for the graduate: yes and no.

Dear Ashley,

When I was a sophomore in high school, I got asked out on my first date.

The final school bell had rung, and I stood outside with a friend, waiting for my mother’s minivan to enter my line of vision. As I stood waiting, a classmate stopped to talk. He was, I am sad to say, the butt of many a high school joke and prank, not necessarily because it was deserved, but because in high school, it’s the opinion of the populace that matters. With his pleated jeans, buttoned-up-to-the-very-tip-top polo shirts, and an unfortunate eyebrow situation, he often made a rather easy target. Like me, he wore a backpack that was far too big and was daily filled to the brim with loads upon loads of extra material, causing him to tilt forward just a little; it’s a gait I still remember vividly, eight years after graduation.

This young man and I were friends. Not great friends, sure; I was a late bloomer, and until I was about 17, my friends consisted mostly of my own gender. But we shared a lot of the same classes, and our neighborhoods were fairly close to one another. Our friendship, though, didn’t stop me from being mortified when he asked me out on a date.

It was, looking back, such a small thing. In true, stereotypical fashion, he invited me to see Star Wars, and he did so rather publicly, as my friend stood nearby, giggling hysterically. I hate that she did that — I now understand just how much bravery initiative and invitation take — and I’d like to think my own response was different. I don’t think I laughed or giggled — I was too in shock, too nervous — but I also know this: I did not say yes.

At the time, I told him I’d think about it, but when my mother finally pulled in to pick me up and take me home, I got in the car and promptly pronounced I had been asked out on my first date, and I would not be going.

I was 15, and I was mortified, for more reasons than just being asked out by the school geek. I’m not sure I blame 15-year-old me for returning to school the next day and politely saying no, for rejecting a persistent young man I just didn’t have any romantic interest in. And yet, here I am, almost a full 11 years later, realizing: a yes would have been just as inconsequential as a no.

When you’re in high school, everything feels so much bigger than it ever really is. It’s a feeling that permeates almost every decision, every relationship, and every event. Homecomings and first dates and football games and class ring ceremonies all seem like they will hold eternal consequence, and the truth is: None of it does. And that doesn’t lessen their importance. It doesn’t make high school less meaningful. It just means sometimes, it’s okay to say yes to seeing Star Wars with a geeky boy you might not really like. I look back on that miniscule event, and I wonder, what if I had just gone? I probably would have had an okay time. It probably would have been fine, maybe even fun. I wouldn’t have married him, may not have even gone out on a second date. But I could have said yes, and even if things turned out miserably, I would have had a fine story to tell.

I know you’re almost done with high school. I know our experiences have been different, and in two days, it will all be over. I know you’re 18, not 16, and you’ve already had your first date, and you’re probably already realizing that some of this stuff that seems so major is actually pretty minor.

But I think the lesson applies to college just as easily as it does to high school: Don’t be afraid to say yes.

Say yes to cheesy things like social clubs and dance parties in your dorm room and $2 Tuesdays at the university dinner theatre. Say yes to cafeteria food and unlikely friendships and on-campus singing competitions (yes, those exist). Say yes to road trips and bonfires and late night runs to Walmart.

By saying yes, you’ll figure out who you are and where you belong. With every yes, you’ll embark on a journey of self-discovery; you’ll learn what makes you tick and why.

And — perhaps this is of most importance — the saying of yeses will eventually lead to the discovery of no.

My freshman year in college, I said yes to so many things I would never have said yes to before. Perhaps I saw, in my mind, that 15-year-old version of myself, saying no when I so easily could have just said yes. Perhaps the younger Annie wanted the older Annie to let go a little, to do things like dye her hair red (temporarily) and take off on random road trips to Atlanta.

By the time my last year of college rolled around, though, I knew I couldn’t say yes to everything. Those earlier yeses led to more responsible and careful nos. In college, I learned I don’t function well past 10 p.m. I get grouchy and frustrated and sensitive, and even though most people may not understand that, I do. I know because I spent many a night in college up well past 10 p.m., and you know what? It never really ended well. In college, I figured that out. I figured it out first by saying yes, and eventually, by saying no.

A lot of people will write you cards and send you money over the next few weeks. They’ll include passages from Scripture, verses like Jeremiah 29:11, verses reminding you God has a plan and a purpose for your wild and precious life.

Those are good verses; I’m glad someone is telling you those truths.

But I just want you to know you can let your yes be yes, and your no be no.

Our yeses and our nos reveal so much about who we are, about our goals and our ambitions and our life’s callings.

When I look back to those high school years, I see now how small everything really was. I understand that my yes could have been so easily spoken, perhaps even enjoyed. I look back to college, though, and I see that the yeses began to mean more. The nos too.

Say yes. Be brave and bold and adventurous.

Say no. Be deliberate and purposeful and confident.

Say yes in order to try new things, but say no to figure out who you are and what you want.

Both, I think, will be rewarded.

image from here.

this week: for the graduate.

If you've been reading this blog for any period of time, you've heard me mention my cousins. My brother and I grew up right down the road from these girls, and for all practical purposes, we're more like siblings than cousins. I know now that's rare; families don't always look like mine, and it's hard to explain just how close we are and why. A few years ago, though, it hit me: I don't necessarily have to understand our relationship; I just have to be grateful for it.

The day before Jordan and I got married, my aunts hosted my bridesmaids' luncheon at their house. So many of my favorite people were there, and after we ate brunch and exchanged gifts, the girls all played this game about who knew me best. The room was filled to the brim with some of my very best friends: my maid of honor who's known me since second grade; college kindred spirits; a high-school-turned-grown-up BFF; and my younger cousins, who despite their ages (14 and 12) tried desperately to fit in and make me proud. The questions were many and varied, ranging from how I like my cookies -- dunked in water, thank you very much -- to what I wanted to be when I grew up (a point guard for the WNBA, obviously). I fully expected my maid of honor to win the game that day. We've known each other for what seems like forever. We have inside jokes and countless funny stories; we've seen each other through our very worst and our very best. But in the corner, quietly filling out the quiz, sat one of my little cousins, and wouldn't you know it? She answered every single question right.

I didn't cry a lot that wedding weekend. Back then, I wasn't too much of a crier, and when I walked down the aisle to Jordan that sunny fall Saturday, tears didn't come. I was giggly and happy, and tears just didn't seem to fit the bill. But that moment, the minute my cousin became the only one of my friends (some of whom I'd known for a lifetime) to get every single "about me" question right? Well, I got a little tearful. And later that same night, the night before the big day, when we rehearsed our steps and I practiced walking down the aisle, I wasn't giggly at all. I didn't anticipate it, but I was a tearful, sobby mess, and it's because as I stepped around the corner with my dad on my arm, I looked up to see that same little cousin absolutely bawling (and then, almost every single one of my bridesmaids following suit).  

My little girl dreams of having a younger sister to play with, to argue with, to imagine with? I don't think about those dreams any more, mostly because of what happened in those tiny moments back in November almost four years ago. I don't need sisters, because quite frankly, I already have a couple (plus a brother I wouldn't trade for the world). That weekend Jordan and I got married, I finally realized just how much my family means to me. That tiny, silly, 20-question quiz? It taught me a lot about who knows me best, about the quiet observers that exist in families, about who really, truly sees your worst and your finest moments, about who loves and knows you more than anyone else on the planet. 

On Friday, that same precious little "fuzzy" graduates from high school. It's been a hard year. Our grandmother passed away in January. A math class turned out to be much more difficult and challenging than expected. The college decision is big and looming and intimidating and scary. I've watched her navigate it all with grace, and I'm not so sure I could have done the same given those circumstances. I'm proud of her, proud of the adult she's becoming and the girl she is today.

Because younger siblings often (so I hear) get the short end of the stick, my brother and I haven't been able to attend all of the events Ashley was forced to attend for us while we were growing up. She was at every special event, every graduation, every recital, every banquet, every awards ceremony, every game. We haven't always been able to say the same about her special occasions, though goodness knows we've tried. This week, though, I plan on being there, plan to proudly sit in the audience as she gets her diploma and crosses that stage into her next adventure.

And because I consider myself her honorary older sister, this week on the blog, I'll be sharing my thoughts on graduation, on what I'd go back and tell my 18-year-old self, on the lessons I've learned in the eight years since I walked across that same stage and began to write the next chapter of my life's story.

I already have a good idea of what I want to say and how I want to say it (there are at least three posts on the topic headed your way), but I'd like to know what your advice would be. What would you tell your 18-year-old self before watching her (or him) move the tassel from one side to the next? I'd love to be able to share with my cousin -- who, on top of everything else, is a regular reader of this blog -- your thoughts on what it means to grow up, to become the person you always thought you'd be.

Would you mind sharing in the comments? I try not to be the kind of person who begs for feedback, but I think we'd all agree sometimes, it's worth going out on a limb for the people we love. If you'd share your advice in a comment today, I'd so appreciate it, and so, I think, will a little sister of mine.

Happy Tuesday, everybody.

artwork by Katie Daisy

on christian college.

{at our friend Anthony's wedding, August 2011}

Seven years ago, almost to the day, I began as a freshman at Faulkner University in Montgomery, Alabama. The decision that led me to that tiny Christian college in the land of sweet tea and deep Southern drawls had been a painful one. Long my third choice, Faulkner didn't have a pretty campus. The student population was small, and the library made me, book lover that I am, want to cry. But in May of 2004, a professor of Great Books called me and convinced me that Faulkner was the place for me. 

Three months later, I sat in my dorm room in tears, sure I had made the wrong decision. 

Soon, though, friendly faces became family, and I knew my professor had been right: Faulkner was exactly the place for me. 

Now that I'm an adult living in the "real world," I get a lot of looks when I say I attended a Christian college in Alabama. Ironically, people in the world and in the workplace don't seem to care all that much. There are the occasional assumptions, of course, like the fact that I must have received some uber-conservative education, a la Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell. (I didn't.) Or that I must have had to suffer through really odd, strict rules, like weekday curfews and mixed bathing. (For the record, Faulkner doesn't have swimming pools, and trips to the lake were most definitely co-ed. Also? I've never minded rules.)

The worst responses I get, though, are from fellow believers. The day I finally announced I would be attending Faulkner University, I had a fellow church member look at me in disdain, asking why I would waste my talents at some "podunk farm school." Even now, years after graduation, when I sit in groups of Christian peers, they all seem relieved by the fact that they attended public colleges and universities. Just last week in Bible class, I overheard someone say they were so glad they'd never gone to some "religious institution." (I was sitting right there.)

Here is the truth: Not a day goes by in which I am not grateful for the education I received and the people I met at Faulkner University. 

A few weekends ago, as we celebrated the wedding of a dear friend, I sat with bridesmaids and groomsmen who I truly believe will be our friends for a lifetime. Despite differences in geography, politics, and yes, even theology, we all can sit and share our lives with one another. We rejoice together, weep together, and argue together. These are people who are spiritually-minded, both in their thoughts and in their actions. They have a depth and a maturity that gives me such absolute comfort, that reminds me that sometimes, God gifts us with kindred spirits and reminds us that we are not alone in this world.

Comment Magazine recently linked to an article about Christian college graduates that asked if Christian college graduates were "world changers." The author, Ray Pennings, writes:

The picture the data paint is that Christian schools are having a significant effect in the lives of their graduates, but not in a world-changing way that some might aspire them to. Compared to their public school, Catholic school, and non-religious private school peers, Protestant Christian school graduates have been found to be uniquely compliant, generous, outwardly focused individuals who stabilize their communities by their uncommon commitment to their families, their churches, and larger society. This study found that graduates of Christian schools donate money significantly more than graduates of other schools, despite having a lower household income than graduates of other private schools. Similarly, graduates of Christian schools are more generous with their time, participating in far more relief and development service trips than their peers. 

Our friends, now spread across the Southeast, are passionate, determined people trying to make a difference in their churches and communities. That Saturday afternoon, we sat and talked about our struggles, the obstacles we're facing as we try to bring what we learned at Faulkner into the world we now live in, and I knew: These Christian college graduates are touching lives and subsequently, making the world a better place. After all, what better place to begin changing the world than by changing your community first?

I know everyone's college experiences are different. Neither of my parents graduated from Christian colleges, nor did my brother. I admire and respect people -- friends and family included -- who attend or attended public colleges and universities (Go Noles!); I just know, deep down, for whatever reason, that path wasn't for me.

Instead, I chose to go to a tiny little school in southern Alabama, a school that proclaimed they would educate my "whole person," body, mind, and soul. They did exactly what they promised.

This month, we paid off my very last student loan. I owe Faulkner University nothing, but at the same time, I kind of owe them everything.

I didn't have your stereotypical Christian college education. I don't recall any passionate debates about creation versus evolution (okay, okay, they were there somewhere, I just didn't pay much attention). Scriptures and political agendas weren't shoved down my throat. Sure, I guess some traditions fit the stereotype, things like social clubs and acapella singing groups, candlighting ceremonies (which I abhorred) and choreographed musical numbers.

Mostly, though, I was taught to think for myself, to seek and to search, to argue respectfully and passionately. (Did I ever tell you about the time I wound up in the university president's office? Good times.) I was reminded that Scripture is living and breathing, that God's presence can be felt and experienced, and that sometimes, people really are as nice and as genuine as they appear to be.

There's a chance, I'm sure, that I'm looking back on my time at Faulkner with rose-colored glasses. Time, I think, does us that favor. I know that there were not-so-nice moments, people and theology that I disagreed with, things I look back and wished I'd never done (see above: choreographed musical numbers).

But overall, I think, that's what the college experience -- any college experience, small or big, private or public, Christian or not -- is all about: making the occasional misstep as we discover who we are and who we are meant to be.

I'm grateful that, for me, that discovery process occurred in a safe, loving environment at a small, Southern, and yes, Christian, college.

advice to a graduate.

 My brother graduated from college on Saturday. I guess this officially means we're getting older, now both adults in the real world. I won't lie: It's a scary place to be, and it's taken me a few years to even remotely feel like I belong. I remember my own graduation day in 2007, and how months later, I asked my dad, "Why don't they teach you this stuff in college?" 

Because despite my really wonderful education, I graduated not knowing very much about the real world. They just don't teach this stuff in the classroom. 

Which is why I decided to compile this, a list of things I wish my 21-year-old self had known on graduation day. 

For you, brother. Take it all with a grain of salt. 

- Don't be afraid of quitting. Life is too short to do something you don't enjoy. That's not to say every job or endeavor you pursue will be easy. But challenging is different from paralyzing. And if what you're pursuing is paralyzing to your dreams and your goals for your future self, it's okay to quit. The world makes us feel like quitting is never an option, that it's embarrassing and a tactic only employed by the helpless and the lazy. That's not true. Quitting can be brave and bold and life-altering. Weather life's storms, but know that sometimes, it's okay to step out on faith.

- Go out to eat at the occasional fancy restaurant. (Also: Know which fork is which.) Our father taught us to love hole-in-the-wall places, to love those places with health ratings that others might deem a little low. Thank goodness for that. But don't be afraid to venture into the places that require a collared shirt, because chances are, one day, an employer will ask you to meet them there. And it's going to be important that you know how to order, what fork to use, and the proper way to eat an artichoke. Don't laugh, but one of the best things Southern Progress/Coastal Living did for me was to require my attendance at a business etiquette class. Take one if you can, or if nothing else, Google around. This fork/knife stuff is serious business.

- Be yourself. I'm sure you know by now: The world is full of people who are pretending to be someone they're not. It's exhausting  and confusing and disappointing. Be the person you know you are, person to person, group to group. Authenticity is too rare of a trait; employ it, and the world will take notice. I know it sounds cheesy, but there is something to be said for people who are consistent in character. Be one of those.

- Read good books. You're pursuing a graduate degree, so your opportunity for reading "for fun" might be limited. But make the time. People who read are better writers and conversationalists. They have a keen understanding of the world around them, and their imaginations make them a more interesting bunch. You'll learn so much from what you read, both fiction and non-fiction. Continue to be a reader; the education you'll receive from the books you love will last well beyond the pieces of paper you've earned and will earn.

- Explore your town. This won't be hard where you're going, but school and work will keep you busy, so you'll need to make a purposeful effort to eat at unique places, to find the local bookstores and concert halls (do they call them concert halls?). There are too many people who complain about the town they're living in, how dull it is, how their friends are always busy, and how there's never anything to do. Don't be one of those. Don't be boring. The world is far too interesting a place to ever be bored. Make the most of wherever you settle; become familiar with it, and make it your home.

- Set reachable goals. We 20-somethings are great at wandering, meandering through this life until about 30, when we decide that's the magical age we probably should start to grow up and become adults. What a waste of years that would be! Sure, the real world is a hard place to be. And no, you don't always know where you're going or what you want to be. But being clueless and lazy is a waste of time and money and energy. Set goals for yourself in school and at work, then aim to achieve them. The goals and purposes may change, sure -- that's okay. What's important is to have in mind what you want, and to work for it.

- Have a routine. I know. I am an old woman. Even in college, I went to bed by 11:00. Jordan made fun of me for it, but you know what? I wouldn't change that part of who I am. Rest is important, and for me, school was important. If I gave up one, I knew I'd be letting the other suffer. Taking care of your mind and body is so important, and it's hard to do when you graduate and you're working full time and life doesn't look like it used to look. There aren't parents or older siblings or even well-intentioned friends to tell you how to live your life: You get to decide. And call me a prude or a stick in the mud, but I feel like a routine is really important for settling into a new lifestyle and a new town. By all means, veer from the routine some days. Have fun. But for the love, get rest and eat right. It's scriptural, you know.

- Appreciate where you come from. When I graduated from Faulkner, I had this tendency to almost apologize for where I went to school. I made self-deprecating jokes and teased about my Alabama education. But you know what? That was stupid of me. It just made me look silly for picking Faulkner in the first place. Be grateful for where you got your education. Where you're headed, you may very well be the different one, the one who didn't go to a small private college in the South. The one who lives outside the Bible belt, to whom church politics is relatively foreign. (I've been there too.) That's okay. It's good. Be grateful for it, and -- is this okay to say? -- take pride in it. The chapters of your story have been written that way for a reason. There's no sense in pretending you or the Creator made some mistake. 

- Listen to the Spirit. Our 20s are filled with some serious decision-making. It's scary, and it's a lot of pressure. You feel like one "mistake" will ruin the rest of your life. Well, I've got news: Life isn't a make-your-own adventure novel. Isn't that a relief? And the Spirit is there to guide, to help you decide where to work, who to spend time with/love/marry, what passions to pursue, what city to live in. The older I get, the more I'm convinced, though, that we waste a lot of time asking those "big" questions and ignoring the Spirit's gentle call to do God's work where we are: in our office cubicles, in the classroom, driving down the street. Ask God to make His voice clear. Listen to His call, even the whispers that are hard to hear. Let His Spirit guide you in the big and small things.

on quitting.

You know how I said I wanted to be Kathleen Kelly? My dad reminded me that, really, I'm doing just what she did. That scene, Dad said, that scene where she's talking to Birdie! That's you!

"You are daring to imagine that you could have a different life. Oh, I know it doesn't feel like that. You feel like a big fat failure now. But you're not. You are marching into the unknown armed with... Nothing. Have a sandwich."

Oh, Dad. I love you. And a good sandwich.

So below is an excerpt from my final paper for my classical rhetoric course, entitled Why I Quit Grad School. I'll let you know how that goes over. And yes, it is true.

---

Quitting.

I took a Socratic logic course in my undergraduate studies, so when some of the principles from the class came up in my graduate rhetoric course, I was thrilled. Socrates had this idea that all knowledge is imbedded inside of us already; any truth we reach is really more of a reminder of something our soul already knows. I like that idea, mostly because it makes sense to me, and because I get a feeling — a light bulb feeling — that I can’t really explain. Now it makes more sense. I got that feeling a few times in my rhetoric class this semester, I’m sure due to the fact that I already had learned it in some other class somewhere before. But the concept of the soul is a little more romantic, so I like it better.

Whatever the reason, I’d like to present this Socratic syllogism and logically argue why my graduate education has, in fact, convinced me to quit graduate school.

All mankind seeks knowledge.

Annie is a member of mankind.

Therefore, Annie seeks knowledge.

I’m pretty sure that’s a terrible syllogism, but let’s go with it. I think for so long, I’ve been convinced that smart = educated, and educated = one or more degrees. But the more people I meet and the longer I live, the less I think that’s true. I think the smart ones are the ones who can say no to things, who learn on their own time and their own terms, who seek knowledge somewhere other than the library.

My granddad and I were close. Really close. He died when I was 13, but I still like to think he’s watching, looking, seeing what I’m up to. My mom tells me that Papa always thought I was smart, special. He was a grandfather; I’m sure he thought all 40 of his grandkids were special. We did have kind of a bond, though, so maybe he meant something else with me.

He used to watch me as I read and wrote (profound things, like “Papa’s Big Blue Chair,” my first literary masterpiece), and he told my mother that the reason I was smart wasn’t because I had some natural ability, but because I knew where to look. “She’s always looking for answers,” he’d say.

I’ve found some answers in graduate school, but they weren’t the ones I was looking for. That’s okay. They taught me something anyway. And I think that’s what I’ve taken away from this experience. That smart doesn’t need an M.A. degree. It just needs to always be looking for answers. As long as I do that, I think I’ll be fine.

So I’ve decided. I’m quitting graduate school. One day, a semester from now or years from now, I might come back, armed with better reasons and a more stable, balanced life to introduce to academia. But if that day doesn’t come, I think I’ll be okay.

It’s been a painful decision. I don’t actually think quitting is as easy as we make it out to be. It’s hard to admit that a dream you’ve had might no longer fit, might need a little adjusting.

I know, of course, that this decision won’t solve everything. My life will still have a little bit of chaos, and I suspect there will be days I ache to be back inside a classroom, stretching, growing. It’s still, I think, where part of me belongs. But reflection is good. Rest is good. Self-evaluation is good.

And as the semester closes, I have a feeling now that was not here before, and I can feel it filling me up. A peace. A sigh of relief.

Things are going to get better now. I can sort of tell these things.

the perfect curriculum.

 {from here}

This week I have to submit my "program of study" to my graduate school coordinator. Since I'm still not 100% set on this whole grad school thing, the impending deadline got me thinking: What if I could develop my own curriculum, with whatever subjects I wanted? What would I take?

And so, my dream curriculum:

Italian language

Calligraphy

Gardening

Reflective writing (led by Shauna and CJane, pretty please) 

Painting

Classic literature
Oh, and children's literature

Beginner sewing

Closet organization

Personal style + wardrobe evaluation (preferably taught by Kendi)

Southern female writers

Letterpress

International travel

Photography (of the Blue Lily variety)

Cooking with friends

Popular culture (with a minor in television)

Stress-free event planning

Yep, I think that about covers it.

So I'm curious. What if school could be whatever you wanted? What would your perfect curriculum look like?

a crisis of faith.

I've never been one to debate the basic premises of Christianity. Mostly because I can't, intellectually-speaking. My faith is just that: faith. I sometimes wish I were eloquent enough or intelligent enough to present someone with evidence a Creator exists, but I'm completely ill-equipped. I wish I could say something poetic, like I believe in God the way people believe in the air they breathe or the water they drink. But really, I believe in God because without Him, I do not know who I would be. I cannot imagine my existence without His presence. And that's all I've got.

This week, during a particularly heated class discussion, I was faced (perhaps for the first time ever) with a rather public opportunity to share, if only for a moment, my reasons for the belief that I hold. We were told that answers relating to faith, hope, and belief were impermissible. Those things, the professor said, had no place in an academic discussion.

I prayed I wouldn't have to give an answer. I wasn't ready to give an answer.

So of course, the professor chose me.

My response, looking back, was pitiful.

I simply said I couldn't give one.

Any answer I have would be based on the premises of faith. Without it, I've got nothing.

Discussion grew from there, but that was my answer.

Deep down, I know my God exists. I converse with Him in the car each morning. I trust my day to Him. I see Him in my husband's interactions with the homeless and the helpless. I see Him in my parents' love for one another. I see Him in the bright colors nature delivers at the start of each new season.

These aren't intellectual reasons, I know. But they are my reasons.

One afternoon, over a year ago, just at the start of spring, two friends and I hiked to the top of a mountain. We set up a miniature picnic on a ridge overlooking a small canyon. For an hour, we didn't speak. We read silently. Prayed. Journaled. We each had needed some "alone time" with the Creator, and we reveled in those moments, moments of aloneness and also oneness. We were communing together, but apart. And when we were done, we closed our journals and our Bibles and our eyes, and we breathed deeply. And the wind blew mightily. Scarily. Eerily. For the entire hour, the trees around us had been silent. But as our pages closed and our glances shared that we had accomplished our purpose, nature put on a show. All we could do was look around in awe.

If someone were to ask me tomorrow my reasons for belief, that is the story I would tell them. They would probably roll their eyes and cluck their tongues, but there it is. That's all I've got.

Donald Miller tells this story in Blue Like Jazz:

My friend Julie Canlis from Seattle has this beautiful mother named Rachel who is small and petite and always remembers my name when I come for a visit. One morning I was sitting at the counter in the kitchen talking to Rachel about love and marriage, and she was gleaming about her husband a little, and I told her in one of those rare moments of vulnerability that I was scared to get married because I thought my wife might fall out of love with me, suddenly, after seeing a movie or reading a book or seeing me naked. You never know what might trigger these things. Rachel looked at me through the steam that was coming off her coffee and said, very wisely and comfortingly, that when a relationship is right, it is no more possible to wake up and want out of the marriage than it is to wake up and stop believe in God. What is, is what is, she said.

And that's when I realized that belief in God is as much like falling in love as it is like making a decision. Love is both something that happens to you and something you decide upon. [...] I have come to think that belief is something that happens to us too. Sure, there is some data involved, but mostly, it is this deep, deep conviction, like what Julie's mom feels about her husband, this idea that life is about this thing, and it really isn't an option for it to be about something else. 

I believe in God because I have experienced Him. He happened to me. And I know not everybody understands that, not everybody has that. But there it is. Through my parents, through my decisions, through my relationships and my life happenings, I have seen His hands.

These past couple of days have been challenges to my faith, wake-up calls to someone who had become quite comfortable living in a bubble that was about to be popped.

I'm a little bit more exposed now, but also, a little more confident. My faith isn't something I can explain, and I'm sorry for that. But I think, if you and I were to become friends, and you were to truly love me, and I were truly to love you, I think you would see what I mean. I think you might experience God in your own way, in your own time.

I think that just like He has happened to me, in time, He would happen to you too.

diagnosing the problem.

“I love New York in the fall. Makes me want to buy school supplies.” 

– Tom Hanks as Joe Fox in You’ve Got Mail

Well, Joe, this year I got to buy school supplies, and you know what? I’ve decided I prefer the buying to the actual using.

I was talking with a friend this past weekend about my grad school experience, and as our conversation progressed, it hit me that maybe it’s not that grad school isn’t for me; maybe it's that this particular program isn’t for me.

My graduate institution is nothing like my undergraduate university. I knew that going in. The class sizes, the one-on-one attention: I knew all that would be different at a larger school. But perhaps what I forgot was the university I selected also happens to be a research institution. That doesn’t mean every program is research-based, but many have that emphasis. And my poor little liberal arts heart can barely take it.

When people ask why I want a master’s degree, my answer is simple: I like to learn. I want to know things because I like the learning process, and I like delving in to subjects that matter to me. As an undergraduate, I was given every possibility to learn lots of things about lots of different subjects. I truly believe I received the best classical liberal arts education possible.

I wrongly assumed that a communications program would just be a continuation of that education. Instead, communications is a field not so much concerned with words but with the science and psychology behind the words.

Did you catch that?

Science.

Blech. I like to learn, but science? I gave up science when my mom sold my microscope in a yard sale.

Psychology? I can handle it in small doses. I even took a couple of classes in undergrad.

But please, I beg, give me my words. I don’t really care why you choose to say the things that you do. I just care about the words. The literature. The rhetoric.

See, what I want to be “when I grow up” changes daily.

But through all the years of changing occupations (teacher, restaurant owner, interior designer, graphic designer, journalist, editor, communications guru), there has been one constant.

I have always loved words.

Teaching, to me, is all about words, which ones you use and how you use them.

When I seriously considered opening my famous deli, Annie Banani’s (catchy, I know), I was more concerned with the names of the sandwiches than the actual cooking.

As an aspiring interior decorator, I developed my own pretend magazine, Bright Ideas. Sure, I cared about the interiors. But what I really wanted to make sure of was how the articles about those interiors were written.

Even as a graphic designer, I find myself drawn to the words used in the designs I create.

Words — specifically, how they come together to tell a story — are the reason I love journalism.

So maybe grad school isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s that I’m spending my days reading about theory and psychology and hypotheses, when I’d rather be reading about words. Authors. Literature.

Maybe I need to switch programs.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s time to put some serious thought into another dream.

Like becoming the next Kathleen Kelly.

Yep, that sounds about right.

the prize mentality.

{photo via Jess LC}

 
Hi, my name is Annie, and I believe in retail therapy.

Perhaps this comes as a shock to you. I mean, don’t I strike you as a fairly rational, practical being?

Too bad.

After life’s particularly difficult moments have been overcome, I believe in a little self-indulgence. Prizes, if you will.

Impress the boss at work? Prize.

Stay up late to finish writing that paper? Prize.

Help your law student husband pass the bar exam? Prize.

Burn dinner and manage not to cry? Prize.

Successfully make it through another week? Prize.

This may sound excessive. But before you call Jordan and warn him that his wife has a problem, take note: He already knows, and he approves. Or at least, he too, has succumbed to the power of the prize.

Finish law school? Prize.

Pass the bar exam? Prize.

Get a new job? Prize.

I should probably clarify that prizes don’t have to be expensive. In fact, sometimes the gifts I give myself don’t cost a dime. If I successfully make it through 50 pages of Plato’s Phaedrus, I reward myself with an episode of Glee. If I study all day Saturday, I go out to dinner with Jordan Saturday night. If I finish my work assignment on time, I drink a Coke.

This process isn’t so much retail therapy as it is a rewards program.

And it works.

So this week, when I came this close to withdrawing from graduate school — the paperwork was in my hand — I came up with the perfect reward to help me make it through the semester.

A necklace. It’s one I’ve wanted for months. I’m fairly certain I even featured it on this post a few weeks back. At the time, though, I wasn’t sure which necklace I wanted. Each one has a separate saying, and I just didn’t know which would mean more to me.

Be brave.

Dream bigger.

Be thankful.

Breathe.

Let’s face it, any given day I could use all of those reminders.

But then, it hit me, right smack-dab in the middle of my face.

Be present.

That’s what I want to remind myself every waking minute: to be present, in the moment, every moment.

These four weeks have been harder than I’ve mentioned on the blog, harder than I’ve mentioned to most of my friends. (In fact, if I haven’t called you, emailed you, or Facebooked you, consider this my apology and my excuse.)

It comes as a bit of a shock when you realize an old dream might not fit a newer you.

Adding graduate school to an already full and abundant life has proved to be a daunting challenge. After a month of assignments and readings and projects, I’m still feeling unsure and uneasy about this whole process, not because I’m incapable, but because I have this built-in mechanism that automatically makes school and school-related things a priority. And that’s not my life anymore.

You probably think I’m crazy. If you’ve been reading this blog for any period of time, you know how important a graduate education has been to me. I’ve wanted one ever since graduating from undergrad, and the truth is, part of me still really wants one.

But there’s another, maybe bigger, part of me that instead wants life.

I want to be able to fully drink up every moment that life has to offer, and I personally have great difficulty doing that with group projects looming overhead.

When I stand before the throne of my Father one day, I don’t think He’ll ask me if I got a master’s degree. I think He’ll ask me if I loved my husband. I don’t think He’ll ask me what kind of grades I earned or how much homework I did. I think He’ll look at me and say, “Daughter? Did you enjoy it? Did you soak up every sunset, every late night, every relationship? Did you find me in the lazy Saturdays and quiet Sundays and yes, even the dreary Mondays? Or did you wish it all away? Did you lose track? Did you get caught up in the frenzied chaos? Daughter, did you waste it? Or did you treasure it and live it?”

I know what I want my answer to be.

After a few days of uncertainty, I am choosing to finish this semester. After that, who knows?

But as I march through the remaining weeks until December, I plan on loving the moments.

I’ve lost sight of them in the past few weeks.

So a prize has been purchased. The mail is on its way.

And as I sat telling my brother about my latest reward, he looked at me in awe.

As it turns out, my brother believes in the prize mentality as well. After every passed exam, a prize.

So yesterday, after voiding my withdrawal papers, Chet bought season one of Modern Family. We sat on my couch and watched three episodes together.

Maybe I don't need the necklace as much as I needed the reminder. But I do like a good prize.

on being a morning person.

{photo via here}

The past two mornings, I've woken up in a panic. My alarm (due to both human error and bizarre malfunction) failed to go off, giving me exactly 20 minutes to get it together and get to work.

Miraculously, I've made it on time all week, but it hasn't been pretty.

Rushed mornings, I firmly believe, make for rushed days. Rushed, unappreciated, give-me-caffeine-before-I-pass-out days.

And I don't like those.

So last night, I set two alarms, and even though my last glimpse at the clock showed 11:30, I bravely set my cell phone for 6:00.

I don't know why this is a milestone for me. All of my growing up years, I woke up, on my own, no later than 6:30. I was thrilled the day I got to buy my very own boom box with radio alarm clock. I would get up, take a shower, listen to my dad sing the breakfast song, and cheerily join the family at the table, ready for school 30 minutes earlier than necessary.

Dad and I — the notorious morning people of the family — would giggle as Mom and Chet dragged themselves out of bed. We would look at each other over our subsequent sections of the Democrat, co-conspirators in the "let's-be-as-cheerful-as-possible" plan designed to make our breakfast partners miserable.

Somewhere along the line, though, I dropped off the morning bandwagon.

In college, I rose earlier than most of my classmates, determined to eat a hot breakfast in the cafeteria.

As an intern in Birmingham, I drove to work 30 minutes early to beat the morning rush hour.

Prior to marriage, I lived at home, still getting up early and eating breakfast with Dad.

That leaves, of course, that fateful day nearly two years ago, when I married a night owl.

I won't blame Jordan entirely. I'll also pass the buck to our ridiculously close location to work and school; getting up early almost isn't necessary anymore.

But recently, I realized that maybe waking up 20 minutes before heading to work isn't such a good idea. Maybe running a brush through my hair and racing out the door with a couple of Pop-tarts is more college co-ed than young professional.

Today, my alarm clock went off at 6:00.

My second alarm clock went off at 6:15.

I woke up and headed downstairs, peeking outside to see not one single light on outside. It was quiet, peaceful.

And, for the first time in what seems like weeks (and, in the spirit of full disclosure, may have actually been weeks), I sat down for quiet time, soaking in the Scriptures and breathing in the Spirit.

My body and soul couldn't have been more grateful.

I got ready for work slowly, deliberately.

When Jordan groggily woke up an hour later, I was fully dressed and rather obnoxiously chipper. It was one of those moments where I could feel myself becoming my father.

This morning, I have gotten more work done in two hours than I sometimes get done in an entire afternoon.

Tomorrow may not be this good. The thrill of a quiet morning may not hold as much joy every day, day after day, for weeks upon weeks on end.

But this day, the day that matters, it did.

Today I was a morning person, and it feels good.

on graduate school.

I’ve been rather absent on the blog lately. The reason is simple: my life is about to undergo another transformation — one of my own choosing — and I’m starting to doubt myself.

When Jordan graduated from law school, we both knew it would finally be “my turn.” My turn to go back to school, to buy school supplies, to do homework, to study and read and research. I was ready. I had waited a long time for this moment, and now that it’s come, I’m unsure.

My graduate school orientation this week was long, full of information about meal plans and health insurance and campus activities. All things I don’t need. Because I’m married. Because I have a job. Because for me, school isn’t number one. It’s number two. Or is it three? Or maybe, just maybe, number five?

I am nervous, because I am not 22. I am not right out of undergrad, and this time, I’m not looking for an all-around school experience. Well, I thought I was. But I’m not. Because, yes, marriage changes things. And I’ve chosen to keep my 40-hour a week job. Because I like it. And the real world that I struggled so hard to belong to now suits me. And I can’t give that up. Not yet.

For all these reasons, I’m hesitant. I didn’t expect to feel so much like the lone ranger. I thought grad school would be filled with people like me: jugglers, job-holders, spouses, even parents. But so far, it’s not. It’s full of people who have never had a job. Who still hang out in bars looking for love. Who have roommates and assistantships and all the time in the world. There’s nothing really wrong with these things; I’m just not there anymore.

All this makes me hesitate. Like maybe I should turn around and take a different route to wherever it is I wanted this plan to take me.

But then I read the class descriptions, and I get giddy thinking about rhetoric and Plato and afternoons spent in the library. I like writing and projects and research. School has always been a place where I could belong, and I don’t think that’s changed.

I know, deep down, that this is right. That I should be here. I applied and got accepted just like anybody else. And as my father so wisely told me, when it’s all said and done, I’ll still have an M.S. after my name. Whether I went to school part-time or full-time or for one year or two years won’t matter. I’ll have my degree just like anybody else.

My school experience will be different. I have a husband and a job and family responsibilities and a home to maintain. But these aren’t burdens. They are blessings.

Throughout orientation, one thing was clear: It’s important to find a balance in grad school, to not be consumed by the stresses of the course load.

God has given me, the overachiever that I am, a built-in balance system. I can’t be consumed by school when Jordan needs to be fed or when our marriage needs to be a priority (and it always needs to be a priority).

And despite what FSU thinks (with 70% full-time students and 30% part-time), people do this all the time. There are people just like me everywhere (including some pretty dear friends of mine) who balance school with work. It can be — and has been — done.

I think it will take time to figure out a balanced schedule. It will take real effort on my part to not be consumed with my overachiever tendencies.

But I am ready. I can do this, because I am not just me. I have a God who is watching over me each step of the way. I have a spouse who is ready to support and care for me. I have a family who wants to see this dream of mine fulfilled.

I read somewhere (I wish I knew where) that you know you’ve made the right decision if something is both scary and exciting. If it’s just scary, you’ve probably made a mistake, taken a risk you weren’t meant to take. If it’s just exciting, you’ve taken the easy way out. But if it’s both? You’ve taken a leap of faith into something that will both challenge you and bring you joy.

This week, as I purchased parking permits and registered for classes and glanced at the 5,800 new graduate students at FSU, I thought to myself: Am I scared and excited? Or am I just scared?

I am happy to tell you that I was both.

--

(Aside from my parents’ always wise advice, I’ve received encouragement from so many: from Jordan, from friends already in grad school, from loved ones. But I think Betsy’s words are what I needed to hear most: “Think about the ministry opportunity that you've been given! You'll be on a secular campus with students (and professors) that desperately need to see the light of Christ lived out in actuality. Let that be your goal in grad school...that instead of working for the degree, you're working to demonstrate the love and life of Christ in all that you do.”)

school days.

{via here}

below are transcribed, word for word, a series of texts that passed between me and my favorite sibling last night.

me, after panicking over what supplies to take to my grad school orientation:  What kind of notebook did you take to orientation?? Like, a binder, or a legal pad, or something small?

Chet: I don't think you'll need something like a binder maybe a legal pad and folder or something to hold whatever they give you.

me, still panicking: Not a computer, right? I'm not going to look legally blonde with a floral folder? Also, what do the cool kids wear? Also, did you go to your orientation lunch? 

Chet, slightly less patient:  Seriously? Annie. You will be fine! Take a floral folder. No laptop. I left orientation early but I don't think we had lunch. I probably wouldn't go to it. 

me, feeling slightly better, but still panicking:  Okay... Just keep in mind, my last schooling experience was FAULKNER. And that was scary. And there were only 500 on-campus students. 

Chet: You are a fashionable young professional adult. You were a dorky 90-pound wuss who listened to relient k. You'll do fine.

---

So that's where I've been. Running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to get my life in order before grad school starts. I'll be back, I'm sure, with glorious (and perhaps slightly humiliating) stories to tell.

New chapters, as it turns out, are just as scary as they were ten years ago. Good to know.