20/52 :: thirty.

I have been thinking a lot these days about turning 30. (My entire family is rolling their eyes right now.) The milestone isn't until next year, sure, but I'm notorious for planning my birthday months in advance. Jordan hits the big 3-0 first, in November, and I've also been thinking about how to celebrate on his behalf, about what that milestone might look like for him. 

The truth is, I've looked forward to turning 30. Getting older has always looked better than the alternative, and 30 still sounds young and fun, but without the pressures and the confusion of your 20s. (Or so I thought.) Now, though, I'm noticing online surveys and questionnaires all cut off at 30. Meaning, my age bracket will completely shift: 18-24, 25-29, 30-35, or, in some cases, 40. It's a little jarring, to be sure. And there's the question of children, and the fact that I don't exactly have all the answers I thought I'd have by the time 30 rolled around. 

I've been thinking, mostly, about all the parties I threw in my 20s, and how now? Now I'm not sure who I would even invite to my thirtieth, which is a shame, because a) I throw a really grand party, and b) 30 seems like a pretty big deal. But all of my friends are spread across the states in ways they weren't five years ago, and we've moved, and life is different. 

In her book Searching for Sunday, Rachel Held Evans shares this moment when she looks at her husband and wonders who will throw them a baby shower. They've just left behind the church of Rachel's childhood -- also the church of their first years of marriage -- and they're embarking on an important journey of faith, one that's leading them to a new church, a new home. Rachel's not even pregnant, but no matter: The question is real, and it's there. It's also eerily familiar.

While Jordan and I have been visiting the Anglican church, which we love and appreciate more each week, I've found myself wondering if we'll have what our parents had, what I had growing up and for the first 29 years of my life: a church family, in every sense of the word. And it wasn't perfect, and I don't want to go back, at least not to that particular congregation, but I do wonder if we're missing something. No one calls me "Annie Sue," and if I were to become pregnant tomorrow, I have no idea who -- outside our family -- would take care of us, would host us a shower or show us tangible love. Rachel's question, which only takes up a short paragraph or two in her book, immediately struck a chord. 

In the middle of all of this truth-seeking and life-building, who is going to celebrate with us, weep with us? 

Thomasville has been home for a year and a half now; in February, when I'll turn 30, we'll hit two years. I've met some lovely people, a few I'd even call friends. But it's different, somehow, than before, and I find myself feeling a little jealous of the people I know -- on the Internet or otherwise -- who have built these grand communities and families, who seem to have friend-making in adulthood on lockdown, who will never be at a loss on birthdays or for baby showers. 

I am trying, mind you. I started a book club, and I become a completely extroverted version of myself at the store. I have not given up, but with February looming a bit as a deadline, I'm wondering: Who will I share that milestone with? I'm realizing it might not look like a big, blowout party or a trip to Vegas (which was a long shot, anyway). And that would be okay, if I knew I'd still be surrounded by the people I love, entering a new decade of life. 

But I don't know that, and it's hard. 

I'm not sure what the answer is, so I'll continue showing up and trying. Maybe I'll beg my long-distance friends to meet up somewhere in February in lieu of a celebration at home. Who knows? Living in the moment is not the easiest thing for me, but perhaps it's the best thing for me. Thirty will come along, and when it does, maybe I'll be ready. I suspect I'll at least have learned a thing or two, and maybe that's what's most important anyway. 

18/52 :: summer.

I've always had a love-hate relationship with summer. 

For one, I was a child who thrived on routine. School was my happy place. I loved home, too, don't get me wrong, but stick me at a desk for seven hours, hands clasped, learning from the books and teachers I adored? The definition of contentment. 

Summers can be rough. In the South, summers mean heat and humidity, air as thick as the sweet tea we drink. (And I don't like sweet tea, so you can see how I'd be at a disadvantage.) For a Florida girl, I'm also rather pale, hair bordering on a shade of red. Suntans aren't really a "thing" for me, and sunglasses pose a special difficulty for someone who's nearsighted. I was well into adulthood before I learned to just retire all denim for the entire season; jeans stick to sweaty legs, causing a unique sense of claustrophobia. Ask me to rank the seasons, and I would easily put summer at the bottom of the pack. 

But now I work retail. 

Autumn -- my favorite of all the seasons -- is now bustling, filled to the brim with activity. My own personal calendar virtually ends at October, when the store's calendar takes over. There is our town's One Book program, plus Black Friday and Small Business Saturday and Christmas shopping that starts after Halloween. I've had to kindly and gently explain to friends and family: If you love me, you will stop asking me to do anything from November 1 to December 31. My life no longer exists. 

So sure, fall has the cute clothes and the cooler temperatures, but it's a rough season for me personally. Perhaps this change has softened my heart to sweet summertime, because for the past two years? I have been all in. 

Give me all the shorts, tank tops, and baseball caps. Give me no make-up and put lemon juice in my hair. Take me to the coast; give me a large Coke in a styrofoam cup with crushed ice and a straw -- you know, the kind you can get for $.75 at a gas station. I want ice cream in all the flavors, and daylight until the sun's practically ready to come up again. Drive me somewhere with the windows rolled down and the radio blaring. (I'm oddly in the mood for country music.) Take me to a baseball game and dress me in red, white, and blue. Stick an American flag in my hand and feed me a hot dog. Sit on the front porch and shoot the breeze, even when there's no breeze to be found. 

In June, the store slows down, and people in Thomasville treat summer as if it's a verb, so Jordan and I practically have the city to ourselves. I kind of like it, and I think all of this makes it official: I love summer. 

Sure, when August rolls around I'll probably be in the middle of a heat stroke of some kind, but for now? I'm on board with this whole summertime thing. I get it now. 

Here, then, in the spirit of the new season is a little list of goals I've made for the next couple of months. A summer bucket list, of sorts. I'm keeping it simple, as the season requires: 

01. Take a day trip to the beach. 

02. Celebrate fourth of July with friends. 

03. Grill out. 

04. Sit on the swing with Jordan. 

05. Redo photo wall. 

06. Organize vacation photo albums

07. Complete a puzzle. 

08. Binge watch a new-to-us show. 

09. Save money for Taylor Swift tickets. 

10. Find a new, quick getaway spot. 

Happy summertime, friends. Let's make it a good one.

10/52 :: when surface is okay.

"I do weekly Bunco games in my neighborhood," she told me. "It's not like those women are necessarily going to become my best friends. But now I can wave and ask about their kids. It's nice."

This is where I struggle. Maybe it's my personality type (INTJ, if you're curious), or maybe it's my calendar or how I set boundaries or what I'm willing to do with my time. But this aspect of friendship and community is where I have the most difficulty. I am not good with surface-level relationships. 

And "surface-level" doesn't even sound fair to me. I think I'm subconsciously giving it a derogatory name because I struggle with it. I am naturally a person who is better at the deeper things than the shallow things. This doesn't mean I'm deep and other people are shallow; instead, I am terrible at small talk and meeting new people is painful. It's not ideal. (Though if you'd like to discuss theology or sit down for a lengthy heart-to-heart in which you need honest, occasionally blunt advice, I'm your girl.)

In her new book, Gretchen Rubin asks if we're openers or finishers; are we better at starting new things or wrapping things up? I had to think for a while, but when I read the segment aloud to Jordan, he immediately identified me as a finisher, and the more I think about it, the more I realize it's true. I am great at finishing things. I meet deadlines; I conquer my goals. I am a finisher. 

But life requires a lot of opening. And I am not so good with the opening, the starting of something new. 

Gretchen may not have meant for her questions to apply to relationships, but I think the principle of opening versus closing certainly can found in friendships and in community-building. 

I have several friends who are great at meeting new people. They are comfortable inviting strangers into their home; they are confident in conversation and adept at networking and small talk. They set people at ease and know how to be hospitable in their hearts and their homes. 

Those are things I become excellent at... with time. I am, I think, a great friend. But I am not always a good acquaintance. And the truth is, if possible, I'd like to be both. 

Back in February, I finally started a book club in Thomasville. We've met a couple of times, and although, right now, the group is still forming and growing comfortable with one another, I think it's got potential. I need to give it time to reach that potential, and I learned, quickly, that I'd need to curb my expectations and my enthusiasm. 

In Tallahassee, I met and grew close with several girls from book club. In many cases, it's how we grew from acquaintances into best friends. To this day, those women are some of my favorite people on the planet, and we've maintained not only our friendships, but our loyalty to book club (this is why my long-distance book clubs make me so happy). 

Of course, those relationships took time to percolate and grow. And lightning doesn't always strike in the same place twice. And what worked for one group of friends might not work with another.

I went into my Thomasville book club saying I wouldn't have high expectations, but secretly hoping I'd meet a couple of kindred spirits. My Shauna Niequist-inspired community would finally start building itself. 

What a terrible way to enter into relationship! That's a lot of baggage to put on any one person or group, and if I'd continued with that attitude, I might have been disappointed in what book club actually is: A fun monthly gathering of a diverse group of women who talk about books. Period. That's what a book club is, what mine here in Thomasville is becoming. 

Last week, I chatted with a girl I've met through the store (a lot of my relationships start this way now). She lives in Tallahassee, but even she has found it difficult to make close friendships. Unlike me, though, she doesn't seem to mind. She's got a community. A Bible study. A church group. A neighborhood Bunco gathering. Those relationships tend to be surface level, but they might grow into something more. And if they don't? She's still in relationship with them. She knows their names, their stories, can wave and visit and interact comfortably. 

Surface, I am learning, might just be okay. It might even be enough. (I started to add "at least to start," but then I realized... There I go again. Putting pressure and expectations on new relationships that simply can't withstand it.)

What I am learning, as I near my thirtieth year, still adjusting to a new town and a new career, is that surface-level relationships make the world go 'round. Some of those relationships might grow deeper, one day. But that day might not be today. It might not be ever. And book clubs and Bible studies and neighborhood block parties might have to be enough for me. 

I don't like the idea of settling for anything. It's against my nature. But maybe surface isn't settling. Maybe it's just how relationships start. And maybe it's not just okay. Maybe it's enough. 

3/52 :: children.

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2/52 :: nurture.

We spend a lot of time in our home talking about personality types -- our MBTI results, what they mean and how they make us better (or worse). 

As an INTJ, I am a big believer is knowing yourself well, and as I've become better and better at being a business owner, I've become worse and worse at taking care of myself. I am so good at seeing the bigger picture, but I often fail at recognizing the details. In our house, we call those details "S-tasks," a reference to the MBTI letter missing from both of our personality types. 

If you're familiar with the Myers-Briggs, you know that the N and the S stand for intuition and sensing, respectively. I think there's often a lot of confusion as to what those letters really mean, but basically, it boils down to whether you're a big picture person or a detail-oriented person. In our home, we are big picture people. We sit and read and watch movies and talk about theology and brainstorm about our future plans. We do not frequently clean the baseboards, and our refrigerator tends to house a lot of expired food.

We know these truths about ourselves, and we are trying harder to become better. We will always be big picture, deep-thinking people -- it's in our nature, and it's not going away. (And I am more than okay with it.) But as we nearer the 30 mark, we're realizing there are some things we need to change. 

The good news is, we are beings created to change, so entering 2015, I am neither daunted nor scared.

I simply need to take better care of myself. 

In all of the household details I tend to ignore, I ignore my own details the most. I let my prescriptions sit at the pharmacy for days; books go unread on my nightstand. I miss doctor's appointments and visits with friends. I work until my back aches and my brain feels fuzzy, until I find myself crying in the shower with sore feet and a sleepy head. 

2014 was a wonderful year for me and for Jordan. The business did incredibly well, and I became a lot better at running the shop. There is so much room for improvement, but I admit I'm breathing a little easier as we enter 2015. I'm hopeful by reaching a point of confidence and comfort in the business (which I know might wane at any moment; bookselling is not a stable industry by any means), I might be more capable of taking care of myself.

My word for the year is nurture. It stems from this idea of self-care, from reaching for my own oxygen mask before I help put on anyone else's.

 

And it won't be easy, not for me. I think self-care is tough for a lot of women, but it's tough mostly because women tend to take care of others first -- children, husbands, parents. That rings partially true for me, but the reality is self-care is tough for me because I tend to not think about it. 

 

My brain is wired for books and imagination and dreaming and scheming and goal-setting. I am wired for tackling tasks, for getting things done, no matter the cost. 

Self-care is difficult because it's often not even on my radar screen. 

That changes this year. If I ever hope to be a parent one day, I think I have to learn to take care of myself first, though I don't anticipate perfecting it before a little one comes along. I think I have to learn to say no so that I can ultimately say yes, a lesson years in the learning. I have to make time for Epsom salt baths and cleaning my house and buying fresh flowers and dressing up for date night. I have to remember to meal plan and take walks and clear my head. I have to read books not just because a customer asks me to, but because I want to. I have to write and watch Friends reruns and curl up on the couch on a rainy day. I have to make doctors' appointments and clean hair out of the tub and remember to do the laundry. I've got to do a better job at the "S tasks" in my life so my brain has space to focus on the "N tasks" I love. 

I've been choosing a word for the year since 2010, and every year, my word surprises me with its accuracy, with the ways in which my goals are kept and met throughout the year, according to my word.

Last year, I attempted to restore balance in my life after taking on ownership of the bookstore. I quickly learned striking a balance would mean growing comfortable in the seasons of the shop: a slow, quiet winter; a busy, growing spring; a hot, lengthy summer; and a hectic, harried fall. I had to relearn the seasons; I had to realize we couldn't vacation anytime between October and December, that rarely would I have a day off or a chance to breathe in that last quarter of the year. And while that's a tough truth to swallow, the moment I recognized it as truth was the moment I could move on and decide: We'd take vacations in the first half of the year. In January, when the store is achingly slow, I can rest. I can spend time at home without fear the store is going to fall apart or books are going to fall of the shelves.

It's a simple lesson, but, if we own the store for any lengthy period of time, it's an important one, and finding that balance last year is already helping me in 2015.

Already this year, I've taken the time to write my thoughts in this space, something I rarely made time for last year. I'm trying to establish a journaling habit every morning and evening, and today, I took down the Christmas tree and filled my house with cheerful accents to remind me of my upcoming birthday. Instead of spending my Monday checking emails and running errands and posting receipts, I cleaned my house. I watched Friends. I listened to a podcast. I sat on the couch.

These are, in their own way, miraculous things, and I will accept them for the joy that they are. This year, I will nurture my faith and my creativity and my community and my marriage, and will do so knowing I might make some missteps, but I'll learn some valuable truths about myself along the way. 

in praise of small town living.

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

- Sten Nadolny

---

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

It was better than Thrive. 

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

I am living the Slow Life.

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

Slow and small may just be right where we belong.

a little word for 2014.

{image from Design Love Fest} 

I've been picking a word for the year for the past few years. It's not for everyone, but I am a girl who loves resolutions. Goal-setting is my jam. I love when the calendar turns a new page. I get a fresh new start to play with, a new year to call my own. Picking a word for the year is just another way for me to enter in a new phase of life, a way to welcome in a new beginning. 

Last year, my word was choose. Not a day went by that I didn't regret that stupid word. Every day of my life in 2013 required a choice, hard choices. I was reminded of that word with every contract I signed, every business risk I took. I picked choose because I wanted to be reminded that I could do hard things; I wanted to mature and come into my own. I did those things, but it was painful and tricky, and quite frankly, I need a different kind of year this year. 

My parents begged me to pick peace or calm, and I understood. I think either one of those words would have worked for 2014, but I think ultimately I would have been disappointed. I'm not sure we're meant to have calm in 2014, not when the previous year ends with a new business and the the new year starts with a new house. That doesn't speak calm to me. 

Instead, this year needs to have a little more home. I embraced work with open arms last year, and I'm glad. It was a year for big dreams and bigger adjustments. Work deserved its place of prominence, but my other priorities got a bit out of sorts. I'm afraid the business owned me a little last year, and I need that to change if Jordan and I want to own The Bookshelf for the long term. 

My word for 2014, then, isn't particularly exciting or earth-shattering. It comes with lower expectations, and it won't really look that awesome on a necklace. It's a little boring, and it won't resonate with everyone I know. 

This year, I need balance. 

It's the right word. I breathe a sigh of relief just typing it, speaking it out loud. It's not particularly adventuresome or ground-breaking, but it's what I need to get my life back on track after a roller coaster year. And I know, too, sometimes balance won't be possible. Some seasons will require intense emphasis on one thing or another, and my life will be a little off-kilter again. That's okay. Each season will have its own purpose and pattern. Overall, though, I want balance. I want a home of peace and calm, of happy and bright. I want work to go back -- at least in part -- to being work. I want my spiritual walk to bring me the joy it did before. I want my priorities to be fixed and renewed. I want balance.

In light of this word and the purpose behind it, I've got five goals I'll be focusing on in 2014. I tried a little something different with my goals this year. Jordan got me Lara Casey's Power Sheets for Christmas (he gets me), and I've been poring over them for the past few weeks, picking them up when I had a minute, trying to put 2013 quietly away and welcome 2014 with open arms. I'd highly recommend Lara's goal-setting method, if just as a way to center yourself every few months. Using her tools, I came up with these five goals. 

ONE

I want to establish morning and evening routines that help create peace in our home. I want our home to be a refuge at the start and close of each day. I want true rest. 

TWO

I want to create boundaries in work this year; I want to remember that this dream job is still a job -- it is not the end all, be all of my existence.

THREE

I want us to find our place in Thomasville and at The Bookshelf. I want us to create community while being ourselves; I want to embrace new starts and build friendships. 

FOUR

I want to dwell in gratitude and stay connected with those I love far away. I want to build relationships near and far and be Jesus to the people I interact with and work with. 

FIVE

I want to make time for adventures with Jordan. I want to adjust to new work schedules and find time for travel and true rest. 

---

There may be more for me to say about these goals in the weeks to come, but this is my starting point. I've got action steps written out to make each goal happen, but basically, I want a different-looking, joy-filled 2014. I want to embrace The Bookshelf, but I also really missed spending time in our home last year. I missed visiting faraway friends, missed traveling with Jordan. I'm tired of missing things. And the missing of things made me a tad bitter about a job that's supposed to be a dream. 

So it's time for a change. It's time for balance. 

2014, I'm coming for you. Get ready. 

making peace with 2013.

There's a Nora Ephron quote I have been repeating to myself over and over this year, a quote so important to me I've practically memorized it, making it my unofficial mantra for 2013.

"What are you going to do? Everything, is my guess. It will be a little messy, but embrace the mess. It will be complicated, but rejoice in the complications. It will not be anything like what you think it will be like, but surprises are good for you. And don’t be frightened: You can always change your mind."

I'm not sure where blogs are going these days. I don't read them as regularly as I used to; when Google Reader died, I bookmarked my favorites, and I visit them about once a week to see if anything new has been posted, to see what adventures some of my long-off kindred spirits are having. But I don't read with the dedication and fervor I used to.  

Perhaps because I am reading them less, perhaps because I am living more, I find myself writing less, blogging less. And when I do make the time to write, it is frenzied and fury-ed, as if I won't be able to type fast enough the words pouring out of my brain and heart. 

I still love writing here. And I know, the past year my posts have not all been rainbows and butterflies. I could have remained silent, could have waited until life was some semblance of normal before blogging about all of it: the new business ownership, the house hunt, the move, the hurts, the goodbyes. But I just don't function well that way. Writing is my way of coping, and it's my hope that by writing through my journey and my struggles, I've ministered to -- befriended, really -- some of you. 

We need each other's honesty. In a world where so much is filtered and broadcasted, it's nice to find pockets of the Internet, of the world, where authenticity is valued and praised. 

So that's why I keep writing. It's why, all throughout this crazy, up-and-down rollercoaster of a year, I've kept posting. Even if it was sporadic, even if my words were scrambled on the page, I kept hitting publish. 

I'm glad. 

We'll remember each year for something, some major event or another. It would be wonderful if we could remember our years for what they were: highs and lows, the significant and the meaningless. But as we age, it's more likely the years will blur together, and certain years -- for better or for worse -- will stick out for just a reason or two instead of for what they were as a whole. I won't always remember every detail of this year. I won't remember every road trip or every celebration. I won't remember dinners cooked or eaten out, won't remember late nights or early mornings. I won't remember sickness or health. 

I'll instead remember the goodbyes. I'll remember saying yes to entrepreneurship, taking on new responsibilities and all the excitement and heartbreak that comes with them. This is the year I became the Kathleen Kelly of my dreams, and it's the year I realized even dreams have flaws and cracks and aren't always what they seem. As it turns out, they're often better, but harder. And they come with trade-offs. 

Life is a give and take, a mixture of bitter and sweet. This is the year I learned that, I think. 

I love that Nora Ephron quote so much because as 2013 draws to a close, I'm still uncertain about so many things: where we'll live. How long this dream will last. So often I look forward to the Decembers of each year as a chance to close the door, a chance to move forward to the next goal, the new adventure, the turned-over leaf. The truth is, so many of the decisions we made (and didn't make) in 2013 will have repercussions into 2014. The consequences, good and bad, won't disappear when January 1 rolls around. I'll have a pretty new planner, but the old won't have died off just yet. 

My brain and my heart might be ready for fresh beginnings, but life doesn't always abide by the calendar we've set. 

Instead, then, I'm making peace with 2013, with all she's held and with all she'll bring into the new year. I'm already mentally making resolutions and goals, trying out new words to replace the "choose" that followed me around all 2013 long. I'm looking forward, but I'm doing so with more perspective than before. I'm looking forward with the knowledge that I won't always get to leave everything behind. Some baggage, some decisions, follow us even into our newest days, our brightest resolutions. That, too, is life, and I'm becoming okay with it. I have to, don't I? 

So I'm trying to take Nora's advice. I'm trying to abide by her wisdom. I'm embracing the mess, rejoicing in the complications. It's taken me 12 months (or perhaps 27 years), but I'm learning surprises are good for me. And if all else fails, I can always change my mind. 

These are the things 2013 was good for, and they're the things I'll remember about her long after the calendar's pages have turned. 

ah, well.

{lettering by Torrie T. Asai}

Jordan's on the couch sleeping, exhausted, I'm sure, from pulling our family's weight this past week. 

As it turns out, there are a few occasions when being married to an attorney is extremely helpful. One? When putting down an offer on a home. Also? When buying a business. We happen to be doing both of those things. At the same time. 

Two weekends ago, after mutually agreeing to wait until January to buy a home in Thomasville, I found a home there I loved. It was small, but it had a front porch and a backyard meant for a hammock. The appliances were new, but the character was old (1898!) and the walls were almost the exact same color I've painted the walls of every rental home we've ever lived in. It was surrounded with other well-cared-for homes, just a short walk away from a school and a park. It was well within our budget, and it just felt meant to be. 

Often in my life, I plan for something, and inevitably, the rug gets pulled out from under me. The plan changes, and I'm left with my head spinning. We had decided to wait until January, so it made perfect sense that we'd find a home we loved now, with October barely out the door. 

So we put in an offer on Monday. We put in an offer, and this town -- this tiny town where most of the homes we've looked at are still on the market, months later -- surprised us. The house we loved, a house that had only been on the market for a few days, had caught the eyes of a potential renter. We assumed there wouldn't be much competition there. Buyer > renter, right? (And I say that, obviously, as a renter.) What we didn't really count on was the potential renter hearing about our offer, and putting up an offer of their own. 

This week, then, we entered into a bidding war on our first home. Everything happened so fast, and I admit: Monday night, when we prayed together over our first offer (ever!), I prayed for easy. Gosh, I just wanted easy. So much in our lives right now is hard, and I just thought, you know? I'm going to pray for easy. I'm going to pray for smooth sailing, for peace and calm and a process we could both smile our way through. I've heard the horror stories, the home-buying nightmares, and I specifically prayed for none of that, thank you. 

But then the bidding war happened, and today, while training a new employee at work, I got the call that our second offer had been rejected. The owner of the home chose the renter-turned-buyer's offer. 

We lost. 

(And I guess, in a way, it was easy.)

It's okay. I really did love that house. I really had imagined a hammock in the backyard and my dishes in the cabinets and our couch in the living room and a bright blue front door. I had pictured parties and house guests and finally, finally getting to sit on my own front porch swing. 

But it wasn't meant to be. And I told myself, as we waited by our phones and tweaked offer after offer, that it would be okay. If we didn't get this house, another, better-for-us house would come along. And I want you to know: I know that's true. I firmly believe it. 

That doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. Not yet. 

I think it's okay, realistic even, for me to be a little heartbroken. And yes, even a little bitter. The whole process seems horribly unfair; two comparable offers, and the first offer presented ought to win, don't you think? Plus, we've watched friends and family members buy houses without breaking a sweat; why, oh why, couldn't that have been us? 

So tonight I'm a little sad. But curled up in my little gray chair, in my rental cottage I have poured a lot of time and effort into, I'm okay. We'll get one last Christmas here now, I think. We'll host my family's annual Christmas Eve brunch. I might get brave and host a Friends-giving for some people I love. I'll hang up some bunting, light candles, read a few more books. I will enjoy where I am, because where I am is lovely and above all... it's where I am. To not love it, to not enjoy it, would be a tragic waste. 

We're okay. It's been a long week, and we're tired. Jordan still has our business contract to look over, and I've got a difficult decision looming, and I know it's been a lot for us. We've tried pretty hard to be grown-ups this week, and I think we've done a darn fine job. 

I was thinking on my commute home today how nice it would be to win one. What I forgot, I think, is that we learn so much more from the losses. And yes, 2013 has been, in my estimation, hard. But gosh. I can't think of another time in my life when I've done this much growing, this much stretching. And I'd wager that's a good thing, even if it's a little bit painful. 

So here's to the losses. We've had a few lately, but I think it's making us better. 

the last weekend in October.

I'm writing this on a Monday afternoon, cuddled on the couch, When Harry Met Sally playing in the background. It was a whirlwind weekend, full of lovely fall things. October has been so good to me, and this weekend was no exception. 

Friday, we went to a stage production of And Then There Were None in Thomasville; Saturday I worked, then we met up for a little house hunting. Maybe it was the weather -- absolutely gorgeous -- but I loved both houses we saw, and it gave me such hope for our future. So many things about moving to Thomasville scare me: rebuilding community, finding our way in a small Southern town, developing friendships, and making the store a success. Looking at houses together -- houses I actually like and can see us in -- did so much to bolster my spirits. 

Saturday night, we went to a costume party hosted by some friends, and I was reminded, once again, about the community we have here, already in place. Plus, as much as I rather loathe dressing up, I was pretty pumped about my costume. Rosie Riveter for the win, always. 

We left the party a little early in preparation for our super early morning Sunday. We got up at 5 and made the drive to Atlanta for the Country Living fair. Here's the thing: I think admission is a little ridiculous ($26 including the $10 park fee!), but it was really fun to shop for antiques and other beautiful things outside on Stone Mountain. I might not recommend going every year, but going once or twice? Well worth it, and a fun fall adventure for me and Jordan. I only wished we had a little more money to play around with; there were some really lovely things that would have looked perfect in our home. Next time, for sure. 

A couple of weeks ago, a reader (acquaintance? friend? fellow blogger?) commented about how sad my blog had seemed lately; she encouraged me to get out and walk in the rain and live a little. The truth is, the comment stung, mostly because, people: I AM TRYING. The blogs I read and enjoy are authentic, true-to-life. The only way I know how to write this blog is to do so honestly, and honestly? These have been hard months. My 27th year has been a difficult one, and apparently I'm not alone in the struggle. Thank goodness for posts like this one, that remind me it's okay to struggle a bit, as long as I don't give up. 

I have not given up. I have fought hard this month, and I'm happy to say: Things are looking up. We've got a business meeting this week I'm a little anxious about (perhaps details at a later time, perhaps not), so I'm looking at my calendar, hoping we can make it to Halloween with my happiness still intact. I've learned so much, though, this month, about happiness, about my job, about my relationships. This was a good month for me, a month of growing and stretching and learning. There have blessings in the form of book clubs and homecooked meals, Twin Peaks marathons and When Harry Met Sally viewings. I have been blessed by costume parties and road trips, phone calls with friends and packages in the mail. 

Life is hard, but it is good. That's what I learned this month. 

in which fairhope wakes me up.

"I was born in February, but I come alive in October. A hazelnut. A filbert. October, baptize me with leaves! Swaddle me in corduroy and nurse me with split pea soup. October, tuck tiny candy bars in my pockets and carve my smile into a thousand pumpkins. O autumn! O teakettle! O grace!"

- Rainbow Rowell, Attachments

---

I'm always a better person after a vacation. 

Yesterday's post was actually written Friday, before Jordan and I left for Fairhope, Alabama, this past weekend for an obviously much-needed getaway. It was only four hours away, but it might as well have been across the country for the good it did me. We stayed in a bed and breakfast right by the bay. We took long walks. I finished two books. (Longbourn and Attachments, for those so inclined.) We sat outside and watched the sunset. We ate pizza and drove backroads and took naps and watched Tom Hanks outdo himself in Captain Phillips. 

It was just what I needed. 

We always travel so well together, Jordan and I. Our time together away from home gives us a chance to reevaluate, to make plans, to talk about past, present, and future. We did a lot of that this weekend, and it wasn't stressful or overwhelming or tiresome. It was good. Our talks gave me renewed energy for the next few months, gave me purpose for this, my favorite season. 

I don't want to waste autumn with stress and heartbreak and hurt. (Even though those things exist and, as far as I can tell, will keep existing.) Instead, I want to remember that fall is a gift. Change -- no matter how hard -- is a gift. And so, for the next few months, some goals, some purpose, to fully experience this season I love so much. 

1. Call Fidelity and tour homes. We've been putting off some of this house stuff, because -- let's be honest -- buying a new house is stressful, especially if you've never done it before. This weekend, we made a plan for going through the process slowly. Our end game? Moving to Thomasville sometime in early 2014. I like this plan. I am comfortable and happy with this plan.

2. Make plans with friends. I've worked so hard at the store this year that I've forgotten this truth: Owning a store is still just a job. It does not have to become my life. It does not have to own me, but I think I've let it a little bit. I'd like to spend the next few months cultivating the friendships we do have in town -- nothing major. Just movies and dinners out, little things to remind us we still have community here; it's just smaller than before.

3. Watch scary movies, then movies I love. We always watch suspenseful movies during the month of October to get us in the spirit of the season; we're starting this week -- hooray! I've also got plans to watch You've Got Mail, When Harry Met Sally, and Dan in Real Life, three of my favorite fall films.

4. Cook a new recipe for Thanksgiving. My copy of Country Living magazine came last week, and it included some pretty delicious-looking recipes for a Thanksgiving feast. Maybe I'll feel like throwing a Friendsgiving this year (wouldn't that be something?), but even if I don't, we're spending Thanksgiving in town with my family, which means more time to test recipes and try something new. I can't wait!

5.  Send cards to friends. Last week, one of my dearest friends gave me some lovely advice. Any time I start to feel lonely or long for my long-distance friends, I need to communicate: send a text, write a letter, mail a package, leave a voicemail. I need to connect. I need to remind myself I have community, they just might not all live right here, right now. I love this idea, and I'm already thinking about making it a new year's resolution come 2014. 

6. Go to exercise class. This is a tough one; we'll see if I'm brave enough to follow through. A new studio opened up near our house, and it offers a free class on Sunday afternoons. I'm a little chicken to go alone, but maybe it's worth a shot? 

7. Eat at home three to four nights a week. 

8. Read two books a month. 

9. No technology past 11. We've been spending a lot of time on our phones, watching Netflix, browsing the Internet. I'd love to have a "no technology past 10" rule, but let's face it: Scandal comes on at 10 on Thursdays, so that's not happening. I thought 11 would be more practical, but really, the goal is simply to get to bed a little earlier, to shut down earlier in the evening and get a bit more rest. The days are shorter, so I think this should be easy.

10. Walk. Earlier this year, I was walking every day, and we spent a great deal of September walking in the evenings. Walking is so, so good for me, for my emotional and physical well being. We live in a such a great neighborhood right now, perfect for walking long and short routes. I'd like us to walk a little each evening, to spend some time outside in the fall air. 

So there you have it. I'm not sure how many of these I'll actually accomplish, but you know what? I feel good about it. Really good. I love setting (and keeping!) goals, and I love having a plan to follow for the next few months. I know running a retail shop during the holidays will be tough, stressful. But it's still just a job, and there's so much more to life than that. 

Cheers, then, to October. To vacations. To fresh starts. To waking up. 

failing at bible study (among other things).

sorry, Mom, but it's Ron, you know? 

from here.

I joined a Bible study earlier this summer in Thomasville. I thought it would be a fun way to meet new people, to ease into this new town and make new friends. I was determined to try everything, to step outside my comfort zone and do brave things. (Somehow forgetting that maybe owning a business might be brave and hard enough.)

Now it's mid-September, and I'm officially ready to give up.

Make no mistake: I've loved getting to know the small group of women that gathers together every Friday morning, but the Bible study portion of this commitment? 

I have failed miserably. 

Our group is making its way through Jen Hatmaker's book 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess, and I just can't do it anymore. 

If you're unfamiliar with the concept of 7, here's a basic overview (from Hatmaker's website): 

7 is the true story of how Jen (along with her husband and her children to varying degrees) took seven months, identified seven areas of excess, and made seven simple choices to fight back against the modern-day diseases of greed, materialism, and overindulgence. In the spirit of a fast, they pursued a deeply reduced life in order to find a greatly increased God. 

Each chapter of 7 identifies and details seven areas of excess: food, clothes, spending, media, possessions, waste, and stress. As a family, the Hatmakers fasted in each of those areas, giving attention to each for 30 days. The Bible study encourages participants to fast in each of those areas as well, but -- due to time for the study -- for seven days instead of 30. 

When I recently described the concept of the study to my friend, she began laughing hysterically. 

"What could have possibly possessed you to do that kind of study right now?" 

Ah, hindsight. 

I am a constant self-evaluator. I am always looking for ways to improve, to change, and here's the thing: I love the concept of Hatmaker's book. I love it, and I bought it, and I bought into it.

Unfortunately, in my constant quest for self-improvement, I also tend to aim for perfection. I don't want to do anything half-way. It's why I quit graduate school after one semester. It's why I fight so hard for my marriage. It's why I've struggled so long and hard with this decision to own a business.

It's also why I can't do this Bible study right now. 

I believe if done properly, a study of 7 requires dedication, focus, and time, three things I just don't have right now. Of course, many of the women I'm in the study with -- and, honestly, probably a pretty large percentage of the world's population -- would argue the study is, sure, better with the right amount of time and focus, but no one has a ton of that to give. The study is just as effective and meaningful if you do the best you can. 

Grace, not perfection... blah, blah, blah. (Said with tongue firmly planted in cheek.)

And therein lies my struggle. 

I don't like going to a weekly Bible study where I am -- week after week -- unprepared. I don't like remembering the night before we meet that I should probably do a quick scan of the pages to get the basic gist. I don't like forgetting what I'm supposed to be fasting from. (Doesn't that defeat the purpose?) I don't like half-way. I like life-changing. I like overachieving. I like diving in. 

So the question for me becomes: Do I quit everything I can't do 100%? I'm guessing no. 

In the book Lean In (a post all its own, by the way), Sheryl Sandberg mentions this poster hanging at Facebook's headquarters: "Done is better than perfect." 

That concept was a game-changer for her. It enabled her to pursue her career while also pursuing marriage and motherhood. 

And I know, deep down, that concept is at least partially true. I'm learning it every day as a business owner. I have quickly discovered: I can't get everything done, and certainly not well. Not excellently. Not all the time.

I want to read Jen Hatmaker's 7. I want to pay attention to the excess in our lives. (We actually did purge a lot of our possessions through the study, and Hatmaker is right: It's freeing and life-giving.) I want to live with intention and purpose. 

But I also want to go easy on myself. I simply can't do the study the way I think it should be done. Not right now, when my life is crazy and up in the air, and I'm just barely scraping by. 

Does that mean I quit? I'm not sure. 

Does that mean I become okay with half-way? Maybe. 

I know I can't quit every commitment that lacks my full devotion or attention. But at 27, I also know me. I know that fewer commitments are better for my sanity. And maybe my friend is right. Maybe a Bible study just isn't the best use of my time right now. (Sacrilege!) Maybe friendships will come when I'm least expecting them. Maybe I need to quit trying so hard, because life is tough enough right now. 

Maybe. Who knows? I'm just learning this all as I go. 

i suppose it's the brave thing to do.

"People are always telling you that change is a good thing. But all they're really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all . . . has happened."

- You've Got Mail

My store is closing. 

My store is closing, and in two weeks, I'll pack up boxes of books and product, and I'll make the 45-minute trek up the road to Thomasville, Georgia, where I'll be working -- and who knows, maybe living -- for the next season of this life. 

Eight months ago, when Jordan and I first discussed the possibility of quitting my corporate job and managing this tiny store in midtown, we left no stone unturned. It's our nature, I think, to over analyze, to pro-con the mess out of things. So we discussed, at length, what we would do if the store didn't last. 

We discussed, and we decided: We wanted to do it anyway. We were willing to take the risk in order to see if this dream that had been percolating in my mind for so long might have the gumption to survive. 

It turns out, by the way, that I love this job. It is hard, hard work, and some days, it can be just as mundane as a desk job. But there are these moments that make up for it all, moments when a kid reads a book in a corner, or I connect with a customer about a book club selection. Through the hard and easy days, it has been such a relief to know that a dream can come true, a relief to know: I can do this. I am doing this.

The store isn't closing because it is failing. Jordan and I didn't count on that back when we were counting the cost of things. We didn't discuss what we'd do if the business thrived, but the owner wanted to pull back resources and focus on one location. 

News of the store's closing, then, came as a shock. When something is financially succeeding, when a small business is embraced by the community, you just kind of assume it will all keep going, as-is, unchanged. Because why change what's working?

But as with corporate business, small businesses must go where the money is. And the store's owner -- who I have a lovely relationship with -- is changing directions. She's growing her family, and she's choosing to turn all of her finances and attention to her larger store. And because of some new directions in her life, she has graciously offered me the chance to join her in Thomasville as owner of The Bookshelf.

It is a huge opportunity, and lots of friends and family have offered me their congratulations on this next step.

The thing is, though, it hurts. All of it. This little Tallahassee store? It has become mine. The customers, the books, the displays? I've cultivated and curated those things. And it's simply not in my nature to say goodbye easily.

I don't want to tell loyal customers and friends we're closing. I don't want to shut down story time. I don't want to explain the ins and outs. I'm simply not ready to mourn this chapter yet.

So the congratulations feel premature.

And the excitement comes and goes in waves.

Because this would mean big change -- big risk -- for us. Financially. Geographically.

Owner, I'm sure you understand, is quite different from manager. And Thomasville is different from Tallahassee.

For the next two months, then, I'll be working in Thomasville, commuting to that flagship store every day to get the hang of things. To meet new faces, to grasp new tasks, to see if we all mesh together as easily as I hope.

Come August, Jordan and I will be more equipped to make a final decision. Though of course, things are obviously leaning a certain way. I wouldn't be sharing this if we weren't ready to make some type of announcement. Come August, we'll sign papers, maybe even buy a home.

There's a lot still up in the air, but I'm tired of bearing the burden alone. (I don't know what I'd have done these past few months without Jordan, my family, and, if I'm being honest, Netflix.) I finally needed to write it all out, to clear my head, to explain why I've been silent, absent, and a little confused.

A lot is going on in my corner of the world, and much of it is outside my control.

Today, then, I'm choosing to focus on saying goodbye, on mourning this very short chapter of what continues to be an adventurous, lovely life. It has been absolutely wonderful, a learning experience I wouldn't trade for all the money in the world.

And even though it hurts, I am choosing to believe my dear friend Kathleen Kelly.

Closing the store -- saying goodbye -- is the brave thing to do. 

on choosing, five months in.

{Banner by Jimmy Marble}

A couple of weeks ago, my dad told me I probably need to be a little more careful when selecting a word for the year. His suggestions for 2014? Peace or quiet or calm.

Because it turns out that when you deem choose your word for the year, you immediately become bombarded with all kinds of choices, both major and minor, life-changing and mundane, all of which require decision and action, sometimes before the day is over. 

2013 has not been the year I expected. That's not to say it has been unenjoyable or unpleasant or cruel. It simply means it is not possibly what I could have anticipated for me or for my family back when January first began. I expect a lot out of my new years, always knowing full well the end result will not ever look like the original plan. It's a habit now, so I am fairly accustomed to a change in the overall look of things. This year, though, I just simply could not have predicted this much change, this much movement, this much influx. 

Friends began making plans to move. Church hurts resurfaced and stayed there. Job plans have become murky and uncertain. A potential and literal move for our little family may be on the horizon, in more ways than one. (And no, dear readers, we are not pregnant. At this moment, the thought alone sends me over the edge.) 

All of these changes -- which, in and of themselves, would be challenging and big enough -- have together resulted in lots of decision-making, much of which has been painful and burdensome and tiring.

I am trying to choose things like patience and grace and forgiveness, things like health and yoga and good books. I am trying to choose deep breaths and journaled thoughts and spoken-aloud prayers.

The truth is, though, there have been more than a few meltdowns. I have burst into tears and cursed at falling curtain rods and wondered what on earth was happening to my lovely, much-loved life. 

My word for the year currently looks a lot like overwhelmed. 

I didn't think when I announced choose as my 2013 word, I'd be forced to choose new decisions for our family in almost every aspect of our lives. For a girl who doesn't handle change well, it's been a rough couple of months, a true test of my maturity and my patience and my strength. 

"You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors. So don't try to get out of anything prematurely," writes Eugene Patterson in The Message (James 1). "Let it do its work so you become mature and well-developed, not deficient in any way. 

"If you don't know what you're doing, pray to the Father." 

Maybe it's oversimplified advice, but these days, I'm taking it. As much as I tend to rely on pro-con lists and common sense, I realize the best decisions of my life have come when I took leaps of faith after speaking big prayers. Jordan and I agree that when you pray, you better be ready to move (literally, sure, but metaphorically, definitely). We've prayed for doors to open, and now they are. They're not the doors we could have anticipated -- nor are they the ones I believe we would have chosen -- but they are there, and they are open, waiting for us to decide: in or out? 

Of course, it's not a black and white decision. None of the choices we're making are. And so, it's painful, and I'm counting the days until I can get to the water with my family, until I can read and pray and come to terms with 2013 as it is, not as it was planned to be. 

So, there it is. The truth about what happens when you pick words for the year, and they maybe slap you in the face a little bit. I'd love to know how 2013 is treating you. Maybe someone, somewhere, is experiencing the same things? Do share. That's what the internet's for, isn't it?