. I'd rather work at an office. 

But somehow, when I'm with these children, everything changes. Yes, absolutely, I get frustrated, and a little tired of playing the same games and watching the same television shows. I've learned ultimately though, that they aren't so difficult.

I ask a lot of questions, even the stupid ones, like "What's your favorite subject in school?" I smile til my cheekbones hurt. When they have a tantrum, I sit on the floor speaking calmly and saying on auto repeat "When you're ready to talk about what's going on, or just want a hug, I'm right here." I tell them stories from when I was a little ( a definite favorite) and make up stories about fairies and goblins. The days pass, somehow, and I leave feeling like I've actually accomplished something. I didn't build anything and I didn't make anything. Yet I kept these little souls alive and (mostly) smiling for the day. The complete and utter joy. 

I don't run away in fear anymore when I'm trapped in a small room with kiddos. I still get that tangled feeling in my insides when I see that 3 year old eyeing me. What if he doesn't like me? I've learned to keep little toys in my purse, and they come in handy when I'm stuck in a tire shop with a little kid who has absolutely nothing to do.

After all these years and all this experience, what have I learned it takes to make kids happy? It's not the toys I keep in my purse, or my clown smile, or my ready made no props games….it's talking to them. I have never ever ever in all my life talked to a child and had them reject me. Sure they could, but why would they? Another person taking interest in their life? Asking about their day, their likes, their dreams, who they want to be? Most kids will swallow that up, and I eat it up to. They think they can do anything, and I always leave them thinking that maybe I can do anything too. 

My Greatest Fears

In no particular order and without sense, rhyme, or reason….here they are: 

1. I'll have nothing to talk about at dinner parties

2, I'll never leave the country again

3, My husband will wish for somebody new

4. I'll finally get up the courage to vent my true feelings on a political issue and then change my mind the next day

5. My dog will run away and I'll not know if he's hungry, cold, or scared

6. The friends I don't keep in touch with will think I don't love them

7. Vampires

8. I won't be able to lose weight

9. All the thoughtless words I utter on the day of judgement 

10. I'll die of cancer…or a car accident..or die at all

11. All my books will be lost in a fire and an untimely iPad failure 

12.  Someone will say I'm not well-read

13 Or well traveled 

14. I'll be angry at my mom 

15. I'll never be able to frost a chocolate cake…that crap is hard

16. I won't be able to think of the perfect word I know I know at the moment I need it most

17. My kids won't be readers 

18. I'll forget the beauties of not knowing and the beauty of trying anyway 

19. I'll be so comfortable I never have to test myself

20. Zombies

21. My children will fail and I won't be able to save them

22. Roaches….just roaches

23. Nostalgia will always be better than my current life

24. Sex won't be all it's cracked up to be

25. Mississippi State will lose the Egg Bowl in the most humiliating way 

What Would You Do With It If You Caught It?

     My life is a mess. I'm pretty sure yours is too. Women, in general, tend to focus on the emotional aspect of life. Every past wrong, every good deed, every misunderstood action, somehow makes it to the forefront of our minds and actions.

     I like you, and then I'm not sure. I'm 100% ready to go through with this, and then I have cold feet. I want what's right, and then I sin. I'm a mess. A complete, utter, mess.

      Somehow, men are drawn to it. No matter how ridiculous I am, not matter what crap I post on Facebook, I come across as "mysterious." Women, without trying, come across as magical wonders who you can't pin down.

      Here's the question men: once we've let you in, once you've "figured me out" will I still be cute as a button? Once you learn that my idiosyncrasies arise from serious wounds from the past, once you see that me being "mysterious" is actually a total lack of not knowing what the hell I want, will I still be beautiful?

       If you caught me, what would you do with me? I'm guessing you have no clue. Before you start chasing after a girl with all this mystery, will these problems still seem beautiful during the day? Will you be there when I'm having an utter meltdown for no reason? Will you be there when I'm trying to work through family issues? Will you be there when I'm insecure, unkind, and selfish? 

       I can grow and my ultimate goal is to grow in Christ's love. I'll always be a mess,  but if you chase me, you might realize that I'm a mess that's truly broken to the core. I can love, I can do good, but I can't always be that tantalizing women of your dreams.

      If you caught me, could you deal with that? 

I Saw a Black Man the Other Day

The other day, I was in a bad neighborhood, trying to find my friend's apartment to grab a key. I parked behind a broken down pick up truck and looked for the right address.

I had the address wrong, so I looked up and down the street trying to find it. A few minutes passed and I saw a black man coming toward me.

He had a hoodie and a hat, a cigarette in his mouth and headphones in his ears. As I got close he saw me and said, "Hey, are you doing?"

I replied "Fine, have a nice day." 

I found the house and got my key. 

A Letter to Married Christian Women from a Single Woman

I've been single for far longer than I wanted to be. I've tried to ignore it by traveling, getting degrees, and basically doing anything to fill that aching void for a husband. It's so hard to be a Christian woman who isn't married but wishes she was.

So many Christian married women are unnerved by us or ignore us completely. Most of these women were married when they were fresh out of college, or found someone by accident when they weren't looking for it. Honestly, I'm glad for you. Yet when you use the tired line of "You want it too much" or "It'll happen when it happens" we single women die a little on the inside. 

You don't understand. 

You perhaps never had to deal with coming home to an empty apartment and deciding to fill it with animals, books, and wine. We are a strange breed. We become the desperate outcasts of the religious world. 

I have of course have my flaws. I am a broken person, daily being put together by the grace of Jesus Christ. I can't attain perfection in this world. I know this, and I am lonely for someone. I know a husband won't fix my problems. I know that in all actuality a whole new batch of problems will come if I ever get married.

I would like for a minute to talk about the realization of marriage. Yes, marriage is hard. The divorce rate is hovering around 50%. I'm still struggling with the whole "you should be happy you're single thing." The bottom line is that you get to come home to someone who's committed to you and who you're committed to. You get to come home to a family, sex, and a life that is highly valued in Christian society. You get someone to be at your bedside when you're dying. 

Single Christian women are not valued in society. We become babysitters, nannies, and someone you can always call on in a jam. We sit at the bar when there's a table left because there's a couple behind us. 

The thing is, I love being a babysitter, nanny, and sitting at the bar. I don't like it being expected and even required of me. 

Married Christian Women….take a second to value what you have. Realize that man was not made to be alone. Fix us up with people, even though it may be awkward. Don't ask us over just to babysit. Ask us over for a glass of wine or a pizza. When we cry that we are single, don't say it's not all it's cracked up to be or make us feel bad by saying all the things we need to do to make us worthy of a husband. Imagine that you are on your own, paying your own rent, without a husband or kids or a valued place at the Christian table. Don't give us platitudes. 

Repeat the gospel, that we have Christ and that IS enough, but affirm our natural desire to be married. Pray for a husband for us. Be our friends, and not just your potential babysitters. Let us catch a glimpse into the beautiful mess of married life. Acknowledge how we feel, and maybe even cry with us. 

I Hope I Die Like Her

     Right before mom died she was in a hospice care facility. Even though she was only there a few days, I felt like I entered and left a thousand times. Despite what a hard time that was in my life, I wanted to look around. I made friends with the patients, with the families. We knew each other and supported each other in a way that only those who are waiting for death can. I especially remember a little old lady that sat by the front door.

       I remember her because she was happy and she would talk to anybody. Well, I actually I remember her because at night she had a bottle of Arbor Mist by her wheelchair. I felt sorry for her. I never saw her with family, but that doesn't mean she didn't have any. We spoke briefly about her as a family. She's in hospice and she has a bottle of wine every night? 

      Now though, I hope I die like her.  I do hope I have family around. I hope I can comfort that family with my bottle of wine and no telling how many painkillers. I want to die still appreciating my sanity and the good little things in life. I don't want to die sad and bringing down everyone around me. I want to wait on death with a bottle of wine and a smile for those who come through the door who are also waiting. I want to die sure of my future, at rest with my past, and hopefully with a lot of morphine and a bottle of Arbor Mist. 

Last night I fell asleep with a wooden cross in my fingers. 

As I was getting ready for bed, my mind to flip through hundreds of fears, my heart began to race, fear gripped my insides. The never-going-to-happens became the inevitable. I had made so many mistakes that day, God would never forgive me. I was going to lose my job. What it all my family got into a car wreck? What if my bank account was emptied and I couldn't pay my rent? I will never be able to keep my house neat. I won't be able to lose this weight. In short, I was having a full-fledged panic attack. 

Unfortunately, I don't have insurance at the moment (believe me, I'm working on it) so I haven't been consistent with my anti-anxiety medication. I have no xanax. The fear was so intense that I felt I could quite possibly die. Who could I call that would understand? I tried praying, explaining to God and begging for Him to make it stop, but I couldn't get control of my thoughts well enough to do this. 

I needed something. I needed something in my hands, I needed something tangible. I didn't know why, but in a fit of desperation I pulled an old, hand-made wooden cross from over my bed, gripped it tightly in both hands, and prayed The Jesus Prayer over and over again. (Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me.) 

It wasn't a magical cure. I did not immediately become light as a feather. It took a lot of work to calm down. I repeated the Jesus Prayer over and over again, and anytime a fear began to creep its way into my mind, I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed the Jesus Prayer fervently, imagining that the prayer was literally a fortress and all of my fears would be cut into pieces against it. 

If you had told me a few years ago that I would ever have spent a night like this, I would have been terrified. I grew up idolizing the Puritans. I would have thought having the cross in my hands was akin to the Israelite Golden Calf when Moses went up to receive the Ten Commandments. I would have thought repeating The Jesus Prayer was too similar to the vegan-eating, yoga-attending, pagan, Prius drivers. 

Recently, I have changed my thinking. I even have icons of Christ scattered about my apartment. Although there is not space in this blogpost to relate my theological understanding of icons and artifacts in my spiritual life (although I hope to do that soon) I would like to be clear that I know that cross in my hands is merely two pieces of wood fixed to one another. I know that the Eucharist is a wafer and a sip of sweet wine. I do not worship that piece of wood anymore than I worship the wafer and wine at the Eucharist. I can worship better because of things. 

I used to think that we experience God only through the mind and heart. I believe now that God gave us 5 senses to worship better. There is nothing magical in crosses, icons, incense, or books, but I'm finally ok with saying that I believe there is something mysterious in them. 

How the hell did I get here?

Last night, as  I was falling asleep, I looked around and for some strange reason realized that I was sleeping alone, in an apartment I paid for, without a husband, without a mother, without a high-paying job in New York City . I was praying, and as a firm believer in being honest with God, the last thing I remember before falling asleep is whispering "How the hell did I get here?"

This was not supposed to be my life. In the life I had planned, I would go from college to a married life and I would have 2 kids by now, probably with a third on the way. Somehow though, I ended up with living the single life at 27 in St. Louis. In the words of Robin Williams in "Mrs. Doubtfire" I thought, This is not my life.

 

To the friends I thought would never get married, I said "I'm so thrilled for you! This will be an adventure and I'm so glad you're taking it!" To the friends who did not do well in college but ended up in exciting places with wonderful jobs I said "I'm so thrilled for you! This will be an adventure and I'm so glad you're taking it!" I said all of this, thinking that some day soon in the future, I would be married, or in an exciting place. 

I made my own decisions. I made the decision of majoring in education. I made the decision of attending graduate school in education at uw. I made the decision of living in Poland and Korea. I made all of those decisions based on what I wanted and what was possible. I made the best decisions I could with that was available to me, what I was good at, what I wanted. 

Somehow, those decisions did not lead me to the life I thought I wanted. 

I do not know if I ever will be married. I do not know if I will ever live in another country or in exciting cities like New York, Chicago, or Boston. I do not know if this will be my life. I do not know.

What I do know is that I have amazing family that chooses to support me. I do know that I have friends who love me, strangely, without conditions. I do know that I have a dog and a guinea pig that take a large part of my heart. I do know that I'm part of a church that loves me even when I fail to attend. I do know that I have so much to be thankful for. 

Surely, this is not the life I had planned. This is not the life I prayed for. Yet I am here. I made the best decisions I could and God has answered my prayers in strange ways. God did not save my mother. God has not brought me a husband. God has not given me a high-paying position in a bustling city. God has me here. It's strange and every now and then I look around and think "How the hell did I end up here?" 

Yet I am here, and I don't want to waste it. I want to love and make connections. I want my nieces to know me and be excited about spending the day with Aunt Callie. I want to spend time with my brothers and sisters-in-laws. I don't want to move away, although I am tempted from time to time with a new start and a new life. After much prayer, I do not think that this is a good time to move away. I want to set down roots. 

I want it all, but God has given me what I have now. I have much to be thankful for. My life's mantra should not be "how the hell did I get here" but "who am I deserve so much?" 

And everybody knows their names

Just like many of you, I was almost glued to my computer during the Boston lock-down and the search for the man who was responsible for the bombing during a race in that city. I wanted him to be caught alive and be brought to justice.

Just like when Osama Bin Laden was killed, I felt a surge of electricity and elatedness when he was apprehended. This one, I thought, won't get to die like a martyr for his cause though. He'll have to live the rest of his life facing what he did and the hatred of millions of people.

Osama Bin Laden, Adam Lanza, Timothy Mcveigh, the Tsarnaev brothers. A list of people who have challenged America and we have won. But have we really?

Do you honestly think that the Tsarnaev brothers expected to get out alive? I personally don't. They were two young boys in the most powerful country in the world. They had to know they would be caught. They did it though and for reasons I don't understand. What I do understand is that now millions of people know their names. The city of Boston knows their name. Perhaps they ultimately got what they wanted.

I for one, don't want to know who they are. I don't want to cheer their deaths or their captures. I want to ignore their names and focus my attentions on the fallen. I can't name one single person who died in 9/11, the Oklahoma bombings, at Hook Elementary School, at the Boston bombings. Yet I know the names of the men who did it. Something is twisted and wrong. Somehow, they ultimately got what they wanted. They got a parade, fireworks, thousands of people tweeting and facebooking their images. 

I want to forget them. I want to erase their names from this blog, from the internet. I don't want to die knowing their names and not knowing the names of the victims. We are part of a powerful and strong country. This won't be the last time evil people choose to kill others and die on our land to further their own purposes. Something has to change. We have to somehow know the victims and not know the perpetrators. We are giving them what they want, we are giving them infamy, which is not as good as being famous, but they died and live knowing we all know who they are.  

We don't have a better deal than the Israelites

I'm 27 years old and certified to teach high school social studies and I still get Jefferson Davis and Thomas Jefferson confused...

Ok ok, that's not what this blog is about at all, I just thought I'd share.

What I really wanted to talk about is reading through my Bible chronologically in one year. I have this great one year Bible that Lindsay Beeman got me a few years ago that goes through the Bible based on when stuff took place. It's awesome, but the flaw is that most one year plans have you read a little of the Old Testament, a little of the Psalms and Proverbs, and a little of the New Testament each day. I'm realizing why that is such a good idea. The Old Testament is horrifying in some places, boring in others, and only occasionally interesting. 

I'm starting in Leviticus and I hate it. I want to skip through it, but that's not what reading the Bible in one year is about. I'm at the part where it keeps talking about guilt offerings, sin offerings, and fellowship offerings. It talks about what to do if you have knowingly and unknowingly sinned and gives very detailed instructions on how to slaughter the sacrifice: what parts to tear up, how to drizzle the blood, what can and cannot by eaten of what you sacrifice and by whom it can or cannot eaten. 

It's gruesome, overly detailed, and boring. My mind tends to wander. I wonder why we have to read this stuff if it's no longer necessary, and then I realized it: all the gruesomeness and technical information on sacrifice should lead me constantly to Christ's death on the cross.

In Old Testament times, dealing with sin was a mindful ritual, an actual killing of another living being before your eyes to make some sort of atonement for your sin. The people in the Old Testament saw what sin causes; it causes death. We, however, don't have to see this kind of death....or do we?

I love animals. I can't stand to think of an animal in pain. Yet my sin doesn't hurt an animal, it is a nail in the body of  the very man who exists to save my soul. Every lie, every prideful thought, every lustful action is a nail in Jesus' hands and feet. Who gets a better deal, us or the original Israelites? I'm thinking it's the Israelites.

The Old Testament is important because it forces us to look at the blood, the pain, and the destruction our  sin costs. Maybe we don't have to watch the blood flow or hear the being cry out in pain, but we know it happened. My sin is a nail in the cross, just like the blade that slashed the throat of every sacrifice of the ancient Israelites. 

God in a messy day

I like to think I understand grace. I've grown up knowing that while God calls us to do good works, they have no bearing on His ultimate love for us. I'm starting to realize, slowly but surely, that I have no inkling of what really living in God's grace is like. 

I've been on this kick lately to get my life together. By this, I mean living each day perfectly. My perfect day would be something like this: get up in time to read my Bible, take a shower, prepare a healthy lunch, be an awesome teacher with kick-ass lesson plans, come home and walk my dog, clean my apartment, make another healthy dinner, and then enjoy an hour or so in a hot bath while reading a good book. 

My problem is that if one tiny things go awry, I give up. For some strange reason, I feel like I can only communicate with God if I'm making good choices and my life is in order. If I feel like my relationship with God isn't good or He's upset with me, I have this strange feeling that the day is lost anyway, so it doesn't really matter.

Today, for instance, I got up early, read my Bible, and made a salad for lunch. In all my self-congratulations, I forgot to grab my lunch from the kitchen. The rest of the day did not go well. I rushed off a school letter that my boss had to correct and then my kids went crazy in the afternoon and refused to learn anything. 

I was going to recover, though. Nope, they weren't going to get me down. I had a list of things from Target, Petsmart, and Trader Joe's and I mean an expansive list. This list included fruits, vegetables, lesson plan binders, and toilet paper. 

I'm on my way to Target and I'm at this intersection from Kingshighway to 64 West that no joke takes about 5-10 minutes to get through when it hits me: I forgot to turn off the coffee pot at school. Crap. In those few seconds, I know that my day is totally shot. I lose, Wednesday wins. I think, in internet-safe terms, screw it. 

I turn my car around, drive back to school and unplug the coffee pot, and head straight for home only pausing to pick up a bottle of wine at a gas station. My day is over. I failed. I might as well give it up for lost and start again tomorrow. I order take out, turn on Law and Order SVU, and pull up a blog that I've read through about 30 times. 

Where is grace in this day? Why do I not feel free to fail and try again? Why do I have to wait until tomorrow to start over? I honestly want God to fit in this neat little box on a healthily, happy, day between 6am and 7am. I feel like if I read my Bible and pray before I go to work, and then am productive throughout the rest of the day, then that's good enough.

Maybe the reason I keep failing at this ridiculous goal of "getting my life together" is because I refuse to let Jesus into the hum-drum, messy parts of my day. When things are going great, I pray. When things are falling apart, I pray. When I make bad decisions or slightly aggravating things happen to me, I ignore God until I can start again. 

This is just a theory, but I feel like if I let God into every part of my day, prayed before I gave up on going to the grocery store, prayed before I picked up that bottle of wine, prayed before I ordered take-out that I obviously didn't need, maybe I wouldn't need to skip the grocery story, get a bottle of wine, or order take out. My day falls apart and I go to an easy fix, an easy way to forget my problems. 

God needs to be in the messy parts of life. He doesn't fit into a quiet time or into a life that runs smoothly without Him. God loves me a lot more than I'm giving Him credit for, and I have a feeling I'm hurting Him as much as I'm hurting myself. 

A Prayer for Smoot

Before I start out this blog, I want to assure all of the Smoot-lovers out there that Smoot is perfectly healthy. There have been some recent events that have me thinking about what I want for the end when it comes to Smoot. These are my ramblings dealing with these ideas...

Yesterday, a neighbors dog died. I went to check up on her and she told me her horrid story. She came home and her sweet pup who normally snoozes on the couch or bed was by the back door. She was lying in a puddle of blood and urine, having seizure after seizure. No doubt she was trying to get outside to be obedient. She rushed her to the E.R. (animal version) and they told her that she was blind and it would cost thousands of dollars to keep her alive. This dog was 13 years old and my neighbor chose to euthanize her, which I applaud as a brave decision.

I'm saying all of this because this episode put a terrible fear in my heart. The idea of coming home to Smoot lying in a puddle of blood by the door, trying to be obedient to his last breath, breaks my heart. Smoot will be 8 in March. The average lifespans for English Bulldogs is eight years. While Smoot is healthy and happy, I can't deny that in all likelihood these are his twilight years. I'm praying to God that when I found out something is wrong, it will be in a vet's office. I pray that I will have the strength not to let him live blind, deaf, in pain, scared. I pray that I have the courage to give the ok to end his life. 

When it comes down to it, dogs don't have souls. Their suffering isn't "counted to them as righteousness." The only reason people have to keep terminal pets around is their own selfishness. I pray that I am not one of these people. I'm praying that I'll be able to say goodbye to Smoot in a vet's office, stroking him while he painlessly falls asleep. I'm praying that he never has to suffer. I'm praying that by some grace of God, I'll see him on the other side. 

Here's hoping heaven is better than sex

There is nothing I hate more than being single and wishing I wasn't then when well-intentioned people say "Don't worry, God has someone great in store for you." 

Ok, actually I just lied. I love hearing that, but as soon as they leave the room and I'm back in my messy apartment and my messy life, I wonder how they could possibly say such a thing. I wonder how anyone can be married. 

Another break-up, but fortunately (or unfortunately) this relationship lasted all of 5 days, and we didn't really talk during those 5 days, obviously because he was planning on how to end it. It's sobering, and it leaves me wondering once again why I let myself get excited, hopeful, that somehow this would be the end of my singleness.

This is the part where I'm supposed to say that what I really need is a closer relationship with God, trust him, make him the center of my life and blah blah blah. I know all of that is true, and I know that people say that you can't have a marriage until you've proven yourself trustworthy in your relationship with God. (yes, I actually heard a pastor say that at a wedding.)

I think that's bullshit. Once we get all of our ducks in a row, find complete satisfaction in him, and prove how good we are, then we can be married. If that were true, none would be married. 

Here's the thing, before sin entered the world, before Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit, before we had need of a Savior, God said "It is not good for man to be alone." We needed this kind of partnership before Satan had corrupted us and made us aware of our sinful natures. If we needed marriage when we were perfect, how much more do we need it in this messy, fallen world? 

Yet I'm not married. I'm about to be 27 and honestly I'm lonely. This hasn't made me quite desperate yet. I don't hang out at single bars or go out with anyone who asks. I keep my standards pretty high, but I try to be open to as many possibilities as I can. Yet I'm still single. I'm still praying that I won't be. 

Whenever I share my struggle with other women, usually they say something along the lines of "You'll find someone! God made someone just for you." I'm so appreciative for their belief in my man-getting abilities, but I also have to take a shot of something sobering after their words. God did not promise me a husband. 

God promised to be faithful to me, regardless if I was faithful to him. God promised me eternal life. God promised me a lot of things, but he never promised me a marriage, sex, and kids. 

When I look at things objectively, I have to realize that there is a possibility that I'll remain single for the rest of my life. I won't die surrounded by kids and grandkids, but surrounded by dogs and a few people from the nursing home where I spent my twilight years. 

And it sucks. That's all I can say. God knows the desires of my heart, and so far he hasn't answered them the way I want them to be answered. He might give me a husband, and he might not. But he's still God and this life is short. I might die alone at 97 sad and heartbroken. And you know what? That will be ok. I mean sucky, but ok. When I get to heaven and I look back on this camping trip I called life, I don't think I'll regret anything. Can God have something better than marriage, sex, and family in heaven? I'm pretty sure he promised us that heaven will be more than we can ever imagine. 

Frankly, when you get to the point when you realize your most cherished dreams won't come true and you start longing for heaven, you realize you're in a low spot. But isn't that the kind of place God wants us to be in? 

Whenever I'm really lonely and depressed, I imagine life as a camping trip. I freakin hate camping. It's sojourning in hell to me, actually. But I LOVE coming home after camping. I get through camping trips by imagining how great that bubble bath and comfy bed will be. I think this temporary life with these temporary tents are kind of like that. I don't mind doing the dirty work of life, and perhaps even enjoying a sunset or two, when I know I'll be going home soon. 

And we'll all be going home soon. Just one favor, if I die single, can I spend the holidays in heaven with you guys???