all i really know how to do is dim the lights & turn on music.

{photo by A Bryan Photo}

I teach Bible class on Wednesday nights at my church. 

Each week, I kind of dread going, not because I don't love teaching, but because Wednesdays are rushed, and truly, there is nothing I hate worse than rushing. I hate running home to scarf down dinner, then jumping in the car to speedily assemble last-minute craft projects and lesson plans. Rushing is for the birds, and Wednesdays, in our home, are always rushed. I am learning to accept this truth: It is what it is. Wednesdays are what they are, and for now, they are rushed, and I must therefore cope, and smile, and yes, sometimes cancel, because is there anything more unpleasant and nonsensical than a grouchy Bible class teacher? 

I run the arts and crafts room, which is rather laughable since I cannot draw or cut a straight line. But I like it, and the kids like it, and after the rushing has ended, I discover I rather enjoy dimming the lights, turning on some music, and crafting with children who probably need to be at home in bed. (School drains them, you guys.) 

The truth is, teaching kindergarten through fifth graders -- a different group of grades each week -- is not my first choice. I prefer teaching teenagers, even grown-ups. My humor, my style are better suited for that type of setting, but for now and for all kinds of reasons, some I know and some I don't, God has given me this.

I have set out, then, to be the best Wednesday night Bible class teacher these kids have ever seen, not in terms of preparation, but in terms of atmosphere. 

Wednesdays are rough, so sometimes my lesson -- completely planned out for me, by the way -- reflects that. I arrive about 30 minutes before class to prepare, but in all, it's certainly not a lot of time. (My husband, on the other hand, spends the better half of his Saturday preparing for his own adult Bible class on Sunday mornings. I try not to let this affect my competitive nature. After all, Wednesdays are what they are, and gosh, I am just doing the best I can.) 

What I lack in preparation, though, I hope I make up for in love. I'm not like Jordan, academic and prepared. I'm not like my mom, who has an enthusiasm and passion for kids' ministry I truly cannot match. (I'm really too introverted for that.) I'm not even like my cousin, who could spend hours coming up with craft ideas and activities if she were given the opportunity. 

Instead, I arrive rushed and winded, and the best thing I know to do is turn off the overhead lights and turn on the lamps. I set out supplies, and I turn on some music. Chances are, the kids are feeling just as rushed and as harried as I am, they just might not know it. I open my lesson book, and I open my Bible, and a couple of weeks ago, I read a book. I journaled. I prayed. I prepare my own heart, because I figure: Where else would I even start? 

Teaching these classes isn't something I really set out to enjoy. My mother is the children's minister at my church, and she had a need. I think she also probably knew I had a need, too, and so she stuck me in this classroom, filled with giggly, rambunctious children who often make me want to pull out my hair. 

But then there's the kid who comes running up to the door proclaiming art is his favorite class. (I'm sure he'll have a different favorite next week, but still.) There's the kid who smiles when I tell him it really doesn't matter who's president, because Jesus is in charge. (Kids, their parents, and politics: a post for another time.) There's the boy who asks questions I have a feeling other teachers might ignore, questions about whether Jesus had a girlfriend or if God has another son we just don't know about yet. 

And I think sometimes these kids like hearing a grown-up say they don't know. I think (I imagine) they like hearing a grown-up joke with them and tease them a little. I think they like being challenged and asked to do things maybe their parents or other teachers don't think they're capable of doing. (Fourth and fifth graders are entirely capable of picking out a favorite verse and putting it in their own words. If it's challenging, all the better.) 

I don't think I'm the poster child for children's ministry, and that's okay. For now, it's where I am, and I'm doing it the only way I know how: by being myself, by promoting quiet and calm, and by showing them that Jesus is the absolute most important thing in my life. They know I have other interests; they know I love books and my husband and good music, but I hope more than that they know I think Jesus is awesome and the best thing to ever happen to me. 

"Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man." That's their Bible verse right now, and as someone who memorized a lot of Scripture as a child, I know the words will stick, but the meaning might not. So I made them get out their Bibles (children who have iPads: also a post for another time) and turn to the reference. I asked them what that verse meant, and when I got crickets, I told them: 

"Solomon was the wisest person who ever lived. But he made a lot of mistakes. He had a weakness for women and for money. And at the end of his life, he realized none of it mattered. Here's what matters:  at school, at home, with your friends, with your mommies and daddies, with your brothers and sisters -- love God first. Obey God first. That is the most important thing. That's what I want you to remember."

I don't know if they will. I don't remember much of anything from my Bible classes growing up. But I hope they remember I laughed at their jokes. I smiled when they walked in the room. I rolled my eyes and snapped my fingers when they were bratty. I didn't take their flak. I prayed like I meant it. And every Wednesday night, I dimmed the lights and turned on music, just for them. 

on being a kind-of feminist.

I went away to Christian college and came back a feminist.

Since a lot of people go away to Christian college for the primary purpose of finding and securing a spouse -- and I say this not based on statistics but on personal experience, i.e., the number of "MRS degree" jokes I heard prior to my freshman year -- I'm sure the results of my own education are somewhat surprising. In fact, I'm afraid my own university's administrators might shake their heads in shame were I ever to discuss this with them in person. That's unfortunate, because really? They should be thrilled.

The world needs more Christian feminists.

Here's what I mean.

We need to raise our girls to be strong, independent, and secure. We need to raise our girls to know marriage, even when it is excellent and good, is not an answer; it's an option. We need to raise our girls to know their purpose and their passion isn't dependent upon another person; it's within themselves and with the Spirit residing there. We need to raise our girls that way, so one day we will have confident and compassionate women working and leading right alongside men: in the home, in the church, in the workplace.

That's not sacreligious, by the way. I fully believe -- despite the sermons I've heard and the countless number of times I've been told, jokingly, to get in the kitchen where I belong -- it's part of a Creator's divine purpose for us all.

Last week, in an episode of The Conversation (I fear perpetuating my womanly stereotype if I confess the show runs on Lifetime, but there you go), interviewer Amanda de Cadenet asked New York Senator Kirsten Gillibrand if she was able to "hold on" to her femininity in a male-driven field. Her response was perfection.

"I think strength is also being feminine. And I think being tough is also being feminine. And being determined and never giving up are all feminine qualities. Sometimes we don't associate that way, but I really believe that's the essence of a true woman. Think of any woman who's defending her children or protecting her family. You've never met a fiercer fighter in your life. Women have all those qualities. Women have all those skills."

Despite the examples we have in Scripture of bold, brave, tough, confident, merciful, graceful, strong women, we've somehow failed to recognize that all of those qualities are both feminine and masculine. They are God-like qualities, qualities we've been given as the created in the image of Creator.

I'm afraid we've taken I Peter 3:4 out of context, that we've forgotten a "quiet and gentle spirit" can look very differently in a variety of personalities and people. We've taught submission in all the wrong ways. The Proverbs 31 woman is not one size fits all, and honestly? Just a glance at that passage could prove, I think, that she herself -- though a myth, a description -- is a kind of feminist, fiercely devoted to her Lord, her family, and her craft.

As I studied the great books in college, I was drawn to these various portrayals of women, to the teachings of G.K. Chesterton, to the idea that woman in the home is a strong and powerful place to be. (Chesterton once wrote, "How can it be a large career to tell other people about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one's own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone and narrow to be everything to someone? No, a woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute.")

While I still agree with Chesteron, I've also grown a little bit, and I've met enough women and mothers to know: Not every woman's path is going to look the same. Not every woman is going to have children or choose to stay home with them full-time. (Nor, it should be noted, does every woman even have that option.) Not every woman is called to children's ministry or to cooking in the community kitchen. Some women are teachers and leaders; some women are loud and extroverted; others are content playing their roles behind the scenes.

I believe our biggest weakness we have as women is each other. We pass judgments, and we are condescending, and we turn our noses up because so-and-so stays home or so-and-so works full-time. We roll our eyes when someone gets married too young and whisper among ourselves when someone stays single too long.

It's absurd, and it's a message we're passing down to our daughters, to our grandaughters.

You know what else?

All of this takes a toll on men, too.

In her book The Feminine Mistake, Leslie Bennetts argues on behalf of a woman's financial independence. I have yet to read the book, and I'm fairly certain I wouldn't agree with it entirely, but I appreciate what Bennetts said in a recent interview.

"We have to raise them [our daughters] to understand they have to take full responsibility for their own lives. It's great if you meet Mr. Right, no matter what age you are. But it is not the answer to anything. You have to figure out who you are and what you want to do, what kind of contribution you want to make in the world, and how you're going to support yourself, no matter what happens."

Regardless of how you feel about working in or outside the home, regardless of where you stand on debates of marriage or singlehood or dating, surely you understand, especially if you are a believer: Christian girls aren't being taught these truths. Instead, marriage is frequently given as the answer to questions about loneliness, sex, ambition, and purpose. We teach our girls how to date and how to dress modestly, all the time not with them, but with boys, in mind. We never really teach our girls what they can be when they grow up or what they can do in Christ's body. (I'm afraid, more often than not, our lessons are on what we cannot do.) Later, we chat sympathetically and encourage single friends to date online or to join singles' groups, failing to remind them that God is pleased with them as they are.

I am married, and I married young, but I know: When we preach marriage and spouse as the answer, we're doing our men and ourselves a disservice.

We are setting our marriages up for failure, because marriages aren't perfect, and you can still be lonely and sinful and sad and passionless in marriage. I'd wager to say this tendency to treat marriage as a bandaid results in a divorce rate that is equal to or higher than marriages outside Christianity.

As a teenager, I had visions of one day growing up and moving to New York City and becoming a journalist. Because of my parents' wonderful example, I also fully anticipated marrying someone someday. I did not, though, believe that day would come so quickly. I did not picture marrying my best friend when I was 22, and I've no doubt other feminists would cringe at the decision I made to marry so young. Perhaps they would argue I gave up my dreams in favor of something more traditional, that I let a man dictate what I was going to do with my life.

I don't believe feminism means a lack of compromise. (Humanity requires compromise.) I don't believe it means getting your way all of the time. I don't believe it means belittling men under the guise of our own greatness. I also refuse to believe that feminism has anything to do with when you get married or what you do for a living. I do believe it has to do with why.

Why did I get married? Why do I choose to work outside the home? If I choose one day to work inside the home, why will I do that? Why do I feel called, and will I do something with that calling?

The answers to those questions, I think, reach to the heart of what I believe is true feminism.

I could argue all day long about women's roles in the home and in the church, and why I believe the way I do about leadership and ambition and femininity.

Instead, though, I think it's far more important to focus on why we raise little girls who think becoming a princess has to do with marrying a prince. It's far more important, to me, that we understand that strength and integrity and boldness and security and sureness of spirit and mind are not masculine, but human, qualities, and that we teach that truth to the women we love.

If we could do that, I believe society would notice a difference. I believe churches would change and grow in staggering numbers. I believe workplaces would be happier, and women of any age would be far more content and comfortable in their decisions and in their skin.

That's why I'm a feminist, and it's why I hope I'll raise a little girl who's a feminist one day too.

image by Nick Scott

on being the smart one.

{photo by Arielle Elise}

The first time a boy ever called my house, it wasn’t to ask me out or to talk about the comings and goings of adolescent life. It was for homework help.

As my mother held the phone out to me, I distinctly remember not a feeling of elation, but of frustration and fear. I was 10, and I was mortified. I was past the age where boys had cooties, but that didn’t mean they crossed my path very often.

In fact, that phone call was the only one I’d receive from a boy until I was about 17. I’m not complaining; my life has turned out in the most magnificent of ways.

But make no mistake: Just because I’m married doesn’t mean I don’t remember what it’s like to be the smart one. Because every girl knows, deep down, that there are categories. And that doesn’t make them right or true or very much fun, but they are there. They exist. You are  smart or pretty or funny; even if your soul encompasses all of those things, it’s into one category you often go.

My category was “the smart one.”

So when I read this post by Annie Downs, about a self-described “pretty girl” with a prettier friend who gets all the boys’ attention, the memories came flooding back.

The time I wore a denim jumper to school, and my best friend told me I looked pregnant.

That fall football game walking around the high school track, when my friends and I discussed which of us would grow up and be on homecoming court, and my name was never even mentioned as a possibility.

A walk up the staircase in which I ran into the “it couple” of my high school, and the girl looked straight into my eyes and asked me if I was jealous.

The time a guy introduced me to his girlfriend, asking me: “Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t my girlfriend beautiful?”

How my junior high best friend and I looked so much alike that people couldn’t tell us apart, until the summer she grew up and got contacts and her braces taken off, and everyone described her as “the pretty one.”

And, in case you think this all fades away with adulthood, that day not so long ago when a well-meaning woman at church patted my arm and told me I was “pretty in my own way.”

It’s a lot for a girl to handle, this pressure to be pretty and funny and smart and interesting, some incredible combination of “all of the above.” And no matter how long you have been comfortable in your role, in your box, the words and the memories are still there.

Because the truth is, it’s not really very fun being put into any box.

I’ve never been called “the pretty one,” but I imagine it’s no better than being the smart one or the funny one. I imagine the expectations and the frustrations are unbelievably similar.

That’s what happens when boxes are involved.

We all start to look the same.

Growing up, I didn’t keep a mirror in my bedroom. It wasn’t intentional, really. The bathroom was right down the hall, and I had a desk and a dresser and a bed and a poster of Roman Holiday hanging on my wall. I didn’t need a mirror.

My heroines, my role models, were the girls I read about in books. Sure, I thought the Olsen twins were pretty, and there was a picture of Sandra Bullock taped to the back of my door. But mostly, I idolized Jo March and Anne Shirley: girls who were smart and independent and brave. Girls who, it should be noted, were rather ambivalent — or perhaps, more appropriately, dissatisfied with — their appearances. Jo chopped off her long locks and longed to be a boy; Anne couldn't stand her carrot red hair or her freckles and wished she wasn't so skinny.

Despite those skin-deep frustrations, though, Jo and Anne manage to move on. They move beyond the face in the mirror, and they triumph.

I suppose that’s what I wanted to do, so I left the mirror in the bathroom.

Here is what I would tell that pretty girl Annie wrote about.

There will always be someone prettier than you. There will always be someone smarter than you. There will always be someone funnier than you.

But there will never be another you.

And I know that’s cheesy, and it’s not much consolation when you’re standing in the corner getting ignored by all the boys (and, hey, let’s be honest, some of the girls).

I know.

I’m married to someone who thinks I’m beautiful, and it can still be a struggle. I can still feel like that little girl who got a phone call not because she was pretty, but because she was smart.

Finding “the one” doesn’t mean those insecurities fade away.

I think there’s a reason for that.

True happiness and true confidence don’t come from what other people think about you.

Confidence and happiness come from what you think about yourself, from recognizing that you were made this way. The God of the universe knows every wrinkle, every pimple, every gray hair, every pound, every inch. He knows it. He owns it. He loves it.

I am 26 years old, happily married with a job that I enjoy and a life that I love, and there are days when I get up, and I look in the mirror, and I don't really like what I see. (Adult acne will do that do a person, am I right?) 

And, yes, the attention of my husband and his repeated affirmations of my beauty are helpful. Being loved by someone always helps.

But it's being loved by the Heavenly Father that heals.

That pretty girl with the prettier friend? She will never know she is enough until she realizes He has made her this way. A wonderful, bright, energetic young man won’t make her feel whole. Finding a husband won’t make her know her beauty.

But a relationship with the Father will.

I may never be the prettiest girl in the room.

But if I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my Father loves me, is in love with me, and made me who I am for a reason?

I can be happy and confident and authentic.

And really, the older I get, the more beautiful I believe that makes me.

Oprah’s said it, fashion designers have said it, my mom has said it to me my entire life.

It’s the smile that comes from deep within, it’s the complete and utter contentment with myself that make me beautiful and noticeable, by both men and women alike.

That feeling can't come from another person. It comes from being in love with the King and from being happy with who He made you to be.

If we could ever see what the Father sees, if men and women could begin to look at each other like Jesus looks at us, we might be able to put the boxes away. We might finally be able to understand that we are smart. We are beautiful. We are funny.

We are all of the above and so much more.

dear fuzzies.

A couple of weekends ago, my two cousins (you'll remember them as my "fuzzins") celebrated their spiritual birthdays. I didn't do anything major to commemorate these pretty major events, so I thought instead, I'd write them a letter, then publish it for the world to see. That's what blogging's all about, right?

--- 

There have been times, in the past three years, when I have wondered if moving back to Tallahassee and choosing to stay was really the best decision. It's not always easy to move back to your hometown, to become a grown-up in a world where people still see you as a very scrawny, nerdy child. I don't spend a lot of time looking back -- I've always been a "remember Lot's wife" kind of person -- but in the moments when I do, I wonder if Tallahassee is really, right now, the place for me. 

And in those moments, what brings me back, what confirms the decision Jordan and I prayed about and cried over, is you.

My entire family made this move doable, livable, but it's this relationship I have with you that I treasure. I didn't know that when I left to go to college, I'd be coming back, be able to get to know the growing-up versions of you. I think years from now, when I remember the years -- however long they are -- that I spent in Tallahassee, I will mostly remember you. How I was privileged enough to watch my little cousins grow into beautiful and strong spiritual warriors.

We're cousins, I know. We're called to love each other based on blood alone. But I think what makes me so happy, so grateful, is that I'd love you even if we weren't cousins at all. I would still want to teach your Bible classes, to curl up on the couch and watch Gilmore Girls, to cook with you in my kitchen, to invite you to spend the night on the weekends when my husband was out of town (even if those visits resulted in 3 a.m. phone calls and brothers brave enough to be superheroes). All of those things might have been kind of creepy if we weren't actually related, so I'm glad, grateful that you're the same cousins I babysat when I was just learning how, the same cousins who called me "mom" in the grocery store so we wouldn't all be abducted, the same cousins who cry over old movies and drink smoothies and plan parties that may or may not ever happen.

I love that as a family, we talk about the things that matter to us. I love that we encourage each other to see the Spirit of Christ, that we share song lyrics and Bible verses, that we ask questions with the understanding that we won't always know the answers. 

A few weeks ago, Jordan was teasing me about my introverted ways. We read before, somewhere, that extroverts are people who are energized by others (like Jordan). They go into a crowd or a classroom or a party, and when they leave, they are rejuvenated. Introverts (like me) are the people who go into a crowded room or hang out with friends, and when they leave, they leave exhausted. (In defense of introverts everywhere, this doesn't mean we're antisocial or can't have a good time. It just means once the party's over, we tend to head straight for bed.) And Jordan was teasing me about how generally, people leave me so emotionally drained, and then it hit me: Not everyone leaves me feeling this way. Jordan -- he was grateful to know -- doesn't make me feel that way. And you don't make me feel that way. 

The days I get to see you and talk to you and hear about your days: Those are good days. I am so grateful that I, in some small way, get to play big sister not just to Chet, but to you. I'm glad the four of us are kind of like siblings, and I'm beyond grateful that now, we're connected not just by the blood of our parents, but by the blood of Christ. Getting to see you two walk with Him is a highlight of my life. 

So happy belated birthday, fuzzies. You are both so special to me, and I'm thrilled that I even get to play some small part in who you are and who you are becoming.

sonquest 2011.

Sometimes, God answers our prayers in ways we never could have imagined, not just in manner, but in method.

What I mean is, God doesn't just respond to our requests with "yes" or "no" or "not right now." Instead, sometimes -- all the time? -- He looks at our plans and our wishes and our desires, and He says: "I can do you one better."

In these months, as I've found myself sitting on the sidelines, lost as to what God is doing with the passions of my heart, I never once thought He might be working to do something great, beyond even what my imagination could comprehend.

This past weekend, I had the opportunity to speak at Sonquest, an annual youth rally held in Orlando. And despite my inexperience, despite little to no name recognition, despite feelings of inadequacy and a bout of spiritual inferiority complex, God presented me with 60 young women, young women who are desperately seeking Jesus, who -- for whatever reason -- chose to hear what I had to say. I saw in so many of them who I used to be, who I still am.

When several of these precious daughters came up to share their hearts with me, to share their stories with me, I knew: This weekend was a gift straight from the Father. And by His grace and goodness, my words meant something to someone. And regardless of attendance, of stumbled words or moments of doubt, the Father let me make a difference, and I don't even care how big or small that difference winds up being. I prayed that my words would be worthy of just an audience of One; any more than that, I know, is grace.

I am incredibly grateful and in awe of how my Creator chooses to work. At the moment when I absolutely least expected it, my God chose to answer the cries of my spirit, to offer me the gift of speech and audience, to provide me with a forum I never expected. My prayers had been so small, and when months went by without answer, I began seeking other avenues, never anticipating that my Lord might go bigger and better.

On Saturday, as I offered these girls my thoughts on story and plot and endings, I shared this quote by author Madeleine L'Engle: "We have to be braver than we think we can be, because God is constantly calling us to be more than we are." I wanted them to know that in the middle of their life's decision making, there exists an Author who is writing their story with them, who is guiding them to become more than they could have ever dreamed.

I just forgot that the promise extends to me, that I, too, have an Author who hears my prayers and recognizes my desires, who constantly wants me to be more than I ever thought I could be.

His knowledge of me is a comfort, a guarantee that my heart will not go ignored.

I am so grateful for that.

for the girls. (and it's a doozy.)

(Publication note: Since I wrote this post on Wednesday, social media has really gone crazy over this entire issue, in part because of Rachel Held Evan's response here. I seriously considered not publishing my own response due to the rather controversial nature of the discussion -- and the semi-nasty comments people seem really keen on throwing around. I asked myself if my words were grace-filled and intent on healing. I edited, and edited some more. I sought advice from those I consider wise. And I thought about the girls I know. And I hit publish.)

 Kiss me, kiss me/Infect me with your love and/Fill me with your poison/Take me, take me/

Wanna be a victim/Ready for abduction.

- Katy Perry, “Extraterrestrial”

Guys, you know I love Donald Miller, right?

Because I do. I really, really do. Blue Like Jazz rocked my world, and A Million Miles in a Thousand Years changed my life.

But if I hear one more man telling a woman how to live her life of singlehood, I am going to scream, not because men don’t really know a woman’s heart and therefore their advice is inherently bad, but because the advice they so often offer isn’t constructive. Instead, it’s contributing to diminished self-worth and increased insecurity.

In case you have no idea what I’m talking about, here’s a (somewhat brief) recap.

Last week, Donald Miller posted a two-part series about living a great love story on his blog. Since One Million Miles, Miller has devoted a lot of time and effort into this idea of living our lives like a story; it’s a concept I really appreciate and value. And, since becoming engaged a couple of months ago, Miller has also begun to turn his attention to dating and marriage, writing a few posts on the subject. It makes sense to me that he’d combine the two.

But just a few paragraphs into Miller’s first post in the series, “How to live a Great Love Story, Vol. 1 (For the Girls),” I was a little turned-off. I stopped reading. It’s not that what I had read was super offensive; I just felt like it didn’t really apply to me anymore. I’m married. The dating phase of my life is over. I’m moving on.

So I stopped reading, ignored part II, and went about my merry way.

Then my Twitter account kind of blew up with responses to his posts.

Apparently, people were ticked.

I went back and re-read, and honestly? I could see why some people were upset.

Here’s the thing: Lately, I’ve come across a lot of broken Christian women.

It’s nothing new, I know.

I taught and mentored teenage girls for three years — and have successfully been a girl for a little over 25 years — so I know: the soul of a girl is a fragile thing.

But now that I’m meeting women well into their 20s and older who are still hurting, confused, and insecure, I’m realizing yet again how much we (the church, society, you name it) are failing our girls.

Absolutely failing.

Maybe that’s why, according to a recent study by the Barna Group, so many women have stopped going to church.

Maybe we’ve hurt them so badly that the damage can’t be undone, and instead of fleeing to, they are fleeing from churches in droves, because deep down, they know: This is not how it’s supposed to be.

In his post directed to girls, Donald Miller writes that there are five principles to a good love story:

Boy meets girl.

Boy falls in love with girl.

Girl is a bit hesitant knowing her heart is tender and could get hurt.

Boy proves himself strong enough to handle and defend her heart.

Girl trusts boy and they live happily ever after.

---

If you’re a boy, you’re probably thinking, yep. Sounds about right.

If you’re a girl, maybe you’re thinking, wait… what?

Look, I’ve read the books. (I’ve also chucked some across the room — that means you, I Kissed Dating Goodbye.) I know that as a woman, I was not created to pursue man. (Although, can I just say for a quick minute: Isn’t that exactly what Ruth did? Okay. Moving on.) Instead, I was designed to be pursued.

Fine.

But here’s where I think I lose a lot of Christian writers (male and female, by the way): What’s a girl supposed to do while she’s out “not pursuing” a man?

If Miller and other writers are correct, a girl is supposed to wait and trust until she finds the boy that’s “strong enough to handle and defend her heart.” In other words, the role she plays in her love story is almost entirely passive.

There are a lot of problems with that ideology, but here’s one: No man is strong enough to handle and defend your heart.

Almost a year ago, I taught a class on dating to the high school girls at my church. It was a really humbling, awesome experience. Looking back, I wish I’d been able to say more, because, guess what? Girls are getting the wrong message.

They’re being taught — sadly, if they’re being taught anything about dating at all — that somewhere out there is a man who can guard and protect their heart. (Sidenote: Is anyone else having flashbacks to Kasey from Ali’s season of the Bachelorette? Just me? Okay.)

I’ll tell you what I told the teenage girls at my church: No one can protect your heart but you and the God who created you.

Unfortunately, I don’t really think Christian pastors, authors, and teachers stop with that one misguided principle.

In his post, Miller goes on to offer a few suggestions for what women can do to live a great love story. They’re not groundbreaking principles; in fact, they’re mostly recommendations I’ve heard before. Things like “don’t hook up,” “make him work for it,” and “weed them out.”

I understand that women — and men, for that matter — should be reminded of the principles of purity, that promoting abstinence is a way of telling girls that their bodies are important and valuable, worthy of protection. The problem is that this is about the extent of what we (the church, in particular) tell our girls about sex and relationships. If they can just protect their physical bodies, they’ll be fine. Their hearts will be safe. I hope you’re shaking your heads right now, because surely you know: Intimacy can be had outside of sex. My heart breaks for girls — and their parents! — who think their girls are safe from bad men simply because they haven’t gone to bed with them. Meanwhile, they’ve given their hearts away. They’ve talked intimately about marriage and shared their deepest secrets. Without giving away their bodies, they’ve given away their souls.

What it boils down to, I think, is a woman’s self-worth, and I know plenty of virgin Christian women who have a self-worth of about zero.

Girls are being taught — by society, Disney movies, church — that their role in a love story is inactive and submissive, that we’re all supposed to behave like Rapunzel, waiting for just the right guy before we can let down our hair. Unlike so many of our Biblical counterparts, we’re told to wait, to sit back and have faith that our happy ending will come true. In the meantime, up in our castles, we should, according to Miller, “be willing to suffer.”

Miller writes, “What this means for you is that your love story needs to have a lot of lonely crying in it. Believe it or not, there will come a day when a man will fall madly in love with you, and you will have the honor of sitting down with him one special night to explain that, while you weren’t perfect, you turned down plenty of guys and cried yourself to sleep hoping somebody would come around and treat you with respect. He will be honored by this, and he will love you and feel humbled. If he doesn’t have the same story, he will feel intensely convicted and unworthy. You’ll really be giving him the foundation he needs to love your heart.”

I feel like I know guys pretty well. I have a husband, and I have a brother. I’ve got a great dad and a slew of uncles. In college, I had quite a few “guy friends.” In all of my conversations with them — and I feel like I’ve had some good ones — not one of them asked me if I’d ever cried myself to sleep over a guy. (The answer, by the way, would have been no.)

My parents did not raise me to cry over disrespectful, “unworthy” men.

They raised me to have more self-worth than that.

Did a guy ever hurt my feelings? You bet. Did a guy ever say things that haunted me for days that followed? Sure.

But this idea that in order to have a decent love story, you’ve got to suffer? You’ve got to let your heart be dragged through the mud, beaten up by men who don’t respect or care about your well-being?

I just don’t think it’s true.

And, as my husband reminded me, most girls don’t need to be told to cry themselves to sleep at night. Many of them already do. They’re lonely, and their hearts are aching, and the last message they should be hearing is one that condones the heartbreak. One that tells them their hearts might need to be torn in two just a few more times before it’s finally ready for “the one” who will make it all go away.

Girls instead need to be reminded of the strength they possess through the Father. In their singlehood — and, for that matter, in their marriages — women are capable of greatness. But in their admonitions to wait, evangelical leaders fail to mention that women can and should be pursuing their own adventures. Rarely is there talk of mission work, of prayer, of surrounding yourself with like-minded, loving friends, of experiencing nature and finding God in the quiet. Meanwhile, I think men are often encouraged to pursue these things prior to marriage. Can’t girls have that same luxury?

Traditional, societal feminism often teaches that women can do it all on their own, while modern evangelical thought tells us that women can’t do much without a man (and, in fairness, that man can’t do much without woman. The two are incomplete without each other, a thought in complete conflict with the oft-misquoted I Corinthians 7). The idea behind Christian feminism, I think, is that women simply cannot do it alone, but it is not man that fulfills. It is Christ.

This is why our girls are confused. We’ve got a feminist society that tells our girls to be strong and bold and brave, all while Katy Perry is singing on the radio about wanting to be a “victim” of some kind of alien love. (Have you ever listened to what’s on the radio? Really listened? No wonder our girls are broken. The world isn’t doing any better job of raising our daughters than the church is.)

We tell our girls we want them to grow up to be creative, loving, kind, courageous individuals, but we suck the individuality right out of them. We tell them we want them to go do great things, but then we tell them if they want a husband, they better just wait patiently. We want them to be strong, but at the same time, hey, not too strong, because that’s intimidating. But, wait a second, not so weak, because then men will just treat you like a victim.

My heart is heavy over the number of women I know who have bought into these lies, and the number of little girls who are destined to follow suit.

This love story that Miller and others describe doesn’t sound that great to me. It doesn’t give the strong, bold, beautiful girls I know anything to do. It locks them up in their castles, journaling and crying until their prince shows up at the window, ready to save them.

It leaves the girls I know and love with a low self-worth, with the belief that they’ve just got to sit, suffer, and wait until their life can really begin.

One day, if Jordan and I ever have a little girl, I want her to know that she is so much more than a victim. More than a princess. More than a future wife and mother.

She is beautiful proof of an all-knowing and loving Creator, designed for her own separate and unique purpose.

And if she gets to live an earthly love story with a righteous man? Well, that will just be icing on the cake.

 {photo by Darcy Hemley}

what a girl needs.

 {photo by lindsey vinson}

Girls with eating disorders.

Girls without daddies.

Girls who are depressed, hurting, and broken.

Girls without mommies.

Girls with abusive boyfriends, immature boyfriends, or no boyfriends at all.

Girls with unique purposes, passions, and gifts.

Girls without direction, guidance, or help.

Every beat of my heart belongs to these.

Because in some way or another, I have been one. Or I have known one.

I have been lost and confused, struggling to find my purpose.

My best friends have cut themselves. Starved themselves. Hated themselves.

I have watched them lose their way, and then rejoiced with them when they found it.

Now, I watch quietly as another, younger group of girls grows up, and I wonder: Who will help them?

This act of growing up cannot be done alone.

Girls need girls.

The most competent, loving, generous men on the planet could not begin to understand why a girl’s heart breaks when her boyfriend stops saying I love you, why she thinks it’s her fault when the phone no longer rings. They can’t understand what it means when our face fills with acne and somebody calls us ugly and every time we look in the mirror, that’s all we see.

They can’t understand slumber parties or late night giggle fests or the amount of food we’re all really capable of eating.

They don’t understand makeup or dressing for your body type or why Tom will always be perfectly suited for Meg.

They can’t fully understand our passions or our frustrations, our whims and our desires.

Mostly, though, they will never understand the unique God-given role we have been given as women.

In Christ’s body, in His church, girls need girls.

This isn’t radical. This is truth.

“Likewise, teach the older women to be reverent in the way they live… to teach what is good. Then they can urge the younger women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and to be subject to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God.”

So Paul writes to Titus, many moons ago, far removed from the confused culture we today inhabit.

But the truth of his words — of The Word — remain.

Let the older teach the younger.

At 25, I am caught in between, and I am glad.

I am younger, eager to sit at the feet of the women who I have seen do it better: who love Christ, love their husbands, love the church, and do so in a way I cannot yet comprehend.

But now, as I climb into adulthood full throttle, I am also older, capable of speaking the truth in love to girls who are living what I have lived, experiencing what I have experienced.

And I remember! I remember my 12, 16, 18 year old self and I want to tell them what I would have told me: To be kind to those who don’t look like you. To love the girl in the mirror. To not be afraid of your passions, but to pursue them. To accept the truth that is God and His Son because that is the one thing in this life that won’t ever change. To delve into a deep, meaningful relationship with Him, because He deserves nothing less.

I’m not always given the opportunity to say those things, and I have never much liked being silent. It is tearing at me inside, I think, as I watch these girls muddle through to adulthood, in desperate need of someone older. And yes, someone female.

Over and over again the Scriptures tell us about being eyes, feet, arms, legs. We are the body, but what happens when the clothes are too tight, and the arm can’t do what it’s supposed to do?

If the arms are bound up in a straitjacket, can they still love? Can they still teach? Can they still hold the hands of those who are coming up behind them?

The answer, I think, is yes. In small ways and in quiet ways, I suppose, until someone finally decides to listen, to loosen the ties that bind, to acknowledge: Girls need girls. In the world. And in the church.

Girls need to see women who are passionately in love with their Lord. They need to be taught by women who are unique and quirky and confident, women who work behind the scenes and who lead by the Spirit. They need to know that we’re not all cut from the same pink polka dot fabric: That we are eyes, feet, arms, and legs, and that we each make up the beauty that is Christ’s body.

Girls need girls. The younger need the older.

The question is, are we -- as women who begin to find ourselves in that latter category -- ready to do something about it?

grateful for: grace.

There are times like these when I just don't know. 

I just don't know if I'm doing things right, or saying things right. As the class with my church's teen girls has come to a close, I am left with this complete feeling of inadequacy, like I've squandered the past 12 weeks telling funny anecdotes and passing along recommendations that, if we're being honest, will probably go unheeded. 

I want more time. 

More weeks. 

I want to be able to tell them so much more than what I had time for. 

I want to clarify things that they may be confused about. 

I want to reiterate some points and eliminate others. 

Mostly, I just want them to know how much I really, truly love them. And I think, deep down, I'd like to know that they love me back.

It is in these moments, moments when I just feel completely lacking, empty, and unsure, that I am so grateful for His grace. 

Grace -- abundant, bottomless, guaranteed grace -- is His answer to me, and it must be enough.  

My tendency, for whatever reason, is to think I need to do more. I always want to do more and be more.

Maybe if I sent each girl an individual note, that would be enough. 

Or I wrote them all Facebook messages. 

Or maybe if I planned another girls' day at church. 

Or got them necklaces with their favorite Bible verse. 

Or tried to teach another class or throw them another party or get them more cupcakes.

The truth is, probably none of that would ever, in my eyes, be enough. 

I can never be a good enough teacher, mentor, friend, student, daughter, or wife.

That's what grace is for. 

To Kill a Mockingbird is one my favorite books. Like most who've fallen for Harper Lee's classic, it's Atticus who I love the most. It's Atticus who I want to be. 

Because Atticus, he tried desperately to do the right thing. 

And it didn't really go well. 

But he tried. 

He hoped that trying would be enough. 

I like to think that it was.

Because most of us try really hard. 

And most of us, like Atticus, don't really succeed by our own standards. 

But grace covers us. 

And I can rest easy knowing that no, I may not have done everything right this quarter. The words may not always have come out right. I may not have changed every girl’s life or even changed one.

But I tried.

And sometimes, trying is enough.

---

Throughout the latter part of November, I'm dedicating my time to the things that fill my life with joy. You can find more posts on gratitude through the month of November here.

girl power.

{via here}

Just so you know, we talk about more than just women's roles and beauty in our Wednesday night class.

(And thank goodness, because that would get a little heavy week after week.)

We also spend a little time dwelling in the fun. 

Like last week, when we made a list about what we're grateful for about being girls. 

Their list? 

not having to shave a beard

more organized

creativity

bigger imaginations

smarter

clothes, style, and fashion

can wear dresses AND pants

sensitivity

a "sixth sense"

dance parties

better drivers (this one raised a mini-debate)

longer hair

fun shoes

more understanding

emotional

---

So, now, of course, I'm dying to know.

Why are you grateful you're a girl?

girls and the church.

{via here}

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. – Eleanor Roosevelt

---

It started as a simple question.

Each Wednesday, it’s hard for me to know just how far I can dig, just how deep we can go. But after 10 weeks together, I decided to lay it on the line. There’s not much time left with them, and there are some things I’m just so convinced they need to know.

So I asked.

“How many of you have ever felt like less — specifically, less than a boy — at school or at church?”

To be honest, I wasn’t sure what kind of response I was expecting. I think I was just curious. Curious to see whether or not teen girls living in 2010 had finally stopped fighting battles that supposedly ended decades ago.

Then they all raised their hands.

And my heart broke.

I didn’t understand. I thought maybe they didn’t understand. So I asked the two questions I’ve been trained to ask:

How and why?

How have you felt like less?

Why have you felt like less?

I’ve told them multiple times that what we say in our classroom stays in our classroom. To keep that promise, I won’t share the stories they told on this blog. But I will tell you that after hearing their stories, I know: These girls certainly understand.

They know what it means to be belittled because of their gender.

Boys make them feel that way. Hateful boys with their thoughtless words and rude stares.

I kind of expected that.

I’ve been on the receiving end enough times to know: Boys can be careless in how they treat the girls in their lives.

But as it turns out, the church also makes them feel that way.

And that is unacceptable to me.

These girls look around, and they don’t see.

They don’t see women teaching or praying or leading. They don’t see women who look like them.

And they don’t get it. They’re not sure where they belong.

I’m not either.

I have so much I want to share with these girls, so much that they just really need to know.

All of it boils down, I think, to two basic ideas, ideas I think are supported by the God who created me as His precious daughter.

The first, the one that the world forgets, is that we are all so very different. My mom is amazing with children and talks to God in ways I only hope I can. My aunt’s yard looks like a professional landscaper designed it. My grandma sews for those she loves. Another aunt is an incredible teacher. My grandma and my cousin cook and throw parties.

Me? I like teaching better than I like cooking, studying better than cleaning, speaking better than sitting.

And my Father tells me that’s okay. In fact, it’s better than okay. It’s who He made me to be.

Our gifts and roles are uniquely our own. We’re not meant to fit in the same box. I know women at church who were made to cook. I’ve tasted their pot roast, so I know. (I’ve also tasted my own pot roast, so I know exactly where I belong too.) I’ve also met women who pray beautifully, who are dynamic speakers, and who can run a program better than some men I know.

That’s okay. In fact, it’s better than okay. It’s who He created them to be.

All throughout Scripture, written at a time when women were viewed as less than we could possibly imagine, God calls out women as leaders, role models, examples. They range, much like we do, in ability and talent and spiritual gifts. Some women were quiet, praying souls. The same souls we count on today when a loved one falls ill or we get the phone call we’ve been dreading. Hannah. Martha. Elizabeth.

Some women were bold, powerful, smart. The same souls we turn to for advice and support, the women we seek when something needs to get done like, yesterday. Abigail. Deborah. Mary.

It’s important to note that all of these women, with their wide range of gifts and abilities, were raised up as examples because they were humble and submissive, words that our world treats as dirty and degrading. These women were submissive not because God desires only His daughters to be quiet and submissive, but because we as a people — male and female — are called to be submissive to One who is greater than ourselves.

Women are a powerful force. We were designed that way. But we were also designed to be different. Different from men, and different from each other.

Secondly, “women’s work” isn't behind the scenes work. And we’ve done our girls a disservice if we’ve ever told them so.

The world hides our power by putting us all in the same box, and the church, in a similar fashion, buries our power in the fellowship hall. Neither institutions or traditions handle the power we possess in ways the Father would suggest.

I think some of these girls were frustrated. Frustrated by the fact that the roles often given them consist of aprons and recipes, though, let’s be honest: Even those roles are given to the women we call older.

What’s a teenage girl to think, then, as she watches her male counterpart lead worship and her mothers and grandmothers cook meals? What’s she supposed to do? What’s fair about that?

Why don’t we ever tell our daughters or sisters the secret we all know is true: That the loving and the cooking and the teaching and the serving and the “behind the scenes” work is the work that is closest to our Father’s heart? Women can do it all. They can teach and cook and pray and serve and love, and when they do those things, they are channeling the Father.

Is it our human-ness that makes us dwell on the can’ts instead of the cans? Makes us tell our daughters where they don’t belong instead of where they do?

I’ve spent inordinate amounts of time contemplating my role as a woman in the church. I, at least, was blessed with examples of different women who loved and served in different ways. I knew that a woman could cook and clean for Jesus, but she also could teach and pray and serve for Him, too. Not every girl knows that, and that’s a problem. 

But that problem is just the beginning. The church, I think, also makes a grave mistake when it belittles even those seemingly mundane tasks, the tasks that, let’s face it, mostly women do.

The washing of clothes. The cooking of meals. The cleaning of dishes.

Men, I’m looking at you. Because too often, you expect these tasks to get done, and when they do, there is no thank you. No appreciation for the way a woman bends over backwards to accomplish these duties you have chosen to ignore, these undertakings some of you have deemed “women’s work.” You have placed these duties behind the scenes, and as a result, your daughters grow bitter and weary in the doing.

The church would fall to pieces without its women, I am convinced. Oh sure, a church service, I guess, could happen without women. But the work, the real work, wouldn’t happen. The classes and the meals and the event preparation wouldn’t get done. Deep, sincere prayers and authentic heart-to-hearts would go unsaid.  The children and the lesser and the stranger would not be cared for.

That is “woman’s work.” And it is powerful and necessary and humbling and courageous and at the very heart of the One we follow.

Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise.

No, a woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. – G.K. Chesterton

for the girls.

"Flowers and sunsets, moon on water and delicate grasses in the starlight - would the designer of all this dress His own children, created in His image, in clothing which would make them unhappy and self-conscious? Would He have them all be alike and look alike? 

- Edith Schaeffer, The Hidden Art of Homemaking

Two weekends ago, I worked with a local photographer to capture 15 of the most beautiful girls I know in one of the most beautiful places in Tallahassee. It was a day I'd been planning for months, long before I'd grown attached to these girls, long before I knew just how much a day like this would be needed.

My intention was simple: to teach these girls more than the standard party line about modesty and inner beauty. If you've grown up in a church environment and you're a female, you've heard these lessons all your life. Have a quiet and gentle spirit. It matters what's on the inside, not what's on the outside. You're beautiful in God's eyes. Modesty is the best policy. 

These words are important and true, but they're a little bit meaningless when your face is breaking out and your mouth is full of metal and your friend with the short skirts is the one getting all the guys. 

I wanted to go deeper with these girls. I wanted them to know that not only were they beautiful, but that the beauty they possess -- every unique freckle and quirky grin -- comes from a Creator who designed them that way. And that beauty isn't intended to be hidden.

Our society dwells in the extremes. It's easier that way. Either you're a slut, or you're a prude. You're Lindsay Lohan, or you're Jenna Duggar. There's no happy medium, no balance to be struck. We look into the beautiful eyes of our daughters, sisters, cousins, friends and we tell them to hide. Hide behind make-up so we can't see the lines on your face. Hide behind dull, baggy clothes so men can't lust and women can't be jealous. 

The Creator says differently. 

That's what I wanted these girls to know. That they are each breathtakingly beautiful, and that the beauty they possess can't be taken away from them. Not by pimples, or by a cruel classmate, or by a careless word. 

I kept it a secret. I told them to set aside the weekend, but I didn't give them a reason. Looking back, that was a pretty big request for 15 teenage girls with schedules to keep and parents to see. But they came. All of them. And the Wednesday before, when I shared with them these truths that I've now shared with you, when I told them that it's possible to be beautiful and kind, to be gorgeous and faithful, I also told them they were going to be photographed. By a real photographer. In a real photoshoot. The realest versions of themselves. 

Their reaction was more than I could have asked for; the excitement and giggles were the confirmation I needed. When an idea floats around your head for so long, you begin to wonder if you're crazy: crazy for trying, for breaking out of the box, for asking teenagers to step out of their comfort zones and in front of the camera. 

But I wasn't crazy. The girls jumped on board. We talked about modesty and style icons and fashion and beauty. On Friday night, 10 of them came to my house. They ate and talked and laughed. I heard them in the bathroom and in the bedrooms, talking about clothes and make-up and how much fun they were going to have. And then I started to listen more carefully, and I heard the words I had desperately not wanted to hear. 

"I'm fat." 

"My face looks funny."

"Oh, this looks awful on me." 

Who had done this? Who makes us this way? 

Designed by a Creator who knows every mole, every wrinkle, every smile and every tear, we are no match for the world's hold on us. Every magazine cover, every television commercial, every movie star and every critic. We hear them all, and we listen. We take note. We reject our Creator's definition of beauty and fashion our own. 

Thin. But not too thin. 

Toned. But not too toned.

Tall. But oh, not too tall. 

Flawless skin. Gorgeous hair. Impeccable smiles, perfect enough to mask the pain. 

Because it is painful. This new definition of beauty comes with a price. In designing a new definition of beauty, we sacrifice our selves. 

At some point, some awful age when we become more aware of the world and what it asks of us, we begin to look in the mirror, and we don't like what we see. 

Our hair is too straight or too curly. 

Our teeth are crooked, and our nose is too big. 

We pour over ourselves, every nook and cranny, until we cannot see anymore. 

And these girls -- these precious, beautiful, giggly girls -- already had lost it. They already knew. Knew what makeup covered up zits the best. Knew what jeans would hide the most. Knew what foods they could and could not eat. 

My heart broke for them. Breaks for them. 

Because beauty was never intended to look like that. 

The girls rocked it, by the way. When I was 16, I was wearing Converse tennis shoes with my knee-length skirts; my khaki pants had to be pleated, and my license plate belt was my favorite accessory. I had no idea what a fashion icon even was. 

But these girls? Oh, they knew. They've grown up watching Tyra tell us how to work it, so they did. They dressed to the nines. Their make-up was, for the most part, tasteful, and honestly? So much more fun than I make it. In high school, you're still experimenting with color and glitter and what looks good and what doesn't. I loved watching that. I loved helping them pick out accessories and fixing their hair. 

They were flawless. 

There is something, I think, that all good mothers tell their little girls. I say good mothers, because I had one. I'm not sure if other mothers tell their children this or not, but I am so glad mine did. 

Beauty is confidence. 

Two Saturdays ago, the girls I teach every Wednesday were captured in some mindblowingly gorgeous pictures. But the pictures weren't gorgeous because of their cute outfits or their well-coiffed hair or their perfect make-up. 

That particular day, these girls knew they were gorgeous. 

They had primped for hours, thought long and hard about the exact jeans to wear. So they got in front of the camera willingly. They knew they were beautiful. 

What would life be like for these girls -- for every girl -- if we went around every day knowing just how beautiful we are? What kind of power would that knowledge produce? 

Would Hillary still wear pantsuits? Would I pick at my pimples or pull at my oily hair? Would that 100-pound girl look in the mirror and think about the pizza she ate for lunch? 

Or would we finally be able to look at ourselves and think: Gosh. We are amazing. 

Our bodies sustain the generations. Our faces detail every laugh we've ever shared with friends. Every inch of our arms and legs moves with a precision we cannot even begin to fathom. 

We are so incredibly beautiful. 

I wish I could take every woman I know to a photoshoot. I watched those girls relish in spending time with one another, strutting their stuff for the camera, and I knew: Every woman should do this. Not on her wedding day, for posterity's sake. But on an ordinary day, for beauty's sake. You want women to stop being catty and start being real? You want a women's retreat that really gets personal? 

Put them in front of a camera. Make them confront themselves. Make them see what the Creator sees. 

I bet it would be breathtaking and mindnumbing and incredibly, incredibly humbling.

Edith Schaeffer writes that if the Creator of this universe put so much detail and attention and beauty in the glistening waves and the glowing moon, how much more detail and more attention and more beauty did He put into us, His defining masterpieces? 

I don't know why we forget that, why we ignore that. I don't know why we turn to men and models and Hollywood to tell us what beauty is, when one look in the mirror should tell us.

It's us. We're the answer we've been looking for. 

We -- every love handle, every out of place hair, every toe and finger -- are beauty.

It's time we own it, work it, rock it. 

The world is waiting. 

*all photos by the ridiculously talented lindsey vinson.

sneak peek.

 

This is what I did this weekend. 

Ran around downtown Tallahassee's art park,

taking pictures of some of the most beautiful girls I know.

Well, to be fair, I didn't actually take the pictures. 

She did. And she's amazing.I haven't even seen all the pictures yet, I just know. 

And now I'm bound and determined to hire her for my 25th birthday party. 

Brilliant, right? 

Anyway, I'm still recovering from all of the festivities. But know this: 

fashion + 15 giggly high school girls + a camera = a really good time.

more details to come.

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.