20/52 :: thirty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

19/52 :: enough.

I have so much I want to write about: the quirky characters who frequent the shop every day; a fourth of July weekend spent in the presence of good friends; our Wednesday night Bible study which is slowly renewing my faith in the whole enterprise; the bats who flew through our chimney last week; the pre-cancerous mole I had sawed out of my upper thigh the same day as the bats' appearance, resulting in six inches' worth of stitches; and how the national news has me debating all kinds of issues in my own head (though rarely out-loud, for my own sanity and yours).

I want to write about how staffing a store is the hardest work I've ever done; how this summer is nothing like I thought it would be; and how community-building isn't going all that well, either. I want to write about loneliness and entrepreneurship, about home-making and faith-seeking and friend-making and The Bachelorette, but the truth is? I feel like I've written everything I know about those things. I've written about them until I just don't have any words, and I'm too busy, these days, living my life to write about it. 

Writing about it, of course, is how I cope. Even if I don't get the words out well, getting them out has always helped. Imagine, then, these past few months when it's all I can do to make it home in the evenings and get dinner on the table (and even that is rarely -- if ever -- happening like it should). I am tired, and I fear I'm consuming so much more than I am creating, but what else am I supposed to do? All of my creative energy is being pushed into the store, so when I'm home, I'm binging Netflix and reading books -- and any friend-making is virtually non-existent, because the energy simply isn't there. Instead, I'm relying on monthly Skype dates and weekly phone calls with long-distance friends,  plus visits and lunches and the occasional meet-up with an in-town acquaintance. I am trying, but it doesn't feel like enough. 

So here is my current plan: grace, grace, grace, and more grace. Grace upon grace, for others, but for me, too. I want to eat better, to live better, to write better, to be better, but sometimes? Good enough is all I can manage. This summer was meant to be lived more slowly than our other seasons, and for the most part, I think that's happening. So dinner doesn't always include a fresh vegetable, and we have yet to make a day trip to the beach. 

That's okay. 

You know what has happened? I've finished two seasons of Young and Hungry on Netflix. (Silly, but whatever. I wanted to binge watch a show this summer, and BOOM. Done.) I read nine books in June and am happily building my reading queue for July, starting with Kitchens of the Great Midwest. I Marie Kondo'd my closets, which was honestly all I could manage, and it's working for our home, so I'll count it a success. We've seen a couple of really great movies in the theatre, and we're walking around town when the humidity isn't too unbearable. We've made a list of home repairs we want to finish before the year's out, and I bought a new computer with earnings from the store. I'm slowly assembling a new Bookshelf staff, and -- lest I forget -- we took a pretty awesome trip to D.C. and spent some much-needed time with Jordan's family. We had some of our best friends over this past weekend for the holiday, and I slow-cooked ribs without burning down the kitchen. 

I haven't written this year like I wanted to, but I think when I look back, I'll realize I wrote enough: enough to get me through the hard months, and enough to remember the ups and downs I'll want to have on record when a new year rolls around. 

16/52 :: you take the good, you take the bad.

You take the good

You take the bad

You take them both

And there you have

The facts of life.

The facts of life.

--

A couple of weeks ago, before our Washington D.C. trip, before my employee resigned, before the proverbial poop hit the fan, before, before, before, I told Jordan my new mantra was, "You win some; you lose some." That particular week, I had made huge progress in a meeting for our One Book program coming this fall, but I'd also sent out a store email with rather large errors and confused the dates and times for two big shop events. The old Annie would have beaten herself up over the mistakes, but the new Annie knows: In entrepreneurship, mistakes are inevitable and frequent. 

You win some; you lose some. 

So last week, while Jordan and I were finally in D.C. on a trip we'd been planning since November, it shouldn't have surprised me to get an email from an employee, resigning from her post as the shop's resident social media and event guru. This employee has been a life saver these past nine months, but retail isn't for the faint of heart, and turnover -- no matter how hard you try -- is high. These are jobs with big responsibilities and little pay, and I know often, The Bookshelf is a stop on someone's journey to a job that's bigger, better, more in line with their career goals. 

All of this, then, is just life, but that doesn't make the news any easier when it's 11:30 p.m. on your last night of vacation, and you're realizing the summer -- which was supposed to be laid-back and relaxing -- just got a whole lot more stressful. 

I have been scrambling this week to fill the position, to get people in the store who I think will love it as much as I do. And you know? It's been okay. I think that's what I'm learning from all of this: The good, the bad. It's going to be okay. Maybe not perfect, maybe not better than before, but okay. Problems are solvable, and if I learn to take things in stride, the little blows that come with this job won't be as earth-shattering -- they'll just be hiccups in the growth of my business. 

When I was younger, I would watch reruns of The Facts of Life on TV Land. I've been humming the theme song to myself for weeks: "You take the good; you take the bad; you take them both; and then you have..." The facts of life aren't easy, but they also aren't going anywhere; these aren't details and struggles we outgrow. 

Last month, my family was able to go to the beach together for a few days. It was incredibly life-giving and fun, but I watched as my dad handled stresses of both work and home -- even on vacation. My grandmother had taken a fall, and there we were, six hours away, unable to help or get there quickly enough. My dad didn't mope about the hours he had to spend on the phone or the time it took to handle those life emergencies. That's just it; they're a part of life, and they don't go away just because you're on vacation or you're not mentally prepared to handle them. 

This is life. And it includes trips to the hospital and emergency surgeries and employees who quit and visits to the beach and vacations with your husband and family members in poor health. It includes job interviews and afternoons paying bills and good books and burnt dinners and phone calls and texts and emails you don't want to receive. 

You take the good. You take the bad. You take them both, and you know? It's all going to be okay.  

15/52 :: a brief lesson in caring.

The world is hard, isn't it? Between Nepal and Baltimore, we all have quite a bit to grieve. Add to the mix our own personal tragedies and hurts, and the burden becomes almost too much to bear. 

A few years ago, I wrote about grief, about living with it after my grandmother's death. I wrote about friends of ours who showed up in all kinds of loving ways: with groceries and cards and flowers and books. I'll never forget it. Those small acts of kindness are reminders it doesn't take much to show we care. And in the past week, I've had a chance to exercise those muscles, to show up for people who maybe weren't even expecting me to. 

Unfortunately -- and perhaps this is a consequence of being raised in the South -- I think we can often feel pressured to not just show up for those we love, but to show up in the right ways. Too often, I think we let that pressure prevent us from being present at all. We never mail the card because we don't know what to say; we don't take dinner, because we're not sure what to cook. 

Here, then, is my rule for grieving alongside someone: Just do it. In whatever ways you know how, no matter how awkward it might seem. And at 29, I have finally discovered the best ways for me to show I care, and I figured maybe you, too, struggle with showing up. Maybe you're not sure where to start. 

Here, then, is what works for me: 

If someone I love is grieving or celebrating, and they live within an hour's radius, I take them dinner. I don't send a text asking to cook dinner; I just say I am bringing it. Most people won't accept if you ask, so I just tell them I'm dropping it off. 

I rarely cook dinner myself. Let's not complicate things. Instead, I go to Publix. I grab one of their cute reusable grocery bags and add a rotisserie chicken, already done. I buy a hot-and-ready side, most frequently macaroni and cheese, because macaroni and cheese equals comfort. I grab a bagged salad mix, one that comes with its own dressing, plus a bottle of Simply Lemonade, which is my favorite. I add a magazine or a cheap movie and a dessert; a small bouquet of flowers rests on top. 

The beauty of this method is two-fold: It's simple, requiring very little preparation, and it requests nothing back. No one needs to return your dishes, because you didn't use any. You don't need the grocery bag back because it cost 99 cents and now belongs to someone else. The magazine and the flowers will offer distraction or happiness, maybe both. It took 10 minutes to compile. 

Sometimes, I deliver the food and visit. Mostly, I just drop it off. One bag. That's it. 

Many years ago, my friend Kari shared on her blog a phrase she'd picked up from the Quakers: "I'm holding you in the light." Ever since, those are the words I've penned in sympathy and encouragement cards over and over again, almost universally, no matter the circumstance. I can think of nothing more comforting.

That little bag of food -- for loved ones near -- and a text or phone call or card -- for loved ones far --  are the ways I hold the people I love near the light. It's how I remind them they're cared for and remembered, even in moments of darkness. 

I never want to let the fear of being perfect prevent me from being present. Grief is hard enough without bringing our own insecurities and hang-ups into the mix. 

Publix rotisserie chicken is what I have to give, and you know what? I think it's enough.

10/52 :: when surface is okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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