happy things.

After over six months of sickness-free living, I'm a little under the weather with a cold that has me sneezing and blowing my nose every five minutes. 

My comfort in times like these? That Tom Hanks fell for a congested Meg Ryan as she walked around her brownstone in a trenchcoat, stuffing dirty Kleenex in her pocket. Colds can be cute, apparently. 

This brings me happiness. 

This, and these lovely things: 

Cheers reruns on Netflix. I love me some Sam Malone. 

(And the theme song never fails to make me smile.)

Business trips to Destin, and saltwater in the air. 

Driving with the windows rolled down. 

Mild, almost fall-like temperatures. 

Football season. 

Supper club plans. 

An entire day spent in PJs, watching episodes of Picker Sisters. 

(Have you guys seen this show? I think I found my dream job...)

Mailing fun giveaway packages to happy recipients. 

This clutch, which I'm currently using as a wallet. Love it.

Bubble baths. 

Good books. 

Looking ahead to weekends spent at home. 

---

That's what making me happy this Friday. What about you?

the sanctity of home.

{photo by Adrian Gaut for The New York Times}

Slowly but surely, I am clearing things off of my list.

I am working diligently, desperately trying to line up the present with the future, hoping that the activities I am erasing from our schedules will result in a simpler, quieter kind of life.

It is different than I thought it would be, this weeding out process.

Most people don't want quiet and simple.

The time home alone that my husband and I so lovingly treasure? It is an anomaly to many of the people we love.

Our friends -- friends who we count as nothing but blessing -- raise eyebrows when we tell them our Friday nights are reserved. Date night, we say, and I think sometimes people must wonder: Isn't every day a date at your house? Because, true, there are no little ones crawling under our feet, and homework no longer calls us from the corner.

But our days are long, and our nights can be full. And besides, date night is special; it is set apart. And I think we both secretly hope that by making Friday nights sacred now, they will be sacred in the days to come, days when babies' giggles fill our rooms and gray hairs begin sprouting on heads.

Date night is sacred, and so is our home.

This place where we gather at the end of the day? We love it. It is our shelter from the storm, our safe and happy place.

And for all the book clubs and the sports teams and the friendships and the game nights, Jordan and I know: We love each other first.

My mother often has told me the story of when she and my dad met, of when they began to fall in love. And just a few months into that get-to-know you process, my father asked my mother to marry him.

And she said no.

No, because she didn't want to get married just for married's sake. No, because she'd watched as her siblings struggled through marriages that maybe weren't so nice, marriages that ended in heartbreak and heartache. No, because she didn't want to have just another marriage.

She told my dad she only wanted excellent.

And he promised that's what they would have.

So they got married.

And their excellence -- not, mind you, perfection -- has always been in front of me.

These two people who choose each other over friends, who sometimes say no to everything else in order to say yes to one another... These are my examples.

So Jordan and I want excellence, for our marriage and for our home. 

And excellence is rare, I think. In the pursuit of busy-ness, people have sacrificed the excellent, the sacred. They have sacrificed marriage and home. 

We're not willing to do that. And as the invitations and the requests and the to-do list tasks begin pouring in, I want to remember why it is I want to say no, need to say no.

It is because we want excellent. We want a happy marriage and a happy home. We don't want his-and-hers lives.

We want a life that's ours, a life that makes the Father glad He brought us together because we are grateful for and protective of the gift.

happiness is.

 {photo by One Love Photo via Snippet & Ink}

happiness is...

long talks with good friends

dreams of autumn vacations

plans for out-of-town guests

a little retail therapy

scheduled trips to seaside

miraculous breezes in the middle of hot august days

a new version of an old song

late night yogurt runs

precious little ones with chubby cheeks

realizing it's already wednesday

emails from those i love
yummy cupcakes
brand new planners
the hope of the weekend
meeting new faces
watching a good movie
comfy clothes
a nap on the couch

what's making you happy today?

august.

 {Photo of Emma Stone by Kurt Iswarienko via Pinterest}

It’s about this time of year I become an absolute waste of human flesh. All I want to do is lay on top of clean white sheets with the fan on high, only interrupted by trips out to the pool. (Though if I really had my way, I’d just live at the beach for the entire summer, traveling back and forth from couch to waves all day long.) A couple of weekends ago, we had a free Saturday — the only one for weeks — and literally the only thing I had any desire to do was lay on the couch and watch Parks and Recreation. For hours. And hours.

This is what happens every August, by the way. The heat becomes unbearable, and every step I take outside results in frizzy hair, melting makeup, and sweat dripping (pouring?) down my back.

I’m reminded, again, of the gift of seasons, even the subtle ones the South experiences. How each winter, I become increasingly ready for spring, and each spring for the warmth of summer, and each summer for the new breath of fall. (Laken mentioned this very phenomenon here.) I am in awe of a Creator who, by His imagination and goodness, never tires of the cycle. He knows precisely when to turn the page, when enough is enough, and He grants us a new season, a new month, a new day. He does it all, over and over and over again.

But not me.

Without fail, there will be at least one day during the week — I’m guessing somewhere around Thursday — when I look at the clock or the calendar and say without fail, “Really? That’s it? It’s only Thursday?” I groan inwardly at the thought that each day, I get up, shower, brush my teeth, dress myself, and head to work. I come home and check the mail and walk the dog and cook dinner. And I do it all again, day after day, and by Thursday, it has become dull. I am ready for a schedule-less Saturday, for date nights and dinners out, for movies and trips to the grocery store.

Yet each season and day is given to us with joy by the Father. He gets up and does it again and again and again.

He is strong where we are so very weak.

“For grown-up people,” writes G.K. Chesterton, “are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”

My Father is a Father of seasons, a God who exults in the ability to bring us days and months and seasons, over and over, world without end. And my little human heart can barely stand how awesome it is that He does it all because He loves me.

expectations.

 {photo by Christinne Muschi for Reuters, found here}

I love to take quizzes. You know, those quizzes and surveys that get stuck in the back of magazines or sneak up on you when you’re searching the internet. I’ve pored over my Myer-Briggs results (I’m an INTJ, and, guess what, so is C.S. Lewis, so… score!) and discovered what house I belong to in Hogwarts. I’ve learned what color looks best on me and which decorating style matches my personality. Some results I agree with (there is no doubting my Myers-Briggs profile), and others I think are pure bunk.

Back in high school, I took a quiz — I don’t even remember where I found it, nor do I remember the premise behind its questions — and the results were positively eerie. So eerie that I printed them out and stapled them to the back of my bedroom door. Ten years later, there they still are, reminding me of who I was at 16, and, really, who I still am at 25. I wish I knew where I took this quiz, who wrote it, or who published it, because it describes me perfectly.

You are a mix of a reliant and a dreamer. Your friends can count on you, especially when they need a favor. You always stand your ground. They appreciate you for that, and they welcome your consistency of character. You’re disappointed when you don’t get the same reliability in return.

You want meaning out of life. People are important to you. Your relationships can make or break your day. Your friends are amazed at how well your intuition works for you. You demand no less than truth and justice.

It’s that last line of the first paragraph that’s always stuck with me, because it’s so very true. I hate to admit it, but there it is.

Last Sunday, the minister at our congregation greeted parishioners by saying, “I hope you came in with high expectations today!”

And I wondered to myself if I really had.

I’ve always been a high expectations person. Vacations, theme parks, life events, friendships: I have high expectations for all of the above. Often, as a result, I become disappointed. Vacations don’t go well. My favorite rides are broken. The first week of college is hard. Friends let me down.

My standards aren’t met, and it’s like a slap in the face.

But — as I suspect is the case with most high expectation people — I bounce back. I take more vacations, find new friends. I learn some lessons the hard way, sure, but I keep hoping; my standards remain high.

Lately, though, I’ve noticed that things are changing. It’s like I hit my limit for disappointment, and somewhere, deep down, I decided to become a low expectations person instead.

Low expectations people aren’t often disappointed because they’re too busy being pleasantly surprised. They thought vacation was going to be miserable, but, hey! It’s not! They thought their friend was going to cancel on their dinner party, but hey! They didn’t!

Their standards are lower, so there’s less cause for disappointment.

And even though I firmly believe the world probably needs both kinds of people, I’m discovering that I don’t like who I am when my expectations are low.

I’ve noticed — in tiny ways, perhaps (I hope), unnoticeable to the people around me — that I’m becoming more jaded, kind of bitter.

When I went into church last Sunday, and my minister greeted us in such an unusual way, it hit me: I hadn’t come in expecting much.

Sure, I wound up being surprised. The sermon was challenging, the singing was lovely, and we met some dear friends for lunch. It was a good day.

But I wish my expectations had been higher.

Because here’s the thing about having high expectations: Sometimes, they’re met. And when that happens, it’s like the world is as it should be. It reminds us that the dreams we have for ourselves and others can be achieved, and adventures are ready for the taking.

When they’re not met, though, there’s still — and I think this is key — a hope, deep down, maybe buried under a few layers, that one day, the expectations we set will be met. There’s an end goal, a calling and a desire for more.

And despite the occasional disappointment, I don’t want to lose that.

I want to be full of joyful expectation.

I want to be prepared to be surprised.

---

“Don't burn out; keep yourselves fueled and aflame. Be alert servants of the Master, cheerfully expectant.
Don't quit in hard times; pray all the harder.”

- Romans 12:11-12, The Message

four things.

 {arrangement by Once Wed, via my Pinterest}

Tuesday morning, semi-awake and definitely bleary-eyed, I read through this blog post, and I wondered: What are the four things in my life that I need to stay balanced and happy?

I like to think of myself as a fairly low-maintenance girl; I am genuinely happy most of the time. I think it’s the disposition I was born with.

But I also know that some days, happiness takes effort and work. I maintain a busy, active schedule, and in the past, my tendency has been to work and work and work and work until I am weary and rundown, incapable of lifting my head from the pillow.

In the past couple of years, I’ve tried really hard to work against that tendency, tried to institute moments of rest and relaxation that bring me back to my happy place, back to a more balanced way of living before complete insanity strikes.

I want my life to be simple and happy, and with each passing day, I realize that I have to fight for that simplicity and happiness. Last week, I read an article that said we — men and women alike — wear our stresses like badges of honor. We like sharing our outrageous stress levels with others. We want people to know how busy we are, how much we’ve got spinning on our dozens of plates. We compare our schedules and to-do lists, and we thrive when “hey-I-have-more-to-do-than-you” comes out of our mouths.

How very, very foolish we are.

The overachiever inside of me whispers that could be me. I could join the rat race and the chaos and the stress-induced insomnia… And I could win.

But the other part of me — and I hope the bigger part of me — whispers that life isn’t about to-do lists and schedules and chaos and stress.

It’s about the happy, simple day-to-day things that lead to balanced living. And now, in this moment, these are the four things that I need to maintain that kind of balance.

1. Good books. Thomas Jefferson once famously said, “I cannot live without books.” I don’t find that statement overdramatic in the least. I need books. Need them to keep me grounded, to keep my creative juices flowing, to keep my imagination running rampant. I need them to stretch my brain, to cause me to ask questions, to stimulate conversations with my husband. I need them because they help me turn off the computer, turn off the television. They help my brain to comprehend more than just snippets of facts; they help me process story and character and plot, and they lead to a better story for my own life.

2. Time with husband and family. As I watch others around me sift through grief and pain and desperation, I look at Jordan and I know: There is no one else who I would rather travel through this life with. He is my rock, and our home is my safe haven. Time with him brings me back to who I was at 18, to who I want to be at 45. This life is so full of uncertainty, of roller-coaster up and downs. And although I never know what the future might hold, I am grateful now for the time we have together. I need, too, time with family. Around them I can be completely myself. I can ask questions and discuss spirituality and sing at the top of my lungs while attempting a cannonball into the pool. I have so much to learn from the members of my family; time spent at their feet is never a waste.

3. Purpose. There is good, I know, in wandering aimlessly, in days spent being a little bit lazy and a lot relaxed. I like those days, need those days. But I also know that I am the best version of myself when I am serving a purpose. I need a goal, a mission. It needn’t be grandiose. I am learning every day that sometimes, my purpose will be tiny, even miniscule. Others may never know. But the Father does, and He smiles. I can find my purpose in throwing parties, in starting a new club, in hosting friends, in teaching a class, in cooking meals, in sending birthday cards and mailing notes. I need a purpose beyond my 8-to-5, or I get a little bit lost.

4. Simple pleasures. Originally, I thought my fourth and final "need" would be rest: I'm a girl who needs her eight hours of sleep, needs time to just sit and be. But then I got to thinking about all the little things in my life that make me happy: the fresh flowers from the grocery store. The painted nails done while sitting on the couch. The trips to the pool and date nights in Thomasville. The occasional magazine picked up while standing in line at Publix. The long baths and the pretty stationery and the Ben & Jerry's ice cream. These are little things that make me very, very happy; I know some of them seem frivolous, but they keep me smiling while I tackle things like bills and work and laundry and the tasks that lead to an overall bigger purpose. Here's to the little things, because sometimes, they turn out to be rather big after all.

When I truly sat down to think about what I would need to maintain a happy, balanced life, these are the four that kept coming back to me. What are yours?

reflections on loss + awe.

{photo from Brittany's blog}

All day Saturday, Jordan and I worked alongside one another, doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms, buying groceries, vacuuming floors. We've been out of town for the past couple of weeks, and our house -- our refuge, our shelter, our calm and happy place -- had fallen into disarray.

So we worked together. I rearranged the mantle, added a new rug, a few pillows. We stocked our refrigerator and planned menus for the week.

And at about 3:00, we remembered we had tickets for a Baroque exhibit in town, tickets that expired this week.

We left laundry in the tub and the living room a disaster.

And it felt good.

All of it, mind you. The cleaning, the shopping, the pausing, the making time for each other in the middle of the to-do list.

This weekend, a dear friend of my family's passed suddenly from this life. And it's that "suddenly" that gets you, that takes your breath away, that stops you in your tracks and makes you look at the sky and wonder: Why?

As believers, as people who trust that there is more to this life than even cleaning bathrooms and warm green grass and thick salty breezes, we hope and pray that our friend's life is only over here. That somewhere, somehow, he is laughing and dancing and reuniting.

But here?

Here there is hurt. And confusion. And loss.

And because of the sudden-ness of it all, you begin asking those cosmic questions, the what. The why. The who.

I wondered what my response should be.

To pray. To cry. To call the people we love and tell them so. To hold hands with my husband. To say thank you. To celebrate. To breathe.

This life is a short one. It's a gift, we know, but too often, we treat it like a crummy pair of sheets grandma found on the discount aisle.

We, quite simply, are not in awe of it enough.

And so when death comes -- to a friend, to a loved one, to a parent, to a child -- we reflect. And we wonder. And deep down, we remember: This gift will not last forever.

Saturday, as we changed sheets and cut fresh flowers and set chairs around the table in preparation for friends, I realized that grief has the power to paralyze. It can stop you and make you go breathless, and you might never be the same.

Or you can look around and know that for whatever reason, by whatever power, you are still here.

There are paintings to be gasped at, meals to be eaten, homes to be cared for, and loved ones to be held.

And I don't want to forget. In the chaos, in the mundane, in the hurt and in the celebration, I want to stand still and take it all in and be grateful. I want to look at the clouds and know that somewhere, Someone wanted me to have all of this. This moment was given to me to do with as I see fit.

I don't have to do anything spectacular with it. I just have to recognize it. Be grateful for it. Relish in it.

This weekend, I did that.

Hallelujah.

things that make me glad.

{found from Lindsay's Pinterest}

1. Fancy hotel rooms that I don't have to pay for.
2. The sale rack at Anthropologie and a $20 addition to my wardrobe.
3. A husband who does crossword puzzles in bed.
4. Blogging friends turned kindred spirits.
5. Anthology magazine. (Seriously, the lastest issue? Perfection.)
6. Starting new projects.
7. Pretty things from Ikea.
8. Grace.
9. Comfort food. (Try this, and thank me later.)
10. The possibilities for a weekend spent at home.

Here's to rest and relaxation. Happy Friday, friends.

top ten week: the end.

{photo by Dylan Martinez/AP}

It's been a fun week, hasn't it? Let's close out with a few random lists, from places I love to shop to what I do when dinner's a disaster:

Stores I frequent in my imagination/online shopping sprees in which I purchase nothing: 

1. Anthropologie
2. J.Crew
3. EmersonMade
4. Gap
5. Zara
6. Ruche
7. Fossil
8. Land's End Canvas
9. Urban Outfitters
10. ModCloth

---

Bloggers who I need to have a coffee date with, and stat (although, you should know: I don't like coffee. I know. I'm shocked too.):

1. Laken from Farmhouse
2. Jessica from Monster Cakes
3. Whitney from Happy Thoughts
4. Kara from Inspired Kara
5. Brooke from Playing Grown Up
6. Andrea from Four Flights
7. Kari from Through a Glass
8. Rachel from Number 17
9. Lauren from The Good Women Project
10. Any of the women from A Deeper Story

---

Dinner burned, so my solution is to...

1. Head to Whataburger.
2. Eat Ben & Jerry's. (Buy one, get one free at Publix this week. Go now.)
3. Curl in a ball and pretend my best friend Sookie St. James will come over and save the day.
4. Send Jordan for a pizza.
5. Put on some makeup and go out for a spontaneous date night.
6. Throw things.
7. Stand in front of my harvest gold oven and wonder why my quaint apartment still has appliances from the 1970s.
8. Open the freezer and stare until something good pops out.
9. Remember that I throw a darn good party.
10. Kiss my husband and praise God for fast food.

---

Life's too short...

1. To keep things to yourself.
2. To not drive with the windows rolled down.
3. To skip dessert.
4. To take things too seriously.
5. To not eat breakfast.
6. To not say "thank you."
7. To do something you hate.
8. To look in the mirror and grimace.
9. To not give 100 percent.
10. To move so fast.

---

This week's gifts:

1. Friends who you can talk and laugh with and never know what time it is.
2. The perfect springtime weather and bright blue skies.
3. Acceptance.
4. The Holy Spirit's voice.
5. Confident, secure, talented friends who ask questions and share in your joy.
6. Clean sheets and caught up laundry.
7. Puppy dog eyes.
8. Ordering books for cheap from Borders.
9. Being ready for bed at 7:00.
10. The beauty in the mundane.

caregiving.

 {My mother, aunts, and grandmother: Christmas 2010. Can you guess who I belong to?}

Mother’s Day was Sunday, and like a lot of you, I spent the day thinking about my mother, how grateful I am for how she chose to raise me and my brother, for the prayers she spoke on the way to school, for the talks on the front porch swing, the desserts baked and the bulletin boards created.

I thought a lot, too, though, about my mother as a caregiver.

For years now, I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to watch my grandmother age. Not every grandchild gets this, I know. For many, grandparents are simply too far away for grandchildren to watch the process unfold. But aside from the four years I spent away at school, I have lived near — sometimes just a few doors down from — my grandparents.

In fact, even when I was away at school, I lived in the same town as my father’s parents. My freshman year, I watched as my grandmother battled and beat brain cancer. The winter I graduated, I saw my grandfather quickly deteriorate as he fought against the lung cancer that suddenly took his life. These are bookends of time I am grateful to have observed.

But here in Tallahassee, I have watched as my grandmother has seemingly aged overnight. No cancer has plagued her body, no dementia or Alzheimer’s has taken over her mind. She is, quite simply, growing old. She is still tough, stubborn, and generous, but she is different from who she was even five years ago.

Getting old sneaks up on us, I think, and it is difficult to watch the ones we love become unfamiliar to us.

Yet my mother and my aunts have never wavered. They’ve never faltered in their definitions of what it means to care for their mother. They’ve combined households, quit jobs, driven to doctors’ and hair appointments, sacrificed free time…   All because they know: This is the right thing to do.

One day, when the burden was becoming particularly difficult for my mother to bear — and if you are a caregiver, you know: The burden is heavy — my brother reassured her, told her that what she was doing, every day, was worship. It was service. It was praise.

These selfless, mundane, everyday tasks are a gift to the Creator, and they are a gift to me, to my brother, and to my cousins, as we watch our mothers perform the tasks that we might one day have to do.

Sunday morning, like congregations across the U.S., our church honored our mothers. But I loved that our minister chose to focus his sermon on caregivers, those mothers, like mine, who are now parenting their parents.

The roles are reversed, and it is hard. I do not envy the tasks my mother and my aunts do with such dignity and grace. I have seen their tears and heard their frustration, because caring for others is never easy, and I imagine the task becomes especially difficult when it involves the men and the women you have relied on and called dad and mom.

My brother, my cousins, and I have been given a gift. There is not a day that passes that I am not grateful for the influence my mother, my aunts, and my grandmothers have had on my life. With each passing day, each facial expression, each laughter, each tear, I am becoming more and more like them, and I am glad. I only hope that one day, I can exhibit the gentleness and the grace and the patience they have shown in these days, because, whether they know it or not, they are showing us the way.

(I've posted Sunday's lesson below. If you or someone you love is a caregiver, I think it is a must-listen — I've already mailed Jordan's mother and grandmother their own copies.)

and it was good.

 {photo by Rebecca Wright on Oh Happy Day. As an aside, I want friends who crack confetti-filled eggs on my head. Any takers?}

This has been a good week.

I believe this is worth noting, because it is easy to recognize and complain about the weeks that feel long and drawn-out, as if Friday and Saturday are nothing more than the figments of my imagination, far-off castles in the air that I will never reach.

But this week, something changed; a shift occurred. I enjoyed Monday. Monday! Can you believe it? And Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday was my Friday, which made it automatically more enjoyable. (Although I’ve never found Thursday particularly offensive anyway.)

And by the time you read this, I will be long gone, on my way to visit the in-laws for Easter weekend.

I’m in the process of analyzing this week, trying to figure out what factor changed my attitude and made the days feel more like gifts and less like burdens. So many things are in the running:

Jordan and I rode to work together a few mornings, praying and talking.

Our refrigerator is full, and we cooked together two nights in a row.

I introduced my cousin to the girls we call Gilmore, and (praise be) she loved them. 

I completed one baby shower invitation, two blog redesigns, one wedding Save the Date, one graduation invitation, and three articles for the newspaper I write for.

As a result, I have money to buy clothes for the first time in months, and guess what? I can’t think of one thing I actually need. Contentment is a beautiful thing.

The legislative session went on a brief hiatus for Easter and Passover, removing lots of stress from both my work and personal life. No news is good news.

I completed day six of Couch to 5k. (I know. I am as shocked as you are.)

Parenthood went out with a bang, and hey, just like that: I got my Tuesday nights back. (Please tell me you watch Parenthood. If not, go. Go now. Catch up. And fall in love with it like we did.)

Speaking of television, are you watching The Killing on AMC on Sunday nights? You should be. I mean, you shouldn’t be if you’re not into crime shows. But if you are into crime shows, this is the best one ever. Each hour represents a day in the investigation. In other words, everything’s slower-paced. Which I love.

We started the week with frozen yogurt at my new favorite place in town.

See? So many good things. But really, I wonder if it all boils down to the fact that this is the week.

The week it all started.

The week my Savior chose to walk down the long, dusty road to Calvary. To silently bear our sins so we could be with Him forever.

I am in awe of the fact that thousands of years before my own journey on this planet began, my Savior thought of me fondly, cared enough for me to rescue me when I didn't even know I needed rescuing.

Religious circles have debated predestination and free will for years. I'm not here to do that. But I do take comfort in the thought that I was chosen. That the Father and the Son saw my face in the crowd that Good Friday, and they wanted me. Picked me. Redeemed me.

So yes, this week has been good. All my weeks are good. Because Someone chose me. Someone called me by name and made me His.

May you and your family experience His awesome presence this Easter. He makes all things good.

reading recap: march.

Lots of good reads this month...

Book: The Imperfectionists
Finished: Early March

As a journalism major who graduated right at the moment print media started to die, I suppose I'll never really get the chance to work for the newspapers I've seen portrayed in All the President's Men and State of Play. I'll probably never have much of a role in the actual printing of the page or in the hustle and bustle of a daily newsroom. Most of the time, I'm okay with that, and when I'm not? Well, there are books like Tom Rachman's The Imperfectionists. Short stories are tricky things to me; they can go so wrong so easily. Rachman pulls it off, though, taking readers through the rise and fall of an international newspaper in Rome, each story detailing the life and work of one of the paper's many quirky characters. I read a lot of short stories this month, and their very nature makes them a lot slower reads for me. I picked up Rachman's book throughout the month of February, finally finishing it all in March. I was sad to see it go. I don't think the book is just for nerdy newspaper lovers like me, though I suspect fellow journalism majors will love it most.

---

Book: Room

Finished: Early March

I've been dying to read this book since it caught my eye in December, but I had held off (unable to afford the hardback edition). A coworker came to my rescue (I am an unabashed book borrower), and I am so glad. Room is told entirely from the perspective of a precocious five year old named Jack, a narrative that could easily come across as cheesy or contrived. Instead, Donoghue brings the story to life through Jack. As the daughter of a preschool teacher, I find his voice to be entirely accurate, especially based on the traumatic premise of the book. This book had the potential to be thriller-esque, but the writing really is far too beautiful to fall into that category. I probably wouldn't recommend this for the faint of heart, but for those of us who enjoy darker stories on occasion, I'd offer up Room as required reading. (I finished it in less than 48 hours; I literally had difficulty putting it down.)

---

Book: Olive Kitteridge

Finished: Mid-March

This was this month's book club pick (I was host). It's another collection of short stories, each woven together by the presence of Strout's ornery and intricate Olive Kitteridge, a school teacher and resident of coastal Crosby, Maine. Olive Kitteridge was definitely different from some of our typical book club fare, but I was grateful. Strout is a gifted writer, and I found myself becoming attached to so many of the characters in the stories, particularly lovable Henry Kitteridge, Olive's doting and dedicated husband. This wasn't light reading, though; in fact, I came away from most of the stories feeling a little bit depressed, particularly saddened by the prevalence of so many unhappy marriages in the little seaside town. Strout doesn't shy away from the tough subjects. Most of the stories revolve around grief, aging, suicide, and marital strife, making them a little bit hard to swallow. Olive Kitteridge is well-done literature, though, and I'm grateful to say I've read it.

---

Book: One Thousand Gifts

Finished: Late March

A while ago, my Internet friend Kari tweeted, "Why are pretty words so often mistaken for deep ones?" I liked that and thought about it a lot, due mostly to the fact that at the time, I was reading Ann Voskamp's very pretty words, and I wanted to know if I liked them because they were pretty or because they were deep. After finishing the book last Saturday, I can honestly say that One Thousand Gifts is more than just a collection of pretty and poetic words. It has the potential to be life-changing. Maybe that's not due so much to the fact that Voskamp's words are deep in and of themselves. Maybe it's really because the lessons she's teaching her reader are old, ancient even, lessons we've just forgotten or never actually put into practice.

It took me over a month to read One Thousand Gifts, but I'm not apologizing for it. I don't really think it was meant to be read quickly. (Her words are different, part poetry, part prose, so there were times I was reading paragraphs over and over again. Perhaps that was the point?) I've blogged about it in bits and pieces, and I've no doubt you've come across readers of Voskamp's blog and book all over the world wide web. Maybe you're sick of hearing about the book's success, or maybe you're one of those women who have found her words on gratitude and grace and intimacy with the Father controversial. I'm begging you to reconsider. I don't normally jump on book bandwagons or read what others are reading just to say I have (I am a proud Twilight virgin, and I intend to stay that way). I assure you that I wouldn't recommend Voskamp's book unless I truly meant it. And I do. I have highlighted, underlined, and dogeared her words. I have read them outloud to my husband, to my mother, and to my aunt. I have started collecting my own gifts, and I have begun to recognize the grace given me each moment. I'm sure it shouldn't take a book for that to be the case, but sometimes it does. One Thousand Gifts was a wake-up call to God's grace, and I'm grateful for it. I plan on recommending it to pretty much everyone I know. I'd buy a copy for all of you if I could. Really. I mean it. Read it, but do so with an open mind. Then come back, and tell me what you think. This is another one of those I just wish I could sit and talk about for hours.

---

Book: The First Paper Girl in Red Oak, Iowa

Finished: Late March

Really, I wanted to read this, Revenge of the Radioactive Lady. I spotted it at my favorite (semi)local bookstore, but again, couldn't splurge on the hardback price. So I went to my local library, where they, sadly, didn't have a copy. But I was determined, so I picked out another book by the same author, Elizabeth Stuckey-French, only to find out that she's a professor at my beloved FSU. How did I not know this? And how many of her book signings have I missed? 

I didn't mean to read yet another collection of short stories this month, but it seemed destined to be true. I think you have to be a certain type of person to appreciate short stories. I'm one of those readers who, if you do things right, becomes extremely attached to characters and places and plotlines, so short stories are tricky for me. I have to remind myself to appreciate them for what they are: glimpses. If you can do that, I think you'll like this collection of Stuckey-French's. She's witty, and her characters are quirky (weird?) and often get into some pretty hilarious and heart-breaking situations. The opening story, "Junior," is my personal favorite.

lent: week one.

 {photo by Amanda Green Bottoms via Mary Swenson}

First off, thank you for all of your comments on Monday’s post. When it was all said and done, we wound up donating an additional $95 to the American Red Cross. It feels like not-enough, but it is something. Let’s continue to offer up the people of Japan in our prayers. Distance, I think, can too often make us feel detached from tragedy. I don’t want to be detached.

I promised weekly updates on my Lenten journey, but I don’t want this to turn into a “Look what I did for Lent” post. So, I’ll try to keep today short and to the point.

Not eating sugar is hard. I have more of a sweet tooth than I realized, not for candy, necessarily, but for cookies and Coke. I miss those things, and last Thursday and Friday — the first couple of days of Lent — were especially difficult. Otherwise, though, I’m beginning to wonder if this is how we were really meant to eat: carefully and intentionally. I do feel better throughout the day, though I suppose I could attribute that to the fact that I’m now packing my own snacks (apples and string cheese in the morning; cashews and strawberries in the afternoon) and drinking more water.

I also have discovered other, better ways of getting natural sugars into my body. I’m eating an inordinate amount of fruit, and Simply Lemonade and Welch’s grape juice both only use natural sugars, so while I still try to mostly drink water, the occasional amount of raspberry lemonade almost helps me forget about Coke. I’m eating better in the mornings. Breakfasts have included vegan, gluten-free and sugar-free raspberry scones (recipe here) and Ezekiel toast with apple slices.

After seven days, though, I’m not sure that sacrificing sugar — or any other type of food or activity — is what Lent is all about. I’ve found myself thinking a lot about the Pharisees, how they got so wrapped up in their knowledge and practice of food laws (and other Mosaic laws) that they missed out on what was really important: God in the flesh. Love. Forgiveness. I don’t want Lent to become that for me. I don’t want to get so wrapped up in what I’ve given up or in the rules that I’ve made for myself that I ignore the real meaning of Lent, this act of lessening myself to make more of Him. The daily sacrifice I’m making should point to the Savior, not to my own capabilities or my own goodness. If anything, it should be a reminder of how unworthy I am of God’s grace, but how He continues to bestow it: a constant stream of daily blessing.

Giving up sugar has been hard, though it probably shouldn’t be. I have a little bit more energy throughout the day. My face is clearer. I feel better. The benefits, I can tell, will far outweigh the difficulties. This seven-day experiment has proven, though (and maybe this is why Lent suggests sacrifice) that I am weak, barely capable of ignoring the Girl Scout cookies in my freezer. I am in desperate need of a Savior who can identify with my weaknesses and rescue me from them.

How is your journey through this season of Lent going? Any tips for me as I continue to let go of sugar? Feel free to leave a comment or include a link to your own blog post about Lent. I’d love to read what you have to say about these 40 days.

grace makes beauty: the beginning of Lent.

 {photo by Hilda Grahnat, via Bippity Boppity Boo}

My weekends have been so lovely lately that I'm trying not to be one of those people who just lives for Friday at 5. It's a challenge, this giving-thanks-for-every-moment, but I am finding that I notice more: that I relish the way my eggs slip and slide and shine while I make myself an omelet. That a quiet evening is viewed with a sigh of relief and a prayer of thanksgiving, that the pink and purple blooms intertwined amongst the brown branches receive more of my attention than they did last week.

I wrote that in my 25th year, I wanted to become grace. I wanted to bring my name honor. I wanted to not just receive the grace that's been given or bestow it on those I love: I want to be grace.

"Grace makes beauty out of ugly things. Grace finds beauty in everything."

So sings Bono, and so I want to be.

And each day, with its ups and downs or seemingly straight-line-nothingness, I am feeling it a little bit more, like the books I have been reading for months now are finally sinking in, like it has taken a while now for these seeds I have been sowing to take root.

I am, in the smallest of ways, becoming more grace-filled.

Not by my own doing, of course, but by the One who reigns in me.

Of course, not every moment is the picture of grace. There are still moments of frustration, aggravation, and disappointment. Moments of doubt creep in, and moments of anger catch on my tongue.

But I am liking this me. She is not perfect, but she is trying to find the good, the beauty, the grace.

Tomorrow, as the season of Lent begins, I am nervous. I have been content these last few weeks, and I am afraid what a change in diet, in routine, might do to a grace-filled life. (Or a life that is trying to achieve some semblance of grace.) I have bitten off a large task, I know, but I am determined.

I plan to blog my progress, not out of pride or selfish ambition (for the day that it becomes that I will have to forfeit and move on), but for the hope of community and encouragement, a desire to see what the Lenten experience can do when we let the Spirit do his work.

Several of you have agreed to join me, armed with your own sacrifices. My hope is that we can be a source of encouragement for one another, that the sacrifices we each bring will inspire us to continue through the 40 days. 

Here's to making beauty out of ugly things.

---

Almighty and everlasting God, you hate nothing you have made and forgive the sins of all who are penitent: Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of you, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. 

- from The Book of Common Prayer

the gifts.

{from here}

"Then they believed his words; they sang his praise. But they soon forgot his works; they did not wait for his counsel."

- Psalm 106:12-13

Last week wasn't the best for a variety of reasons, including some very grown-up worries, worries I didn't really expect to appear in the middle of a week that had guaranteed sunny, cloudless days.

But they appeared anyway, and I didn't always handle them with that grace I've asked for and been given. And as I'm slowly but surely making my way through Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts, I am realizing: this constant act of being grateful? It is hard.

I started reading the book last week, and I love it. I am chewing rather than devouring; my goal isn't to finish quickly but to finish purposefully. To allow the book to change me, to open my eyes to the gifts Ann sees. At first, it was easy. On a Tuesday afternoon off from work, full of 75-degree temperatures, a clean house, great movie, a dance party in my kitchen, and lots and lots of quiet time... gifts abounded. I saw them all and I saw them everywhere.

But Wednesday? Well, Wednesday wasn't great. Not bad, but not great. Work became a little bit more stressful. The ugly thoughts returned. Jordan got home late. But still I prevailed. Gifts. Gratitude. Gifts. Gratitude. And I continued to read, to make lists, to mutter to myself about the joy that is before me.

Then Thursday came and with it those grown-up things, grown-up things not yet ready for blogging or sharing. I know this: Satan knows when we are well. And he knows how to break us again. With medical scares and downsizing and face breakouts and mean, angry souls, he shocks us out of contentment, and all of a sudden it is hard to make lists of the good things. The gifts which were once flowing so freely are gone, and I do not know where they went.

Of course, as I muddle my way through Scripture and through Ann's words, I realize: They didn't go anywhere. But I will have to look harder.

So I did. I kept writing, and I am ashamed to say that it was hard. One minute gifts were flowing from my pen like the milk and honey of the Promised Land, and the next my pen stopped working. Every gift I thought of, I countered with complaint, hardly the picture of contentment or grace.

That Ann Lamott quote, though, kept ringing in my ears. The one I read what seems like months ago. The one that said to keep doing things, even when you are doing them badly.

Friday, when things began to look up and the clouds began to dissipate, my pen miraculously healed, and the gifts came easily, quickly.

I do not like admitting that my contentment is not contentment at all, that it is dependent upon my circumstances. That this week, if the news I hear is different from the news I heard last week, my pen will stop again. I want to treasure my God's goodness even in the desert places. But it is painful, because it is easy to believe in a God who only wants good for His children. But it is hard to believe in a God who allows hurt and sickness and loss and nakedness and famine and sword.

But I am still His sheep, and He is my shepherd. I trust His hand. My gifts are not one thousand yet, but I am trying, and slowly, it is lifting me up, making me light, removing my burden.

fuzzies who i love and who love me back. cleansing tears. funny dog faces. florida sunshine and breeze. tuesday afternoons when i can breathe. smiling, funny babies. tennis shoes for comfy days. the scent of outdoors. skin that feels the sun. driving with the windows rolled down...in february. hearing a favorite song on the radio. naps after work. pretty toenails. friends who will celebrate your goofy birthday. pretty, romantic fog. warm pea coats. soaking in a bubble bath. pruny fingers. 70 degrees. friend who will pray on your behalf when your own words fail. doctors. an office with a window that opens. bird songs. glitter everywhere. long lunches that make my goody-goody heart just a little rebellious. florida breeze. hair that changes color in the sunshine and flies in my face when the windows roll down. laughing at myself. new job responsibilities. trips to party city. colorful streamers. learning to tie a belt a new way. delegating.

These are my gifts, gifts I saw in a week that was long and a little bit hard. They are not really very poetic, but that's okay. They are mine, and I could see them, and that is enough for me.