22/52 :: finding a place.

Last month, after seven years, my mom resigned as the children's coordinator for the church I attended for most of my life. My parents have both devoted remarkable amounts of time and energy into this church, sharing their passions with people in ways I can only dream about, and as their daughter, I had the privilege of attending an appreciation banquet in my mother's honor a few weekends ago. 

My parents, being my parents, have little to no need for recognition. They're some of the most humble people I know. But their humility doesn't excuse ingratitude, and my mother long ago taught me that part of gracious behavior is accepting grace, as well as giving it.

So two weekends ago, I sat at a table and listened as dozens of people told my mom thank you. I listened as they became tearful over the impact she'd made, sometimes without even realizing it. I listened, and with each person -- no matter their age or gender -- a pattern became evident.

In coordinating a ministry for children, my mother helped grown-ups find their place in church.

That legacy alone is admirable.

As Jordan and I search for a place to call home in our faith, I've occasionally been astounded at just how assertive we've had to be in order to find even a small space. At large churches, our gifts sometimes aren't needed or required; we're barely making an impact. At smaller congregations, our peer group is entirely absent, and the roles we'd fill almost feel too large, too daunting at this stage of our lives. I've wondered if perhaps the reason my generation leaves church in droves is at least in part due to a lack of purpose and place.

In our careers, Jordan and I utilize our gifts and are contributing members of teams that need us. We have important roles and duties to fill. Without us, our places of business wouldn't function. We'd need to be replaced. In church? Not so much. Jordan and I go to church because we like it, because we feel called to it, because we were raised this way. But I don't think we go -- right now,  anyway -- because we are needed.

And that's okay for now, but long-term? I think it would hurt.

Sitting across from my parents two Saturdays ago, I remembered how often the two of them would comment about the unique friends my brother and I made growing up, how we seemed to be drawn to people who were just a little bit different. (In my case, the nerds. In my brother's, the wannabe skateboarders and punk rockers.) My parents seemed baffled by the wide variety of people we would bring home to dinner, and today? I think that's hilarious.

Because my parents found places for people, too.

Places for the 80-year-old man who someone else might have considered a "has-been," someone whose gifts might have seemed as if they were no longer needed. My mom took him, gave him a shepherd costume, and turned him into King David. At the banquet, he spoke about that role with pride, informing my mom that by making him King David, she had brought Scripture alive to him. He practically begged her to let him play John the beloved disciple.

A quiet -- and brave! -- teenager stood up, and she told my mom that thanks to children's ministry, she and her peers had, over the years, become a family. They'd grown up together, learned the Bible together, and now they were bonded for life. Another woman spoke about her move to Tallahassee, about her struggle to find her place at a church that already had women who threw showers, women who cooked meals, women who taught preschool. Where would she go? My mom saw her gifts and put her to work, and I think that's something really special.

Converse with a Christian right now, and you might hear a lot about the Republican presidential candidates. You might get an earful about Kentucky, or gay marriage, or gun control, or how the world's going to hell in a hand basket. 

I wonder if anyone would talk about belonging.

My life at The Bookshelf is filled with interactions with the public. Perhaps more than any other time in my life, I am surrounded by people. And some of them are happy, and some of them are sad, and some of them are lonely. We're all a little broken, and we're all looking for a place to belong. That's what I've learned in four years working behind a counter, because believe it or not, some people come to The Bookshelf looking for a little bit of home.

Churches have an opportunity, now, to create places for people. Turn on the news or to the person next to you on the bus, and you'll see: People are desperate for a place to belong. I could be wrong, but I think it's our job to find places for people, because He made places for us. Churches might begin to grow if they realized just how important belonging can be.

I wish you could have been with me at the banquet for my mom. It might not have meant much to you, but it meant a lot to me. It meant a lot to see that the hospitality my mother created at home extended to her work.

She created a place for me and Chet to call home, and in children's ministry, she did that for the kids, but she also -- perhaps unintentionally -- did it for their teachers, for the grown-ups who needed a place, too. That's what we're supposed to do. It's what we probably could all do a little bit better. I think it might be our calling.

what's making me happy this week, 4.

Every so often, in addition to those 52 essays I'm supposed to be cranking out, I'm going to publish a small list of what's making me happy, a la one of my favorite podcasts, NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour. Nothing major, just a new series to remind me to count my blessings. 

Here's what's making me happy this week (which has been, overall, rough): 

- Texting long-distance friends. As I type this, my friend and I are debating, via text, whether or not the death of McDreamy last night was justified or necessary. Neither of us watches Grey's anymore, but no matter: This is important stuff. Also texting this week about Kimmy Schmidt, the feasibility of a long-distance book club, and whether my dad looks like Walter White.

- The Innocence Project. This is actually left over from last week, but no matter: I've been an advocate for the Innocence Project since discovering it during my time at The Florida Bar. There's undoubtedly an innocence project in your area, and I'd recommend supporting their work in some way. Jordan and I had the opportunity to attend the Innocence Project of Florida's annual banquet last week, where we met at least a half a dozen men who spent decades in prisons for crimes they didn't commit. We consider it an important part of our marriage and finances to give back to organizations and people we care about, and I wanted this year for us to start thinking outside our typical, regular donations. Not to get on a soapbox, but I'd encourage you to do the same, if you're so inclined. (Need recommendations of organizations to support? Try the new book The Path Appears by Nicholas Kristof.) Making a difference, even small, really does make you happier.

- Entrepreneurial support. So our book signing with Carrie Rollwagen didn't have the best attendance. (I am learning lessons all the time, and this one was: Never plan a store event the week of Thomasville's Rose Festival.) But that didn't stop me from asking Carrie questions about entrepreneurship and local business partnership and bookstore ownership and more. It was fun, and a reminder that this ship I'm sailing isn't as lonely as it often feels. 

- Staffing solutions. I'm treating the store like a puzzle I have to solve, and slowly, some pieces are falling into place. There have been setbacks and hardships, but each day I'm identifying more and more the type of store I want to run and how. This morning, I met with our manager, and we got some things settled, and I already am feeling hopeful for fall. 

And that's what's making me happy this week. Here's hoping for a less eventful start to May?

what's making me happy this week, 1.

Every so often, in addition to those 52 essays I'm supposed to be cranking out, I'm going to publish a small list of what's making me happy, a la one of my favorite podcasts, NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour. Nothing major, just a new series to remind me to count my blessings. 

Here's what's making me happy this week: 

- Keeping up with long-distance friends. Is it important to build community right where you are? Absolutely. I think it's imperative. But I also know how difficult and daunting that task can be, and instead of wallowing in my occasional loneliness, it helps me to focus on the friends I do have in my life. Last weekend, Jordan and I spent two days with a couple of our favorite people, and the visit served as a powerful reminder of the community we've already established. New friends are crucial, but old friends are life-giving in an entirely different -- maybe deeper? -- kind of way. 

- Book clubs. Author Gretchen Rubin references her penchant for book clubs in her new book, Better Than Before. She mentions she's an active member in four separate clubs, and at first, I was aghast. Who has the time? But this week, I met with my in-town Thomasville book club. I started a long-distance Skye book club with a couple of the aforementioned long distance friends. And I'm keeping up with two different "Sisterhood of the Traveling Book" clubs via snail mail -- one with long distance friends and one with online friends via Instagram. All of them make me happy, and, perhaps because of my job, they don't cost me much extra time and effort. (And even when they do, the time I spend is enjoyable.) 

- Better Than Before + Happier podcast. Before our trip last weekend, the store got in copies of Gretchen Rubin's new book, Better Than Before, and I am devouring it. Gretchen Rubin is kind of my spirit animal; if I'm hosting an imaginary dinner party, I want Gretchen and Shauna Niequist there. Gretchen's other books, The Happiness Project and Happier at Home, have been favorites for a long time, and her new title about habits is sparking all kinds of excitement in my brain. I've annoyed Jordan and my friends with all kinds of facts about habit-making and what habits work for our personality types; it's fascinating information (to me), and Gretchen's new podcast is sparking fun conversations, too.

- The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. 30 Rock was on television during my college years, which means I've really only seen a couple of seasons (shocking, I know). But when Netflix released The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt last week, I knew I'd be game. Ellie Kemper + Tina Fey = magic, in my book. The show is hilarious and quick, which means it's completely re-watchable. (A relief, since I've already finished the first season.) Plus the theme song is stuck in my head all day, every day.

- TheSkimm. My schedule is incredibly varied, which means I have to fight for any routine in my day. After hearing about theSkimm for months,  I finally signed up, and I love it. I thought a daily email would completely overwhelm my inbox, but instead, every morning, I read through the news stories and feel informed and ready to start my day. Highly recommend.  

And that's what's making me happy this week.

3/52 :: children.

I wrote this essay while thinking about my upcoming 29th birthday. Jordan and I are surrounded by peers who we love, most of whom have children, and one day, we hope to join their ranks, either by having biological children or by adopting someday. The thing is: We're not there yet. But we're talking and dreaming and open to what God has in store. So I wanted to write an essay about where I am right now on the subject of children and fertility and pregnancy. I know these are personal subjects, and your views and my views might not be the same. That's okay. This is just the view from where I sit right now, and maybe by writing and talking about these things, you'll know your views are okay too. 

--

I might be the only woman on the planet who questioned her fertility after watching an episode of New Girl. 

The Fox television show isn't even one I typically watch -- Jess' immaturity grates and what on earth do they ever do with Winston? -- but once in a while, the convenience of Netflix wins, and I watch a few episodes while cleaning the house or folding our clothes. Then, about a year ago, I watched as Jess panicked about the dearth of her eggs after 30, and I promptly scheduled my annual physical. (So much for mindless television.) 

On February 2, I'll turn 29 years old. I own a home and a business and a dog. I'm happily married and take long walks and occasionally try a yoga pose or two. I read a lot of books and decorate our house and sit on my front porch. I ask big questions and journal and play the piano and sometimes cook dinner. I am incredibly fulfilled, and yet the assumption seems to be that I should be constantly preoccupied with my baby-making abilities (which, by the way, may not even be up to me, but no one seems to be concerned about that little detail).

It is hard to be a childless woman in the South, to be asked incredibly personal, intimate questions about babies and fertility and timing.

And I would like to clarify that I want children. We want children. It's really no one's business when we have them, but the desire is certainly there. We talk a lot about raising children, about our hopes and dreams for parenting and what it will be like if and when this tiny house has another little person in it. Those are the things we are excited about, the things we love talking about on date night. 

But there are other things to consider, of course. This business of ours, with its infantile temperament and the resulting sleepless nights. My bordering-on-absurd fear of pregnancy and childbirth, only exacerbated by the horror stories the Internet leaves at my fingertips. Our mental and physical heath, which we'd like to have under control before caring for another human being. So many details and discussions, none of which we should have to share publicly or with well-meaning family or friends. It is hard for me to understand when conversations about baby-making -- conversations that really boil down to sex and biology -- became the norm.

Here is the reality: Last January, I went to my gynecologist, a kind, gentle, rational, faithful woman I adore. She didn't bat an eye when I told her I'd heard on a television show that 90 percent of a woman's eggs cease to exist after age 30. Instead, she smiled. She told me I had nothing to worry about, that she would help me prepare for baby-making and childbirth when the time came. She appeared completely calm and unconcerned, and I thought: thank you. And I wish I could send all of my friends to my doctor. Because I might have reached near-hysteria thanks to Zooey Deschanel, but other women I know whisper and share the same fears -- sometimes more concrete and realistic than my own -- and here is what I wish for all of us: women who will not rise up in fear with us, but who will instead talk us down off the ledge, who will assure us we are fine. We are going to be fine.

Last Friday, I bought a set of Childcraft encyclopedias for my unborn, unconceived children. I've got a couple of Christmas stockings I've bought, too, set aside for future use. 

I am hopeful for the growth of my family. I trust it will happen exactly when and how it should. I am excited for back-to-school dinners and colorful nurseries and an excellent husband who will undoubtedly make an excellent father. 

But I will not live in fear, and I will not answer all of the pointed questions -- are you still on birth control? are you trying? don't you guys want kids? -- because they don't deserve to be answered. I will not wish my beautiful life away, because one day I want to tell my children what a very good life we welcomed them into, what we worked hard to create both for them and for us. 

This life is too good to worry or wish it away, and so I will continue to read and to play the piano and to enjoy dates with my husband. And one day, when we are ready and it is meant to be, our family will grow, and we will, I think, become parents to the loveliest, smartest, silliest children in the world.

a note to my grandmother.

My grandmother would have turned 96 this week. She passed away nearly three years ago, and I think about her all of the time. I've been fortunate to experience close relationships with all of my grandparents. They were (and are) treasures to me, and the older I get, the more I realize how valuable it is to watch someone be older than you. Does that make sense? 

Our society, I'm afraid, is becoming more and more segregated by age, and I think that's sad, because I learn so much from people who are older and wiser than I. In turn, I watched my grandmother live a very long life, thanks -- in part, I believe -- to the young ones she lived alongside. I think she stayed young by being around those who were younger. 

So, then, it should be no surprise I find kindred spirits all over this world, people who are older and younger than me. In fact, in this small town I now call home, some of the most precious people I have met remind me a great deal of my grandmother. My relationship with her has enabled me to experience relationships with other older and wiser women. I thought about her today, and I wanted to write her this letter. 

--

Dear Mama, 

I thought about you a lot this week. Thomasville is filled with so many older people; some of them are lovely; others are not. You showed me what it looks like to age gracefully, and because of that, I tend to be harder on the grumpier crowd. You were a lot of things, but grumpy wasn't one of them. You were a "whistle while you work" kind of woman, and so much of you is who I want to be.

Today, the sweetest lady came in the store. She visits all the time, and she's always acted interested in me, in my story. I liked her from the moment I met her (which, as you know, is saying something), and I wonder if it's because she reminds me a little bit of you. She wears a lot of purple, and her hair is white, but today we talked about books and the Roosevelts -- there's a documentary on PBS right now that's rather popular -- and she told me how glad she was I had taken over the store. Customers rarely tell me that; it's just not important. Even if they think it, they don't say it, and that's fine with me. But this woman took the time today to tell me I was lovely, that I was doing a good job. It meant the world to me, and I wondered if it was maybe you? I think that sometimes. 

We have another loyal customer who struggles a little bit with her memory. She calls a lot and orders books, and I hope we take good care of her. This week, a customer came to me with a customer service complaint, and I took it rather hard. Criticism is difficult for me, but this comment especially stung. I'd like to think that what sets The Bookshelf apart is our service. I try so hard to call customers by name, to remember who they are and what they read. When I discover we've made a mistake, I tend to stress and over-analyze. Like you, I want to do my work excellently. So back to this loyal customer struggling with memory loss. 

She has a hard time getting out. And I think of you, and how you never had a driver's license, something I can't really comprehend now. (I really like to drive.) So sometimes, we deliver this woman's books. I do it for her, but I also do it for you. Today, I pulled into the assisted living home, and she was waiting for me on the porch. A nurse asked if I was her granddaughter, and I smiled and said, "Nope! I'm her bookseller!" And she got the biggest grin on her face. 

I don't always do a good job. Customers are hard for me. I'm not the extrovert you are. (Thank goodness I married one, or I'm not sure I'd ever leave the house!) But delivering those books every so often? I am proud to do that. I am grateful to be able to do that. I do that because I am your granddaughter. (And I am His daughter.) 

As I sat with this woman and looked at the pictures on her wall and petted her dog and listened to her stories, I thought about you. I told her about you, actually. How I was named for you and hopefully inherited some of your genes. She liked hearing about you, and as I was talking, I realized: I could speak with her -- without discomfort or awkwardness, despite my introverted nature -- because of you. And Papa. And Papa B. Being with all of you equipped me to find friends in the unlikeliest of places: in the woman who wears purple and needs a new book for her granddaughter. In the woman with her master's degree, struggling with the loss of her treasured memory. In my 90-year-old British friend who taught me how to take my tea.

I am so incredibly glad I grew up visiting with you. I am glad you taught me how to sew, and although I wish those lessons had stuck (because I am sorry to say they did not), I am even more glad you taught me how to love all kinds of people, how to talk with all kinds of people.

It is a joy of my life that my life is not limited to my peers. I believe we live richer existences when we befriend people who are different from us. And like so many things, it is not always easy, but it is often good. 

Thank you for teaching me that. 

Love and miss you every day, 

Annie

fear and trembling.

It's been a while.

The words have been percolating, and I'm still not sure they're ready to come out, but this week Shauna Niequist wrote that for her, writing equals learning, and the same, I think, is true of me. I write my way through things, and my life has been such a chaotic, beautiful mess these past several months, the words have been set on the back burner, slowly bubbling up, waiting to take on a life of their own.

Here I am, then, telling my story in bits and pieces, because the words won't wait anymore.

We are finding our home in Thomasville. I laugh at the Annie of six months ago, the Annie who gave herself a deadline to find new friends and a new church, who thought deadlines would help fix everything because normally, they do. I love deadlines and lists and the adrenaline that comes from setting a goal and meeting it.

But friends and faith are not about goals, I've discovered. You can build it, and they still might not come.

Setting my table wasn't enough. I think that's worth mentioning, because a lot of advice I received and words I read encouraged me to move forward, to put myself out there, and things would start happening.

That's not true, not always.

So instead, it is September, and we are settling into life here, but it is different, and it is hard not to pour all of that out when people unwittingly ask how we are doing. We have moved to a small town in the South where everyone knows each other and has family and community built in and at their fingertips -- how do you think we are doing?

I have taken over a bookstore -- a dream -- but change is hard in a small town, and I understand that. It's hard, but I understand it. So I am putting my head down and doing the work, which is all I really know to do. And slowly, the guards are coming down, and people are warming up to me and what I have to offer. It has been painful, but it is rewarding and good for me, and I am happy.

The store itself is doing well. We will never be millionaires, but things are growing, moving. I have staff members and co-workers who respect me and who carry burdens and who do the work right along with me. I am thrilled with them, though in the back of my mind, I wonder how long they will stay. Such is the burden of retail. So I am learning to be content and happy right now, and that is yet another hard thing -- the list of hard things grows a little longer each day, I think.

Our community is good. It doesn't look like I thought it would. (What does, I wonder?) I don't have kindred spirits or giggle-until-you-cry friends. There are no girls' nights. I am intimidated by the intimacy others have formed in decades of life here, but I am also hopeful, and I am discovering that my own time is limited and valuable, perhaps more now than ever before, and as a result, friendships and community might look different than they did a few years ago. I am entering a season in which mingling and networking and "putting myself out there" will all become impossibilities.

I have decided, then, to not try quite as hard. Instead, as with the bookstore, I am going to put my head down and do the work in the ways I know how. I am going to be friendly and kind and warm, but I may not make every event or activity because I just can't. I have tried too hard, I think, these past few months, and it has to stop. Remarkably, I am okay with this. I am trusting the friends will come, with time and effort and faith. For now, it is what it is. And I don't find that truth unpleasant; I find it hopeful.

Creating a home for ourselves in Thomasville meant finding a house and making it look like we lived and loved there. It meant building a community of people we could call ours. It meant opening our hearts and our hands and our pocketbooks to entrepreneurship and all the good and bad it brings. It meant refocusing our faith and finding a church to breathe and be life in.

Last weekend, we spent time with family from all over these Southern states, and would you know almost every person our age was struggling with the question of church and faith? My brother, I think, was disheartened by so much dissatisfaction and hurt, but I was comforted. It is always comforting to know we are not alone.

Jordan and I are trying a new thing with our faith. We are stepping out in prayer and pursuing something different, something unrecognizable to many of our family and friends. I have rarely been specific here about our faith stories, about where we were raised and how we've become who we are. I have hesitated, perhaps out of fear, but more likely out of the potential for hurt and confusion.

We love the way we were raised. We love our faith history. But it is time to focus on our faith going forward.

Yes, I've hurt and been hurt, but this isn't about that. This is about a faith that had grown stagnant and weary and dry, and a corner I turned a few weeks ago when we took a leap in a new direction, and I woke up realizing I was excited for Sunday.

I don't know how much to share yet, but I believe so actively in sharing stories, in grace and authenticity. So I'm sharing this little bit: That Bible verse, the one about working out your salvation with fear and trembling? It shouldn't scare you. It should free you. It has freed me.

The answers aren't clear. Jordan fights long and hard for black and white; I tend to dwell in grey. That's okay. Maybe answers will come; maybe they won't. What matters for us is the pursuit of a faith and belief that is active, working, breathing. I'm not sure yet where that will take us, but I am grateful we are doing it together. 

I don't want to leave the impression that life isn't good, because it is. Who I am now is not, thankfully, who I was a year ago. When I think about this time last year, I realize I was unhappy, stressed, and confused. We had just begun to take over the store, and the growing pains were immense, and we made mistakes. We hadn't moved, so our life was split between these two places. We're not there anymore, and I am glad. 

Moving takes time. In this world of instantaneous communication, of Pinterest boards and Instagram photos, it's important to remember life takes time. My friends teased me when I moved, that my house was decorated and put together in the blink of an eye. What they may not realize is I needed that, because it wasn't going to happen anywhere else. Anyone can hang a picture or put throw pillows on a couch. But building a community? Running a store? Starting a website? Creating a podcast? Forming a staff? Finding a church? None of that moves quickly. 

I'm learning to embrace the now, and I'm learning to embrace how slow it all moves. 

Our goal in all of this -- in life, in entrepreneurship, in friends and church and faith -- is to open our hands. To take each day as it comes, and to learn from it. I'm trying to let go of expectations and watch what happens when I do. 

My palms are open wide. The words are coming back. And I am fearful and trembling, but hoping too.

the courthouse project.

When I was a little girl, my family used to take the most wonderful vacations. Not expensive, not lengthy, but wonderful nonetheless, due in large part to the adventuresome (but always practical) nature of my parents. Our vacations were full of educational detours, quirky pitstops, and historical landmarks. My love of national parks? That comes from my parents. My insistence on eating at local hole-in-the-wall establishments? That's my parents. 

It's funny, then, all these years later, to see myself following in my parents' footsteps. To realize that in spite of our differences from my parents as a couple, Jordan and I are eerily similar in the way we choose and plan our vacations. 

If you follow me on Instagram, you know our summer has already been filled with adventures. We've traveled up, down, and across the great state of Florida, witnessed fireworks along the Savannah riverwalk, and chased rabbit trails around south Georgia. What you may not know is just how many of our travels this summer -- and really, for the past three years -- have revolved around something I lovingly call The Courthouse Project. 

Since passing the bar exam back in 2010, Jordan has been healthily obsessed with visiting every county courthouse in Florida. It's an interest that comes, I think, partly from Jordan's career as an attorney, but also from his (and our) love of old things. Photographing each courthouse became something we did on weekends and on road trips, and soon, Jordan envisioned tackling all 67, compiling them into some sort of photo collage or another. Neither one of us is a photographer; a shame, since so many of Florida's courthouses are really, truly beautiful. But the photography, I don't think, was nearly as important as the adventure. 

The state we used to call home -- the state I have called home my whole life -- is diverse and vast; I don't know what other place in our country (perhaps other than California) can boast such a plethora of flora and fauna,  such a wide range of terrain. Because of The Courthouse Project, we've seen it all. We've driven across my beloved Panhandle, through tourist traps and into quiet, sleepy, dying towns; we've glimpsed the white sands of the Gulf and the crystal clear water of the Atlantic. We've rolled our windows down next to alligator-filled creeks and seen the shadows of orange groves at midnight. We've raised our eyebrows at the excess of Palm Beach and walked across the cobblestone streets of St. Augustine.

I doubt very many people have traveled the state -- any state! -- like we have; visiting each county seat takes a certain amount of stamina and patience. Not every city is beautiful; not every stop offers some hidden gem. We have, in so many ways, seen it all, and every time we'd arrive at some new location -- undoubtedly off the beaten path -- I'd think of my parents and the vacations I used to take with them as a child. 

Jordan and I have been married nearly six years; we've known each other for almost 10. In our time together, we've been to San Antonio and Venice, to Atlanta and San Francisco. We spent our honeymoon in Newport and our first anniversary in a windy, cold Chicago. We've hidden away in Tybee Island and taken day trips to Seaside and St. George. Our phones and our walls are full of pictures of Savannah and Florence and Boston and Nashville and New Orleans and Naples and Rome. Our trips, most often, are taken on the cheap; we are not expensive travelers; we can't afford to be. But our adventures together are incredibly special, and this weekend, as we traveled back down to Florida from a weekend with friends, we stopped for our very last courthouse. 

I can be a bit of a sentimental fool. I hide it well, I think, but there are boxes of love letters and a newspaper editorial I dedicated to Jordan's old car that all insist deep down, I am soft. I hold special places in my heart for the things and the people I love. It's bittersweet, then, to put the last courthouse pin on the map, sad to put away the coloring sheet Jordan's been keeping to highlight the counties we've been to and the ones we still need to visit. They're all filled in now, and the historic Nassau County Courthouse in downtown Fernandina Beach officially marked the end of an era for us.

We'll spend the next few weeks, maybe months, debating what to do with Jordan's courthouse pictures, how best to compile them all into albums or prints. He'll be the first to admit not all of the photographs he's taken are frame-worthy, but there's something about seeing them all together that's pretty spectacular. Sixty-seven counties, each one with a treasured history, an architecture and agriculture all its own. 

This courthouse project has been a part of our vacations and road trips for three years, guiding us, little by little, on where to go next. Now we've reached the end, and I wonder just what we'll tackle next. It's funny; this project is a little reminiscent of where we are in life right now; the end of one chapter, the beginning of another. Life can be silly and special like that, if we notice. 

Everyone's adventures are different. The routes we all take are unique and varied; no two of us really choose the same ways. But I'm glad I've found someone who will get off at the next interstate exit and explore a little bit of the unknown, someone who will travel to the places we often, as a hurried people, forget. I'm grateful my parents taught me to travel away from the usual path, and I'm happy Jordan and I know, even as one journey ends: the adventure's really just beginning. 

All 67 pictures of The Courthouse Project can be found on Facebook; Jordan would love if you took a minute to scroll through and vote for your favorite courthouse. (Mine is pictured above.)

in praise of small town living.

"The whole struggle of life is to some extent a struggle about how slowly or how quickly to do each thing."

- Sten Nadolny

---

Last month, I read Arianna Huffington's book Thrive -- a book that inspired The Bookshelf's first-ever podcast --  and although I enjoyed the book, what really caught my attention were Huffington's references to another, similar book: In Praise of Slowness by Carl Honore. Honore's book came out several years ago, but it looked promising; I special ordered myself a copy, and this weekend, I got to reading. 

It was better than Thrive. 

Honore devotes each chapter to some portion of the Slow Movement: Slow Food, Slow Cities, Slow Medicine, Slow Work, etc., and I found something inspiring and enlightening about each one. I also began to recognize something familiar about the Slow Movement, similarities between the movement and the season Jordan and I are living right now.

---

A few years ago, I read Donald Miller's A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, in which Miller discovers he's not leading a life worthy of a well-written story. His life, he thinks, would never make an interesting movie or book, and he decides to start making decisions he believes will lead to better narrative. 

Miller's books hold a lot of meaning for me, and sometimes, when I'm standing behind the counter at The Bookshelf, looking at the store with fresh eyes, I realize I owe him a thank you. I read his book so long ago, I've forgotten his story inspired my own. 

It's been a full year since I took over The Bookshelf. I'm still co-owning with the previous proprietors, still earning the business month-by-month, but I'm essentially the decision maker, the primary contact for all things Bookshelf. It's been a stressful transition year, a year I'm afraid I haven't always handled with grace. 

But lately, when I stand behind the counter, I'm seeing more beauty than before. I'm watching the store slowly transform -- it's beginning to look and feel a bit more like  "me," and I'm coming into my own as the shop's newest curator. The days are hard and long, and if I were to sit down and calculate, I'm sure I'd discover I'm working significantly longer hours while making significantly less money than I ever did before. 

Yet it's still a decision I'd make over and over again. 

Two years ago, I quit my corporate job to manage a bookstore in my hometown. A year after that, I said goodbye to The Bookshelf in Tallahassee, and I began working here, in Thomasville, Georgia, 45 minutes up the road, but a world away from what I've always known. 

The difficulties of this transition, this season, have often shadowed my vision. I've taken for granted an opportunity many would love to have. When a customer or an acquaintance mentions how much they'd love to own a bookstore, I have to fight my impulse to question their motives. "It's harder than it looks," I always want to say. 

And yes, it is harder than Kathleen Kelly made it seem. There are bills and rude customers and back pains. But while reading Honore's book this weekend, I realized I'm living the slow and simple life I've long wanted for us. It's not perfect, but we are, in so many respects, living the dream. 

---

In his chapter about Slow Cities, Honore writes, "A Slow City is more than just a fast city slowed down. The movement is about creating an environment where people can resist the pressure to live by the clock and do everything faster." He then quotes a young man who lives in a slow, Italian town:

In a Slow City, you have the license to relax, to think, to reflect on the big existential questions. Rather than get caught up in the storm and speed of the modern world, where all you do is get in the car, go to work, then hurry home, you take time to walk and meet people in the street. It's a little bit like living in a fairy tale.

That young Italian man -- a stranger five years ago I would have envied -- is living my life. It's true: Thomasville is no Tuscany, but I look back on our study abroad program in Italy, and I see similarities to the life I'm leading now. For a year, I've teased my friends -- all of whom moved from Tallahassee within about 12 months of each other -- about their grand adventures to Chicago, Boulder, Nashville, Kansas City, Jacksonville. I've teased them, and I've belittled my own experience. I live in a town with 20,000 people, no transit system, no beachfront property. There's no hipster enclave or burgeoning farmer's market. 

But I walk to work every day I can. I speak to my neighbors. I sit on my front porch. I attend community planning meetings with other entrepreneurs and civic leaders. I hit golf balls in the park just a 5-minute walk from my house. I listen to the children in the schoolyard right up the street. I don't get stressed over traffic or worry about being late to meetings. My days are long, but my schedule is, generally, my own. I hear church bells chime on the hour, and I smell freshly baked bread and newly ground coffee on a daily basis. I am walking distance from funky shops and yummy restaurants, and if I close my eyes, I can easily pretend I'm walking the streets of a larger city.

I am living the Slow Life.

---

Goal-setting is important to me. It's an important part of my daily life -- to do lists are my bread and butter -- and my marriage. 

Two years ago, I wanted a life with more meaning, a job I could be proud of in conversations with friends and family. I wanted a simpler, happier life, and you know what? I miraculously, amazingly got my wish.

And yes, reality is different from the life my dreams were made of. I didn't envision long hours or store bank accounts or staffing struggles. I didn't understand that living in a small town would mean a smaller pool of potential friends, didn't grasp the time and energy required when wanting to live simply. 

But reading Honore's book reminded me, page after page, that much of what the Slow Movement advocates, I am already doing or capable of doing. Managing a daily schedule, leaving work at work, walking in your neighborhood, shopping for local foods -- these are slow principles, and they're all entirely doable in our current situation. 

---

Jordan and I like to make summer-time goals and plans. It's a way to make the season fun and relaxing, even when both of us still have jobs to tend to. We've booked vacations and hosted house guests, but we've also spent time in the park and sat on our front porch swing. We've played ongoing games of Trivial Pursuit, and tonight, I cooked our very own farm-to-table dinner, thanks to homegrown vegetables from my dad. 

We are living the simple, slow life. It's not easy, and ask me on a different day, and I'm not sure if I'd love it as I do in this moment. (I am, as always, growing into contentment.) But friendships and church decisions and store budgets aside, we are really on an incredibly fun journey together.

 

Two years ago, I never, ever could have imagined myself here, in a small town in South Georgia, running my own small business. I set goals, dreamed dreams, but I know goals don't always pan out and dreams don't always come true. 

For some reason or another, this one did. And it looks a little different than I might have originally planned. 

But when I walk to work, or when I sit on my front porch, I'm reminded that we're doing just fine. 

 

Slow and small may just be right where we belong.

the sisterhood of the traveling book club.

Today, after a busy Saturday at the shop, I arrived home to Glitter and Glue, the memoir by Kelly Corrigan I had mailed off to my friends for our first ever long-distance book club selection. 

We had decided, the four of us, that with three different time zones and four varying schedules, a book club via Skype just wasn't going to work. But with all of us adjusting to new towns and new friendships, something familiar and comfortable still seemed important. We had met in book club, and continuing those meetings -- in some form or fashion -- felt like the answer. 

Enter The Sisterhood of the Traveling Book Club, an idea so ludicrous and idealistic, I'm lucky my friends even put up with it. (I have Leslie Knope tendencies, as you now know.) 

I had read Corrigan's Glitter and Glue in just a few hours; flew through it as I do most memoirs, touched by her memories of her mother, in awe of the the way the mother-daughter relationship can seem so familiar across continents and generations. I had read the book and immediately thought of my friends, and I began to do what I have been doing for the past year: I figured I'd stick it in the mail and ship it off to one of them, to read at their convenience. 

But, in a fit of Knope-esque genius, it hit me: This could be a thing. A Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants-inspired thing.

The rules? (Because of course.)

- Read the book in four to six weeks' time, then promptly mail to the next party. 

- Record your thoughts in the front or back of the book; underline favorite passages; dogear pages; treat the book like it's your own. 

- Whoever starts the book first ends up with the book. 

- A new book should start its rotation when one book ends -- or whenever you find a book you just have to share. 

- Have fun! Reading among friends -- even long-distance -- is one of life's best gifts. 

Like every good, overachieving friend, I printed the rules on the front page of Corrigan's book, packed it in a box, and shipped it out to Colorado. A month later, my friend sent it to Missouri, then sent me back book to begin a rotation. My friend in Missouri kept the book for a month, then sent it on to Illinois. Other books began making their way, with little rhyme or reason, across the country.

And today, after four months of travel, the very first book found its way back to me, in wonderful shape, but filled with little notations and markings left by each one of my friends.

I sat on my front porch and sifted through them all, glancing to see what lines had made my friends laugh, or cry, or think, or shake their heads. I had no idea how touched I'd be by all their ideas, their unique handwriting mixed in among the pages. (No one hand writes anything anymore, and after turning the pages of our book club book, I can't help but wonder why? There is ever so much more meaning in the things we hand write than in the things we type.)

The book had become a treasure in its four month journey, and soon I'll nestle it tightly on one of my overflowing shelves, proof -- yet again -- that one can never really have too many books. 

I write a lot, these days, about friendship. My little diatribes can be found in 40-character tweets or on rambling Instagram captions. I'm boring my family, I'm sure, with my concerns over a lack of friendship in this new town; Jordan is growing weary, no doubt, of my angst and self-pity. It has been five months since moving here, and in the grand scheme, of course, that is really no time at all. Friendship will come, and it will come, as everything does, in its own time and way. It won't be forced by me, no matter how hard I try. 

So I've given up, a little. I'm trying to get back into the groove of a Bible study I neglected, and I still gather with my letter writing club at the store. I set up staff dinners and take walks with Jordan; I sit on my front porch and wave at the neighbors, trying -- probably a little too hard -- to look friendly and fun. 

But I'm settled, I think, to the fact that friendship will come in due time, and -- like so many things with me -- will arrive slowly and purposefully, at its very own pace. When it does, the work and the effort will have been worth it. My little traveling book club is proof.

on making lemonade.

So last week, I dropped my iPhone 4 just one month shy of being able to trade it in. This phone has been the bane of my existence these last few months, never having enough room for apps or music or pictures or podcasts. But that's okay, I thought. First world problems, as the saying goes. I had kept it in such good shape; I knew I would be able to trade it in and get an upgrade for next-to-nothing just as soon as my contract was up. Ah, innocent youth. I had forgotten the first rule of adulthood: Things break the moment you need them not to. And in groups.

Like the air conditioning in my car and the drive shaft in Jordan's car both going out in a span of two days. Or the crack in our ceiling that we thought was from, you know, buying a 200-year-old house, but as it turns out, was actually due to moisture. And a leak. Just like we had in our last rental.

This was also the week in which the cold water in our bathroom stopped working (I had no idea that was even a thing) and the week I had a meltdown from oh my word where are all of our friends. (Followed quickly by what are we going to do about church and why did we move to this small town.)

No worries, I'm fine now.

The truth is, last week was hard. But there are always hard weeks. And frequently, the hardest things have very little to do with appliances breaking or cars sitting in the mechanic's shop. Those are just icing on the cake, small troubles that are simply magnified thanks to the more serious problems, the heart problems: a family member's cancer, a friend's struggles, your own loneliness.

I started reading Marina Keegan's The Opposite of Loneliness on Saturday and had to stop, it made me so sad and nostalgic and self-reflective. Do books ever do that to you? Put you in a fog? I never mind, really. I always learn so much from the fuzzy head, and the books that leave their mark that way are often excellent, and the book fog is worth it. But I knew this weekend, it was the last thing I needed.

So I snuggled by myself on the couch watching the Travel Channel, and then, on a whim, Jordan and I drove the backroads across the state line to another tiny town, and I felt like I'd escaped. And sure, it was hot -- no air conditioning in your car when it's 90 degrees outside can feel, at first, unbearable. But it wasn't anything a cold Coke couldn't fix. And we rolled the windows down, and we explored and drove and talked and listened to music and got lost and prayed ourselves down a dirt road or two.

And it was just the doctor ordered, if doctors were looking for cures for book fog and adulthood and small town loneliness.

I have high hopes for the summer. (Jordan says I have high hopes for everything, to which I say: There are worse things.) We're going to sit on our front porch and drink lemonade. My cousin is working at the store, and therefore spending part of the week in our home, which should help combat some of the alone-ness I feel. We're re-watching Friday Night Lights, and we think we've come up with a peaceful, though temporary, solution to our church search.

So much of life is seasonal; I've said this before, you've heard it before. But it's so comforting to know this won't last forever. So we're approaching summer -- and really, much of our current situation -- with the idea that this is seasonal. For a season, we will seek a spiritual haven in a church we didn't anticipate. It's temporary, and it's a little silly-sounding when we say it outloud, but so be it. This is what we need, in this season. 

This season, we will visit old friends and take a much-needed vacation traipsing around Florida together. We've got plans for baseball games and more road trips to tiny towns. I bought a new swimsuit because retail therapy is a real thing. We're finishing Jordan's courthouse project, and we're dreaming of Savannah. I've got some fun changes planned for the store, changes that should make us function better when sales pick up this fall. I'm going to invest time in my staff, who I love, and if that's where the friendships are found for now, then okay. This is my season, my station, for now.

Life is seasonal, and I am so grateful for that. And you know, yes, there are hard weeks. But the life we lead is still really good. And sure, we're driving and walking around town in a perpetual sweat, and the store is stressful, and sometimes I wonder if small town life is really for us. But one thing I do know? This season is good for us. Summer is going to be good to us, I think. And I am ready.

in which i begin to talk about church.

"Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom." - II Corinthians 3:17

--

When I was a little girl, I would traipse up and down the outer aisles of our church building, making sure to step on each air conditioning vent, watching my dress as it would pouf out around me. In that moment, I was transformed from a little girl into a dinging bell or a dancing ballerina, whichever vision my imagination gifted me in the moment. 

That was church, and it was enough. 

--

One Sunday morning, when I was eight years old, a new girl visited my church. Her father was a prospective minister for our congregation, and I was in desperate need of a new friend. We were in the same Sunday school class, and when she got a marker cap stuck on her finger, I bravely volunteered to help her to the bathroom, where we used soap and water until the cap came clean. Her father became our new minister, and she became my best friend. 

That was church, and it was enough. 

--

"Youth group." Those two little words longed for from a childhood spent in church didn't hold magic for me like they did for my peers. The classes felt silly, and my friends, I discovered, were no longer at my church; they were at my school. And although the spiritual culture of my evangelical school was completely different from my own, I seemed to belong there more than anywhere else. I found myself leading prayers and devotionals in front of my class, participating in FCA, singing alongside praise teams, going forward at abstinence altar calls.

That was church, and at the time, it felt like enough. 

-- 

By my senior year, my fascination with evangelical culture was wearing thin. I wasn't sold on kissing dating goodbye, and I was tired of bowing my head and closing my eyes during invitation songs. I was weary of Kirk Cameron and Left Behind, of rapture bumper stickers and Christian radio. I was desperate for something more, for something familiar, and when I graduated, I chose a Christian college; not one rooted in evangelical traditions, but one grounded in the faith of my home church. Yet I fell in love with Jesus not in chapel services, but in classes honoring the classics, surrounded by professors deeply influenced by Catholic and Orthodox principles. We gathered multiple times a week around a table, breaking bread and communing together in ways that made my heart sing.

That became my new church, and it was lovely, and it was enough. 

--

After graduation, I moved back to my hometown, to my home congregation. My views were different than they were before, and the fault lines that had begun to show during my high school years became cracks in the surface of my faith. But a new minister had come to our church, and he talked about falling in love with Jesus, and he practiced what he preached, and Jordan moved to town, and together, we forged our own place at the church of my childhood. I fell in love with church all over again, and when the walls came tumbling down -- as they always seem to do -- it was a harder fall than it had been before. I had loved church, and loving the church made being hurt by her all the harder. But we had our friends and our family, and so that was still church, and it was still, somehow, enough. 

--

I am 28 years old, and all I really know for sure about church these days is that I love Jesus. That's it. Ask me what I want from a church, and I won't be able to tell you. Ask me what I want to do, what gifts I want to use, and I won't know. Ask me what I believe about doctrine and faith, and I'm not confident I'll have much of a response -- certainly not the kind you'd be looking for from someone born and raised in church. 

All of my church experiences -- all the joys and the hurts, the triumphs and the challenges, the highs and the lows -- I wouldn't trade them. And I won't deny my conservative upbringing, don't regret my evangelical high school or the traditional restorationist congregation where I grew up. I wouldn't trade any of that, because I'm confident all of those experiences helped shape who I am today. And despite my current confusion, I rather like who I have become and am becoming. 

But that lack of denial, that fondness for all the aspects of my spiritual upbringing, both happy and sad, makes it difficult to know how to move forward. I have found Jesus, the Father, and the Spirit in so many different places over my life, and that has somehow left me confused instead of free. I am not sure what that means.

Jordan and I are in the position, for the first time, of choosing a church in adulthood. And for the first time, I understand why so many of my peers leave church. Not just the church of their childhood, but church in general. This picking and choosing, this visiting one church and then the next? It's not for the faint of heart. Truly. The faint of heart couldn't handle it. (I am sure of this, because my own heart is growing thin.) 

I love Jesus. And I think for some people, that's enough. Church is secondary, community can be found elsewhere. I know this, and I wish often it were the case for me. 

But I love church. I love the singing and the praying; I love turning the well-worn pages of my Bible, love sitting alongside strangers and friends to worship a God we can't see, a God who supposedly up from the grave arose. I love it in all its strangeness, in all its absurdity. I love it, and for me, I don't see any other way. 

The question, then, for me and for Jordan, becomes where to go next. In the move to Thomasville, we more or less left the church we were attending in hopes of becoming part of a community of faith in our new town, not realizing, I suppose, what exactly that would mean. 

So far it has meant a few awkward lunches, several bizarre communion stories (one involving spit-up, the other involving an usher who refused to let us hold the plate of crackers ourselves), a lot of new songs, and more introductions than I can count. 

And because we now live in a small town, it has also meant adjusting to a smaller congregation size. It has meant being recognized and conversed with, sometimes awkwardly and at length, about everything, but really about nothing. (And that, for me, has maybe been the hardest of all.)

Our new town has also meant an exploration of other options, options that, when we were 18, we might not have thought possible. We have now worshipped in congregations where women still wear head coverings and long skirts; where congregants bow to the cross and and kneel during prayer. We have sipped wine from chalices and accepted crackers from the hands of priests. 

We have done all these things, visited all these places, and we still do not know where to go. 

I'm not sure what this means. As a person who has long loved Jesus and believed in the most impossible scenarios -- life over death, the miraculous over the practical -- I do not know where to go next. At 28, I am less sure than I was at 18, and yet... I find that makes the most sense. 

At 18, the questions hadn't started. The discoveries were just beginning, the black and white were very slowly melding into grey. As a believer, I have to grow comfortable, I think, with some grey areas. Scripture leaves so much to the imagination, and I am becoming more okay with that than when I was 18. I am, perhaps, growing into my faith, realizing that maybe -- just maybe -- this whole thing is bigger than I have made it.

So with every visit, my opinions become more varied. We are thinking of ourselves, of our marriage, of our future children. We are deciding what kind of people we want to grow into and become, and for us personally, church still plays a big part in those decisions. 

I am so grateful that somewhere in my faith story, I found a partner who will ask hard questions with me, who will seek the Lord in every place He may be found, who believes He may be found in all kinds of places, in all kinds of ways. 

We talk together a lot, these days, about church and Jesus. We both acknowledge our confusion, but we also acknowledge the conclusions we are reaching. We are discovering, with each conversation, who we want to be and who we want to become. 

A lot of people I know leave church. At the very least, they leave the church in which they were born and raised. 

For us, that leap has been a difficult one. Neither of us is even sure that's what's next. 

But our conversations and our struggles are bringing us closer together and oddly, I find myself drawing closer to the Savior. I am realizing, despite the improbability of it, that the God I serve can be found -- bizarrely, miraculously -- in the head coverings and in the chalices, in four-part harmony and in chants, in quiet moments bowed down in prayers, and in happy-clappy moments at the altar. He inserts Himself, somehow, inexplicably, in all of these places and beyond. 

Perhaps that is truly church. Maybe, just maybe, it is enough.

Photo by Hannah Queen. 

let's talk about friends (again).

One of these days I'm going to sit down to the computer and type out all I have learned about entrepreneurship in the past six months. I am going to give it my best shot, because the Internet deserves to know the truth about small business ownership. (Spoiler alert: It does not have a lot to do with Kathleen Kelly-style cardigans.) I am going to lay it all out, because I need to see it on the screen, typed out before me. 

But before I can do that, before I can tell you about the blood, sweat, and tears I have poured into the business, I need you to know that Friday, I went to tea. And I maybe made my first friend in my new town.

I don't particularly like tea -- not hot tea, not sweet tea, not bubble tea (whatever on earth that is). I am simply not a tea drinker, not really a hot beverage drinker, not really a social drinker. (Please, someone just invite me over for a Coke. Is that too much to ask?) But last Friday, I needed to pick up some books by a local author, and instead, she asked me to tea. 

We sell a lot of regional authors in our store; regional authors aren't huge money makers, but they're a well-respected niche group, and they get a lot of attention in our store. One local woman, in particular, does quite well. Her book, a memoir about growing up in England during World War II, is extremely popular, and we were nearing the end of our stash. This sweet lady doesn't have a way to get around town, so I called her up, and next thing you know, I was examining family pictures and watching turtles sunbathe on her back deck. It was as if I wasn't even in South Georgia anymore, as if Narnia itself had opened up and swallowed me whole. 

And I was nervous to go. Nervous if we'd be able to carry on a conversation, wondering what would happen if she fell, or if she forgot who I was. But then I remembered my grandmothers, and how much older people have always meant to me, how much they have to offer us if we'll listen. 

So I went, and I'm so glad I did. It's cliche, but I think it's become a cliche because it's true. When we do these things, these things that we think will benefit the other person, they so often wind up being better for us. I went thinking I might bring some light into the life of this woman who spends so much of her time home alone, and instead, I was completely ministered to, my-cup-runneth-over kind of stuff. 

And I really do think I've made a friend. Jordan and I are going to visit this woman again, this time together. I'm determined to make it happen. She deserves it, and I want it so badly. 

I have been lonely, these past few weeks. We've only been in this small town for a couple of months, but our home is put together,  and we finally got a lawn mower, and I planted our vegetable garden last weekend. The distractions are ending, and the loneliness is creeping in. Our friends moved around this time last year, so it's been a full year since we've been without them; the void has gotten larger, or -- at the very least -- more noticeable. And the truth is, I feel a little sorry for myself. I had built my community. I had friends and family around whenever I needed them. 

And now I don't. 

That realization has been a hard one to grasp, but last week, as I sipped English tea and ate cookies with a woman nearly 70 years my senior, it hit me: Maybe I have a community. Maybe my community just looks different than it used to. 

Because every Wednesday, I'm gathering together with a group of girls to talk about Jesus. I'm slowly opening up, and they are letting me in. It's a give and take, this act of becoming kindred, and if I can understand that this friendship transformation won't happen overnight, I can accept the baby steps that are occurring every day. I can accept the right now, in this moment truth that these are good girls, women who are stretching me, holding me accountable, and pointing me toward grace. 

And that's not even all. Every month, I sit at a table with the most unique group of women, writing notes to faraway friends at our store's letter writing club. And I guess I never really thought of that group of people as my friends. Friends sit at your table and swing on your front porch swing and meet you for dinner. They chat over yogurt and read books you like and take walks around your neighborhood. 

But maybe that's just what friends do when they've been your friends for a long time. Maybe first they're just the people you meet at the grocery store, or talk to after church, or visit with during meetings. 

Because Tuesday night, we all talked about the movies we'd seen and our summer travel plans. We laughed and ate chocolate and put stamps on our letters and went home. It felt a lot like friendship to me. 

And sure, some of those women are again, 30 years my senior. But a couple of them are near my age. And they don't watch The Mindy Project or read the books I read, but I enjoy visiting with them. I like laughing with them.

And the store -- which has brought so much trouble and hardship and stress into my life -- has also introduced me to such a quirky cast of characters. A customer knew I liked To Kill a Mockingbird, so he loaned me a copy of his biography of Harper Lee. And another customer wanted to know what I thought about a rare book she'd come across. Another one brought me daffodils from her garden. And my staff? Well, I love my staff. They are funny and kind and hard-working, and I guess I'm starting to think: Maybe I'm building community after all. 

Maybe this time, my community won't look exactly like me. Maybe this time, I won't just be friends with people my age or in my life stage. Maybe porch visits and long walks are a little ways off. But I have to start somewhere, and you know what? I haven't been lonely this week. I've been busy, and my life has felt full. 

Jordan tells me so often that my expectations are too high. But what if they're not high? What if they're a goal I'm reaching toward; what if I begin to understand that true relationship takes time and effort, and community isn't built overnight? What if I were content with English teas and letter writing clubs and Bible studies and the hope of something more? What if enough was enough for me, at least for now? 

Honestly? I don't think I'd be lonely at all. 

Photo by Katie Owens

on being known.

There's something about welcoming people into your home, isn't there? 

Maybe it's why Scripture speaks so much about hospitality; the act of opening our doors and sitting across tables from each other inspires openness, conversation, dialogue. It urges us into community, which may be the ultimate goal of the gospel, if we think about it. 

In Tallahassee, we opened our doors all the time. It was a decision we made, and at first, I thought it was one we made as our homes got a little larger. The bigger the home, the more room for parties, for people. But looking back, we hosted gatherings in our 650 square foot apartment, too. That tiny upstairs loft (and that's being generous) hosted a new year's eve party and launched a life-changing book club. 

I guess, then, size really doesn't matter. 

Now we're in a new town, with new faces, and it's scarier to open our doors. I'm not sure why that is. Tallahassee was new to Jordan, but it wasn't new to me. And maybe there's something to be said for a town that feels like home, even when the people aren't as familiar. We opened our doors in Tallahassee, and I'd like to think we made lifelong friends because of our decision to embrace community, to throw parties and eat dinners together. 

In Thomasville, it's trickier business. This town is new; we are new. And yet, the desire is there. Hospitality breeds hospitality, and it's in my blood now. Introvert or not, I love gathering people together under my roof. I love throwing the door open and greeting friendly faces. Mostly, I love watching the people I love interact with each other. It's special, and it's something unique, I think, to gathering in a familiar, comfortable place. 

Allowing people into my home also feels very much like being known. This is the place where I belong. It is the place where my head sleeps every night, where Jordan and I laugh at each other and argue with each other and clean up after each other. It is the place where my books reside peacefully, scattered among different shelves. It's the place where our wedding pictures are, where our honeymoon postcards hang, where frames and chalkboards are filled with quotes we love. It's the place where my grandmother's table is, where rooms hold Jordan's grandfather's dresser, my hope chest, and the keys from when I locked myself in my grandparents' bathroom. 

When I invite you into my home, I invite you to know me, to know Jordan, because this is where we are best. Don't be mistaken: It's not where we act the best. It's not where we're on our best behavior. But it is, without a doubt, the place we are most comfortable. We breathe sighs of relief when we cross the threshold. Our handiwork is here, and it is not always good, but it is ours. 

And I realize, of course, that this all probably over-thinking things a bit. (Over-thinking is one of the things I do the very best.) I understand that it says a lot about my personality, my being, when I can dive paragraphs deep into an explanation about being home and being known. It's a wonder people ever come over here at all. The pressure!

The point is, I hosted a group of girls over at my house tonight. It's a Bible study group that's been meeting for a couple of weeks, and I love our home, and I think I could, maybe, love these people. It was time to open my doors. 

So I did. And I wasn't too nervous about it. It's in my blood, remember? So I made homemade salsa, and I had Jordan pick up two bottles of wine from Trader Joe's. (He had to instruct me over speaker phone on how to open the bottles. Sometimes it's easy to forget I'm 28 years old.) I straightened the house and swept Junie's hair into various corners. But I didn't clean too much. I wanted these people to know this is home. It is lived in, and it is comfortable, and it is where I am best. 

My guests probably really didn't care about any of this. (Guests usually don't care as much as we'd like to think they do.) But I think they felt comfortable, and they commented on the books and pictures, and I thought to myself, "Yes, this is me. You are getting to know me." 

I have no idea what relationships this town holds for us. It's too soon to tell, I guess. I know it's shocking, but I seem to want everything right now, in this moment. I have to keep telling myself the words my aunt spoke to me a few months ago. "You don't just meet old friends." And she's right. 

Old friends come with time and effort and heartache and joy. Those friendships take, for me, years to create, and it would be silly to think I could find them in six weeks' time. 

But opening my door, inviting people into my home, eating salsa, and talking about Jesus? That's a wonderful place to start.