I {don't} Want To Love My Life Away

I heard this song on the radio today and thought about life. Songs will do that, no?

Okay, so I get the point of it. Oh, I love you so much and all I want to do is love you forever and it'll be all we need. Sweet. I don't know the love of a spouse, or serious relationship even, so one day this song might play at my reception unopposed (unlikely on many counts). But on the premise of its title, I'm here to oppose it today.

There are the usual thoughts running through my head about graduation and beyond. I don't want to waste my life. I don't want a lackluster living. I want my life to matter. I want a life I can love. But then there's this:

²⁶ Brothers and sisters, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. ²⁷ But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. ²⁸ God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, ²⁹ so that no one may boast before him. ³⁰ It is because of him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God—that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption. ³¹ Therefore, as it is written: “Let the one who boasts boast in the Lord.” (I Corinthians 1)

I'm really not opposed to the notion of loving life. By God, I believe there is more to be said about contentedness (paired with holy discontent) than Christians often make a part of the conversation. By "by God" I mean "through Jesus." As in "because of Christmas." Like "the whole point of celebrating this season." Yes, through Jesus we have reason to perhaps irrationally adjust ourselves to this life-- its disappointments and fleeting emotions-- because in honesty, we believe the best is yet to come.

And it is in that spirit (not this oxymoronic anti-contentedness Christmas spirit of this bustling season that our consumerist culture manages to conjure up every year) that I can fervently proclaim "I don't want to love my life away!" It just isn't worth it.

As much as there is this great family to surround me as we pray in the driveway of our 21 year old home.

Even when there is a beautiful, healthy 3 1/2 month old to kiss.

While we get the privilege of setting up a new home with a truckload of beautiful, pleasurable things accumulated over the aforementioned years.

Though there are friends who consider me worthy of their time (even sometimes to the point of being disappointed when I don't take it).

Though truly loveable people flow in and out of the door marked 931 on a weekly basis.

Yes, even with a job that pays me more than I want for something I want to do anyway (this one especially).

It's not worth loving all up on this life.

That is the fastest way to waste it.

Oh, it's so easy to condemn the one without a job. The person who drank away their problems. The kid who did the drugs too hard. The father that walked away. The mom who pursued the affair. The pastor that used poor judgement. Those other people. They wasted their lives away.

"Not me, not I," said the happy one. The self-assured, happy-go-lucky, well-adjusted, self-sufficient, successful one surely had it all. And boy did she love her life. Until the day she stood before the God Who Chooses the lowly things of this earth and realized how little she was actually ever drawn to the "righteousness, holiness and redemption" of the LORD who shames the wise. The One (and perhaps sometimes the only one) who never cared about human standards, because He was never (actually, despite our best efforts) confined by them.

She hardly ever needed those things because she was loving her life away.

We're better wasters of our lives than we let on. Than our titles or bank accounts or plans or diplomas or pictures or smiles let on.

But.

We're also worth more than our lives let on. Than our drinks or drugs or tax returns or laundry piles or tears or depressed thoughts might suggest. Those things that make us feel like we're most days only managing? God has so much more than that for us. Period.

Still, the opposite of "just getting by" is not "reveling in everything I have." That leaves the door wide open for fakers. Like those it is so frustrating to meet behind the doors of all those buildings with the crosses painted on them. Fakers just like you and me. Those who say "well I don't really love my life, but I might could convince the world I do so they'll think more highly of me."

Turns out the difference between loving life and hating it here on Earth is something so small as an unexpected meeting with a boss during which he or she says something like, "it just had to be somebody. It's nothing personal." Perhaps it's five words along the lines of "we did everything we could" that make the difference. Maybe it's not that momentous. Sometimes the difference between a life worth loving or hating by the standards of this world is deeply rooted in who the parents are and what kind of support they offered their child. Some get that great support, others don't. Happy home, mad home.

So I haven't heard those words. So I've had the support and the happy. Should I wish it away?

By any sort of "fluke" I could be sitting on the opposite end of the spectrum. If so, should I wish it away?

No on both accounts. Why? Because either way a.) I'd be fooling myself to believe I have control of the slidy thingy (that's a highly technical term) and b.) I'd still be operating within the spectrum on which any point leaves something to be desired.

Either way-- fortunate or unfortunate, privileged or under-- my happiness or anger would be directed towards the One who does have control of the slidy thingy. So the real challenge is to make my peace with Him. Or better yet, make His peace on this Earth with whatever I have because I sit where I do on that spectrum for a reason. And the discontent only comes from not believing Him enough to make that peace and purpose happen regardless of where I'm coming from.

So I don't want to love my life to the extent that I forget the God who put me here and then let it slip my mind to pursue the why.

I also don't want to get to a place of disliking my life to the point that I keep the facade of loving it just so people might peg me as further up in the contentedness and "blessed" spectrum.

The difference between the two scenarios is an amazingly thin line. And a really, really fragile line at that.

In conclusion. {I heard that}

I don't want to love my life away, because I would hate to hate my life away should the circumstances come along that would "justify" that. I also don't want to love my life away because, circumstances to love or not, there is just more to life than that.

More.

I am content in knowing that.

Or at least getting to know Him.

Vienna

I was driving up I-95 for my last fall road trip to Annapolis when the iPod shuffle landed on Billy Joel’s “Vienna Waits For You.”

Slow down you crazy child, you’re so ambitious for a juvenile.

I got to thinking of how quickly this semester happened. Impossibly fast, people. At this point, my fourth year, it’s gotten quite cliché to remark on the remarkable speed time flies by semester after semester. I’m a marathon girl. I like big picture and pace and time to laugh and cry and be alone and be together. I am notorious for liking to take my time. But this is a sprint kind of world. 6-week sermon series, your best life now, gadgets to make your life easier, television on your watch, drive-thru world. As a part of that world, it is my responsibility to learn to cope with the pace. Especially when the very reason life goes by so quickly right now is because there are grades at stake and friendships that may only be a daily presence like they are now for only a short period of time yet. Who I am to my teachers, friends, family—to everyone—is remarkably tied to how well I am able to manage this passing of time.

Part of me would love to believe I’ve gotten okay at it. But then you throw in the fact (I’m convinced it is, indeed, fact) that time really does speed up. Mom was right. So here I am, educated to a higher degree than the majority of the world at this point, with resources at my disposal, the support of a great family. This is the prime. Of socializing. Of adventure. Of health. Of intellect.

But then if you’re so smart, tell me why are you still so afraid?

Part of what scares me, I guess, is that it’s supposedly downhill from here. Or uphill. (This is both a Due Date reference and me not being able to apply this phrase well. Guess I could’ve just gone without it, but then you’d have gone without these 23 enlightening seconds of reading and I couldn’t have that.) You know what I mean. Can I tell you how many times I’ve heard “it just gets worse” in the past 3 months? No, I can’t. But it’s been a lot.

What is that?

There are so many responsibilities and unknowns coming up. I understand that this adult world thing will be an adjustment and that the time only speeds up and I can imagine that I’ll only end up feeling worse about myself and my inability to communicate well and maintain friendships from a distance. But am I really just doomed to that? And do I really have to have the plan all figured out right now?

Where’s the fire, what’s the hurry about? You better cool it off before you burn it out. You’ve got so much to do and only so many hours in a day.

See, I can get myself concerned in those small moments of silence in the last minutes of day. Why don’t I have a plan? Am I just being plain irresponsible by not adding “figure the rest of you life out” to my list of things to do during this already fleeting semester? Truth is, all the worry and the stress about tomorrow is perfectly poised to burn me out today. I don’t do well without optimism, and I am convinced that the outlook really isn’t as pessimistic as it’s made out to be. But the more I remind myself to stop and enjoy the moment, the bigger I feel the beast of the future grows.

The more I don’t want to confront its supposedly daunting, unenjoyable, monotonous and unfulfilling self. I’d rather just have the joy, thankyouverymuch.

But you know that when the truth is told that you can get what you want or you can just get old, you’re gonna kick off before you even get halfway through.

That’s right, I want the joy. And I just don’t believe I have to resign myself to less for the sake of getting through life. Or halfway through it before I realize I settled for the “coming down off my prime” mentality of surviving adulthood.

I’m not living to just get old here. I can get what I want. I can have the joy. That’s not just idealistic youth talking.

That’s Paul and Isaiah and David and Ruth and Esther and Jesus talking. So I’m going to listen. No. I may not have the “what I want” in terms of a husband and kids and a well-paying job and health and picture perfect. But by God I can have what I want.

By God.

If there is one thing I know I can have during all of this—as I prepare for the rest of this life I’ve got on my hands—I can have God’s will. And if that’s what I want—If I really truly can get serious about telling him that and cultivating in myself a heart that means it—it’s mine.

It’s yours. It’s ours.

So I am not about to half-heartedly pump myself up to merely getting old. I’m going to get what I want. And I am going to pray against myself that my desire would be for the life that most honors God.

Otherwise I am just getting older.

When will you realize Vienna waits for you?

Slow down you’re doing fine, you can’t be everything you want to be before your time, although it’s so romantic on the borderline tonight.

Since the semester is coming to an end, I got to thinking as I drove about how I’ll remember this one. When someone asks me about it, what will I say? I wont have the time in those passing moments to delve into it, really. But it’s worth really thinking about.

It’s the semester Noelle and Chris married.

I got to experience my family in or around Fredericksburg often enough that it felt natural for the two worlds to exist simultaneously—that was nice.

I saw a lot of good movies.

I finished up the degree requirements for my major, save for the thesis.

There were awesome freshmen—every single one of them.

I feel I got a smidgen better balanced at expending my energy—sleep and school and others.

Digital storytelling with friends and @jimgroom was fun.

But, in a twist I did not see coming, I got to have experiences that teach me what I do not want to be. The attitude I do not want to have. I’ve learned what it is to be discontent with where I am and to want something more badly enough to believe God for it.

I’m often told that I must be at least thirty, really. I truly don’t buy into the whole “years ahead of my time” theory, because I feel that I’m learning as I go like anyone else—8, 18, or 80. What I do know is that in my frustration with my own inactivity, my own place in life I wish for more. I want to be doing more, I want to feel like I’m actually making a difference or being “good enough.”

Too bad, but it’s the life you lead, you’re so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need.

Billy is right, I get ahead of myself. I tend to want the ideal more than I make a point to live in the real. No amount of hoping—even in the right thing, in the Giver of life—changes the fact that I am the age I am and I’m in the stage I’m in. God doesn’t want me wishing myself out of where I am, because He’s put me smack in the middle of it for a purpose. To get ahead of myself with how much better I could be doing or what I feel terrible that I haven’t accomplished distracts me from what I need right now, in this moment. What I need to ever be a “better” me—a better steward, a better servant—or accomplish anything of true value. What I need is a heart that breaks for what makes God mad. A heart that rejoices in what pleases him.

Not anything else, not anyone else.

Though you can see when you’re wrong, you know you can’t always see when you’re right.

See because living for what pleases me or the people around me only puts me on edge. Only makes me realize how terrible I am at the pleasing—and how prideful I am in believing that I can be pleasing, perfect for everyone. That’s just not a role God’s asked me to take on. Not on my own. Every good and perfect gift is from him. The Bible commands me as a Christian to be perfect just as the Father is perfect. The desire to be perfect is not a foreign concept to me. But perfect doesn’t mean walking on eggshells not trying to hurt any feelings and then feel myself a complete failure when someone is disappointed.

I don’t try to please people so that I can look perfect. I want to please people because I care about them and want them to feel accommodated. There is a place for that in the world, I think. It might make me look pretty near perfect, and is, I imagine, quite frustrating for those people who get close to me and realize that, oh yeah, I’m prone to failure like the next person.

The genuine desire to see the people I care for happy quickly turns into an unhealthy expectation I place on myself—thereby inviting other people to place on me—to be perfect. And before long all I see is where I fall short of that. Where I’m wrong.

The good news there is that I should live with an awareness of how short I do fall of the glory of God. Gets me on the same page with, oh, everyone and makes me relinquish the pride.

The bad news in this scenario is that I get so focused on my own inadequacy that I can’t see where God is working in me, through me, to bring about some right in all of this wrong. Before long I’ve not only relinquished a healthy amount of pride, but I’ve given up the confidence, too.

You’ve got your passion, you’ve got your pride, but don’t you know that only fools are satisfied?

So I’m learning to hang on to a little of this holy confidence, this belief that God can work with a dull knife, and let the discontent I have regarding certain areas of my life and heart fester into a passion that keeps me going past satisfied.

Dream on, but don’t imagine they’ll all come true.

God bought my right to dream and dream big with a price. He’ll bless the ones that glorify him, he wont bless those that don’t. So I can’t imagine they’ll all come true—wouldn’t want them to.

Slow down you crazy child, take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while. It’s alright, you can afford to lose a day or two.

Because you know that when the truth is told, you can get what you want or you can just get old.

Reminder

Today I sat in a restaurant with a 16 year old and was reminded.

I stood in the middle of 50 middle schoolers and was reminded.

I relaxed in a coffee shop with a friend and was reminded.

I listened to a CD in the car and was reminded.

Funny thing is I think it happened because I asked. To be reminded.

That this adventure far from home had a singular purpose from the beginning-- and that was to say at the end of all of this that if I made it through, it was only because God is who He says He is. Listening to another girl, not much younger than myself, whose position I was in 5 years ago made me remember how absolutely, simultaneously terrified and confident I was. Because I wanted to know God the way He reveals himself to those people in the Bible that go on and on about his sufficiency. I was confident He would meet me where I was-- far from home or smack in the middle of it-- but I was terrified that I didn't know Him like that before I leapt.

In the middle of a chaotic worship session during which I trotted around ready to shoot a stern look to the next rowdy, disruptive kid I remembered being one of approximately six in my own youth group and stopped to thank God for every one of the 50 there. I remember being in middle school and how ineffective every person who told us not to do something was. I think of my youth groups leaders--Tori, Yvette, Laurence, Austin, Beth, Mom, Mark, Jared, Cindy, and Luke-- and how the single best thing they ever did for any of us with so much to learn was to concern themselves more with loving God than correcting us. I was reminded that these kids don't need my eyes on them, they need my eyes on God. So I closed my eyes, stilled myself, and listened. No heart there is a disturbance. And if I am letting them disturb me from worship-- well, I just think that reflects poorly on me. I cannot expect to cattle herd them all in there and hope they know what it is to meet with God or what a privilege that really is. But they should be able to expect an example of their leaders. Right?

I held my tea latte, warm against my bare knee. November 3rd rewarded my decision to mix things up and wear a skirt on a relatively warm day by switching modes to approximately freezing 'round bout 2 p.m. So the drink was nice, especially as it was enjoyed in the comfy green chair in the presence of one of the friends I was so afraid I wouldn't have going into this whole college thing. I was reminded then the power of words. The need to use them and make them encouraging. The responsibilities friends have to each other to drop a note or a call or a conversation or maybe even a beat every now and then to say thank you or to recognize the other's hard work. How sad is it that I'll call someone a friend but then expect that oh, other people will cover the whole being positive or nice or there thing?

On shuffle, my iPod chose this lyric to play.

"I'm tempted to sit back in my overstuffed chair with a gavel in hand

and a tired-eyed stare that says I'm not surprised you messed it up again.

I'm tempted to sigh, I'm tempted to yawn if you'd only do it like I told you all along

it could be so easy

if you'd only be more like me.

But oh that's the beast that brings us down, that's the devil in a satin gown,

so don't, don't call it love.

Cause love wraps herself around the wound and weeps while she speaks truth.

So don't call this love."

Thank you very much, Christa Wells. Listening, I was reminded of what I felt again last night in the middle of a Lifeway. And that is wanting to weep for the wounds of those I've been chosen to lead. To weep for my own. You see for weeks I've been wanting to cry because why don't they get it and why can't they get it together and why do I continue to feel like a fool in this position? Basically, in Christa Wells' jolting nutshell, it would be so easy if they'd be more like me.

Shame on me.

And don't call that love.

I was reminded what it was like to stand in the middle of the store and actually pray for each person as I tried to find a resource to offer every individual. I was reminded of what it is like to want to cry to God feeling ridiculed after spending "church money." I remember having no other defense of those expenditures other than to be honestly able to say that I spent time praying each day that something of each item purchased would make some sort of difference in each life in spite of me and Matt Paxson . I remember feeling like I had God on my side because I asked Him there each day with an ernest cry for help. I remember loving my job because I loved those kids because I chose to spend time feeling loved despite myself.

So I went home and had one of those moments for one of only a handful of times this semester. I asked God to remind me of things, to show me "my first love" as the church of Ephesus forgot (Revelation 2:1-7). To remind me of why I love Him, why I should even desire His will, why He even bothers to use me at all.

Then I thought, I'm pretty sure He bothers to remind me of these things because God wants me to know that He is useful.

Not me. Not ever. Not by myself.

These interns don't need me telling them why to love God and pursue His will and what to do to be useful. They don't need me at all. The one thing they would benefit most from, though, is if I'd just do those things myself. And, you know, have something a little more constructive and a little less prideful to say other than "be more like me."

Of course that sounds ridiculous in black and white. But it's amazing how subtly that mindset creeps up in real life. I am disappointed in myself. And "shame on me" appears 5 different times in my journal from last night.

In all of these things, I have been reminded of my place. That really low place where I belong-- where the little I do have is meant to honor God. Because the little I do have is only secured by the grace He offers in the first place.

Oh, yes, I'm disappointed. Aggravated, even, with myself. But his compassion doesn't fail. And He gets the last word. He, and only He, who speaks it all into being. He who offers reminders to this heart, desperate to find them.

Through the LORDs mercies we are not consumed. Because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning; Great is your faithfulness. "The LORD is my portion," says my soul. "Therefore I hope in Him!" ... Who is he who speaks and it comes to pass, when the LORD has not commanded it? Is it not from the mouth of the Most High that woe and well-being proceed?

-Lamentations 3:22-24, 37-38

The Midnight (Plane) to Georgia

Well, I'm in Atlanta at the Oral History Association's annual national conference. I don't have my cord here to upload pictures, nor do I really have many that really capture what this experience has been. Mostly because you can't go all shutterbug-gy on your professor and the one other student you're traveling with.

That just wouldn't look right in pictures. That, and it would just be awkward. So mostly I just have pictures of this swank hotel room (no offense to the fall break hotel) and the outfit I wore today because I ironed and that made me feel old. Or at least a legitimate conference-er.

But then I texted mom and dad a picture of myself all dressed up just to make sure they were a part of this "first" in my life as if it were my first day of kindergarten. That kind of detracted from the scholarly mood I had going.

Why am I here, you ask? I'll steer clear of the very long philosophical path I could take on that one, for your sake and for mine. For my sake because I have a 4-5 page paper to write and for yours because you don't want a 4-5 page paper on my thoughts on the purpose of life. Win/win. I guess I just figured it was high time for an update, and for some reason I never feel as compelled to bring my random thoughts/happenings here as I used to, for better or for worse. I think it might be that I know I have a bit of a readership now and I don't want y'all to think that I actually expect you to care about the really inconsequential things going down.

I also would like to have on record that I spent 3 hours stuck at Reagan, then 3 1/2 hours on the plane (in addition to the 1 h. 45 m. flight time) with Dr. Rigelhaupt and Christiane and they were some of the most enjoyable hours of my undergraduate career (I threw that phrase in there to bring the professional ora back). We were so delirious last night when we got to the hotel around 11:45.

Finally, I wanted to feel like I was doing some sort of something productive while I watch Game 2 of the series (shame on them rangers for Game 1... but HEY! THE RANGERS ARE IN THE SERIES!!!) and also the office.

*Then* I will start my paper.

Oh, my. Forget the midnight train, yours truly will be burnin' the midnight oil. But this has been SO worth it. Shout out to the fine people at the Dean's office of UMW for limiting the cost of this weekend to my own procrastination. :)

On Unexpected Delights and Reminders

Most people who know me see me as a pretty off-the-cuff kind of person. It's how my humor, schedule, and brain work (not always successfully). Flexibility is my ebb and flow. So to begin feeling significantly thrown off by a relatively harmless happening means that something is a little too tightly wound up there in my head. Or, worse yet, my heart.

So as I kicked and screamed, God decided to carve out for me a brilliant retreat. An introvert's paradise, sponsored by Delta. An hour and a half sitting on the plane at the gate in Richmond threatened (and then ruined) my chances of catching my connection in Atlanta. Ironic, I thought, since we were on a "Delta Connections" plane. No later flights out of Atlanta meant staying the night there.

It was much more frustrating in my head than it sounds, believe you me.

I was just ready to be home and woe is me and all of that. It was easier to accept once there was no question that I'd miss the ATL flight and when the 3 year old girl in front of me started being hilarious.

"Momma, it's getting dar-yark-- we should probably get going..."

"Think we should tell 'em, Mom?"

"You know what's good about Georgia? If you like it you can love it, if you don't like it, you don't have to go there. It's easy."

"Momma, where I'm from?"

Just can't help but smile at these things. Then we got to Atlanta and there were patrons with their panties all in a wad enough for all of us, so I figured I should just let it go already and get happy because, well, it really wasn't anyone's fault. Don't try telling that to Joe Throwafit at the counter, though.

I got my vouchers and my boarding pass for 8:30 a.m. on Friday and went to set up shop at the food court. As I sat, munching on my amazing hot dog and fries (really the best of both that I've ever had), the place cleared out and I realized it was mostly just me and the airport. Well, and the people at different restaurants around the court joking around with each other with brooms and mops and "you missed a spots" and "that is not my jurisdictions." Airports are loud and bustling. But somehow it's an oasis for me and I'm okay to just have my piece of still amongst it all.

God knows that tendency of mine. Probably knew I needed it, too. And there it was. Like a wave thats repeatedly crashed against this pier even as I've desperately tried to fortify the exterior against its rush-- there is a purpose for this. It's not a nuisance or even an easy-going attitude to accommodate the glitch in plans. It's not anything of my doing either way-- not any more than a weakening pier can withstand the growing force of hurricane winds, there to make a point.

It finally crossed my mind that maybe God had a point to make. And maybe I should be taking notes. Or, better yet, communicating with Him. So I did, with surroundings that I've always loved. Knowing it was in His hands made the rest of the adventure not only bearable, but desirable. A theme our entire family is beginning to pick up on as we pack ourselves and 21 years up and move it all to Fayetteville.

I arrived at the Days Inn around 11:30 p.m. and was so ready to crash but just couldn't. I was too hyped up remembering everything I love about hotel rooms (after already falling back in love with airports). Even those crazy hotel rooms that you're staying alone in on creepy Phoenix avenue. I had to stay awake for this stepping stone into adulthood-- a milestone solo-mission-style sleepover. I really couldn't even contain myself, let alone choose which of my two double beds to sleep on (I went with the one on the right, not that you care).

Ghetto hairdryer coming off the wall.

Ice bucket! I didn't even have a drink that needed ice, but the trip to the ice machine is such an integral part of any hotel stay.

Terrible coffee that you just have to make because it's there and so convenient and so perfect for bathtime with unlimited, immediate hot water.

Sunflower and grapefruit soap: who knew?!

1993 wallpaper border straight out of my parents bedroom (really, the same one).

Calling the front desk for a wakeup call.

Lights that you have to turn on lamp by lamp (highly scary the first time you enter the room and can't see a dang thing).

Free wifi (by which to write the post that I did that night) and satellite tv (that I fell asleep to).

Complementary breakfast (that I was up too early for, rude!)

I even almost put my clothes in the drawers just because there were so many of them and, you know, because I could. There was so much freedom, and that is no joke.

I don't go about my days feeling stifled. I have a family very supportive of my independent venture north and friends who want nothing but happiness for me. More than that, I worship and seek to serve a God whose very purpose in sending a Savior was to bring freedom to a world then-stifled by Old Testament law. I wonder how many of us still feel burdened by a law eradicated 2000 years ago that finds new avenues to make itself applicable today. How many held back by Satan not dangling bad things in front of us (though he does plenty of that and I, personally, hate him for it) but convincing us that good will do. How many, like me, are frustrated by finding that good is never enough like he promises. See, if anything, my shackles are those that I clench around my own fist-- this idea that if I could just make everyone happy, the world would be a peace. I enslave myself to keeping the peace, to looking blameless, to pleasing people.

But here I was, in either a horror movie or a dream come true, fed, bathed, caffeinated, comfy and warm free to be. Free to admit my faults and recognize hurt. Free to clear my mind and let it be enough-- a springboard, at least-- that I was, indeed, fed and (relatively, hopefully... but in all honestly, truly) safe. Free to be glad about that and not guilty for it. Not guilty for feeling positive and rested, peaceful and optimistic. Guilty only for judging myself by a law, a standard, that I'm freed from to begin with. Guilty only for distancing myself from the real standard-- the one of grace set forth by the living God who wants to come into my every day, my every action. The righteous God who gave all He had to put out the self-righteous flame underneath me in favor of imparting it to me through refinement and forgiveness. The God who promises His presence in the process. He was there and we were free to meet and I don't know that I was appropriately awed at that at the time (I was sidetracked by the tricks listed above).

I am so thankful for it now. As the rest of this break has flown by and been such fun in the company of my blood folk, as I look forward to a lot of work-- academically and emotionally, and as I think of the future in terms of careers (per the airport time, I am re-pumped for the flight attending option) I am not only grateful for the oasis time, but also for that freedom to meet with Him during any of that which anxiously knocks at the door. Thankful for the delight, but mostly for the reminder that accompanied it.

The Eye of the Beholder

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

(no I will not cite my source, I did entirely too much of that here)

On Wednesday night (when I masqueraded around like a member of the "Yates" family and as 180 middle school leader), Maddie (whom I convinced I was cool because I spelt her name the french way on her name tag: Made with an accent on the "e") kept giving me a hard time for proclaiming everything "beautiful."

Everything from someone's name to their hoodie (who doesn't love hoodie weather?!) to their court moves-- I had no problem expressing my affection.

She also said, "I wish I had a penny for every time you 'liked' something." And, having seen The Social Network for two nights in a row, I told her that Mark Zuckerberg did have a penny for every time somebody 'liked' something and then she looked at me like I'm crazy and now I'm hooked on Middle School 180.

Those kids are beautiful and their hearts are hungry. Most just want to be "cool" but no so much yet that they're afraid of acting CRAZY, which is one characteristic you just have to embrace about them. What's sad to me is that they're trying trying trying to be cool and few have any clue that they already are. What's ironic is that the kids who think they've attained the coveted moniker are actually the least fun of them all. I sit in a room discussing temptation with these girls and can't help but think "if you only knew." As Maddie makes fun of how quick I am with the word "beautiful", I wish I used it a little more carefully so that when I tell them they are beautiful girls, they'd hear the depth of my conviction and not just some slang.

They don't see themselves the way I see them. How could they? But if they could just listen, just get to know about me, trust me when I warn them of their instinct to chase chase chase "cool, rich, sexy, funny, hot, best, etc."

The thing about kids and the not-kids-for-much-longers is that the more time you spend with them, the more you'll see yourself in them. No matter your age. And, for me at least, the more you'll understand about God.

We don't see ourselves the way He sees us. How could we? But if we could just listen, get to know Him, trust Him when he wards us of our instinct to chase chase chase "cool," wealth, status, attention, popularity, addiction, pleasure.

Where I am, right now (oh yeah, that's coming), He thinks I am beautiful. That doesn't mean He loves my choices or my actions or my thoughts-- just like I know there must be some things going on in the lives of the ladies I sat in front of and discussed temptation with that I wouldn't so much approve of. But that wasn't what mattered as I looked them in their eyes and saw them for the potential they hold and the things they'll go through that don't have to be carried alone. Choices, actions, thoughts and all--God looks me in the eyes and says "pay attention, because you just don't know what is next."

The fact that He would do so--look past all the stuff He sent Jesus in the world to redeem to get right to my heart-- puts a conviction in me to confront what needs to change. Oh He sees it. Like when our RA came the other day and saw Solomon the illegal cat livin' up in our apartment. He waited for us to admit it. "Oh yeah, that's our cat..." That's when it's on the table for His forgiveness. How much better is "forgiven" than "looked past?"

"Looked past" lets things fester. Just like the desire for "cool" in the 7th grade becomes the desire for "cool" all wrapped up in sex and alcohol in the 11th, so pride right now becomes pride all wrapped up in hurt relationships and a haughty spirit down the road. I could see it for the girls, God can see it in me. To avoid it down the road means to address it and prepare a defense now.

Today. And then tomorrow. And then the next day. Each one with a beauty all its own. The beauty He saw in me the first day, and the beauty in watching me grow. I don't always see it. But it's in the eye of the beholder. And the beholder?

It's Him.

Reunited (and it feels so good!)

(originally written September 2, 2010)

It always manages to surprise me, how quick and seamless the transition back to the school world is. Summer seems like forever ago and I've chosen my topic for 4 different research papers this semester.

Welcome, Sadie.

Why thank you.

I say seamless. That probably isn't the best adjective. Fun, exciting, hilarious, adventurous, tiresome. Mostly. But seamless= not so much.

Noelle came last Thursday to hang out and get in some last bonding time before she, you know, gets a new roommate.

Oh yes, we celebrated that, too. By "we" I mean a bunch of us. Because we love Noelle and we are so thankful for the time to have been single with her. But we want her prepared for... not being single, if you will. I think we took care of that with a slew of new "outfits." And we even designed and modeled some of our own ensembles. There were some creative minds in the bunch. But mostly there were hearts that genuinely care for our sweet friend as she journeys into uncharted territory for all of us.

Then she had to leave to party on.

Meanwhile, back in FredVegas, I decided to fall back from adventures to Annapolis given that Arkie was acting weird.

Good thing, folks. Good. thing. Despite the fact that the car was acting slightly out of character, I agreed to help a couple of friends by following them to a relative's house, where they could drop off their cars to be serviced and I would drive them back to their house.

I said "I have nothing else to do this afternoon. Why not?!" (read: good thing I didn't have anything else to do....). (You're welcome for that small dose of dramatic foreshadowing).

So I get to the sketch driveway in Summerduck, Virginia (no lie). (and no, the AAA people didn't know where it was, either). (yes that was more dramatic foreshadowing). I put the car into park. Or I at least made the gear shift line up with the "P". Whether or not the car is actually in park is apparently relative these days. Imagine my surprise, then, when I took my foot off of the brake and the car goes, oh, about half a mile, before it clicks that something might be wrong. I'm that sharp. So I get my foot back on the brake about 2 seconds before rear-ending Chris's truck into the house/auto shop off of the unnamed road, which is off of the unnamed road, which is off of the unnamed road.

Thank God for emergency brakes.

No really, I did. Right then and there. Because that is how I roll. Pun intended. Come to think of it though, I don't know if it was right then. Right then I was trying to restart the car and was probably slightly distracted by that it wouldn't. Arkie wouldn't even try. That is when I started saying goodbye to my (no longer) faithful compadre. Once the car wouldn't start at all and was stuck in drive indefinitely and Chris was in the driver's seat-- that's when I said a small thank you for emergency brakes.

So we called AAA and went through 4 representatives because they couldn't understand why a girl from Little Rock would be in Summerduck, VA. Two things regarding this point. A. I've never once been treated like the move to VA was a step down from AR, so score Arkansas! (AR-1, VA-4,001) Don't get me wrong, I love them both, but Sarah Holljes, who is soon moving to the Natural State can attest, people usually rank the Commonwealth over the origin of WalMart. Ungrateful people. B. I, too, had no idea what I was doing in Summerduck.

While on hold with these truly trying to be of help people, I heard about 50 times that Justin Timberlake-- "that's right, Justin Timberlake!!"-- designs for Triple A apparel which you can find at "A. A. A. dot com." Exhilarating. I will do just that when I get back to civilization, thank you, recorded sales lady.

*September 24, 2010*

I started writing this story forever ago and have just now revisited the post. I still remember it all so vividly. It's just an out-of-body kind of experience when you're outside of civilization in the whacky parts of Virginia with people you don't really know that well and then they call up Dave the crazy tenant who shows up in his old truck on some rampage about how much Chris owed him for this because he was supposed to mow his Mother's lawn by sundown.

And then you can't find your phone. So you interrupt Dave's explosion to ask to look in your bag in the bed of the truck so you have it if, you know, something happened.

I don't care to dream what "something" might entail, but you can never know.

And then Dave starts talking about how feminism ruined his appetite because now women can't cook and then you get told you look like a person who could spare $40 anyway when that's the tow bill and you're hauling things like a Tivo and a sack of water bottles and sparkling grape juice (and Dave makes a comment along the lines of "you're probably a virgin, too, huh?") because you're not sure if you'll see you car after A and J Automotive gets done with it and you've emptied it's contents into the truck bed.

All of this while dressed to the nines for the Annapolis wedding shower I didn't end up going to because I sensed Arkie was done for. Heels and jewelry and all. Not exactly Summerduck style.

It's fine, though, because when I got home Claire was making us all dinner and we laughed over candlelight and talked through our first weeks of class, respectively, and committed ourselves to starting a fresh, new week.

And that's exactly what we did. (that was before I got a ticket once I got Arkie back because we'd used the temporary parking pass from the dashboard to write down the towing numbers and I left it with Chris and couldn't print out a new pass. What do you do but laugh?)

I was really glad it all happened, though.

A. Back in Peru, I helped pass out letters Chris and Lizzie wrote to the kids and watched as they beamed because their "future mom" and "future dad" cared about them. I made note in that moment that I really didn't know Chris and Lizzie that well and probably should because they use the money that they manage to save to physically visit these kids and when they don't have the money to write because they care. This was my chance. In a strange package.

B. There are awesome freshmen at the BCM this year. For some reason this is the first year that I've really considered what it was like to come to this place and not know a soul and have no real way of exploring the city around me (besides random journeys in Ruby). It's like I got a car and life took off and the opportunities were endless. I lost the connection to the days of wishing someone would offer a ride and then the amazing blessing it was to have people take an interest in the newcomers. So as I was meeting the new freshmen, my car was taken from underneath me and I was leveled with these awesome people and put in the place of humility where I always belonged.

C. I was re-acquainted with the blessing it is to have a Dad to call when my car is broken and I'm stranded (well, until Dave came to the rescue). First, just to hear his reassuring voice. Secondly, to know he'll do whatever he can to help. What did I do to get that? The answer isnothing. And so my mind wanders to the people who don't have that in life. The voice and the means to help from their dads. Then my mind has a talking-to with my heart and tells me to do something about it but the problem is I don't know and there are papers and tests and weddings and parties and family and fun to distract myself with until I remember that none of it is as satisfying a cause as actually taking Jesus and his commandments at His Word andhelping people.

D. Along those lines-- and despite the tone I take in this post to be humorous because reallywhat even happens in Summerduck, Virginia?-- my time in the rural parts and my interaction with people that Sunday reminded me that I am no better than Dave. The unnamed streets that AAA can't find are filled with people no less important to God than the people on College Ave. I am no more-- or less, for that matter-- loved by God for wearing a ruffly dress from Target and having an iPhone to call for help from a loving home.

So now I'm reunited with the striking young sportscar with wide hips and seats that hug you and reminded of things my busyness would've sped over.