happy halloween.

Truthfully, Halloween as an adult just isn't as fun as Halloween as a child.  Maybe it has something to do with Mom picking out all my costumes for me... No stress!

part ii: dancing.

{via}

Written for a Bible study on David and the Psalms. October 18. 

How often do our mountaintop experiences end in disappointment or ridicule?

David comes off his spiritual high rejoicing, praising God in a way I don’t think we fully understand or appreciate.

And he is greeted at the foot of his mountaintop by an increasingly unhappy wife.

A wife who cannot fathom the depth of her husband’s love for his Lord.

A wife who shakes her head in embarrassment.

Who explains away the praise.

“Oh, that’s just David, showing off again. You know how he can come across. Just give him what he wants: look at him. Maybe then he’ll stop.”

I am learning that there are a lot of Michals in this world.

People who roll their eyes or judge motives of the heart.

Our God doesn’t applaud that kind of behavior.

So why do I so often hide my own dance from others’ eyes?

I cannot begin to count the number of times I have fallen to the ground, asking my Father for more faith, more understanding. Begging for forgiveness and help from above.

He has always answered.

But I don’t know that I have always danced.

I wonder if I’ve let the Michals of this life determine how I give praise to my Creator.

I bet my Father wishes I would have danced.

After I rose up from the water, or

The day my grandmother’s cancer went into remission, or

On that spring afternoon I found out God had given me the internship of my dreams.

I wonder if I danced with abandon on my wedding day, or

The morning I graduated with that hard-earned degree.

Did I dance when my father got the job he needed, or

After a professor informed me I could—and should—become who I wanted to be?

My life is overflowing with these moments of triumph, of blessing. Moments when God gave me just what I had been looking for.

I wish I had danced more.

And I think I will dance more.

Because the Michals of the world are missing out. They’re holding back their own praise and criticizing others’, all in the name of pride.

I don’t want to be one of them.

So I will celebrate mightily.

I will remember regularly.

And I will choose to dance with abandon.

part i: love.

There are times in my life when I am at a complete and utter loss for words. 

This is not one of those times. 

In fact, the past few days I've had a lot of words on my heart. Thus far, they have gone unspoken, and many will remain that way. But some need to be said. They need to be spoken in order to be understood, so that my heart and the burden on it can be lifted.

So here it goes. 

These words, supposedly spoken by Mahatma Gandhi, frequently haunt me:

I like your Christ, but I do not like your Christians. They are nothing like your Christ. 

I'm not sure I'm more scared of anything.

I do not want to be an ineffective disciple of Christ. 

I strongly believe that the world is seeking something. And for many, their seeking will ultimately lead to some type of belief. I hope and pray it is a belief in the God I serve. 

The God that created the universe. 

The God that sent His Son. 

The God that raised His Son. 

The God that loved. 

The God that forgave. 

This is the God I want others to know. 

But the only way many will know Him is by me: by my actions and the actions of my brothers and sisters. 

This is where I hit a brick wall. 

Because the church is full of a bunch of imperfect, immature people. People who make mistakes. Who hurt others. Who pass judgments and say things that should remain unsaid. 

People like me. And you.

And so I think about Gandhi, and what Christians he must have met that made him feel the way he did. 

My Sunday school lessons taught me at least this: "Christian" is literally translated "little Christ." When I put that name on, when I became one with Him, I took on His name. And His name is supposed to mean everything. It's supposed to cover me. My actions are no longer my own. My words are no longer my own. 

They are His. 

Gandhi should have seen Christians and seen Christ. 

As I frequently tease with my parents and my husband: We are the only Jesus some might ever see.

And I mess up. My words come out wrong. My actions fail me (and Him). But I repent, and I begin again. 

So, what about the church? 

What happens when the church, when my brothers and sisters and those set apart to lead, mess up? 

When judgments are passed and good work is left undone? 

When priorities are misplaced and verses are plucked from their context?

What kind of message are we sending? 

Is it love? 

Because in all my reading of Scripture, in all my classes, in all my years at Christian school and at my parents' dinner table, I learned this: 

God is love. 

His Son is love. 

So we are love. 

All of Scripture-- every chapter, every verse-- boils down to that. Love. 

And if we're not loving, then I think something is wrong. 

And if the verses we quote and if the message we preach is not said in love, then we're not representing Him. 

We've failed. 

Our mission has failed. 

My words should be His. Not ripped from passages, not misquoted, not said out of arrogance or malice or self-righteousness. 

My words should be His. Said out of love, after prayer, and with a desire for peace. 

God is love. 

His Son is love. 

We are love. 

And our words, which are His, should be love. 

I have to get better at that. Our church has to get better at that. 

Because we may be the only Jesus people ever see.

i am learning.

I am learning that a handful of great friends is better than a bunch of so-so ones... even if the great ones are a long way away. 

I am learning that my faith isn't dependent upon others but upon the God that I serve. 

I am learning that Christians are truly an imperfect people, saved solely by the grace we have been given by our Creator. 

I am learning what it means to be redeemed. 

I am learning that my family is a treasure. 

I am learning that life is not about me. 

I am learning about the blessings marriage brings.

I am learning the definition of true friendship. 

I am learning that my God calls me to serve, not fill a pew.

I am learning to step up when other won't. 

I am learning that questions should be asked even if they will not always be answered. 

I am learning that we don't always get what we want; we get what's best for us. 

I am learning my purpose in being.

Some of these lessons hurt. Some of these lessons are hard. 

But I am learning. 

"Let the wise listen and add to their learning, and let the discerning get guidance."

- Proverbs 1:5

my gift to you.

I think you'll be pleased. 

Happy weekend!

for my [far into the future] children.

In 2004, I met your father. Your father with his mop of curly hair and his mischievous smile. (Which I learned was not mischievous at all; your father, in an irony of ironies, is a rule-follower, and I, former class valedictorian and teacher's pet, have become the rule-breaker. "Drive faster," I say. "Skip school, just this once!") 

Your father and I became fast friends. He was my comfort zone in a place I was not always comfortable: Alabama, the land of accents as thick as sweet tea. We encouraged each other, endured each other, and wound up loving each other. 

Four years later, I married him. My best friend.

We moved into a tiny apartment that I dubbed our treehouse. I fell in love with it. I was Anne of Ingleside, and he was my Gilbert.

Our first year was full of ups and downs. Lots of laughs, many tears. But mostly, just happiness. Because, here is what I learned: the Beatles had it right.

John, Paul, Ringo, and George weren't just songwriters; they were truth-tellers.

Because. 

All you need is love.

That's it. Then, now, and forever.

Love for the Father. 

Love for each other. 

Just love. 

And that was year one.

a little update.*

Jordan and I took advantage of the rare fall weather (or is it winter?) that hit Tallahassee this weekend. Friday night, we enjoyed a showing of "E.T." at a local pumpkin patch. It was so cold, but so worth it. Plus we picked out a new pumpkin (our other beauties rotted in the heat); I'm thinking about carving our initials in this one.

Saturday, our church hosted a community clothing giveaway. The response was absolutely astounding. It's amazing what our God can do if we just let Him work. At the same time, it's heartbreaking to see how many people in our relatively small city are in need. Poverty is not a big-city issue, and God calls us to help His children, wherever they are. I think Saturday, we did our part, but there is still work to be done. 

The hubs and I then spent the next couple of hours perusing used books at the local library's used book sale downtown. I bought a 1937 copy of Pride and Prejudice, a collection of Tolstoy's letters, and a very vintage-looking cookbook from a Mobile, Alabama junior league. In total, seven hardback books for $14. Honestly, cheap books make my day. And rearranging my collection of books by color? Just the seasonal change I needed. 

We watched football (and, in my case, "Man Shops Globe"), then loaded up Jordan's 4Runner with blankets and a cooler before heading out to a drive-in showing of Harry Potter.

Jordan and I don't get many weekends like this one. We either travel to see friends or family or overbook ourselves to the point of exhaustion. We have to grocery shop (me) or catch up on law school work (him). This weekend was a treasure. 

Even though lounging on our couch and watching Law and Order reruns is one of our favorite pastimes, I also think it's important to get out and do. 

So this weekend, that's what we did. I loved every minute.

Next on our list of "dos"? A local farm tour. Brilliant.

*Typically I would entertain you with photos of aforementioned events, but alas, remember our little Savannah excursion? My digital camera has been completely out of pocket since then. I did, however, take my new Diana out to play. Keep your fingers crossed that I got some good ones, since I mostly felt like I was taking pictures with a child's play thing.

and i wonder.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever do what I want to do. 

Be who I want to be. 

What I mean is: will I ever write a book? 

Because, I'm discovering, that's really what I want to do. 

I want to sit at home, curl up in a chair or sit at my desk, and write my days away. 

I want to put my own story-- real or imagined, I've yet to decide-- to paper. 

And you know what? 

I really believe I will. 

Because there is proof. 

God put me in this new job. Quickly, I might add. One day I said a prayer. Boldly, earnestly, desperately. And He moved.

And now I am here. At a job that is challenging. Where I am stretched. Forced to reach out of my box and deep into myself for the words I had forgotten were there. 

I'm writing. Researching. Editing. Interviewing. 

In other words, preparing. 

Don't think for a second I'm going to stay right here. 

My God, I think, has proved He is bigger than where I am. Bigger than my comfort zone. Bigger than the cubicle or office or school where you are.

And although I believe He calls us to contentment RIGHT HERE, I also believes He is constantly preparing the next thing for us. 

And because my Father knows my passions, the deepest desires of my heart that even my husband doesn't know, He will help me fulfill them. 

And I am so glad.

--

You Are 

I am here. 

And You are there. 

I cry out. 

And You hear. 

I stumble.

And You pull me out of the pit. 

I am paralyzed. 

And You move.

I sit. 

And You push me to my feet.

I am at the top of the world.

And You bring me to my knees.

I am blessed.

And You call me to serve.

I am silent.

And You are my words.

I see. 

And You ask me to look deeper.

I am angry, hurt, disappointed. 

And You show me love.

I am lost.

And You save.

Again. And again. And again. 

Always.

for the foodies.

This weekend, I designed a blog header for one of my dad's coworkers, and I thought I'd share the result. 

Velva's blog is a great source for delicious recipes. I think I may even check this one out for myself. 

Enjoy!

the least.

I have a confession to make. 

Dave has been getting on my nerves. 

Surely you remember Dave, the homeless man who came into our lives rather unexpectedly in a downtown McDonald's?

He's been joining us for church off and on for the past few months, sitting next to us, occasionally spitting in a cup and singing a hymn. 

And for a while, it was a blessing. Dave taught us a lot about life, about expectations, about making a church feel like a welcoming place. 

But lately... our time with Dave has begun to take its toll.

Our new home is at least a 20 minute drive from our usual Dave pick-up point, making Sunday mornings a whole lot more chaotic than they used to be.

Some days Jordan has to leave a little earlier, and we drive in separate cars, causing some logistical issues when it comes to lunch and spending time with family and friends.

Then, in a spectacle that made us more than slightly uncomfortable, Dave made some rather racist comments about a biracial couple at our congregation. 

A few weeks later, while Jordan was leading communion at our church, Dave got up and walked out of the building, and, we found out later, walked several miles back to McDonald's without any warning. 

His behavior has become more sporadic. Normally, Dave calls Jordan on Saturdays to request a ride. For the past two weeks, Jordan has arrived to pick him up, and Dave has changed his mind, refusing to join us for worship. 

Sundays are a little more dramatic, a little more frustrating, than they once were, and selfishly, I'm tired of it. 

Then tonight, in a sermon that spoke right to my self-centered heart, I realized, yet again: it's not about me. 

Dave is one of the "least of the these": an individual who I am called to serve not because it is convenient or easy, but because he is a child of God. He deserves mercy and grace because my Father offers it freely. He gave it to me, and He gives it to Dave through me and my husband. 

As a flawed human being, perhaps one with mental incapacities, Dave will let us down again. He will show up late, cause us to be late, or reject what we consider to be our best. But that should not change how we behave. 

That's why next Sunday, I will wake up 20 minutes earlier. Jordan will show up to Bible class a little bit later. 

And we will serve a little bit better. 

God has called us to serve "the least of these" because that's what we once were.

the one we've been waiting for.

So, we're having a party tonight in honor of the most functional couple on television...

Would it be silly to cry? At a TV wedding? Maybe. But I might do it anyway. 

Speaking of which... Guess who will be celebrating their one year anniversary in just one month?

Wow.

i love trains.

A house on an abandoned railroad station? 

Yes, please.

More here.

their stories.

I am a sucker for other people's stories. 

Reading is a passion of mine; I could get lost in a good book for hours, and, much to my friends' and family's dismay, I have done just that on many occasions. 

The books I find myself drawn to the most, at least in the past few years, are memoirs. The stories and essays others have written about their own lives. True stories that they want passed town, written in print, shared for the ages. Here are a few of my favorites: 

In the Sanctuary of Outcasts, by Neil White

This is the book I'm currently reading-- and loving. Written in true Southern style, White shares his stories from his year spent behind bars at Carville, a federal prison shared with a medical home for the remaining Americans with leprosy. I haven't been able to put it down.

Somebody Told Me, by Rick Bragg

Another Southern favorite, this book may be more of a collection than a memoir. Bragg, a well-respected journalist, has compiled some of his best-known stories in this volume, and I love every one. His feature stories are some of the best I've ever read.

Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller

One of my favorite modern theology books, this one had me from the first page: "Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way."

The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion

Didion's honest memories of the year after her husband's death brought me to tears. At some points, I simply had to put the book down; it was so gut-wrenchingly honest. Didion is a brave writer, and her words are achingly beautiful.

Audition, by Barbara Walters

Walter's autobiography may not be the best memoir I've ever read, but the woman has done some pretty amazing things and interviewed some fascinating people, so her book is definitely worth the read.

A Grief Observed, by C.S. Lewis

Another retrospective on a spouse's death, this time from a person of faith's point of view. Perhaps oddly, Didion and Lewis come to a lot of the same conclusions. I guess death brings us all to our knees. Due to his honesty, this book is one of my favorites of Lewis'.

How Reading Changed My Life, by Anna Quindlen

I couldn't very well leave Quindlen off the list. Since the 12th grade, I've wanted to write like her. I checked my bookcase, and sadly, this particular work isn't on it. I need to fix that ASAP. It's a book for readers everywhere. 

Now, your turn. Any worthwhile memoirs I'm missing?

To whom it may concern

Dear Mr. Gervais,

I suppose this all bothers me more than it should. What can I say? I guess I just take my faith seriously. I realize that's probably hard for you to understand, but I'd like to explain in hopes that you might feel one ounce of remorse toward belittling the God that I serve (and the God you will one day have to answer to).

First off, I think you're a comedic genius. Really. The Office might just be my favorite show of all-time, and although I've never seen the British version, I'll give you partial credit for the U.S.' hilarious adaptation. I've also seen you interviewed on several occasions, and you've never ceased to entertain. That's something, considering you don't always have a script in front of you. In addition, Ghost Town remains a favorite of both my husband and me (though under appreciated, I think, at the box office).

But to the point at hand.

You are an atheist. 

And you chose to make a movie about it. 

Good for you. I admire someone who stands up for their beliefs. What I do not admire, however, is hiding behind laughs and well-positioned marketing to sell your movie as nothing more than your latest comedic endeavor. I wish you would have at least had the nerve to own up to the fact that this film is nothing more than your personal belief about the God billions of people call their own.

In a sense, all the marketing done for The Invention of Lying has, in fact, been a lie. How clever! Way to go, Warner Brothers. You definitely had me going. Unfortunately, I consider myself a savvy consumer, and I research my films before I shell out $20 at AMC.

But, this isn't a letter toward Warner Brothers, is it? Nope, this is to a talented writer and comedian who chose to make a movie that doesn't just poke fun at God, but calls Him the biggest lie ever told.

My, how original.

Honestly, I feel sorry for you. Not because you are an atheist, but because your beliefs-- and they are beliefs, like it or not-- about God are so very small.

See, the God I serve and call Father doesn't just sit up in His throne in the sky, pouring down edicts and striking us with lightening when we behave badly.

My God is bigger than that, and He loves me more than that.

My God doesn't choose to reign in the unreachable sky. 

He instead chooses to reign here, where I am, on the earth He created out of pure joy. 

He wakes me up each morning and provides my every breath and the blue sky I love. He blesses me with talent, with work, with family. He guides my feet, watches my path, and listens to my voice.

He cares so much about me that He gave of Himself so that one day, I could be with Him face-to-face.

What's more, He did the same for you.

The God I know is crossing his fingers for you, hoping you'll change your mind. He undoubtedly sends His angels to you, protecting you and comforting you, even when you do not deserve it. 

He cares about us both, loves us both. 

The only difference is that I love Him back. 

I have given my life to Him, and you know what? It wasn't hard or painful. It didn't rid me of my independence or ruin my chance at happiness. 

It made me better. 

A better daughter, a better wife, a better sister, and a better friend. 

A better writer, a better listener, a better worker. 

Perhaps you don't want to be better, and that's where the truth comes in. 

You don't have any God-shaped hole or desire for more. 

You're just a sad little man who gains success and attention not for your talent, but for your stance on something wildly off-base and completely untrue. 

My only real request is that if you are going to bash my God, please, do some research first. 

Stop spreading lies about the almighty God who rules this universe, who created your very breath.

Most of us left the "my God sits in the clouds looking down on me" stage of our faith behind with our diapers. 

Sincerely,

A proud daughter of a loving, kind Father 

on friendship.

I've been thinking. 

And as I sit down to finally type my thoughts, I find that they aren't nearly as eloquent as I first imagined. I suppose this is what comes of writing constantly in your head instead of putting thoughts to paper, of drying your hair and thinking your thoughts instead of getting out the computer to type them. 

Oh well. 

I've been thinking a lot about friendships, both lost and found, old and new. Though, admittedly, mostly old. 

I am a small group person, a girl who divulges her true self to few. I used to consider this admirable, the better option. I'd much rather have a group of close confidants than a throng of semi-acquaintances. 

But what happens when your close confidants are spread about the Southeast, and you are left alone? 

This is the question I've been asking myself over the past couple of weeks, as I struggle with this process of making new friends and keeping the old, the proverbial silver and gold. I've got to tell you, it's not easy. 

I feel as if I am torn; who to choose? Because, I feel like I must choose. I don't have time to be friend to all. Remember, I'm friend to few, and I like it that way. I shy from the throng and cling to the treasured couple of girls who know me best. 

So if I'm to make new friends, I'm not sure my personality can cling to the old, and vice-versa. My brain just simply can't do it. I'm not wired that way. I am all or nothing. 

And I hate it. 

I just don't do casual. I want kindred spirits, not Facebook friends. 

Kindred spirits, though, are unique. You can't have very many. 

My thoughts are tangled; do you see? 

They became even more tangled when my complementary issue of Comment magazine arrived in the mail today. (A publication recommended to me, ironically, by one of my long distance kindred spirits.)

There it was, on the cover: Long Distance Friendships.

Why, yes, I thought. 

Just what I was looking for. Just what I needed. 

Then I read this: 

"A circle of friends is a finite and time-bound joy. A circle of friends allows you to believe, for a stretch of time, that you can choose your own kin. A circle of friends is like the threshold of heaven, truly, since heaven will be a community. But in truth, in ugly truth, for much of adult life, you are essentially alone."

I read, and I wanted to cry. Because I think those words are true, and I don't like it. 

I don't like that when I'm bothered by something, I think of exactly who I want to tell, and they are unavailable to me. In a very real sense, I want heaven now, community now. 

Truthfully, I wonder if the college students I see around me understand how lucky they are. They are experiencing a little slice of heaven on earth; do they know it? 

I don't look back on my time in college with rose-colored glasses. I will admit, it took me a while to find those true friends. I'm a hard sell. My childhood did not really prepare me for the friend-making process, as my best friend and I met in the 2nd grade and have continued our friendship into adulthood, semi-successfully. I went to the same school from 2nd grade through graduation day. For the most part, my friends were consistent. 

The day my parents dropped me off at Faulkner, I bawled my eyes out. What was happening? I was alone. But then, I made friends almost immediately; those friendships, naturally, didn't last. It wasn't until several weeks in that I met my best friend-- the one who, amazingly, will be by my side through all of this life's ups and downs-- and then the others came. 

Thank you, God, for those. Those girls who became my support system. The girls who, despite all odds, have remained my friends through time and distance (and my own difficult self). Because, this December will mark the second anniversary of my graduation from college, and those friends remain. 

I think. 

Because, here is what I am learning, and what I think the article I read tonight was trying to get across: friendships change, just like everything else. 

I truly hate that, but it's true.

Tonight, I tried calling two my dear friends. The ones who I think get me better than most. 

And I couldn't reach them. 

I hope they don't read this and feel guilty. They shouldn't. No one can ever reach me by phone. I never answer because I am an overcommitted yes-woman. They have called me and texted me several times in the past month, and I have been unavailable. 

Tonight, I tried them, and they were the same. Unavailable, undoubtedly busily completing their own commitments.

Because, life, sadly, goes on. 

Why is that? 

I don't like it. I want this ball I'm on to stop its spinning, because, the truth is, three years ago, I didn't know what I had. 

No one told me I had heaven at my fingertips. 

Now, as I lay in bed waiting for the one best friend I got to bring with me, I'm wondering what will happen. 

I think I might know, and the more I comprehend it, the more comforted I become.

Because, already, in two years, I've left behind so many friends. Friends I thought would be the forever kind. And they are gone.

But a handful I still think are forever. And here is the litmus test: when we come back together, after days, months, even years, it is the same. 

Not us. We change. That is, thankfully, inevitable.

But the friendship is the same. I can't explain it, except to say that God knows I need some heaven here. So He graciously grants me those friends. The friends that rejoice when I rejoice and weep when I weep.

 I am lucky to have them, and that is why I will fight for them. Friendships do come and go, I'm convinced. They are cyclical. I suppose I will have a new batch when the next stage of my life comes around. We will be blessed by each other. 

But I intend to keep my kindred spirits, to fight for my slice of heaven. 

I want to end, because I am rambling, and I assume I've lost most of my already-slim audience. I'd like to close with some words from the article I read tonight: 

"Because I am made in God's image, I long for eternal things. Because I am redeemed for eternal life by God's Son, I connect everything I am to eternity. My relationships are no different. But we are still living in the temporal. This paradox ... is what I struggle with."

Thoughts?