a little ode to November.

The world's just spinning / A little too fast / If things don't slow down soon / We might not last. / So just for the moment, let's be still.

- The Head and the Heart, "Let's Be Still"

---

The internet was overflowing with love letters to October, and I feel like November's kind of getting the shaft. Maybe it's Christmas sneaking into fall. Maybe it's cooler temperatures and leaves blowing off the trees in overwhelming numbers. 

Here's the thing about living in the South: Autumn hits it stride here in November. The temperatures genuinely start dropping, and the leaves start changing their colors. Fall takes so long to reach my little corner of the world, and it goes by fast. It always goes so fast. But... there's November. With its short, dark days and its cozy, cold nights. 

We got married in November. I prayed and prayed for pretty weather on our wedding day. I wanted it to be exactly how I remembered my Florida Novembers: clear, blue sky; slight breeze; leaves on the ground, but still clinging to the trees. 

And it was. It really was.

I think that's part of the reason I love November so much. It reminds me of our wedding day, of the start to this grand adventure called marriage. It's full of gratitude and family, two things I happen to love and need a whole lot. Jordan's birthday is in November, and Thanksgiving -- a low-maintenance holiday designed specifically around food and generosity -- wraps it all up at the end. I think a lot of people, mostly thanks to geography, say goodbye to autumn as October winds down. 

So is it fun to go to pumpkin patches in shorts and flip-flops? And is it hard to watch those pumpkins melt and rot in the still-summertime sun? Does it seem unfair to have to bypass apple cider because it simply doesn't match the temperature outside. 

You bet.  

But we get rewarded for our patience in November. In November, we dim the lights and celebrate Candletime. We sit by the proverbial fire, read more books. I craft a little. I wear socks. We watch a little bit less television. We use -- and need! -- blankets. I pull out the crockpot, and dinner is magically ready when we get home. We breathe deeper, easier, and our walks around the neighborhood actually require our jackets, a scarf if we're lucky.

I'm not a poet. But if I was, if I had the power to leak words onto paper and speak imagery into your imagination, I'd wax neverending about November. I used to blog a lot about what was saving my life. It's a habit I'm sorry I somehow lost, but know this: October was all about awakening. And now November is continuing to save my life. 

* Also saving my life? The new The Head and the Heart CD. You want it; trust me.

saving my life: yoga.

{photo by Sunshel}

A couple of weeks ago, I started doing yoga. 

It's all in the privacy of my own home -- I don't do gyms or studios or anything else, on principle, ever -- and I am sure I look utterly ridiculous doing it, but I needed a fitness goal for April, and I've been feeling all kinds of stressed and overwhelmed, so... yoga it was. 

I try to do the stretches as soon as I get up in the mornings, but occasionally, I pop in the DVD right before bed. And the host is cheesy, and the moves seem silly, but then, all of a sudden, about halfway through: It doesn't feel silly at all. It feels like exactly what I need to be doing. 

Life is overwhelming right now, and I actually think that's okay. Our lives are made up of seasons, and this just happens to be an overwhelming one. Jordan and I have decisions to make on almost every front: job, home, church, friends. In fact, I lamented this week to a friend that I was tired of experiencing major life changes every year. Her response? "Welcome to your 20s."

I've been absent from writing because I don't know where to start. 

So I stretch, because that seems as good a place as any. And I read, and lo and behold, as I'm reading, I discover the meaning of the yoga term "namaste": "The divine in me greets the divine in you."

And I know the word has its roots in Hinduism and Buddhism, but I think I might start saying it in church, just to myself, as I look people in the eye and practice forgiveness over bitterness, because I need to be reminded that God exists in them, too. And maybe if we began to recognize that holiness in each other, we wouldn't keep hurting each other. Wouldn't church be a lovely place to be? 

I do yoga because I am stressed and my back hurts and I am on my feet all day, every day. I do it because these days, I need to remember to breathe, and I need to remember to laugh, and yoga helps with all of that. I need to start and end my days well.

The yoga DVD I practice doesn't really implement the cultural aspects of yoga. Nothing about breathing or namaste-ing. Basically, I'm just learning to touch my toes. 

But the lesson to look for the holy in people is still there, and it's helping. Just like all the other hard things and daily practices, it's making a difference. In its own way, it's saving my life.

saving my life: wanderlust.

{photo by Matt Ducklo}

On Wednesday, I confessed Jordan and I often feel a little bit left behind here in Tallahassee, despite our current contentment in our jobs and with our home. As a result, I often find myself daydreaming of somewhere else, and never do I daydream more than on my morning walks, as I glance inside strangers' windows (is this odd?) and breathe in fresh air.

Everything takes me back somewhere else. Foggy mornings remind me of our trip to San Francisco, and I find myself wondering what it might be like to walk the hilly paths of that city instead of my own every morning. Homes with window boxes take me back to the three weeks we spent studying abroad in Italy; honking horns from faraway streets remind me of New York. Yellow leaves soaked with dew are reminiscent of Boston, and cold wooden floors scream Chicago. 

Despite my contentment with my surroundings, I am a constant dreamer, and the only thing that seems to satiate my wanderlust is travel. Thankfully, I married someone who feels the same way. 

Who knows where the next few years could take us? Maybe we'll move, get new jobs, have a baby. I don't really know. But I'm grateful that while our life has us in Tallahassee at jobs we enjoy and with people we love, I can still a dream a little. And when the dreaming isn't quite enough, we can put gas in my car. We can buy an airplane ticket or two. And we can find ourselves in Atlanta or Charleston or Savannah or San Francisco or Boston or New York or New Orleans. 

It's a gift to be able to travel, and this weekend, I'm heading to Seaside for an annual vacation with some friends in the hope my wanderlust will be temporarily satisfied. Nothing seems to work much better than getting out and exploring new places. Perhaps walking new trails this weekend will save my life, like it has so many times before.

saving my life: four years.

A lot has happened this month; in our family, November is always a little bit crazy. It marks the beginning of what Jordan has termed our "Amen Corner" (whatever that means): our anniversary, Thanksgiving, his birthday, Christmas, my birthday, and Valentine's Day, all in a span of about four months. 

Last week, because of how the holidays fell, our anniversary landed on Thanksgiving Day, and while I'd normally balk at that -- who wants to share their special day with a major holiday? -- this year, it felt appropriate.

After four years, it feels like we have hit our stride in marriage. Sure, there are arguments and frustrations and hurt feelings and pointed questions about who left the dirty dishes to "soak" in the sink overnight, but overall, we are happy. We both are in jobs we love, so coming home at the end of the day is enjoyable. We're not making as much money as we used to, but we're okay with that. We have a new home that's cozy and comfortable and a dog that makes us laugh. We've limited our commitments, a lesson I learned the hard way after saying "yes" a little too frequently the year after Jordan graduated law school. We watch movies and travel and laugh and cook dinner together. We love Jesus and talk about church and faith and there is no judgment here, which is a relief, because we both still have so much to learn. 

There are always questions about the future -- finishing my thus-far-unfinished master's? having little ones join the family? buying a house? -- but for now, we are content. 

A while ago, I was talking with a friend about marrying young. It's something I've always been a little surprised about, the idea that at 22 I walked down an aisle in my blue Converse tennis shoes and said yes to something so permanent so early. I thought I'd marry a little bit later in life, after I had a few years of a career under my belt, a few years to learn and grow on my own. 

For whatever reason -- providence, I'd like to think -- I got married at 22 instead. I met someone who loved Jesus a whole lot more than he loved me, who I knew would make and keep his promises, who I trusted would trust and love and respect me. I married Jordan because he was smart and funny and confident, and he loved those things in me too. 

Because we got married younger than most, we've made almost every single major life decision together. We have sacrificed and we have fought and we have struggled financially and we have done a lot of growing up. 

I'm glad about that, because I know me. I am stubborn, and I am independent, and given time, I think I might not have married at all. And that would have been a shame, because marrying Jordan has been a lovely adventure. I would hate to have missed it.

I guess what I'm saying is, year four? It's been a good one. I feel like I don't sit back and recognize it enough. Some years are harder than others, I'm sure, and this one has had its own challenges. But I think it's worth acknowledging when something is going well, when days are more happy than sad. This, I think, has been one of those years. 

So happy four to us! I am so incredibly grateful I met and married my best friend. Here's hoping five is filled with happiness too. 

saving my life: grown-up friends.

Finding grown-up friends is hard. Way harder than in college, when you're all rather awkward and floundering together, thrown into dorm rooms and campus clubs and intramural sports, living within minutes from friends and frequently making time for dinners out. 

You graduate, and your 40 hours of work a week take their toll. You're tired, and your coworkers are all at least 20 years your senior. It's just harder to meet people. 

Then, sometimes, there's a glimmer. You meet a friend at random, and she asks if you'd like lunch. It goes well. You friend-date for a while, and next thing you know, you're in book clubs together and planning weekend getaways. (And, miracle of miracles, she loves and appreciates your Monica-like tendencies, your planned craft nights and your color-coordinated barbecues. In fact, she's cut from the same cloth, which means those carefully designed invitations? They're noticed. They're appreciated.) Sure, there are lots of misses along the way -- who said finding kindred spirits was easy work? -- but before you know it, four years have passed, and you've got a handful of friends whom you love and who love you. 

I went to Chicago last weekend with a friend I've had in Tallahassee now for as long as I've been married to my husband. Together, we met up with another friend who left for a life in Missouri last year, and we stayed in the home of yet another friend who left Tallahassee for Chicago this summer. What followed were a couple of late nights huddled in a tiny apartment in the city, jeans soaked from rain hanging in the bathroom, take-out boxes on the floor. 

We joked that finding even one "someone" you can travel with drama-free is rare; to find three? Practically a miracle. Sure, there were a handful of mishaps: It took us 20 minutes to choose a dinner destination since most of us are only assertive on points of conscience. We had to talk each other into making purchases since none of us are really big shoppers. And when we looked at our watches and realized we had to get ready and dressed for a blues club at 9:00 at night? Well, all four of us introverts (and two of us moms) took a bit of convincing to get out the door having fun. 

I didn't travel to Chicago last weekend to see the sights (a good thing, since our trip was mostly rained out). I traveled to Chicago to see my friends, to remind myself I belong somewhere, to realize that having three grown-up friends -- really more, since some weren't on this trip -- is a rarity and a blessing. I traveled to Chicago and remembered that I am one very lucky girl. 

And the memory of those few days -- and the gifts that got us there -- is what's saving my life this week.

saving my life: reunions.

{friend reunion 2012, with the best friend ever}

I've said it before, and I've no doubt I'll say it again: There's a reason Hollywood continues to put out reunion movies, and it has little to do with their quality and a lot to do with nostalgia and friendship and reality. 

Those movies hit close to home without slapping us in the face, and we like that. They make us want to call up our own friends and family and gather together with them as often as we can, no matter what disaster may ensue. (Because real life doesn't often look like what we see on television or at the movies, no matter how many times we try to pretend we live like the cast from Friends.)

I love a good reunion movie, so much so that if you stick me in front of St. Elmo's Fire, I'll come out in record time with my planner ready to schedule a get-together with our nearest and dearest. 

It's how we wound up in Farmersville, Alabama, last December, surrounded by cow pasture and not much else, with little cell phone service and not a whole lot to do. It was wonderful and fun and grace-filled and life-giving, and this past weekend, we did it again, this time with nine of us crammed into our generous friends' home in Spanish Fort, Alabama. 

We took a trip to the beach, ate seafood, sat in front of the television, cheered on our football teams, and gathered around tables. We slept on air mattresses, rejoiced in a couple's pregnancy news, and laughed until tears fell. Some of us read books, some of us played poker and video games, and some of us just sat and did nothing, and that was fine -- encouraged, even. 

Last December, my heart hurt so badly from church, from waking up on Sundays feeling broken. I needed healing, and my friends -- friends I've known since I was 18 and stupid -- helped mend that break. 

This September, I approached the weekend with such joy, and those high expectations, so often disappointed and misunderstood, were met, not because our friends are perfect, but because they are our friends, and they know us and love us and support us and cheer us on. 

I can think of no greater gift than the gift of a friend who loves and respects and admires and admonishes. 

These are our people, and we spent three whole days surrounded by their love and laughter. 

So often, this life is full of the difficult people. The not-so-difficult ones, the wonderful ones? They should be celebrated and enjoyed. 

My time away at college provided me with countless blessings: an education of my whole person, a new perspective on faith and church, a husband who knows me better than most anyone on the planet, a mind for seeking and asking questions. One of the greatest gifts is a friend group who has chosen to love and grow with us, despite distance and time. 

The reunion movies don't often depict the trouble or the sacrifice the planning of a gathering requires. On screen, it happens like magic, and while in real life the result looks like magic, the planning takes work and effort and sacrifice. It takes people who are willing to give up football tickets and cook casseroles, who open up their homes and sleep on floors. 

Low maintenance people -- people who are genuine, who don't put on airs, who require love and appreciation, but not the Ritz -- are hard to come by, but we've managed to find nearly a dozen. 

The best part is, we're nearing almost a decade of friendship, meaning there aren't a lot of unknowns. 

I will sometimes hole up in a corner with a good book, and you know what? My friends appear to be okay with that. They smile, ask me what I'm reading, and they give me the space to enjoy it. 

In turn, I watch, laughing, as they scream over video games and roll my eyes while my husband and our friends stay up until four in the morning playing Spades. 

Ours is a special bond, if I had to guess, forged by an odd mix of Christ and naivete, of faith and the pain that comes with being a freshman in college. 

Aside from a dear friend I've managed to keep since the second grade, these are the people who truly grew up with me, who watched me make that awkward transition from child to adult. 

We've attended each other's weddings, and now we are already celebrating babies. 

It's a gift, and never is that more apparent than when we are together, and I pull out my planner, and no one groans or rolls their eyes, but instead, we all circle dates on calendars, planning the next reunion. It won't look anything like the reunion movies, really -- we're all far too PG for that -- but it will be fun and nostalgic and relaxing. We will challenge each other, encourage one another, play a lot of stupid games together, and leave breathing easier, knowing we don't have to traverse this life, with all its ups and downs, alone. 

saving my life: country living + lessons in humility.

We've been house-sitting for my parents this week.

They used the Fourth of July holiday as an excuse to take a trip across the Southeast, first visiting my brother in Nashville, then the family farm in Kentucky. They'll make a pit stop to visit my grandmother in Montgomery before heading back home Sunday, and you know what?

I think I'll kind of miss country life.

My parents live on the outskirts of town. They still live in a neighborhood, and it's not farmland as far as the eye can see, but it's about 30 minutes away from downtown and sits on almost two acres, so it feels like the country to me. Our family moved out that way when I was 10, and when people ask where home is, that front porch is the first thing that comes to mind.

We've been staying here since last Saturday, living what our friend playfully called "the domestic life." We've picked tomatoes and bell peppers, played in the sprinkler and sat on the front porch swing. We've had a cookout with friends and gotten up about an hour earlier than we're accustomed to.

Mom and Dad take care of our dog every time we go out of town, almost no questions asked. It should have been a very little thing to say "yes" to, but I'll admit: My human selfishness made me hesitant. I made jokes about gasoline money and 30-minute commutes.

Really, though, I was nervous about taking care of the dog.

I am not an animal person. Sure, we had pets growing up, two wonderful dogs, one of whom is buried in my parents' backyard. Wishbone -- named after that PBS show with a literary Jack Russell Terrier (the Butterworths are nothing if not consistent in their interests) -- died while I was on a business trip out of town, and I cried alone in my hotel room, sad and hurt and disappointed I couldn't be with my family, couldn't grieve out by that little dog's grave with everyone else. Wishbone was my buddy, even though I've never really liked dog breath or dog hair or dogs that jump up and down and scratch on your legs. Wishbone, though, wasn't like other dogs I knew. He was content to curl up at my feet and cuddle with me while I read a book. Like a cat, only a bajillion times better.

Then Chet bought a big, playful golden retriever named Dixie. I can't remember how long ago that was, but I know it was a big deal, because my brother couldn't ever save his money for anything, yet he somehow managed to save up for this dog.

It was love at first sight for those two. They were perfect for each other: loud and funny and personable. Chet even joked about taking Dixie to the prom, a plan which, I'm sorry to say, never came to fruition. When he moved to Nashville last year, my parents say Dixie spent many nights sleeping right in Chet's doorway, confused and waiting for him to come back. I believe them, because Dixie's a pretty loyal dog, and Chet is her first love.

Now, though, Dixie is old, and she is dying.

We're only house-sitting this week because really, my parents just couldn't bear to board the dog.

This week, then, I haven't really been put in charge of a house so much I have been put in charge of an animal.

Our own dog, by the way, is sweet and good-humored and requires virtually no effort. She follows us along, content to sit at our feet or perch a top the one chair she's allowed to sit on. We got a dog because we figured that was the next step before home ownership or a baby, and she literally wandered right into our lives so perfectly, we figured it must be Fate. I love our dog, even though I do not love how she sheds or how her breath smells. The truth is, though, that I also don't get down in our dog's face and love on her. I don't let her lick all over me or sleep in our bed. I don't hug her or really even pet her all that much. 

You can imagine, then, that changing a dog's shirt and checking on an open wound is new for me. So is getting up early and putting out food and changing dirty, smelly water bowls.

Dixie is old, and watching her age and potentially leave this life is nearly as painful as watching a human age and leave this life, something my family has already experienced once this year. She can barely get up; she drools and slobbers and generally stinks because of it.

When my parents get home, they'll have decisions to make, and I don't envy them that. But they're my parents, and they've made tough decisions before, and this is what being a grown-up is, after all.

In the meantime, I have been doing my part on behalf of my brother. This morning, as I looked into Dixie's big brown eyes and tried to gracefully and painlessly remover her ratty t-shirt (a protection from a healing wound), I barely recognized myself.

This week, I have been living the country life. I have, in the smallest of ways, been working with my hands and taking care of the land. I have tended a home and breathed in fresh air.

But I have also learned lessons in humility and love. I have, each morning, gotten up early, and with sleep still in my eyes, wordlessly and routinely changed water bowls and food bowls. I have let dogs out and brought them back in again.

I have not recognized myself, not really, and I wondered how I could so easily change dog bandages and tenderly care for an animal that, it has to be said, has never really been my own.

It is possible, I have decided, because I love my brother and the home I grew up in. This week, my parents left me in charge. And even though I'm 26 and entirely capable of caring for a house and all that involves, it still feels a little bit like I'm 16, out to prove that houses and dogs are well within my range of responsibility. I am the oldest sibling, doing the things the youngest sibling simply cannot do, now not so much because of age, but because of distance.

This week, humility has saved my life. It has taught me that sometimes, we get down on our hands and knees and do the dirty work, mostly because we love who we're doing it for.

image by Summer Lacey

saving my life: lessons learned.

"Time has taught me to be patient and flexible. I have to realize that maybe it wasn't meant to be right now, but that doesn't mean it can't be next month or next year. It's inevitable that you get there in the end."

- Glenda Bailey

This week, we were supposed to sign a lease on a house Jordan and I both loved. We had thought about it, prayed about it, pro'd and con'd over it, and we were ready. Of course, then it hit me late one night that I couldn't remember if the house had a dishwasher. After multiple calls to the real estate company and back and forth with owners and property managers, we realized this house we loved so much, this house with granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances, did not, in fact, have a dishwasher.

And I know some people are rolling their eyes, because isn't a dishwasher a first world perk? Didn't our grandmothers and sometimes our mothers easily wash dishes by hand and leave them to dry on the kitchen counter? And isn't that what cute dish towels and drying racks are for?

But I know my life. I am 26 years old, and I know me, and I know my husband. I know our schedules are busy and full and more often than not, our sink is full of dishes already, and that's with a dishwasher at the ready. I know that even though at first, I'd be super excited to wash my dishes by hand, to use cute dish towels and carefully wash and dry pretty plates, by month two or three, I'd be weary and frustrated. It wouldn't be fun anymore, and I'd be resentful, and the house I once loved would be a disappointment.

When you look for a house and when you try to simplify your life, you discover a lot about yourself. This simplification process has hardly begun, and already I can tell: It's going to get ugly. Things are going to get real, and fast. I am going to be slapped in the face with the realities of what I like and don't like, of what commitments I treasure and which ones I wish I could trash. I can tell by the time July and August roll around, I will know a whole lot more about myself and how I treat people and commitments and time, and why I hate some things and love others. I doubt it's going to be a beautiful process, but what I've already learned proves to me it will be worth it.

In the meantime, I am learning a lesson in patience.

I am learning that sometimes, we have to wait for the things we really want. We have to be okay with the fact that the rest of the world might think us stupid or silly, that we might feel alone and misunderstood for a little while, but in the end, it will all shake itself out.

The people who love us will understand. They will roll their eyes right along with us. They will laugh and they will be kind and they will not pass judgment. They will tell you what they think, but they will do it in love. They will understand why you say yes and why you say no, why one house is perfect and another isn't quite up to snuff.

It's not often I look back on a week and think, "Wow. I learned a lot." Those days, I was afraid, might have ended when I put the halls of school and the pages of the great books behind me. But this week, I discovered that wasn't true. I am learning something every day, and the lessons that life is teaching me are often better, or at the very least, more relevant, than the ones I learned in school. This week, I remembered who I am and why I was made this way. I learned it might take a few you-can't-have-thats before you get what you're looking for. I learned that disappointments and hurts shape us; they make us stronger and tougher and ready for the often greater challenges headed our way.

Yes, I wanted that house. I wanted to sign a lease and begin working on projects and have a slow, leisurely moving process. I wanted to say we lived in the blue house, wanted the chance to get to walk to work in the Florida sunshine, wanted to put my feet on hardwood floors and lush green grass.

But we had to say no. We had to choose the unknown alternative, which is scary and frustrating in all kinds of ways.

That's what growing up is, though. It's making the best decision for you, even when other people don't get it, even when you yourself feel a little confused and very much alone.

Real life lessons aren't always as fun as the ones I learned in school, mostly because I am far more likely to fail these tests than I am to pass them. These lessons, though, aren't about passing and failing, about gold stars or straight A's. They're about self-discovery, and this week, the hope and promise that I might at the very least know more about myself now than I did on Monday just so happened to have saved my life.

photo by Steven Michael

saving my life: hope.

{photo by Molly Michel}

This week has been good. Like everyone else I know, I entered the month of May with trepidation. I knew there would be trips out of town, deadlines at work, and events scheduled nearly every week. May is spring’s December, and I was afraid I might lose myself in the shuffle.

Instead, I am finding myself again. May has not failed to be busy, even a little chaotic, but somehow, it is saving me from the sadness and frustration that was April. I am seeing a break in the clouds, and I am happy and hopeful.

Already this month, Jordan and I have been on vacation together (our second annual trip to New Orleans’ JazzFest) and begun our search for a rental home. We’ve watched a dear friend get married and another one receive her hard-earned master’s degree. We’ve celebrated mother’s day with the women who have handed us their legacies, and we have whispered to each other how grateful we are for our marriage. This week, Kelle Hampton came to my book club (via Skype, so that counts, right?), and some friends and I went out to honor their birthdays. Together, we talked about friendship and moving and weddings and life, and it was beyond wonderful. 

Last month was hard. You already know that. I want to tell you that this month, while far from perfect, has been a reminder that there is light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe it’s the hope of a month of “no,” or maybe it’s just getting perspective and healing, but I’m getting excited. I'm anticipating greatness.

Summer is around the corner, and with it will come good things. I can feel it, and that’s what’s saving my life today.

saving my life: pie.

Is it sad that as I sat down to write this post, I had to think -- really, really think -- about what's been saving my life this week?

Because I really couldn't tell you off the top of my head.

I'm just so tired. April's been a tough month, and I'm hoping May and I fair better.

Jordan and I have been going nonstop for the past 30 days or so, and I kept saying yes to things when I probably should have said no. I've been mostly muddling through, going through the motions, and it's taken its toll. This weekend, we're headed out of town with friends; next weekend, we've got tickets for JazzFest in New Orleans, and the following weekend, we have a wedding and a graduation out of town to attend.

I could cry just thinking about it all.

Don't get me wrong: These are all good, fun things. But for a girl who's mostly an introvert, the extrovert-ness of one event after another can be hard to handle, and I'm concerned May might be doomed from the beginning.

But I'm nothing if not determined (and stubborn!), and despite our already filled-to-the-brim month, I'm willing May to be better than April. I'm prayerful that I will have learned from April's mistakes, mainly, that a) it's okay to say no, and b) it's okay -- even necessary -- to take care of myself first.

This week, though, it's still April, and things have been rough. So on Tuesday, after spending an afternoon preparing invitations and banners for my cousin's graduation banquet, I went home to make a pie.

I had a lengthy list of other things I could have done, maybe even should have done. But instead, I looked at the clock and decided two-ish hours was enough time to enjoy the process of cooking dinner. It's not time I normally have, so I relished it. I plugged in the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy, and I got to work on my pie.

Family members and close friends, of course, know: I am not a pie eater. In fact, I detest pie. I loathe it. This, as you can imagine, makes for difficult Thanksgivings, when virtually everywhere I turn, there are pies. No cookies, no cakes... just pies. I'll blame my hatred of pie for the fact that I've never actually made one, and certainly not one entirely from scratch, crust and all.

But Tuesday, I came to the kitchen armed with a recipe for tomato and corn pie, and because I have a terrible habit of failing to thoroughly read the entire recipe before setting my hands to chopping and cooking, I failed to even realize I was handmaking the crust. This accident actually worked in my favor; by simply proceeding step-by-step through the instructions, I didn't even have time to realize I should have been nervous about making my very first pie crust. Instead, I just read the directions, making for a nerve-free pie-baking experience. (I am a champion at reading directions.)

I rolled the dough without too much thought; I chopped nearly two pounds of tomatoes and slowly boiled corn. I had time to enjoy the process, which is rare. I didn't even panic when I realized I don't really have an adequate pie pan (see: hatred of pie) and grabbed my lone, shallow cake pan. (It worked just fine.)

Here's what happens when you don't read the entire recipe first: You don't really have time to panic. I didn't spend the entire cooking process concerned about my chilled dough. Instead, while I chopped tomatoes, I actually chopped tomatoes. When I rolled out the top of my pie crust and cut weird-shaped diamonds in it all wrong, I didn't get angry, didn't panic. I had time, so I started over. I didn't YouTube, didn't Google, didn't call my mom. I just went for it. And you know what? Not half bad.

My entire kitchen smelled delicious by the time 5:30 rolled around. I hadn't finished my Bible study, hadn't done a stitch of laundry, hadn't even made the bed, but you know what?

I didn't care. None of it mattered.

I had a homemade pie in the oven.

It was absolutely delicious -- even divine, perhaps -- and this week? Well, this week, it saved my life.

* recipe here

saving my life: help.

{print by Jon Contino}

This has been one of those weeks: It’s been good, but I’ve just had this feeling that I can’t shake, this “I’m-not-myself” feeling, and since I’m typically a fairly confident person, this feeling is taking its toll.

My life is just this out of control mess. We’ve overbooked ourselves, yet again; the May calendar is already full, and we’re not even out of April yet. I’m missing a very important milestone in my little cousin’s life, and it’s breaking my heart. We owed so much in taxes that I feel like I could punch someone; basically everything I earned last year freelancing (plus some) went to Uncle Sam, which makes me wonder if going home every night to sit in front of the computer designing and editing is even worth it. We can’t get a vacation with my parents and brother on the calendar because everyone’s so busy; we haven’t been to see Jordan’s parents since Christmas. We’re starting new ministries at church, which I’m excited about, but wondering if we’re maybe just a little bit crazy. Our lease is up in August, and we’re looking for a house to rent, which is turning out to be a tad complicated and expensive. It’d make more sense to buy, but we’re determined to finish paying off Jordan’s student loans first.

On top of all this, my face looks like puberty exploded, and you know what? Despite everything in my life producing chaos, that’s the only one I can focus on. That’s what’s really bothering me in all this. Forget the taxes, forget my mess of a house: All I can focus on is my face and how it went from beautiful and clear to… not. Really, really not.

I say all that to say this: My mom saved my life this week. I’m 26 years old, and sometimes I really, really stink at this whole “being an adult” thing, and honestly? I feel like there are times we all just need our moms. So this week, my mom — who deserves some kind of award or possibly sainthood — came over to my house and helped me clean. My house was a disaster area thanks to weeks of traveling and busy schedules; it had reached what I call the point of no return, that point where everything is so messy, there’s really no use in trying, so I watch Grey’s Anatomy reruns instead. I was paralyzed by the chaos, so my mom came to whip everything — including me — back into shape. And you know what?

It helped.

My life is still a little messy, a little complicated. My face is less than what I wish it would be. Our finances — for as hard as we work and give and save — definitely still frustrate me.

But my house is clean and the laundry is done, and somehow, that has made such a big difference.

I know what some people think my life looks like, living in the same town as my parents. I think a lot of people think I see my parents all the time, think I get to have family dinners and go out to their house and visit with them pretty (perhaps too?) regularly.

The truth is, that doesn’t happen. Jordan and I are busy (perhaps too?). My parents live on the other side of town, and there are only a few big family dinners. We see them at church, yes, but we’re all rather involved, and so that mostly consists of smiling and waving at each other as we pass in the halls.

Sometimes, I miss my parents. Sometimes, I need their help.

I can clean my own house. I can maintain my schedule and, if I try, I can keep the laundry at bay.

But sometimes, I have to acknowledge that I am failing. That something has to give. That I need help.

This week, I needed help, and I asked my mother to please, come help me clean my house.

So she did.

And in doing perhaps the most menial of tasks — in the scrubbing of my bathtub and the vacuuming of my living room rug — she saved my life.

saving my life: confirmation.

{photo by You Broke the Internet}

I feel like my life was saved multiple times and in multiple ways this week, and if I had the time and the energy, I suppose I could go on and on about each and every detail of what those ways were.

Instead, I'll tell you that every person and every situation participating in my salvation this week had one thing in common: They provided me with confirmation that I am not alone and that yes, I am doing the right thing.  

Emails from friends, encouraging words from the cashier at our grocery store, music streaming through my stereo, books cracked open in bed, opportunities for new ministries . . . God is speaking to me and saving me through these this week, through reminding me that even in frustrating moments and trying times, He is still here. He is still speaking; He is still rescuing; He still cares.

It hasn't been a bad week, but it hasn't been a great one either. I have been unusually frustrated and down on my self this week, and just when I thought it was getting to be too much to handle, someone or something came through.

It's nice sometimes, isn't it, to just receive the confirmation that these things have happened before, they will happen again, but they are temporary, and we are not alone? It's nice to hear whispers from the Father that we're in the right place at the right time for the right reason.*

In every moment of weakness I experienced this week, I was buoyed up by the kind thoughts and words of other people. We are loved, we are appreciated, we are forgiven, and we are not alone. Sometimes, we just need to be told we are here at the very time we are needed. We need to be reminded that we have purpose, and we are the gift.

So that's what been saving my life this week. That's what has rescued me from drowning. What about you?  

* I feel like "Christian" music can be hit or miss, but this week, two CDs have been on repeat in my car, and the words I hear every morning on my way to work have been part of this confirmation salvation: Christy Nockels' Into the Glorious and Audrey Assad's Heart.

saving my life: comfort zones + the color run.

I ran out of time to post about what was saving my life last week, which is unfortunate, because I know exactly what I would have written.

What saved my life last week was stepping outside of my comfort zone and doing things I didn't necessarily think I'd ever do. Near the top of the list? Running a 5k. So the weekend before Easter, Jordan and I met up with three of our friends, piled into his car, and headed up to Atlanta to join in The Color Run, a 5k with a focus on fun, not speed.

If I have the cheesiest, biggest, abnormally-wide grin you've ever seen in the above photos, know this: It's completely genuine. Being pelted with paint as you jog along the streets of Atlanta has that effect on a person.

The Color Run isn't necessarily a race for serious runners. (A fact I think should be obvious since you're pelted with paint every kilometer.) Instead, it's more about gathering together with friends and strangers and having a good time. I think our faces show that purpose was certainly met.

Here's what I'm learning: Sometimes, it's good to stay in your comfort zone. You have those zones for a reason. By the time you're in your mid-20s, you understand better who you are and who you want to be. Sometimes, it's good to listen to the voice inside of you begging for attention, begging to be heard above the fray. It's good to know what would upset us or challenge us or make us happy. It's okay, I think, sometimes, to be comfortable, especially when that comfort looks a lot like contentment.

But it's good, too, to occasionally step outside the box, to do things you'd never really do otherwise. It's good to be brave, to take chances, and to do something just a little different from your norm.

As a general rule, I don't run. I also don't make a habit of getting colored cornstarch thrown in my face.

But for one Saturday, I broke both of those rules. I'm really glad I did. I think, sometimes, breaking the rules looks a lot like saving your life.

saving my life: chopping a carrot.

{photo by Nina Leen}

I am a notorious multi-tasker.

My computer has at least five tabs open at all times. There is music playing softly in the background. My planner is open to my left, my phone to my right. There are post-it note lists all reminding of the things that need doing: one for the weekend, one for the week, one for my Tuesday afternoon, one for new music to listen to, one for the books I've read thus far this month (the total is at five).

I accomplish a lot during a day. I work and edit and write from 8 to 5:30. During the slower hours at work, I compose blog posts or make to do lists or go over my week. I respond to emails and check Twitter. On my drive home, I call my mom. I arrive home and check the mail and cook dinner and take a walk, and most of that I do with my phone or computer within reach. We eat dinner, sometimes in front of the TV, sometimes not. I watch TV while I work on a graphic design project or do our laundry. I wash my face and brush my teeth in front of an episode of The Office or How I Met Your Mother.

My life is bombarded by noise, and last week, I read this article referencing the words of a Buddhist monk: “When you are chopping a carrot,” he said, “be chopping a carrot.”

It's sad that I would even need to be told that, isn't it, sad that we need to be reminded not to text while we drive or to stop emailing one person while we talk on the phone to another?

Last week at book club, we were discussing Crossing to Safety and the seemingly much simpler life those characters led, and my friend commented that perhaps technology had devolved us a bit, perhaps so much of this technology is so new that we don't quite know what to do with it just yet, and so we mess up. We are inept. We are trying to use it for too much, too often.

So on Thursday, I kept one Internet tab open. While I was editing articles, I didn't have Gmail open in the background. When I was checking my email, I wasn't simultaneously checking my Twitter. I didn't listen to music (despite the jackhammer next door). I didn't text at stoplights or call my mom while I drove. I went for a walk to the mailbox and didn't bring my phone. I watched an episode of How I Met Your Mother and didn't try to do something else at the same time. I cooked without a screen nearby.

It was so simple.

When you're chopping a carrot, chop a carrot.

I've tried to bring that principle into this week. I only read one blog post at a time, and I immediately comment if I want to comment, rather than leaving it open in one of my neverending Internet tabs. When I talk to my mom, I only talk to my mom. When I talk to Jordan, I only talk to Jordan. When I do one thing, I try to be fully present. Just one thing at a time. 

Sometimes, of course, I slip. That's okay. Like with everything else, I'm trying.

For Lent, Jordan and I instituted one night a week as "screen-free." We still leave the lights on, but there's no TV, no computer, no phone, no chores. It's quiet, and the evening seems to last longer. We go to bed a little earlier.

The life we're leading doesn't always feel simple or quiet.

But turning off the noise, even in the tiniest of ways?

That is salvation.

It's reminding me that multitask as I may, I've only got once chance to do this right. I would really hate it if one day it all went away, and I realized all along I'd been distracted.

More on saving my life starts here.

saving my life.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Kari began a series on her blog inspired by Barbara Brown Taylor. The series, entitled "How to Save a Life," offers Kari's answers to the question: "What is saving your life right now?" It's a question Taylor was given before one of her lectures, and its answers inspired her to write the book An Altar in the World. Over the next few weeks, I'm joining Kari in offering my answers to the same question. This week, an introduction.

---

I am restless in the spring.

I have given myself these past two weeks to decide if my tired, aching soul is tired and aching because of daylight savings time, or because it is spring, and this is what my soul does every spring: It longs.

It longs to be outside, to be reading, to experience sun on shoulders, to sweat, to drink, to laugh, to breathe in deep, to lounge, to take things slow.

And it continues to long, because I cannot satisfy it.

Yesterday, I sat in my office, editing furiously, trying to ignore the roar of the jackhammer from the wall on the other side of mine. I turned on music, put on headphones, but nothing really worked. The noise just got louder and louder. Finally, I opened my window.

The noise of the jackhammer was loud, but the sounds of the birds and the breeze and the grass moving and the air conditioner blowing were all louder, somehow. I could hear what I'd been missing, and that made the invading construction far less noticable. It was still there, but I was choosing to ignore it.

I'm in the middle of reading An Altar in the World, and I find that all I want to do is start putting her suggested "spiritual practices" into place right now. I love that Barbara Brown Taylor doesn't offer a list -- no memorization, 30-minute a day Bible studies, lengthy prayers. Instead, her words remind me to simply be present, to acknowledge that this life, this body, is a gift, and it is up to me to recognize it as such.

That's hard to do when you're in an office all day.

I think it would be easier to experience God through the depths of my fingers if I were ever using them for something other than typing. I could be wrong about that, and I'm desperately trying to find Him in the keyboard and in the screen, in the tiny office and the red-marked papers, but right now, when the sun is shining and the wind is blowing and the sky is the most perfect shade of blue? I imagine God is more easily found in the waves and in the dirt and in the hanging fresh clothes on the line than He is in my tiny square footage of office space.

But I am trying. I am getting out of the office when I can. I am opening windows: all the windows I can find everywhere. I am parking farther from my building so that my feet can walk a longer path. I am breathing deep, even when the result is a nose filled with pollen. I am singing in the car; I am taking long walks. (I jog, too, but the other night I chose to mostly walk, and it was glorious.) I am laughing when an afternoon shower catches me outside without an umbrella, and I am finding dried leaves in my hair at the most inopportune times.

My life, right now, isn't as simple as I might like it to be in the future. I go to a job in an office complex every day, without fail. I do that so I can become a better writer, so I can help support our family, so I can use the degree I worked really hard to earn. I do dull things so that sometimes, I can do exciting ones.

There's a poster I've had hanging up in my office since I started my first post-graduate job four years ago. I don't know who Justin Taylor is, but apparently at some point in time, somewhere, he said: "Whatever your vocation, God calls you to honor Him, to reflect His image, and to labor with all of your might. You may not be in your dream job right now. But the secret is to honor God in the little things and to sanctify the ordinary."

Sanctify the ordinary.

I'm not finished with An Altar in the World just yet, but I think the basic premise is that. Sanctify the ordinary. No, I don't live out in the country on a farm filled with wild, beautiful, unruly creation. I don't wake up early and sit on a front porch and greet the sun as it rises in the sky. There aren't a lot of things I have very much time for, simply because I go to work and sit in front of a computer screen every day.

But even in the things I do have -- in the lighting of candles at night or the cooking of dinner or the walking in the park or the opening of my office window or the driving from point a to point b -- there is sanctification.

There is no difference, Taylor argues, between the sacred and the secular.

I am trying to make that true, even in a life that looks like mine.

photo by Alec Vanderboom