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. 

a rambling post on loss and professional success.

You know that scene in The Devil Wears Prada, where Stanley Tucci and Anne Hathaway are standing outside at a photoshoot, commiserating about their boss and work? And Anne is sharing how great her professional life has become, but then confesses her personal life is falling apart? 

Stanley delivers this little life's lesson: "That's what happens when you start doing well at work. Let me know when your entire life goes up in smoke: then it's time for a promotion."

My personal life isn't falling apart. Not really. I have a good husband, a supportive family, friends I love stretched across the states. 

But today, I was supposed to be on a flight to Kansas City, visiting girlfriends for a trip that's been in the works for months. I waited too late to get my flight and simply couldn't justify spending $600 on airfare for one. So now I'm at home, wondering: What is going on with 2013? 

And it's not just expensive airfare or missing girls' trips. It's friends who have moved and grandparents who have died. It's watching the things that took up so much of your life before slowly find themselves in the background. 

We received some heartbreaking news last night regarding some people we love very much. I won't go into details here, not yet (I'm sure I'll blog my way through it when the dust settles), but it felt -- like so many things this year -- a bit like a punch in the gut. 

The fact is, yesterday was a pretty good day. Jordan and I went to the launch of Thom magazine, a new project created by the arts center in Thomasville. The Bookshelf is one of the magazine's sponsors, and we used our ad as a way to introduce me as the owner (!). So we went to the launch together, and I mingled, which I hate. But it's good practice, and we chatted with some people we knew. 

As a bonus, I also found out some wonderful news: The store's sales are up significantly from last year. That makes me so happy. It's nice to get confirmation that maybe you're doing something right after all.

But the news we received put a cloud over all that, at least for a little while. Because, once again, we're watching people we love leave. 

This week, while out to dinner with a friend, we were talking about moving and teasing about which one of us would move first. And I -- half-jokingly -- begged this friend not to move; we just wouldn't be able to handle it, I said. 

My friend rolled his eyes. "You'd be fine. You're pretty resilient." 

It's a compliment, I guess. But I am so tired of being resilient. I'm tired of 2013 and the havoc she's wreaked. 

But the complaints feel silly when I'm owning a bookstore and making money doing it. It feels ridiculous to talk about how crappy 2013 has been when it's brought me so much good. 

I guess every year is made up of all these things, the giving and taking, winning and losing, heartbreaking and life-giving. And this year, for us, has been huge professionally. I'm sure we'll look back on 2013 as the year our careers changed, both -- I'm confident -- for the better. Please make no mistake: I am grateful for that. 

This is also the year, though, that we've lost people we love. Lots of them. Back in 2012, I lost my grandmother. It happened in January, and it was heart-breaking and sad, and it affected my entire year, as grief often does. Fast forward a year later, and 2013 opened with the loss of Jordan's grandpa. In February, my boss told me she was closing the Thomasville store. (She later changed her mind, closing Tallahassee and offering Thomasville to me.) We struggled through major church hurts in March and April, hurts I haven't ever blogged about because I'm numb, I think, to the pain we've sometimes experienced at the hands of the church. We watched our best friends move in May, then again in June. In July, I began to really take over the Thomasville store, and in the process, faced major brick walls and professional (and personal) challenges. 

At the end of the day, I know life is good. The Father is still good. He has been faithful. 

But.

The heartbreak we've experienced this year has taken its toll, if not on Jordan, then on me. I am tired and running out of steam. I'm watching a lot more TV than usual, mostly because I'm not sure what else I can handle. And just when I get a grasp on one loss, on one frustration, I feel like two more grow up in its place. It's like playing a life-sized game of whack a mole, and I am losing. 

I was supposed to fly to Kansas City today, to be with dear friends and receive the encouragement and life that gives me. But that's not happening today, and I've tried so hard to be grown-up about it. I shed some tears earlier in the week, but I did what I guess my friends expect of me: I shook it off, and I moved on. 

Jordan and I leave for a mini-vacation of our own tomorrow. It's my consolation prize, I suppose, and I'm grateful. We're a couple who loves to travel together, and we haven't been on a single vacation yet this year. (Again, thank you, 2013.) 

So, no, I don't get to see my sweet friends this weekend. I don't get to stay up late and chat, slumber party style. I don't get to shop or go apple picking or sip hot chocolate. 

But I get to be with my husband (who lovingly informed me that he's not going anywhere, so at least I have nothing to worry about there). I get to take advantage of competent sales staff and leave the store in someone else's hands. I get to be by the water and take deep breaths and -- hopefully -- read good books. 

I'll be okay. I know I will. It's just been hard, this year. I am tired of loss and the people we hold very closest moving away. When Jordan and I look back on who we've watched go this year, it's an unbelievable list. It's our best friends. Our walking buddies. Our spiritual mentors. It's the people we've had in our home, who love us like family. 

When you're someone who only holds a few people close, I think it's even harder to watch them go. 

The news we received this week? More people we love moving away? My parents love those people too. They love them so much.

And it was a reminder to me that this is life. The professional ups and downs, personal wins and losses. This is what life is like, and it's not going to change. Sure, I think 2013 has been unusual in the amount of people we've said goodbye to. But at 27, I know this isn't the end of goodbyes. My life will be full of them, and I hate it. 

But I'm reminding myself that life will also be full of hellos. It will be chock full of new experiences, kindred spirits, fond memories. 

It's been a bittersweet year, but you know what? I think it's just a bittersweet life. And perhaps if I can learn resilience now, if I can -- to borrow a favorite verse -- learn to laugh at the days to come, I'll survive all the ups and downs, the bitter and the sweet this life has to offer. 

That's the hope I'm clinging to today, and you know? For today, it's enough.

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. 

bossypants.

I sat down to write a new post last night when I realized: I am tired of writing about the store. So you got my thoughts on communion instead, and now here I am, a day later, making up for lost time.

When I was a little girl, I used to make up all kinds of imaginary games for me and my brother to play. We often dragged our cousins into the fun, requiring intense dedication to our own Boxcar children mysteries and orphan train scenes.

I was the oldest, and the role of boss came naturally. (My mother, by the way, insists I was never a bossy child. I was, simply, "in control." Her words, not mine. I'm sure my three younger counterparts would beg to differ.) 

The idea, then, that I might be a boss one day has always been in the back of my mind. I pursued leadership roles all throughout high school and college, and for the most part, I loved them all. I thrived under the pressure. I liked being busy, loved solving problems. It felt like those roles -- even the difficult ones -- were made for me.

Fast forward to my 27th year, and the leadership role I've been given is not just for practice. This is not my high school or college newspaper staff. This is a small business in a small town, and it is dependent on me for financial success. 

At the store, I run a staff of two people. Two people, and I feel like I've never done something so difficult in my entire life.

I hosted my first official staff meeting this week. I stayed up well past midnight, prepping color-coded handouts. I left my house an hour early, picked up a dozen doughnuts, and prayed for success. 

Then only one of my two staff members showed up, and I wound up bringing 10 doughnuts home to Jordan. (The other two, I ate.)

Head, meet wall.

Just what kind of boss am I supposed to be? Hard-nosed and tough? Miranda Priestly with an iron fist? Lou Grant with a heart of gold? Elle Woods with her pink scented paper and pastries for everyone? I honestly don't know anymore. 

Of all the challenges I thought I'd face while owning the store, transforming into a boss was never one of them. I have, after all, been practicing for decades. I am awesome at doling out schedules and coordinating plans and making agendas. I am super at telling people what to do and when to do it and how. I am comfortable solving problems and working under deadlines. (I am not so good at rolling with the punches, which, as it turns out, is pretty crucial to being an entrepreneur. I'm working on it.)

But the people I've bossed around in the past have known me well. As a sister and a cousin and a wife, my bossiness is oft-teased, but just as often appreciated. As editor of the newspaper, I worked my way up the ranks, earning the respect of my peers. They trusted me, even liked me. We had this mutual respect thing going. 

I've never had to manage a staff I didn't know. 

Where's the rulebook for that? 

Do you know what it's like to prepare for a staff meeting where only one person shows up? Do you know what it's like to have your hot now Krispy Kreme donuts rejected by your team? 

It stinks.

Tina Fey did not prepare me for this. Lean In did not prepare me for this. Being an eldest child with natural overachieving tendencies did not prepare me for this. 

In one month, I'll get to try this again. We'll have our second staff meeting, and my hope is -- after a rather difficult phone call -- the entire staff will show up this time. I may try to bring doughnuts again, I may not. 

The only thing I really know how to do is keep plodding along, to keep reminding myself this is doable. I can do this. I can be a boss. I can problem solve and delegate. I can make color-coded agendas and manage store calendars. I'm getting better at rolling with the flow; I'm learning -- out of necessity -- to be more assertive and firm. 

Respect has to be earned, and perhaps these are just the lessons I'm learning while earning it. 

They are hard, but I'm pretty sure, after a summer like this, I can do hard things.

whatever will be, will be.

When I was just a little girl

I asked my mother

What will I be?

Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? 

Here's what she said to me:

Que sera, sera 

Whatever will be, will be. 

The future's not ours to see. 

Que sera, sera

What will be, will be.

- "Que Sera Sera," by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans

There are three different posts sitting in my drafts bin, posts written during moments when -- I am sorry to say -- I thought I knew what I was doing. 

My opinions on this job and on this season change daily, and I suppose that's why it's harder than usual to know what to say or when to say it. 

Plus, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but it's so much easier to opine and reflect when a season is over and done with, when the chapter is ended and the book is closed. 

But to write down your thoughts and your opinions while you're living it, while it's happening? 

I just don't know how safe that is, and I know for a fact it isn't easy. 

We still haven't signed anything. 

If you've been following this story from the beginning, you know that this summer was intended to be a period of transition, a time to see if Jordan and I have what it takes to buy into this business I've come to love so much. I needed two months to decide if we could take this large financial and personal leap, and you know? 

Two months may not have been long enough. 

The truth is, saying goodbye to the little store in Tallahassee was harder than I may have let on. And saying hello to a new town and a new store and new coworkers and new routines has been so difficult and, some days, so painful that my vision has become clouded. I am, perhaps not-so-shockingly, finding it difficult to make a decision. I just can't seem to pull the trigger. 

Of course, life doesn't let us sit in a waiting room for too long. A deadline, of sorts, looms ahead, and I'm scrambling to get as many ducks in a row as I can before we put pen to paper. 

What does this mean, practically? 

It means I'm typing up business plans and praying for clarity. It means I'm analyzing staffing issues and determining next steps and future measures. It means I'm learning how to pay bills and post receipts, and I'm spending a lot of nights in tears and frustration because honestly? It's a lot. I've had more than one minor meltdown, and I'd rather not have many more. 

Two months ago, I think I was closer to a final decision than I am today. And that's a little scary. 

But I also know that's life. And it moves and changes and shifts, and sometimes we, too, then have to move and change and shift. 

Once this business plan is presented to the current staff and owner, I think Jordan and I will more confidently know what next steps to take. And that has me so incredibly hopeful, because any decision will be better than this limbo we've been living. 

I want to believe that in six weeks time, Jordan and I will be co-owneers in a business together. We'll be working hard to bring books to the masses, to supporting a literary community in a Southern town we'll be starting to call our own. We'll have found a house, and we'll be inching our way toward making it ours.

I want those dreams to come true. 

But. 

If, for whatever reason, they don't? 

I suppose I'll be okay with that, too. 

And maybe that's what I'm supposed to learn from all of this. Maybe I'm supposed to unclench my fists a little, to let go of the plans and the goals and the to-do lists and know that yes, whatever happens, happens. 

And we will be okay regardless. 

in which i ask the biggest question of all.

{photo by Jose Villa}

He was teasing, but it felt like on of those truths hidden in jest. 

We were talking about houses, about how long the wait might be if Jordan and I decided to buy into this urban redevelopment project the city of Thomasville is creating. We were talking about building versus renovating, buying versus renting, and if we could wait for that kind of redevelopment to take place. 

"It wouldn't matter," he joked. "You'll never be there anyway. You'll own your own business! You'll never see your house!"

And I know he was joking. I know he was teasing. 

But I also have been watching. And I know: Owning your own business is a serious commitment of not only resources, but time. 

This makes me nervous for all kinds of reasons. Reasons that have to do with home and family and marriage and where Jordan and I long ago decided to place our priorities. And the question has become cliche, but I am now asking the same thing women all over the country (world?) ask themselves: Can I have it all? 

Not all metaphorical, but all meaning: Can I still decorate my home and have and raise children and sit on my front porch and converse with the neighbors and drink lemonade and read good books and keep up with my laundry and hang out with my husband and watch reruns of The Office and run a successful, profitable business? Can I show love to my husband and my family and my home and my business, or will someone get the short end of the stick? 

Does owning your own small business have to mean sacrifice of the other things I've always wanted? 

I know, of course, that it means some sacrifice. Like, in this case, moving to a new town. Saying no to the Anthropologie sale rack. Never getting to watch an FSU football game or spending a Saturday out running errands with Jordan.

These types of sacrifices are not unfamiliar to me. 

But these other, bigger ones are. And as these two months of decision-making both fly and creep slowly by, I am bombarded with so many pros and cons and pluses and minuses. But the question I'm having trouble answering is: Can I live this dream and my other ones too? 

I don't know. I think I'd love to try. I wonder if that's enough for now, if the rest will fall into line as life often seems to. I hope so, but right now? I'm just not sure. 

The not-knowing has always been hard for me, and in this season? It's proving to be quite the nemesis. 

pros and cons.

There are things You've Got Mail didn't prepare me for. 

Bills to pay. Sleepless nights. Nightmares in which books are not shelved in alphabetical order.

Things like working and living in a small town, where people consider you a stranger until somehow, someway, you convince them you're trustworthy -- and have decent taste in books to boot. Things like a sore back and sore feet. Tired 45-minute commutes. Rude customers.

I'm not sure any book or movie could adequately prepare someone to run or own their own business. It's why we're busy these next two weeks, meeting with accountants and business consultants making sure buying a business is the right -- not just the romantic -- thing to do. 

Here is what you should know. 

A year ago today, I was working at a desk job that I didn't hate, but I also didn't love. I was reporting to work and doing my job and using my degree, but I wasn't fulfilled. And I know I am naive and idealistic and young, but I believed then -- and I believe now -- that the work you do every day should be fulfilling. We spend so much of our lives at work, and while I think work can be hard and stressful and challenging, I also believe it should be meaningful. 

I sought meaning in my first two jobs for four years. They were good years, and I would not trade an ounce of the experience I earned working hard behind a desk, answering phones, typing reports, immersing myself in the languages of law and health care. I wouldn't trade those years because I believe everybody needs a moment. The moment when they realize this isn't cutting it. The moment they realize good money isn't always enough to ignore the fact that something has to give. 

Fast forward to this year, and I am learning a new truth, a harder one to swallow. (And a harder one to share.) 

Work is work. 

What I mean is this: I used to dread going to work. And guess what? There are days I still dread it. And I hate to admit that, because it feels selfish and ridiculous, that I might actually dread days where I get to live out my lifelong dream. But see? Work is still work. And there are hard, long days now just like there were then. There are difficult, challenging, frustrating people, just like back then. And the somewhat cruel reality is that I am working harder than ever, making less money than ever. 

But the other side of that coin is that I spend every day among the things I love. I work hard, but I work hard doing something I enjoy, something I find meaningful and important. I write book reviews and promote books I enjoy on Facebook. I steer customers to books I think they'll appreciate, fall in love with even. 

Make no mistake. I also sweep floors and take out trash and clean bathrooms and work longer hours than I ever did before. 

So there are sides to this Kathleen Kelly life I didn't realize existed. Right now, especially, I am having a harder time than I did in my little Tallahassee store. I think that has a lot to do with owning a business versus managing one. It also has a lot to do with living and working in a transitional season. As I become accustomed to owning this business, I must also become accustomed to a new town, a new church, a new life. My old friends aren't here to see movies with; my old church isn't there to be a support during this season of limbo. 

It would be unfair to judge my experience running a business on the past few weeks, because they are harder weeks than usual, I think. And when I look back on this year as a whole -- my time spent quitting my corporate job, starting the Tallahassee store -- I see it was all worth it. 

We meet with accountants and business consultants this week, and I'm not sure where that will take us in this leg of the journey. But I'm clinging to the fact that regardless of the future, regardless even of the present, the past year has been worth the heartache and the tears. It's been worth the rude customers and the long hours and the backaches. 

It's been worth it because yes, work is work, but work you love? I can't even begin to describe the value in that.

grown-up friends.

{photo by Vivian Maier}

I said goodbye to my first grown-up friend this week. She's embarking on her own adventure this summer, packing her home and moving to Colorado with her family. It feels a little selfish to be so incredibly sad when the opportunity she's been given is so lovely, but I don't lose people close to me very often, and this one hurts. 

It hurts because I found this friendship before I was married, right after I graduated college and started my life in the "real world." We became friends right when I was becoming a grown-up. We met through work, and our friendship has endured many of life's most major changes: marriages, job transfers, in-town moves, mutual friends' goodbyes, babies. 

Hers was the first baby shower I threw, and I remember back to that date two years ago, recalling how nervous I was that we'd lose touch, that a baby would, as I so often heard, change things, and our friendship would end, become one of those passing seasonal friendships rather than a forever one. 

Instead, we grew closer. After those initial difficult weeks of adjustment, we were back to what we'd always been, and as we've watched others leave our transient town, we've relied a lot on the connection that exists between the two of us. We've made time for shopping trips and Seaside visits, for long talks on the couch and walks around the neighborhood.

I look back on the past five years, and it hits me that her friendship came just as I was figuring out who I was. College provides us with lifelong friendships, I know, but it's also a surreal experience, providing us with friends at every corner. These are built-in friendships, the ones you meet through your major or your dorm or your club. You don't have to work as hard for those.

Grown-up friendships? Those you have to fight for. 

We were reminiscing this week over how this close-knit group of girls we've grown close to met. How miraculously it seems we came together, through church and work and book club and mutual acquaintance. So many books are written on the miraculous nature of friendships, but they all seem to be about girls who lived in the same dorm or ran in the same social sphere or magically fit into the same pair of pants. Adult friendships are harder than that; magical, I think, but still requiring intense amounts of effort and work. 

This friend is the last one to leave. One has made her way in Chicago, the other is raising a family in Kansas City. This one will carve an adventure for herself in Boulder, and I laughed this week that each of them got so grand an adventure, while I -- at most -- will move 45 minutes down the road to a Southern town barely a speck on the map. 

It's okay, though. We each, I think, get the adventure we need, and here is the thing I find most comforting of all.

I didn't have a core group of girlfriends in college. I met one lifelong girlfriend who is a treasure, and the others are mutual friends through Jordan, couples I'm sure we'll see through the passing seasons. But I always dreamed I'd have this tight-knit group of kindred spirits, girlfriends I could see each year and feel like no time had passed, friends with mutual memories and the same yesterdays. 

It turns out, I think, that I do have those friendships. I just happened to meet these girls in a book club rather than a university classroom, and I rather like it that way.

I'll travel to Boulder later this summer, to help my friend get settled in her new home and to help her see her new city with excited eyes. In October, I'll gather with this same group of friends, just like we did last year, and it will seem like no time has passed, and I'll be grateful. 

Saying goodbye is hard, but I think it's going to be okay. I am not always good at seasonal friendships. But forever friends? Friends for a lifetime? I am better at those, and I'm hopeful I can maintain these friendships beyond the miles and the seasons. 

I guess what I'm saying is: Grown-up friendships are risky. They're harder, require more time, more vulnerability, more courage. But my experience thus far has been that, like so many things, they are well worth the risk, the extra effort. They're worth the dinner parties and the book clubs, the countless texts and the hurried phone calls. They're worth the lunches out and the quick trips to get yogurt. They're worth spur of the moment plans and vacations months in the making.

If you find good ones, they're worth the work. And often, they're worth the bittersweet goodbye.

where do i begin?

I don't really know what to say, except maybe pictures don't tell the whole story.

My life has been in a constant state of limbo these past two months, and I'd like to believe there's light at the end of the tunnel, but really? I'm afraid it's only just begun. And the pictures I post to Instagram don't really do the story justice. They don't adequately define the tears or the tantrums, the joys or the frustrations. They are, really, such a very small depiction of what my life has been like, what becoming a store owner has looked like. 

In short: It is hard. 

I am, potentially, inheriting someone else's business, which means I have leeway in some things, and no say in others. I am working harder than I think I have ever worked in my life. It has been grueling, both physically and mentally, and on top of it all, there have been goodbyes to say. Goodbyes that, quite frankly, I simply wasn't ready to say. 

The support system Jordan and I crafted so carefully when we moved to Tallahassee is beginning to unravel, and I find myself without nearby friends to rely on during this extremely difficult transition. My family and Jordan have been crucial to this entire decision-making process, and a couple of Sundays ago, when my parents and my aunt and uncle and my cousin and Jordan gathered inside the store to help install shelves and hang pictures, I thought: This is the only way to do this. I can only do this with my people. 

And I've had to say goodbye to some of my people embarking on adventures of their own, and that's been hard, and sad, and I've called my mother in tears more times than I'd like to admit because I'm just struggling right now. Things are just hard. 

I have so much to say -- thoughts on friendship, sweat equity, marriage, books, store ownership -- but I haven't had the time or the energy to say it. So consider this my reentry back into the world of words. I've missed it so much, and I think my hands are finally ready to type out the thoughts that have been milling about without a home for too long. 

Here's to sharing stories, even when it's hard.

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 change and the written word. (a giveaway, of sorts.)

For six months before graduating from college, I lived in Birmingham, Alabama, in the basement of Jordan's parents' house. I was an intern at Coastal Living magazine, and I was torn between loving my job and wondering if it was all a journalism degree added up to. Some days I felt like I was living the dream, and other days felt closer to a nightmare. (I remember one hellish day in particular in which I received a horrid haircut and subsequently backed my car into a pole at the mall. Good times.)

In six months, though, Birmingham became a sort-of home, and I'm a little baffled when I look back now and realize how quickly I adjusted to change, how quickly I met and made friends and formed a new life.

We're made to be resilient, I guess, and I just must forget, because every time change comes, I fight it with everything in my being and power, failing to remember how I've been brought through times of change and challenges before, and it's always made me better. 

This job -- my dream job -- has been a lot like that, and while I can't go into details just yet, changes are on the horizon, and they're big, and scary, and those six months in Birmingham seem so very far away. I can't believe 21-year-old me was so incredibly brave. Soon, 27-year-old me will have to step up and do the same. 

One of the blessings that came out of those brief months on my life's calendar was my friendship with Cory. We met as interns at Southern Progress, and I'm reminded, yet again, of how God provided friends for me right when I needed them. We weathered through the typical storms of our young-20s, and now, I imagine, Cory and I are wading through the similar storms of our late-20s. We've both invested serious time and energy and money into our dreams, and those dreams, I think, may look different from what we expected when we were 21. 

That's okay. Fabulous, even. 

Because while I keep watch over a tiny bookstore in midtown Tallahassee, Florida, Cory is sweating over a printing press in Birmingham. And I think it's funny that years after our first meeting, we're each doing our best to keep the written word alive in a world that maybe forgets just how important it is. Cory is doing her part to make beautiful things, and in turn, as cheesy as it sounds, God is making beautiful things out of her. 

I say all that to introduce you to Cory and her business, Four Hats Press. In her studio, she now works with polymer, wood, and lead type to create hand-lettered custom business cards and invitations, posters, prints, and greeting cards. I'm proud to say some of her work is hanging happily in my home (and this beauty is on my wishlist, a perfect reminder for the hardships I'm currently enduring).

Now, to celebrate the growth of her business and the power of the written word, Cory is hosting a giveaway (a really good one, in my opinion). Click on over to enter. There are letterpress notecards at stake!

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?

the pressure is off.

{photo by Gabriela Herman}

I put a lot of pressure on myself to do the right thing. This is shocking to no one, certainly not groundbreaking information as we approach the middle mark of this very bizarre-for-me year. 

But combine that built-in pressure with the events of the past few weeks, and it's no wonder things have suddenly become complicated and difficult. The balance is off, and at 27, it feels a little like my world is falling apart, which isn't at all true or fair, but is an accurate representation of the dramatic direction of my thoughts as of late. 

I am, quite simply, worn out. So much in my life is influx, and I don't have the words I usually use to maintain equilibrium. And the words aren't just being kept off the internet. They're not being written in my journal or shared with many friends. I have clammed right up, not wanting to explain all that is up in the air, all the decisions that must be made and what their implications could be. 

This month, I've read a lot of books, and I think it's because I've just needed to escape. And in the middle of these escapist novels (full reviews headed your way this week), I've found truth. 

Saturday I was finishing Someday, Someday, Maybe -- a new novel by Gilmore Girls alum Lauren Graham, so of course, not reading it wasn't really an option. I'm sure some people will read it and think it's fluff, but sometimes, you need fluff, and it turns out, you can find words of wisdom in the fluff too. 

"Barney seems positively cheerful about my age, as if approaching 27 years old isn't a time to panic. He's talking to me as though I'm young.... For some reason, he doesn't seem to think I'm behind at all."

Out of the context of both Lauren's story and my own, those words may not appear as profound as I found them. But when I read them, in the middle of the store on a quiet Saturday, I felt my burden lift and my chest loosen. I am not running out of time. My dreams are not disappearing, and I am not running out of time. 

It's too soon to share the plot of my latest story with you, but what I can say is that Jordan and I have fairly major life decisions to make, and this time, any of the decisions we could make -- may have to make -- will be a little bit painful. Because change is painful for me. It just is.

And that pressure I mentioned earlier? Well, that pressure had reached monumental proportions last week, bubbling up inside of me, making me anxious and tired and lethargic. I feel like my world is falling apart when, at 27, it should be coming together. 

But guys? Twenty-seven does not mean I automatically have it all together. And saying goodbye to old dreams or starting new ones, at 27? That's perfectly normal. This is what our 20s are about, and the older I'm getting, the more I'm realizing at 30, or 40, or 50? I'll be able to make changes then, too. May even have to. And so this pressure? It's a little pointless. 

"'Maybe you haven't accomplished what you want yet,' Dan says. 'But what that book shows is how you have kept filling up the pages. Quantity becomes quality, by itself... Just keep at it, keep filling up the pages, and something's bound to happen.'"

I'm filling a little freer today. The decisions are still there, waiting to be made, but I'm trying not to see them as burdens anymore. I'm trying to minimize them a bit. I think I made mountains out of our decisions, forgetting I can even move those if I need to. 

We can make these decisions, and we can unmake them down the road if needed. I can breathe a little easier, because the pressure is off. I'm 27, and I'm still just trying to figure things out. And if it takes me a little while, that's okay. 

It's hard to see now, but I have time. Lots and lots and lots of time.

forgiveness.

"You only have to forgive once. To resent, you have to do it all day, every day."

- The Light Between Oceans

---

I have this quote floating around in the pages of my planner, scribbled down sometime last month, when I was in the middle of reading The Light Between Oceans for book club. I wrote it down because I couldn't figure out if I agreed with it or not, and I figured eventually, it would become fodder for the blog, or the journal, or a conversation among friends. 

A month later, and I am in the middle of deciding: forgive or resent? And the decision is not as easy as I thought it would be, because I think The Light Between Oceans is wrong. I think forgiveness is an over and over and over again decision. And I know what the author meant. I know forgiveness is far less painful to live with than a heart with its roots in bitterness and anger. Forgiveness is the right choice, but I do not believe it is an easy one. 

I think forgiveness is a gate we approach again and again, and we constantly have to decide if we're going to walk through. We have to decide if we're going to do the hard work of forgiveness and enter into the next season, or if we're going to stay feet firmly planted right where we are, heartbroken and waiting for something to happen, waiting for another gate to open, another option to come our way. 

For almost six years, I have written faithfully in this space about my 20s, about finding new jobs and beginning new adventures. I've written about quitting graduate school, about marrying my best friend, about traveling and cooking and friend-making and losing. And in the middle of all of those posts, I have written a lot about church. About belief and doubt. About continuing to choose to serve a place well, even when it is hard or feels like it doesn't matter. 

I was confessing to my parents the other night that these have been hard seasons for me, spiritually-speaking. I went away to college at 18 and came home spiritually alive, and it's hard to maintain that kind of high for any extended period of time, mostly because my life doesn't exist in a bubble or a vacuum. I graduated college, and I now deal every day with people who believe very different things from me, and it can be hard. It has felt, often, like I am wandering in the spiritual desert I used to warn our teenagers about in Bible class. 

But I don't think it has been all dry bones. I have learned so much about myself, about my limits, about my beliefs and my faith. I think my college years were special ones because, for whatever reason, I was allowed to expand my faith in a safe place, in a bubble I no longer live in. And I'm grateful for that bubble, but I see now it is good to be out of it, to test the waters and see if my faith can stand. (It hasn't always, and that's okay.)

I think it is good to be protected and safe for a while, to learn and ask questions among friends and people who love you. But life doesn't always look like that, and these spiritual deserts we wander deserve our attention, and our gratitude. And just like every desert has its oasis, I, too, have had highs in the middle of some lows. I have experienced victories among the defeats, and I'm confident I will look back on my 20s not with sadness, but with joy, because I used these years to become. 

The desert at hand, though, requires forgiveness before it can be crossed, before I can become just a little bit more. 

I have blogged about church hurt before, and at length, and I'm done with that for now, I think, because I simply can't talk about it anymore. I am tired and all dried up. I told Jordan this week that I have been so overwhelmed by it all, I haven't even been able to write about it. And that's hard, because normally, that's how I cope and endure. 

So instead of writing about it in unimportant details, I'm choosing every morning these days to wake up and forgive. I do believe forgiveness brings more peace than bitterness, but I also believe forgiveness can be the harder choice. I don't think it's a one-time decision, and I don't think it's easy. It's daily and routine, and that makes it difficult.  

I finished Glennon Melton's book Carry On, Warrior this week, and although I don't really love being referred to as a "Monkee" (apparently her pet name for her blog readers), I do love being told that I can do hard things. 

And every morning, while I do yoga poses and breathe deep and say prayers, I remind myself that yes, forgiveness is hard, but I am more than capable of doing hard things.

A truth about forgiveness I love.

one last freeze.

{photo by Jules Kendall}

An old teacher of mine came by the store yesterday. I guess, really, more than an old teacher: an old friend. She's the kind of teacher we all hopefully had at one time or another, the kind that makes you want to teach, makes you want to learn and read and experience all life has to offer. She was a confidant and mentor my last two years of high school, and to see her now, 10 years later, was surreal and wonderful, and in just a few moments, we were right back where we always were, student and teacher, me eagerly sitting, learning from her. 

We were conversing about spring, about gardening and friendships and this transient Tallahassee town.

And in the middle of all that, somewhere, she told me:

"My grandmother always said when Easter came early, to hold off on planting your garden. There's always one good freeze left." 

This year, with Easter surprising us this last weekend in March, our corner of the world has had a couple days of freezing temperatures. Some northern states are experiencing snow, so there's really no room to complain. But my little garden is at stake, and each night, Jordan and I cover my plants with a sheet, and I say a silent prayer that they keep growing, that the freeze doesn't cost them their lives. 

I just really need something to grow right now. 

My brother is home, just for a day or two, to celebrate the wedding of a friend. He's had a rough season -- I wager a broken hand in the middle of graduate level work would take its toll on anyone -- and as we talked on Wednesday over lunch, I heard him say words I've been saying to myself lately.

"I just really need to win one right now."

And I know just what he means, because gosh... Jordan and I are happy. We are content. We are goofy and fun and smiling, and on the surface? Nothing much is wrong. 

But then there are the maggots from two weeks ago that have now become flies. Each day I march into my living room armed with a broom or a rolled-up magazine, and I feel like Moses conquering the ten plagues, because flies? Flies are gross, and I now more than ever sympathize with the Egyptians who dealt with one thing after another while at the hands of a Pharaoh who was more in control than they were. 

There are the friends who are moving and leaving and starting new adventures, and we're exhausted preparing mentally and physically for their departure. We are cramming in road trips and movie nights and dinners out because everything is about to change. 

There are the church issues that, like those maggots I thought had disappeared, have reared their ugly heads again, only this time bigger and deeper and somehow, worse. 

And each day is filled with happy, good things, but the overarching feeling is more frost than spring, more funk than awakening. 

I am ready for spring metaphorical almost as much as I am ready for spring literal, but I can't help thinking about my teacher's words. 

There's always one more freeze. 

I wonder, as a believer ending Holy Week and walking toward the resurrection, if this is how the disciples felt. Happy, celebratory dinners and precious moments with their Savior and friend, but an overarching theme of sorrow and tension and uncertainty. And after Palm Sunday, they must have thought spring was coming. They must have started planting seeds and prepping for kingdom work. They must have thought the tides had changed and new weather was around the corner. 

And then it wasn't. 

The worst happened, and a freeze came that nearly killed everything. Did kill everything. The seeds they'd planted, the kingdom they'd prepared for, the ruling they were sure would save them all? Dead, killed in an overnight plan that started with greed and a deceitful kiss. 

If you're a believer, today marks Good Friday, and if you're like me, you wonder what's so good about it. You wonder why the plan had to look like this, had to involve death and darkness and a distinct and devastating loss of hope. 

And while I don't think I'll ever know the whys of the plan, I'm learning, this year, there is goodness in today. There is power in that one last freeze before spring, the submission that comes with letting forces beyond our control do their thing so that we can begin the business of rising again. 

So, yes. There are dozens of flies dancing in my living room. There are friends packing and moving and making plans. There are questions about our church and our future there that ultimately, will need to be answered, once and for all. There are issues that plague our marriage and questions about our jobs. 

This, I hope, has been the freeze, the final blow before we can get back up and try again, before we can work in our gardens and greet -- with equal parts exhaustion and jubilation -- the spring we have been waiting for.

on moving forward.

{photo by El Hogan}

--

A part ii, of sorts, to this post.

When I was 12 years old, my best friend moved away. 

It's really a crappy time to lose your best friend, if you think about it. We were just starting middle school, about to embark on the adventure that is adolescence and puberty and growing up. And sometimes I think it's a good thing my friend moved, because chances are, we would have grown apart anyway, like most friends do around that age. But that realization came much later, and in the days leading up to her move, there were lots and lots of tears and one dramatic rendition of "I Will Always Love You" (caught on parents' videotape somewhere, I'm sure). 

My friend moved, and we didn't keep in touch, because when you're 12, there is school. There are piano lessons and basketball teams and lots of other friends to fill the void. I look back, though, and I see that my friend's move made a difference. When she left, I grew closer to my school friends. I became involved in my school and in academics and in teams and in friendships there, and isn't it funny, I never really saw what the missing link was. I just figured I had more in common with people at school than people at church (true); it turns out, though, the friendships of my teenage years were very much influenced by that best friend leaving when I was 12. 

Now I am 27, and I have fought long and hard for community here, in this same town, at the same church, as an adult. It has not been easy -- at times, downright painful -- but I have fought for happiness, and I have found it. Jordan and I love our home. We appreciate our church. And there are blessings that abound when you live near family. 

But.

Tallahassee is a transient town. Its proximity to three major universities means people come here to earn their advanced degrees, and they leave. It ebbs and flows to the rhythms of state government, so people come and go based on governors and administrations and jobs they keep and lose. 

Since I moved back here five years ago, I have gained friends and lost them. I've watched friends leave to pursue new job opportunities and more education. I've lost my brother and my cousin to universities in other cities. Last year, two of my dear friends moved to Chicago and Nashville; the year before that, another close friend left for her husband's new job opportunity in Houston. Each time, I've tried to handle it with grace, to be excited for new opportunities and fresh starts, both for them and for me. 

I've managed to handle it well due in part to the distraction of life here. I have a husband, and I have other friends. I have a book club and a job. My life is full, and when friends leave, I am sad, but the void eventually fills. 

This time feels different. Now not one set of friends, but two sets are leaving. They are leaving quickly, and even Jordan is concerned, because these aren't acquaintances we see once a month or in passing at the grocery store. These are the people we have built that ever-elusive community with. I have thrown baby showers and birthday parties; they have celebrated and mourned with us. And as we watch both of these families leave for new adventures, we are feeling left behind, but we are also feeling a little lost. 

I have read book after book on adult friendship. I know what it takes, and I know how hard it can be to form these bonds of best-friendship. As an introvert, I know the task is even more difficult. I want kindred spirits, not shallow friendships, and when I find them, I really hate letting them go. (It's why I have a slew of long distance friends who I'm less than stellar at keeping in touch with.) 

But what do you do when you've exhausted your possibilities? What do you do when literally all of your kindred spirits leave, and you're left at square one?

It's been a long time since I've been faced with that alternative -- maybe since I was a 12 year old little girl singing Dolly Parton to my best friend. When other friends have moved, I've had more to fall back on. I've had a built-in support system ready to fill the void. 

This time, that support system isn't there, and I'm not sure how to rebuild. I don't know where else to meet people. I am quiet, and it takes me a little while to warm up, and that doesn't bode well in a city where everyone has built-in support or plans to move as soon as they have their degrees. 

We're big believers in living one day at a time over here, so I imagine there are still plenty of double dates, birthday dinners, and movie nights in our future before our friends fly the coop. And when they do, we'll certainly send them off in style. It's the after-the-fact Jordan and I are a little worried about. It turns out, the life changes you face when you're 12 are just preparation for the even bigger changes you'll face when you're older and (hopefully) wiser. 

Life changes are around the horizon for our friends, and that means they're on the horizon for us too. 

May we march forward with grace.