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. 

in which i distract myself with (what else?) a party.

We're saying goodbye to some of our best friends this season, so it only seemed appropriate to send them off in style (while we sob behind their backs). I really love throwing parties for people -- I think it's one of my love languages -- and I figured Cinco de Mayo was as good a theme as any. Mexican food is delicious and inexpensive, and I've been wanting a reason to celebrate out on our patio. 

Of course, Sunday morning broke bright and beautiful before heavy clouds settled in around 3:00. Jordan and I kept decorating, railing at the sky every now and then when rain began to threaten. At several points in the afternoon, I thought we'd have to turn indoors, but the sun won out, and our party was perfect. 

Truly, we had a lovely time. This is the first party I've been brave enough to cook all the food myself, so I consider this a huge adult accomplishment. The decorations (my favorite part) were lovely and cheap thanks to Target's ever-amazing dollar bin, and I have a new-found love affair with paper chains. (Also? Mason jars with balloon-dipped bottoms.)

We had fun, but it's all rather bittersweet. We took silly pictures, but we're also beginning the very long goodbye process to some of the people we love the most. We're not really sure how we're going to fill the void. Add to this the fact that we may be embarking on some life changes of our very own this summer, now without the support present and in-town friendships bring.

I have said it before, but I think it bears repeating: This is a difficult season for us. And I know, not so many moons down the road, this will all be such a blip on the maps of our lives, but now? Now it all feels very big. Intimidating. Scary. And I keep repeating so many different Bible verses in my head. Verses about how what was meant for evil, God will turn to good. Verses about perseverance being part of the growing up process. Verses reminding me that this too shall pass, that God will clear the pathways and make them straight. 

To be honest, the verses don't always help. (It depends on my mood.) But celebration, choosing to stop and do something when all I really feel like doing is pulling the covers over my head?

It turns out, that helped.

galentine's day 2013.

Occasionally I exhibit what I call absent-minded-professor tendencies. I spend weeks prepping for a party, but can't figure out who to invite. I pick out decorations, themes, appropriate colors, but the food we'll all eat remains a mystery. Thus begins this year's Galentine's Day tale.

I sent out invitations to my book club weeks ago detailing this year's event, encouraging them to invite their own friends since Galentine's Day is most assuredly one of those the more the merrier kind of holidays. I emphasized Leslie Knope and "hos before bros," but figured details like where and when were less important. I just assumed we'd hold the party where I'd held it last year, at one of the only local restaurants in town that serves breakfast past noon. (Breakfast for dinner is a big part of the Galentine's Day concept for me, mostly because: who doesn't love night-time pancakes?)

A few days before the big event, I tried calling the restaurant to make sure they'd be okay with nine of us coming in for a party, equipped with our own decor. They'd laughed at me last year when I'd called to make reservations, so I figured a phone call a couple of days in advance would more than suffice this time. Unfortunately, no one ever answered the restaurant's phone, not any time I called. And while normally, I'd find that disconcerting, I kind of shrugged my shoulders and figured something was wrong with their telephones. 

By the time Tuesday finally rolled around, I had Izze sodas; colorful napkins, notebooks, slap bracelets, and treat bags (thank you, Target dollar bins); but no confirmation the restaurant would actually be open. About four hours before festivities were set to begin, I decided to call the restaurant one last time.

Guys, someone finally picked up. 

Turns out, they're now closed in the evenings. (Tallahasseeans must not like breakfast for dinner, which is just about the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.) My Galentine's Day party was all dressed up with nowhere to go. 

Luckily, my friends all check their phones religiously, so a few mass texts later, I'd moved the party to a different restaurant -- one that would also let me bring my own decorations and goodies -- and Galentine's Day commenced with the usual fanfare. 

I used to kind of hate Valentine's Day, mostly because in high school, Valentine's Day is pretty miserable. It  is. There's no more "everyone gets a Valentine because everyone is special" mentality. It's the most intense of popularity contests, with flowers held in the school office and names called over the intercom. It's the one part of high school that really is like the movies we see and the books we read, and it's never fun for those who aren't at the top of the food chain. Even in college, when Jordan and I were dating, Valentine's Day wasn't my thing. I'm not overly affectionate or romantic -- not in the red roses kind of way -- and a holiday with loads of pink and chalk-flavored hearts seemed silly to me. 

Now, though, I choose to celebrate all kinds of love on Valentine's Day. Last year, Galentine's Day really helped me see that a holiday devoted to love -- all kinds of love -- isn't silly at all. It's fun. It's fun to celebrate those we love. Valentine's Day is a way to express our gratitude to people who choose to be in our lives, choose to love and appreciate us, and it's a small way to appreciate and love them right back.

A lot of people shy away from throwing parties, maybe because it requires work and effort and yes, vulnerability. But I am learning all the time that life is really worth the effort. Parties don't have to be perfect to be fun, and most of the time, our friends and family are eager just to gather together.

The specifics of hospitality (even though I love them) are rarely as important as the act itself.

I guess what I'm saying is: Throw a party. Get together with your friends. Show them you care. And it's still February, which means you could legitimately throw a Galentine's Day party tomorrow. I bet your friends would be thrilled. 

doing something is better than doing nothing.

{photo by Julie Cope}

Occasionally I discover what Gretchen Rubin calls a "secret of adulthood," a truth realized and tested after months and years of hard-lived experience. 

One truth that has popped up repeatedly since my grandmother's death earlier this year is this idea that doing something -- even if it's done poorly -- is better than doing nothing. 

After my grandmother's death, a handful of friends chose to live that truth: they came to the funeral, left food on my front porch, and sent emails filled with sweet words of encouragement and remembrance. 

Other friends were uncomfortable, and that's okay. Death is uncomfortable. It isn't fun to think about or talk about, and I understand the not knowing what to say, and choosing to settle for silence instead. 

But I am so incredibly grateful for those few friends brave enough to do something, and it has inspired me, in moments when courage feels far away, to choose the something over the nothing. 

For me, that means doing things I'm not necessarily good at for the sake of people I love. It means making time to cook a little extra for friends who might need a pick-me-up. It means sending birthday cards even if they're a month late. It means doing instead of talking about doing. 

A friend of mine has a baby due in a few short weeks. In the middle of her pregnancy, she and her husband decided to sell their home and buy a new one. On the day they were to close on both of their homes -- the one they were selling and the one they were buying -- the family buying their old house backed out of the deal. My friend and her husband were ready to move; they had all of their belongings packed in a truck. In a single moment, that changed. They chose not to buy their new home without selling their old one, which meant unloading the contents of the truck back into the house they'd already said goodbye to. 

In the middle of all of that chaos, I was busy with my own plans. I was traveling and work was a little nutty, and I didn't do anything. I couldn't. Life was hectic, and my friend understood that. 

The chaos has died down, and my life, in turn, has returned to a fairly normal pace. That rough patch my friend was going through is over, and I missed it, really through no fault of my own.

I think there's another secret of adulthood at play here, though.

Better late than never. 

Sure, the moment may have passed. My friend and her husband are happy and -- amazingly -- moved back into their home. I missed helping with that process, and I could just wait until another crisis hits before lending a helping hand. 

But that's silly, isn't it? To wait until I'm needed to be a good friend?

So last Tuesday, I took my friend dinner. I made twice baked potato casserole, and I bought chicken from Publix. I sent over apple cake a friend had given me and Jordan that I knew we wouldn't be able to eat before heading out of town. I added a gallon of my favorite lemonade and the latest issue of Real Simple magazine. 

It wasn't all made from scratch. It wasn't really timely, wasn't sent over when my friend really needed it. 

But everybody likes free food. Everybody likes a warm meal they don't have to cook. Everybody likes kindness, even if it's a little overdue. 

Sure, it's better to be the friend who's right on time. Sometimes, though, life doesn't allow that. 

When that happens, I want to choose to be a friend anyway. Even when it's late. Even when it's not entirely homemade or perfectly planned. 

Doing something is better than doing nothing, and it's better to be late than to never show up.

yard-drinks.

There's this house I've had my eye on for four years, a house Jordan and I walked past every day in our very first married neighborhood, a house with lawn chairs out front and Japanese lanterns on the back porch. 

It's what I call a party house, magnificently cluttered without looking like an episode of Hoarders. The entire place screams fun, and when Jordan and I would pass it on our nightly walks, I'd imagine what gatherings happened there. I knew: When I grew up, I wanted a house just like that. 

Now I'm fairly grown-up and renting a house I love very much. We've got our porch lights hung, and -- inspired by the party house -- our Adirondack chairs out front. 

A few weeks ago, while working at a city park opening near our place, I met the neighbors of the party house. (You'd think this would be unusual, but it's Tallahassee, so occurrences like this are fairly common.) In a gesture uncommon for my introverted personality, I gushed to the neighbor a little about that house, how I'd loved it for four years, dreaming about who loved there and the parties they must have. And all of a sudden, in the middle of my overly-romanticized musings about this little white house, the neighbor said, "Yard-drinks! You've got to come to yard-drinks!"

It turns out that the party house is actually pretty similar to what I'd always imagined. Each Wednesday night, neighbors gather on the front lawn for yard-drinks, which is as simple as it sounds. It's BYOB, and they sit in lawn chairs chatting until they don't want to chat anymore. 

I love it. 

The church talks a lot about community, about establishing the closeness that first church in Acts seemed to have so easily. 

I'm beginning to think that type of community can't evolve solely from ministries and church services and potlucks in the basement. 

Some of it has to happen outside the bubble of the building, in homes and parks and neighborhoods and driveways, in the midst of the built-in community already existing in our backyards. 

We haven't made it over the party house for yard-drinks just yet. Instead, though, we decided to try our hand at yard-drinks ourselves. 

Monday night, we invited a couple of friends over. We set a bucket of drinks and four lawn chairs out front. And for a couple of hours, we just sat -- without a schedule, without a television -- and laughed and talked and waved to neighbors. 

It was just what I wanted. 

Low-key, semi-effortless community. 

We're thinking of making yard-drinks a weekly or bi-weekly tradition. The weather is finally turning a little cooler, and I'm envisioning nights on the lawn with a mug of hot chocolate in my hand. 

Our house might not be party house material just yet, but if you're in the neighborhood on a Monday night, you just might see some lawn chairs and the porch lights twinkling in the distance. 

We're having yard-drinks, and we'd love for you to come. 

being gracious.

There's this story in the New Testament where Jesus heals ten lepers. Ten sick, broken people, and they are all made well. Their lives are changed completley and utterly. They have been healed. They now live.

But only one comes back to say thank you.

It's this rule of 10 percent that scares me. Because the times and the cultures have changed, but I'd wager that percentage -- the percentage of people who choose to go back and say "thank you" -- hasn't changed at all.

We are people who are healed and who are gifted with life's greatest rewards, and rarely do we take the time to acknowledge it.

Over a year ago, when I turned 25, I told myself that I wanted to be gracious. I wanted to be the kind of person others enjoy being around, wanted to be kind and considerate and thoughtful, wanted my home to be a place of refuge and fun. I wanted to put others at ease, to be full of smiles and joy and gratitude. 

Gosh, but I fail miserably. 

It's a reminder, I guess, of my own weakness, that even on the days I set out with the best of intentions, I wind up doing the very things I set out not to do. 

This is where I'd normally give you an example of my un-graciousness, where I'd tell an anecdote about how I messed up, a personal story about my misguided attempts at grace. But sometimes, personal stories must remain personal, and because I am notoriously hard on myself, today I am giving myself a pass. I am forgiving myself for my miserable failures, and I am pressing on.

Grace is still the goal. That idea I had for myself at 25 is who I want to be at 26, at 42, at 65, at all the ages between here and eternity. It's a desire that I hope won't go away, since it undoubtedly won't always be met.

I want to be a generous and kind and loving and thoughtful person. I want to offer grace even when I am not always offered it. I want to be in the 10 percent. I want to be the one that turns back to say thank you.

(Note: Even though this blog is not often a place for re-blogging, I did come across these 10 Gentle Reminders written by Kate Spade yesterday, and I thought they were pretty appropriate guidelines for grace-filled living. Enjoy!)

1. Making others feel at ease is the essence of etiquette, yesterday and today.

2. There are few words more elementary or more welcomed than please and thank you.

3. Good moods are contagious. Hopefully yours will be pleasantly catching.

4. Be aware and considerate of personal space -- physical, visual and aural.

5. Showing respect is a gift, one that costs nothing and is endlessly appreciated.

6. Think of your tone of voice as a telegraph. To the listener it speaks volumes.

7. A short fuse does nothing but burn. Should you find yourself with one, steer clear of others.

8. Never underestimate the message that's sent by your poise and your posture.

9. Clothes count. Appropriate attire is not only respectful, it's refreshing.

10. Let common sense be your guide and graciousness your goal.

give me a bigger heart.

"I think one of the most powerful apologetics in the gospel is when a group of people love one another and live in unity together in the midst of a broken, dark, and depraved world."

- Jeff Vanderstelt, Soma Communities

A few years ago, a fairly prominent minister came to our congregation for an evangelism workshop. On three separate occasions, he spoke to church members on the power of the gospel and how to bring people to Christ.

Do you know the only thing I remember from that weekend?

He never mentioned love.

I know that I'm a fairly critical listener, and I hope I'm not being too harsh, but I will never forget that out of all the lessons and the pointers and the acronyms and the lists, he never talked about love.

When we talk about evangelizing, when we talk about missionaries and "winning" people for the gospel, I think we forget that really, just like with everything else, it's all about love.

And I don't say that because love is easy, or because I've got evangelism and this "spreading the Word" thing down. In fact, I kind of stink at it. And I'd wager to say that it might actually be easier to pass out tracts and stand on street corners than it is to invite someone over for a meal or to go out of your way to be helpful, kind, and courteous to your coworkers and your neighbors.

Loving people is hard work. 

I wonder if that's why we go to evangelism workshops and write down three names of people we'd like to bring to Christ before we die. Because it's easier to make lists than it is to be a friend.

A few nights ago, Jordan and I were talking with a couple of our friends, and the subject of being a missionary came up. Our friends talked about their passion for going to Africa, about what it could look like if we just decided to do it and go.

I loved that conversation, loved seeing Jordan's eyes light up with the possibility.

But there was another part of me that hesitated.

I'm not a very good missionary right here in Tallahassee, Florida. Moving to Africa to spread God's word? I don't even remember to speak to my neighbor when we run into each other at the mailbox.

That night, I mentioned the possibility of instead, moving to a home in a not-so-great part of town. I talked about living as neighbors -- true neighbors, neighbors that speak and trade sugar and invite each other over to watch TV -- in a community.

You know what?

The four of us weren't so excited about that possibility. My husband (who I love, and who I've asked permission to tell this story) talked about the safety precautions we'd have to take, about the efforts we'd have to make for something like that to be possible.

Not a few minutes earlier, he'd been talking about learning French and moving to Africa.

Loving people is hard work.

This idea has been bombarding me lately, in all kinds of forms. (My brain works in the funniest of ways.)

First, I saw this video and website about a group of 20-somethings who spent an entire summer living and working together on an Arkansas farm. (I got so excited after I watched that I literally brainstormed who of our friends would join me on our own similar summer. I love my friends, but I'm pretty sure that's not happening.)

Then, our Bible class watched a Francis Chan video about fellowship and the church. The entire video stuck with me, but there was this one idea I keep coming back to. In the video, Chan says he cringes when people talk about how they love Jesus, but they just can't understand the church. They just can't get behind the institution that is church. It's too hateful; it's too divided; it's too religious. Look, I get that. I've had my own battle with church for the past few months, but something with Chan really stuck with me. He said that perhaps the best way we can lead others to Christ is by being part of a church, because church takes work. Love and forgiveness and unity take work. And the best way to tell someone about the love and forgiveness offered by the Father isn't by telling them at all.

It's by loving the people at church who you just can't stand.

It's the forgiving people who stomp on your heart.

It's uniting with people who you may not have much in common with, save for the blood of Christ.

When people see that, they just won't get it. And then, you can tell them that you didn't get it either. But Christ does. Christ did. And so we keep on loving and forgiving and uniting, because that's what he did.

So I watched that Francis Chan video. We talked with our friends about mission work. And then, kindred spirit and blogging buddy Kara posted this tear-jerker of a video along with a blog post about the community dinners she takes part in every Monday night.

And every time I read an article or have a conversation or watch a video, I get these chills, because I want that. I want community. I want to love my neighbor. I want to be brave enough to open up my home to friends and strangers alike. I want to be the hands and the feet of Jesus, and I don't want to do it by handing out tracts or even by moving to Africa.

I want to do it right here. Right now.

Because that's where I am.

Too often -- and in all different kinds of circumstances -- we wait. We wait to act until we're married or until we have kids or until we have a house or until we're out of debt or until our church situation gets better or until our family situation gets better or until we move to somewhere new and exciting. 

What if the will of God starts now?

There are a lot of thoughts floating around this head of mine, and I'm not quite sure what to do with them just yet.

For now, I'll keep hosting small groups in my home every Sunday night. I'll keep preparing food even when people complain. I'll keep opening my doors even when people have not-nice things to say. (Sidenote: Opening your doors to people -- even fellow believers -- takes some seriously thick skin. That's not how it should be, but that's how it is.) I'll continue to love and to forgive and to show kindness. I will smile at my neighbor when I'm at the mailbox. I will be kind to my waiter and waitress. I will take food to the sick and to those who've just had babies. I will write sympathy cards and send flowers.

I will do my best to be Jesus right where I am.

"His love is worth me doing everything." That's what minister Jeff Vanderstelt said in the video I linked to above. You know what else he said? If I don't have passion or love for the people around me, for the people I come in contact with on a daily basis, I need to ask for a bigger heart. This isn't about whether I have the "gift" of evangelism or not. In fact, none of this is about me. "This is about God's glory and lost people who don't know the love of the Father."

His love is worth me doing everything, and that everything encompasses even the smallest, most menial of tasks. 

Maybe we'll move to Africa one day. Maybe we'll move into the inner city of Tallahassee, Florida.

But until either of those things happen, I've got a calling right here that I'm not fulfilling. 

It's not about me. It's about so many people who are lost and sad and lonely and hurting. 

It's about love. 

 *photo by Luisa Brimble

leslie knope would be so proud.

 

Here's the thing: I really like my friends. I really like planning a fun party. And I have little to no shame.

Meaning, when I marched myself into a restaurant on Saturday night armed with my own candles, centerpieces, and placecards, I ignored the funny stares and chose to focus on the reason I throw ridiculous parties in the first place: The people I love deserve to be told so.

Or, in this case, shown.

Inspired by Leslie Knope and her penchant for celebrating, I threw the girls in my book club my own take on Galentine's Day this weekend, complete with breakfast-for-dinner and lots and lots and lots of pink. I spent much of last week loading up on Target Valentine's goodies and painting tote bags (great tutorial found here), then got to the restaurant a few minutes early to set up. A friend made cookies, and each girl brought a Valentine's-themed gift worth $5 to $10 for a small gift exchange.

I won't speak for my friends, but Galentine's Day might be my new favorite tradition. I loved showing a few of the women in my life how much they mean to me, loved taking Valentine's Day and making it fun and special for a group that has made my time in Tallahassee such a blessing.

We laughed and ate and showered each other with gifts (which, let's face it, is fun for everyone). We wore red and pink and talked a lot about The Hunger Games and Downton Abbey. We showed the waitress and our fellow restaurant patrons a good time, so much so that when one of us nearly burned the place down (thanks to my aforementioned candles and a dropped menu), no one seemed to care all that much. In fact, the waitress said we made her night. I'm convinced celebration does that to people... even to people that are mere observers.

Friends deserve to be celebrated. They deserve to be shown love and appreciation. Sometimes, that love means big gestures or small, silent prayers or cards in the mail.

And sometimes, that love comes in the form of pink striped tote bags and delicious pancakes.

That's my kind of celebration.  

potatoes, communion, and coming out of the desert.

 {photo for Country Living by Marcus Nilsson}

On Sunday, I went to worship the Creator with my husband at the church I have attended for, more or less, my entire life. I sang the songs and tried desperately to mean what I sang. I closed my eyes and ignored the distractions. (I am a people-watcher, so in church, there are a lot of distractions.) I paid attention to the sermon. I turned worn Bible pages in my hands. I said thank you in communion. I wished the cup was bigger, wished there was more bread to fill me up, but I communed and said thank you -- and meant it. When the last song was sung, I was grateful, because worship felt peaceful that day. I know some people really hate that word, the "f" word, the "feeling" terminology that sometimes I fall back into, but I just don't know another way to say it. Worship felt good Sunday.

And I sneaked out before Bible class, stopping to chat with friends and family before heading home to boil potatoes for our supper club that afternoon. I got home, lit a couple of candles, turned on my iPod, and got to work.

It felt like worship to me.

I think some people might say that skipping Sunday school that day wasn't in my best interest, spiritually-speaking. That maybe I should have stuck around, potatoes and supper club be... well, you know.

But as I teared up during the songs that played over iPod speakers,* as I gave my hand a cramp cutting up three pounds of potatoes, I felt close to the Father. The house was quiet, the dog was at my feet, and unspoken prayers left my heart instead of my lips. It was just as much worship, and it was good.

By 1:00, Jordan was home, and potatoes were in the oven. Friends trickled in bringing turkey and cranberry sauce, spice cookies and green bean casserole. We gathered around the table, giggled at the little ones, sighed over good food, exchanged compliments and funny stories. We celebrated homes bought and health secured, new babies and job opportunities. I felt so proud and so grateful.

I was watching answered prayers.

A friend graciously stayed behind to do dishes, and the last couple closed the door behind them at 4:30. I dashed up the stairs and under the covers, occasionally checking on the roast in the crock pot, because supper club wasn't the only communal activity we had going on that day.

At 6:00, more friends opened up the door and found their places in our living room, comfortably stretching on the couch and helping in the kitchen. We ate and talked about Jesus' prayer for the disciples He loved and for the world He hadn't yet met. We talked about how much He must love us, to pray for us like that, sight unseen. We talked about unity and what that looks like and if there is such a thing, if we can ever achieve what He asked for us and of us.

Our small group has been meeting for about 20 weeks, and it has been a blessing. Sunday night, as a few of us stayed behind to swap stories and laugh at jokes and share grateful thoughts, I realized, again, that my Father had heard the cry of my heart.

The community I am a part of is not perfect. I am constantly in want of more. More intimacy, more authenticity, more confession, more communion. I am not content with the way it has always been or the ways I have previously settled for.

But it does exist. Community does happen, with effort and with prayer and with purpose.

Sunday was a busy day. As I crawled under the covers, the exhaustion hit, and I realized that in the course of 24 hours, I had set two tables, opened my home to 20 people, cooked three pounds of potatoes and four pounds of roast beef. I am not saying I think that was wise. I'm not sure I'll want to host two fairly large gatherings in the same day ever again.

But it was what I needed that day.

I needed to be reminded that I have friends that love me, that communion with the Father can be found surrounded by leeks and heavy cream, that if you can learn to say no, the yesses can become so much more meaningful.

This spiritual desert I have been trudging through has had its moments, and it is my firm belief that He has been with me each step of the way, guiding me and pointing me toward the things of importance.

He has been showing me the way, although I have not always known it.

* If you must know, "A Page Is Turned," by Bebo Norman, and "I Am," by Nichole Nordeman.

31 days || thirty-one: a legacy of celebration.

{photo by Jonas Peterson via Snippet & Ink}

Last February, right in the middle of my own birthday party planning, I also got roped into decorating for a church Valentine’s Day party. Valentine’s Day is not my favorite, but I loved Target’s line of rainbow hearts, and I had gold chargers begging to be used, so I agreed. 

My parents graciously helped, and while I was in one corner of the room lining up streamers, my parents were stringing up lights, and I heard my dad tell my mom something I hope I’ll never forget. 

He said he was glad to see his daughter living out a legacy of celebration. 

There are so many things I am grateful for when it comes to my family: their welcoming hearts, their sense of humor, their faith, our long talks at the dinner table, our genuine “like” for each other. But it’s this love of celebration I keep coming back to, this sincere hospitality, this desire to find joy and happiness in what we’ve been given that I hope I pass down to my own children one day. 

I want this legacy to stick with me as the days and months and years pass, as I get older and open up my own home and begin my own family traditions. 

Back when I started this 31 days project, I was hesitant. I knew I wanted to write for 31 days straight, but I didn’t know what to write about. And one night over dinner, my aunt looked at me and said, basically, “Isn’t this a no-brainer?” Celebration, to my family, just makes sense. It is obvious. It is necessary. It is possible and doable no matter the occasion or the budget or the obstacle. 

Nearly three years into marriage, I am convinced I married someone who agrees. Someone who makes trips to the grocery store special, who makes time for movie nights and having friends over and cooking in the kitchen and cuddles on the couch. I am so grateful.

I’ve covered a lot of territory in these 31 days. I’ve talked about cooking and community. I’ve shared my ideas for hosting dinner guests and lessons learned from an 18-year-old’s birthday party. I’ve written about shaking it out and overcoming tragedy. I’ve shared my exhaustion and my frustration and how I cope with all of it. 

This month, I’ve hosted a dinner party, a dance party, a wedding, and a birthday dinner for my dad. I’ve gone to supper club, coordinated a wedding reception, visited a nursing home, and tried to maintain meaningful friendships and relationships without losing my mind. 

Celebration is not easy. It is not always my natural state of being, not my default setting. But when I choose to look for the good, when I choose to open up my home and my heart to the people I love and the people who need love, I realize: It is all worth it. 

Every time I sat down to write out a post for this month, the words were the same: Celebration is work. Celebration is hard. But celebration is worth the time and the effort. 

Perfection isn’t going to come. There will always be reasons and excuses, cancellations and busy schedules. 

Be one of those people who finds time and energy to celebrate anyway. Dig deep down and summon hospitality to the top of your being. Celebrate the big and the small and the mundane. Celebrate because not many people do. Celebrate because it is your version of praise. Celebrate because it is spiritual. Celebrate because it is your calling. 

Celebrate because there is too much good in life not to. 

new here? read all of my 31 days posts here.

31 days || thirty: supper club + getting it done.

{photo via anton sugar}

I first mentioned my hopes for a cooking club way back in June. I had just gotten back from the beach (oh, how I miss it!), just finished reading Shauna Niequist's Bittersweet and Capon's  The Supper of the Lamb. I was coming down from a creativity high, and plans for a cooking club were the result. 

Four months and a couple dozen recipes later, our cooking club consists of five couples, some we know well, some we don't. Our first meeting back in September had to be postponed -- thank you, head cold that lasted way longer than seven days -- and when we reconvened, only a handful of us could attend, so I threw a random dinner party instead. It wasn't really a supper club, and that's okay. Now we're trying to get back on track, so we're throwing a soup-themed lunch this afternoon. Our fingers are crossed in the hopes that all 10 of us (plus three little ones) make it in one piece. 

Here's the thing: Celebration doesn't always look like we've envisioned it. Life's reality isn't Pinterest boards and blog posts. It's budgets and hectic schedules and "we're-just-doing-the-best-we-can."

Sometimes, you just have to make do with what you have. 

Sometimes, you just have to make things happen. 

Is cooking club everything I always dreamed it would be? Does it read like a chapter out of Niequist's book? No, I guess not. But you know what? It's five couples doing the best they can to make cooking and eating and being together a priority. And in these bizarre years where Facebook and online communication are overtaking the lives we lead with our neighbors day-to-day? Well, I'll take all that I can get.

Community is messy. People are messy. Plans are messy.

If you wait for everything in your life to be perfect, if you wait for all your ducks to be in a row, if you wait for the perfect meal, the perfect moment, the perfect friends, the perfect house, the perfect schedule...

Celebration won't happen. 

Life won't happen. 

You'll wind up sad, lonely, and your gifts will never even have made it out of the box. 

If you're waiting on something to celebrate, stop. If you're spending your days just pinning ideas to an online bulletin board, stop.

Make something happen. 

Cook a new recipe, call over a couple of friends. 

Have people over for a scary movie on Halloween. 

Read that book that's been on your list and share it with those you love. 

Go out for a girls' night. 

Do something.

Sure, things don't always end up like we've planned or imagined. 

But sometimes, if we're lucky, they turn out even better.

We just have to give it our best shot. 

31 days || twenty-nine: wedding day.

{photo by rochford photography}

So today, I helped give this couple the day of their dreams. 

And in the middle of the hustle and bustle, I kind of forgot to schedule a celebratory 29th post. 

Whoops. 

Forgive me, and accept these: 

My words of wisdom for brides-to-be. 

1. Wear comfortable shoes. Ignore the siren song of the heels in your closet, and put on your boots or your tennis shoes or your flip flops. Your feet will thank you. 

2. Hire a wedding coordinator, at least for the day of. You don't want to be responsible for any major decisions on your big day. Make sure you have someone who can make those callls for you and help things go smoothly. You want to have fun, and being in charge isn't exactly fun. 

3. Feed people, and feed them well. This depends a lot on the time of day your wedding is scheduled, but if you've got guests coming near lunch or dinner, feed them. Every bride has different priorities. Some people want to spend a lot of money on flowers or on photography or on the perfect venue. I'd put photography as my number one priority, for sure, but food? Food comes in a close second. Fed guests are happy guests. 

4. Take as many photos as possible before your ceremony. This will ensure your guests aren't kept waiting, and -- this is important! -- you just might get to eat. 

5. Surround yourself with people you love. This day is special not just for what it means for a marriage or a new adventure between husband and wife. It's special because you may never have all the people you love under the same roof (or sky!) again in this life. It's one of those "flash" kind of moments, so make sure those you love are there to experience it with you.

6. Make it personal. I think personal touches are what people remember the most. To be honest, a lot of your wedding day will go by in the blink of an eye, not just for you, but for the guests too. Special unique touches will stick out among all the other weddings your guests will attend in the coming months and years. Just have a few things that are uniquely you and your husband-to-be. 

7. Turn off the computer and put away the magazines. There is such a thing as too much inspiration. At some point, stop looking at the blogs and the websites and the magazines. Too many good ideas can be crippling to decision-making. 

8. Remember: It's not a big deal. Okay, I know that sounds ridiculous. I do. Wedding days are expensive and special and hopefully a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing. But I promise you: The "disasters" you're envisioning? They don't happen. And if they do? No one notices. Guests simply aren't aware of the chaos that might be going on behind the scenes. The key is to just have fun. Breathe easy, and know: It's just a day. A good day. Maybe even one of the best days. But just a day. Enjoy it for what it is, and focus on the marriage of the days to come. 

---

That's it. That's my advice. 

I'm hoping I'll have pictures of everything for you later, but for now?

I'm going to put my feet in a nice warm bath. They deserve it.

31 days || eighteen: a lesson in celebration.

I spent this past Saturday night in the company of teenagers, dancing the night away, refilling food trays, taking pictures, and generally merry-making on behalf of my little fuzzy, who turned 18 last week.

Here’s the thing: I cannot dance. So when my cousin mentioned her desire to have a raucous rainbow dance party (like, oh, someone else I know), I got a little nervous for her.

Because sometimes the celebration we want to have isn’t the celebration we can have.

You can’t have a raucous dance party if all of your friends are rhythmically-challenged. (Hence my own 25th birthday party quickly becoming a classy dinner party instead.)

But my cousin was adamant, and because my family is in the business of making things happen, we got to work.

And you know what?

Turns out, sometimes the celebration you want to have is exactly the celebration you can have.

It just might take a little work, a lot of determination, and an imagination big enough to conquer a small budget.

(Good music and a DJ willing to make a fool of himself are helpful as well. Good thing my husband fit the bill.)

I set out on Saturday night to teach my cousin a lesson in celebration, in what it means to celebrate every moment, every year we’re given.

She wound up teaching me instead.

The lesson? Don’t be afraid to celebrate the way you want to. Most people -- the ones that love you -- will happily come along for the ride.

31 days || sixteen: becoming a good host.

{photo via I Want to Be Like Water}

A friend once came over to my house for some type of gathering or another and proceeded to publicly grade my hostessing abilities. 

I got an A minus. (I forgot to put out the forks.)

While I know my friend was (mostly?) joking, I do think it's important to talk about what it means to be a good host, not necessarily in terms of etiquette, but in terms of grace.

1. Be there to open the door. I know it gets kind of hectic making last minute arrangements as the dog barks and the oven timer goes off. But I love the idea that a host or hostess can take a quick moment to greet his or her guests. It doesn't have to be a formal, over the top affair. Just a quick word and a kind smile to let them know you're really glad they came. 

2. Show interest. Whether you're in charge of a gathering of five or 50, it's easy to get wrapped up in the preparations, in checking the table to make sure food is replenished and dessert is ready. Of all the homes I've been, too, though, the ones where I felt most welcome weren't overly concerned with food or seating arrangements. Instead, the hostesses cared about their guests. They cared about me. In the end, I think I'd rather have to be gently reminded to put out the forks than give up conversation with those I've invited into my home. 

3. Let your guests help. I said this last week, but I think it's worth repeating. Some guests, of course, don't want to help, and that's absolutely fine! But often, a friend or family member will want to be put to good use, and I say: Let them. It puts them at ease and makes them feel like they're contributing to the welcoming atmosphere you've created. Being gracious means being able to receive grace as well as extend it. 

4. Sit down. Maybe I'm just not as old-fashioned as I think, but when I go over to someone's house, I hate to see a hostess that never sits down. They're flitting about the kitchen and the dining room like Martha Stewart, but they never sit down to eat or look their guests in the eye. It makes me nervous, and sometimes it makes me feel like I need to be up and doing something just to get the hostess to sit down. Please, people have come into your home to visit and enjoy YOU. Don't miss out on the meal because you're too busy being concerned about the lesser important things.  

5. Don't apologize. A few weeks ago, I served potatoes that I, personally, did not enjoy. I couldn't quite pinpoint what was wrong with them, but they were kind of dry, maybe a little bit flavorless. Anyway, I guess I could have apologized, but the truth is, probably nobody even noticed. Don't bring attention to your dirty carpet or your half-baked lasagna. No one cares.

6. Avoid false modesty. Again, part of being gracious is receiving grace. If someone compliments you on your home, just say "thank you." Don't point out how tiny it is, or talk about how it's really just a "half-way point" until you find something else. Accept compliments with humility, sure, but don't use the opportunity to be self-deprecating. That's annoying.

7. Put others' needs before your own. Be mindful of guests who have specific eating preferences, and offer up alternatives that suit their needs (diet soda for diabetics, meatless options for vegetarians). Turn the temperature down if poor Bob is sweating profusely in the corner. Have room for baby carriers, and turn down the music if someone asks. Be aware of what your guests need, and try to meet those needs to the best of your ability.

8. Don't do the dishes. I certainly don't think it's rude to do dishes in the presence of company; instead, I just think it distracts from the purpose of the gathering. It goes back to suggestion #4: Your guests are there to enjoy you and your home. If you're stuck in the kitchen, you're depriving them of that opportunity. Besides, some of my favorite times are after a party, when I'm standing in the kitchen, cleaning dishes with Jordan, grateful for the night we've just had and the friends we love. It's worth it to wait and do the dishes later.

9. Create a welcoming atmosphere. Whether it's my oldest and dearest friend or someone Jordan met at the office, I want people to feel like they're welcome in our home anytime. I don't know if I always succeed in that, and I'll admit: We don't necessarily live in a neighborhood or in a time period where that's a regular occurrence, but it's a goal. I remember how good it always feels to go to my parents' house, how there's something about it (besides just the fact that I grew up there) that makes me feel warm and welcome and loved. That's how I want my home to feel, regardless of the occasion.

10. Go easy on yourself. Last week, we talked about how dinner parties just don't happen very often anymore. As a result, all dinner parties are special and appreciated, even if they're just pizza shared during a football game. That means the pressure's off. You don't have to be June Cleaver to be a decent hostess. Take a deep breath, and remember that celebrating is supposed to be fun. If it's a burden, it's time to re-evaluate what celebration means to you.

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What do you think a good host/hostess looks like? What does hospitality mean to you?