A few times on this blog I have mentioned Zac Smith, a man I had a class with my first semester of seminary. I remember becoming his class friend, along with another friend of mine, because from far we thought he was so smart, interesting, and subtly funny. He was also really cool. Which, yes, is still a factor when you are a sort-of grownup and in Seminary. When he moved, I can't say we remained in contact, but we were Facebook friends and the impression he made on me was one that was lasting, for whatever reason.
.
I found out via his blog that Zac had been diagnosed with cancer last May, very shortly after we lost Audrie, my sister. Perhaps because of the timing of it all, I was infuriated by the news and became immediately highly invested in praying for and keeping up with Zac's story. I have been so encouraged in the past year by Zac's writing about having cancer, his journey through treatment, clear scans, and bad news. It has been a privilege to hear Zac's insight, wisdom, and incredible faith throughout his entire ordeal this year.
.
On the list of things I do not understand, Zac's unwavering faith in the face of cancer is up there towards the top. It's a faith I respect, undoubtedly, but it has not been my experience. The past couple years of my family going through similar turmoil has, if I am honest, produced in me a sad, angry, and sometimes bitter heart. While Zac has been open about the bad days too, his words have encouraged me and continue to encourage me more than I can explain.
.
I want to share this video not to make you sad, but to share with you a little bit of what Zac has shared with me, whether he is aware of it or not. I am blessed, albeit bewildered, by his story and by his faith and conviction. It's a story that begs to be heard. I ask that you would pray for Zac and his wife and kids in the coming months, and it is my sincere hope that you are encouraged, as I have been, by Zac.
.
I like when my first impressions of people are right. (that doesn't happen very often.) Sometimes you just get a sense, upon observing someone, that you'd be a moron not to introduce yourself to that person. I'm so thankful that Zac's coolness intrigued us to introduce ourselves in New Testament in the fall of 2007. I couldn't have known then how much he would affect my life.
.
The Story of Zac Smith from NewSpring Media on Vimeo.
.
"God is still God." I need to hear that every day.
though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pens and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.
Habakkuk 3:17-18
March 28, 2010
March 21, 2010
if life is a highway, I do not want to ride it all night long.
Seriously though. Not even a little.
I spent the better part of Friday making the trek from Colorado to Kansas. Let me assure you: the drive across Eastern CO & Western KS, as it stands, is horrendous. Adding a blizzard into the mix, then, is absolutely unnecessary. Never again, weather. Never again.
but I digress.
I am pretty good at road trips. I don't love driving, though, not even a little, so I can't do it very often - but every few months or so I am ready for one. Its kind of like the extroverted version of introversion - 1 day of alone time for every 3-4 months of being with people perpetually. Like clockwork, I get antsy and sick of people and I crave 8 hours alone in my car.
But I have to keep myself entertained, so I have come up with some simple and fun games to play whilst driving across flatland. Like, for example, Phone Singing Chicken. Here's how it works. When I am in my car, unless there is another person present (and lets be honest, even when there is) chances are, I am singing. So when I call someone, I don't want to miss even a second of Kiss From a Rose or whatever, so I keep singing until they answer. The game, then, is to not get caught singing when the person answers the phone. It's tricky and highly entertaining. I know some of you do this too, because I've caught you before. Which I'm pretty sure by PSC rules means I win.
I also play the potty game. My mother always taught me that it was unladylike to say "pee." Among other things. I'm pretty sure it's unladylike to write publicly about potty, too, but that's neither here nor there. Ladylike or not, I am a card-carrying member of the IBBC (Itty Bitty Bladder Club), so road trips for me include a lot of pit stops. I realize this is stereotypical of me, as a female, but there's not a whole lot to be done about it. In my defense, if I'm not the one driving I can manage a lot better than if I am driving, thus requiring caffeine and cold beverages to ensure that I do not die in a fiery crash. But when I am alone, I make goals for myself. "I will not stop again until Colby, KS when I can go to the Oasis of the Plains (the best rest stop in the Sunflower State)." I must then pace my Diet Coke intake and inevitably end up holding it for a significantly long time in order to win the game. Against myself.
Speaking of rest stops, there are certain things that I only want to eat when I'm driving across state lines. I almost always eat Chex Mix when I'm driving, and I can honestly say there is no other time when I think to myself, "yes, I think Chex Mix sounds like a great choice. Now, Bold Party Mix, or Honey & Nut??" Not that there's anything wrong with Chex Mix; it just never happens. But put me in the car for 8 hours, and it sounds like the greatest thing ever. Now, when I was younger and we would take road trips, my snack of choice was what I now hold is one of the grosser options in any given convenience store: Combos.
I spent the better part of Friday making the trek from Colorado to Kansas. Let me assure you: the drive across Eastern CO & Western KS, as it stands, is horrendous. Adding a blizzard into the mix, then, is absolutely unnecessary. Never again, weather. Never again.
but I digress.
I am pretty good at road trips. I don't love driving, though, not even a little, so I can't do it very often - but every few months or so I am ready for one. Its kind of like the extroverted version of introversion - 1 day of alone time for every 3-4 months of being with people perpetually. Like clockwork, I get antsy and sick of people and I crave 8 hours alone in my car.
But I have to keep myself entertained, so I have come up with some simple and fun games to play whilst driving across flatland. Like, for example, Phone Singing Chicken. Here's how it works. When I am in my car, unless there is another person present (and lets be honest, even when there is) chances are, I am singing. So when I call someone, I don't want to miss even a second of Kiss From a Rose or whatever, so I keep singing until they answer. The game, then, is to not get caught singing when the person answers the phone. It's tricky and highly entertaining. I know some of you do this too, because I've caught you before. Which I'm pretty sure by PSC rules means I win.
I also play the potty game. My mother always taught me that it was unladylike to say "pee." Among other things. I'm pretty sure it's unladylike to write publicly about potty, too, but that's neither here nor there. Ladylike or not, I am a card-carrying member of the IBBC (Itty Bitty Bladder Club), so road trips for me include a lot of pit stops. I realize this is stereotypical of me, as a female, but there's not a whole lot to be done about it. In my defense, if I'm not the one driving I can manage a lot better than if I am driving, thus requiring caffeine and cold beverages to ensure that I do not die in a fiery crash. But when I am alone, I make goals for myself. "I will not stop again until Colby, KS when I can go to the Oasis of the Plains (the best rest stop in the Sunflower State)." I must then pace my Diet Coke intake and inevitably end up holding it for a significantly long time in order to win the game. Against myself.
Speaking of rest stops, there are certain things that I only want to eat when I'm driving across state lines. I almost always eat Chex Mix when I'm driving, and I can honestly say there is no other time when I think to myself, "yes, I think Chex Mix sounds like a great choice. Now, Bold Party Mix, or Honey & Nut??" Not that there's anything wrong with Chex Mix; it just never happens. But put me in the car for 8 hours, and it sounds like the greatest thing ever. Now, when I was younger and we would take road trips, my snack of choice was what I now hold is one of the grosser options in any given convenience store: Combos.
Honestly, just googling the pictures made me a little nauseous. I really entered the danger-zone when I saw this:
I know. I'm sorry. I'll give you a moment.
IN MY DEFENSE, I only liked the basic cheese-and-cracker varieties. I wasn't into all that weird stuff.
But the truth remains that I unabashedly loved Combos as a child. I'm not proud of it.
Another thing I love eating in the car is Mike & Ikes. Yesterday I was considering buying a little mini bag at the Oasis when I saw berry flavored Mike & Ikes. My rational brain knows this sounds disgusting, but road trip brain thought it sounded awesome. Rational brain was right. I should have known something called "peach berry" was not a good choice. It's never a good sign when they make up flavors. "Hmm. This doesn't really taste like berry. It kind of tastes like some weird fruit hybrid. But we've already produced it in bulk for the berry bags. I guess we'll just say its peach berry and call it good." G-ross.
In order to keep myself entertained (read: awake), in addition to playing games & eating weird snacks, I sing entire musicals. I do. I sing through entire show soundtracks. I am almost always lacking in vocal capacity when I arrive at my destination. I mimic Kristin Chenoweth, and I harmonize with Lesley Ann Warren. I am Cinderella, Aida, Elphaba, and Eliza Doolittle in a matter of a few hours. My repertoire is extensive, to say the least. I don't allow myself to listen to showtunes very often, except for on the open road. There may even be some acting involved from time to time. Because how do you sing Les Miserables without some emotion? I mean really.
Thats just a little insight into my road trip habits. Have you decided to stop reading my blog because I'm so odd you can stand it no longer? Hope not. Because maybe someday we'll have to go on a road trip together. Then you'll appreciate my quirks.
March 13, 2010
lost arts, and the like
I don't feel like I really know a person until I've seen their handwriting.
That might sound a little shallow to you. Allow me to explain myself.
I received a card in the mail just the other day from a new-ish friend. After I contained my joy enough to focus on who had sent said card, because yes, any mail that does not have the "return service requested" mark (that appears on bills and junk mail) fills me with glee, I realized I didn't recognize the handwriting. Thanks to my masters degree, I looked at the return address and thus discovered who the card was from. Context clues. Try to contain your awe at my smarts.
[Now, I have been sitting here for minutes upon minutes trying to think of a way to describe my card-reception emotions in a way that does not make me sound like I'm a character in a Nicholas Sparks novel. Alas - I cannot think of one. I'm as distressed as you are, I assure you. I ask you for your pardon. Just this once.]
It warmed my heart. I mean a literal, actual warmth in the cardiac vicinity kind of situation. It was the grown-up equivalent of a warm fuzzy, if you will. It is no secret that I like words, and I like seeing words just slightly more than I like hearing words. (One might also call "seeing words" "reading," but that's neither here nor there.) I like emails, I like texts, I like blog comments, I like Facebook posts - I like all of it a great deal. But there is nothing I love as much as I love handwritten sentiments.
Snail mail. A note on post-it. Or scribbled on the back of a J.Crew receipt.
A quick & breezy thank you note (a lost art in and of itself, but thats another story for another time.)
And oh, oh oh oh, how I melt at the arrival of a greeting card.
Personalized stationary? Be still my heart.
Just like I prefer Cary Grant & the classics over Brad Pitt in theaters any day, I am a traditionalist when it comes to written communication as well. I swooned at Dean Martin dancing in the park, and in a similar fashion, handwritten letters? I'm weak in the knees. Which is perhaps part of the reason why, inexplicably, seeing someone's handwriting makes me feel closer to them. Kind of like how you feel after a 3 am sleepover-style heart-to-heart, or meeting someone's family - its another piece of who they are. Its the kind of detail that, for whatever reason, makes you feel kind of special; a little bit like I've been let in on a secret. And I love secrets. Shocking.
Handwriting is a lost art, if you ask me. [And by coming to my blog, I would posit that you did, sort of, ask me.] While a friend can touch me deeply with an email, while friendships grow with a few casual posts to a Facebook wall, and romance blossoms (whether I approve or not, as it were) over the exchange of a few flirtatious texts --
handwriting is intimate.
Thats the only way I can think to describe it.
March 6, 2010
I ain't gotta work at the mall again [i have so many jobs]
Job #2. J.Crew.
Yes. Yes I did quote Kanye West's "Kanye's New Workout Plan" just then in the title. Deal.
.
[Disclaimer: I am NOT complaining, not about a single one of these lovely people who give me paychecks. No way Jose. It is merely a social commentary, of sorts, about the ins and outs of working in these different jobs. It's humor, not discontent. Don't be confused.]
.
[Disclaimer: I am NOT complaining, not about a single one of these lovely people who give me paychecks. No way Jose. It is merely a social commentary, of sorts, about the ins and outs of working in these different jobs. It's humor, not discontent. Don't be confused.]
.
I don't get nearly as many funny responses to this job - it's pretty much a business-as-usual kind of deal. Well, that's not entirely true. When I called to tell my family I had gotten the job, my sister Audrie made ENDLESS fun of me. "You work at the mall, now, huh? So you're probably going to start hanging out at Orange Julius now too, right?" She never let that go, actually. The Orange Julius jokes were pretty much an ongoing sort of situation. But I feel pretty firmly that it's ok to make fun of me as long as its funny, which lets face it, Orange Julius? That’s funny. This is why everyone in my family makes fun of everyone else in my family all the time. Because we're also hilarious.
.
So I've been working at this delightful place for nearly 2 years, & I've never looked back. Now, while board-folding, "Can I help you match a cardigan with that skirt?" and "Oh that looks fabulous, now just belt it to complete the look" are not, per say, my passions in life, I do genuinely like this job. Whether or not that has more to do with the sweet, pee-your-pants funny people I work with, who's to say. But I like the J.Crew.
.
Here is a list of things I have learned in my time with the mall.
.
1. We're all about customer service here. If you, Customer, need a size 8, I will be more than happy to run to the back and do a stock check for you. We don't have it? Would you like me to call another store? They don't have it either? I'd be happy to help you use the Red Phone to order what you need. You'd like to yell at me instead? You're right. I can't believe I am so worthless that I cannot manufacture a pair of size 8 chinos for you right here in this moment. I'm not sure what is wrong with me. Oh, the other $600 of merchandise I helped you with for over an hour – you'd like to put that on hold for 4-6 weeks? Perfect. Lovely. Whatever I can do for you, Customer. Have a great afternoon! Yes, I suppose it is evening. Have a great one of those then.
The customer is always right.
Here is a secret: approximately 7.6 out of 10 Customers are not only right, but are also idiots.
.
2. As sales associates, our voices get approximately 63% more high-pitched when we are talking to customers. Its actually kind of an amazing phenomenon. You could be talking (in normal voice) about how awful your life is, and how you’ve had the swine flu for 5 weeks, and the minute a customer is in sight, its “HI! How are you this evening! Great!! Let me know if there’s anything at all I can help you with!!!” Kind of like talking to a dog or small child. Or being a cheerleader. We all have separate voices for helping people than our real ones. This isn't something they tell us in training or anything, either. It is a naturally occurring phenomenon.
.
3. When you go into customer-voice-mode, sometimes you end up saying things you don't normally say. I end up saying, "If you need anything at all just holler at me!" WAY more often than I'm comfortable with. In no other setting would I say that. The fitting rooms are like a vortex for saying weird things.
.
3. When you go into customer-voice-mode, sometimes you end up saying things you don't normally say. I end up saying, "If you need anything at all just holler at me!" WAY more often than I'm comfortable with. In no other setting would I say that. The fitting rooms are like a vortex for saying weird things.
.
4. Using the sticker gun for markdowns is my favorite. The clicking sound makes me feel important.
.
5. My other favorite thing is during the holidays when we’re busy and we get to use the headsets in order to relay important messages to one another about stock checks and who is and is not on the floor. But if you are ever in a store and there are people with headsets, and one of them starts awkwardly laughing while they’re ringing you up, mark my words. Someone just said, “that’s what she said.”
.
6. The soundtrack. Oh, the soundtrack. Are you ever in a store and feel like banging your head against a wall because the music is so weird? Try working a 6 hour shift with it playing on repeat. And, my mind is like a venus fly trap where lyrics are concerned. So, said weird songs remain playing in my brain for hourrrrrs after my shift has ended. Then sometimes I end up knowing and actually liking some of the songs. Which is problematic & embarrassing on several levels.
.
7. The only place I have seen more women in their skivvies than the J.Crew fitting room is the locker room at the YMCA where old ladies freely roam around in the buff. These are the two magical places wherein women do not feel like modesty is necessary in any way, shape, or form.
.
8. Learning to buy clothes with a discount is a tricky sort of business. The problem is, everything is so grandiosely inexpensive in comparison that one feels as though one must buy every shirt that costs $10. I can talk myself into thinking anything is cute when it costs $10. Let me tell you something: $10 shirts add up quickly. And chances are, one won't even end up liking 3 out of every 5 shirts one purchases. I have more than a few things in my closet that we will call "poor choices." But at the time, the sticker shock of how much money one is saving is too much for one to handle. I'm proud to say I have gotten much better at this game, and buy only things I genuinely like (or that Jenny and Reenie tell me I can like.)
.
So those are some of the many things I have learned whilst working this job. And a big shout out to the homeboys and homegirls I get to work with. They make board folding seem like dancing at the Tavern. They make cleaning out dressing rooms (where 60 year old women treat clothes like I did when I was 15) as fun as singing karaoke. They make coming in for a shift as exciting as going to a party where all the popular kids are.
Ok. I'm done now. Point is: I like them.
.
Peace, Love, & Cardigans,
Megan "selling machine" Greaves
.
So those are some of the many things I have learned whilst working this job. And a big shout out to the homeboys and homegirls I get to work with. They make board folding seem like dancing at the Tavern. They make cleaning out dressing rooms (where 60 year old women treat clothes like I did when I was 15) as fun as singing karaoke. They make coming in for a shift as exciting as going to a party where all the popular kids are.
Ok. I'm done now. Point is: I like them.
.
Peace, Love, & Cardigans,
Megan "selling machine" Greaves
March 1, 2010
sonic the hedge fund [i have so many jobs]
As many of you may have heard, I graduated in December with a Masters in Counseling. While I apply for jobs like a crazy person and simultaneously try to ascertain what I'd like to do with said degree, I have been working whatever part-time jobs I can get in an attempt to cover as many of my bills as possible until I score a big girl j-o-b. I decided it might be a good idea to document what this has been like.
We will start with my job as office peon at the Hedge Fund.
[Disclaimer: I am NOT complaining, not about a single one of these lovely people who give me paychecks. No way. It is merely a social commentary, of sorts, about the ins and outs of working in these different arenas and piddly jobs. It's humor, not discontent. Don't be confused.]
First of all, lets discuss the reactions I have gotten to having this job:
"What's a hedge fund?" - every single girl
"Do you even know what a hedge fund is?" - almost every guy
"THAT IS SO AWESOME AND MY NEW FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOU DO YOU THINK YOU CAN GET ME A JOB THERE TOO?" - Kenneth
"Like, landscaping? That kind of hedge?" - anonymous
"Wait... the hedge fund... is that like, where your [counseling] internship is?" - Kim
lady at church, excited: "Kenneth told me you got a sweet new job! Congratulations!"
me, confused: "um, no, not yet, what is he talking about? ... oh. you mean the hedge fund."
"you really do work at a hedge fund? I actually thought that was a joke this whole time." - Cristy
In all honesty, its a very simple job. I mean, very simple. Just last week I said to a friend, "I'm pretty sure if Timmy could read, he could do my HF job." Timmy is my nephew. And he is 5. Probably a smart monkey could do it, too. All you really have to know is the alphabet. So, while my counseling skills are becoming dormant due to lack of practice, my knowledge of the alphabet is really sharp. So, there's that. (There's also the fact that they pay me ridiculous amounts of dollars to get good at the alphabet. Thus: I do not complain.)
I spent a solid 5.5 HOURS on Thursday ensuring that 4 full file cabinets of files were in alphabetical order (still not even half done, by the by). As in, I pulled each file for every month of 2009 and 2010 thus far and ensured that the business tickers were in alphabetical order. By date. Getting praise for doing this job well almost feels like a thinly veiled insult.
"Wow, Speedy Gonzales! Done already? You are good!" (This is an actual quote.)
[internally]: Really? Thats impressive to you? I mean, it's the alphabet. I guess I have been familiarizing myself with it for years, so I'm pretty good... wait a second. Are you making fun of me?"
.
Sometimes, when I am literally unpacking and stacking copy paper in the places that the higher-ups like it to be, I feel like yelling, "Ummmm, hey everyone? I have a masters degree. Stacking your paper is not a career goal of mine. I just wanted to remind you. Hey you, guy, quit trading stocks and bonds and dealing with bajillions of dollars and acknowledge that I am smart, please! Ok. We're good here. As you were." Thankfully, while my counseling muscles slowly atrophy, my social skills are still really top notch, so I can restrain myself from saying such things.
So, there you have it. A day in the life at the HF. I really don't mind it, to be honest. Even though I feel like I'm getting gold stars for tasks that a kindergartner could master quickly, lets be honest, who doesn't like gold stars, regardless of where they come from? Not to mention, it's incredibly gratifying to start a project, finish it, and then just be done! That doesn't happen so much when you're dealing with people's emotions.
Actually, it never happens. Not ever.
In truth, counseling another human is 87% messier and more stressful than collating, stapling, trifolding, and sending a monthly statement to investors. I rarely cry over data entry, and its hard to get secondary trauma from a project that entails making new labels for an entire file cabinet.
Hmm. Perhaps I've made a career mistake?
I'd go for a full time gig with the HF, embracing the world of finance as my home, but I doubt that would work out.
Mostly because I'm still not entirely sure what a Hedge Fund is.
We will start with my job as office peon at the Hedge Fund.
[Disclaimer: I am NOT complaining, not about a single one of these lovely people who give me paychecks. No way. It is merely a social commentary, of sorts, about the ins and outs of working in these different arenas and piddly jobs. It's humor, not discontent. Don't be confused.]
First of all, lets discuss the reactions I have gotten to having this job:
"What's a hedge fund?" - every single girl
"Do you even know what a hedge fund is?" - almost every guy
"THAT IS SO AWESOME AND MY NEW FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOU DO YOU THINK YOU CAN GET ME A JOB THERE TOO?" - Kenneth
"Like, landscaping? That kind of hedge?" - anonymous
"Wait... the hedge fund... is that like, where your [counseling] internship is?" - Kim
lady at church, excited: "Kenneth told me you got a sweet new job! Congratulations!"
me, confused: "um, no, not yet, what is he talking about? ... oh. you mean the hedge fund."
"you really do work at a hedge fund? I actually thought that was a joke this whole time." - Cristy
In all honesty, its a very simple job. I mean, very simple. Just last week I said to a friend, "I'm pretty sure if Timmy could read, he could do my HF job." Timmy is my nephew. And he is 5. Probably a smart monkey could do it, too. All you really have to know is the alphabet. So, while my counseling skills are becoming dormant due to lack of practice, my knowledge of the alphabet is really sharp. So, there's that. (There's also the fact that they pay me ridiculous amounts of dollars to get good at the alphabet. Thus: I do not complain.)
I spent a solid 5.5 HOURS on Thursday ensuring that 4 full file cabinets of files were in alphabetical order (still not even half done, by the by). As in, I pulled each file for every month of 2009 and 2010 thus far and ensured that the business tickers were in alphabetical order. By date. Getting praise for doing this job well almost feels like a thinly veiled insult.
"Wow, Speedy Gonzales! Done already? You are good!" (This is an actual quote.)
[internally]: Really? Thats impressive to you? I mean, it's the alphabet. I guess I have been familiarizing myself with it for years, so I'm pretty good... wait a second. Are you making fun of me?"
.
Sometimes, when I am literally unpacking and stacking copy paper in the places that the higher-ups like it to be, I feel like yelling, "Ummmm, hey everyone? I have a masters degree. Stacking your paper is not a career goal of mine. I just wanted to remind you. Hey you, guy, quit trading stocks and bonds and dealing with bajillions of dollars and acknowledge that I am smart, please! Ok. We're good here. As you were." Thankfully, while my counseling muscles slowly atrophy, my social skills are still really top notch, so I can restrain myself from saying such things.
So, there you have it. A day in the life at the HF. I really don't mind it, to be honest. Even though I feel like I'm getting gold stars for tasks that a kindergartner could master quickly, lets be honest, who doesn't like gold stars, regardless of where they come from? Not to mention, it's incredibly gratifying to start a project, finish it, and then just be done! That doesn't happen so much when you're dealing with people's emotions.
Actually, it never happens. Not ever.
In truth, counseling another human is 87% messier and more stressful than collating, stapling, trifolding, and sending a monthly statement to investors. I rarely cry over data entry, and its hard to get secondary trauma from a project that entails making new labels for an entire file cabinet.
Hmm. Perhaps I've made a career mistake?
I'd go for a full time gig with the HF, embracing the world of finance as my home, but I doubt that would work out.
Mostly because I'm still not entirely sure what a Hedge Fund is.
February 21, 2010
Invitation to the Thirsty
today was my Sunday at the Well. sometimes I leave there exhausted, and today is no exception, but my heart is exceptionally full, today, too. I find that I am loved well when I'm given a chance to love other people. my train of thought on the drive home took me to Isaiah 55 (the beginning, specifically), and when I looked it up, I saw that it is titled "Invitation to the Thirsty." I've never noticed that before. I love the addition of the word, "invitation." (actually, I just love invitations in general. maybe that is another love language of mine. I have so many! but that's neither here nor there.)
[Invitation to the Thirsty]
Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy, and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost. Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare. Give ear and come to me; hear me, that your soul may live.
try as we may to deny it, we're all thirsty. & we're all invited.
I don't know about you all, but I think I would like for my soul to delight in the richest of fare.
yes, please.
[Invitation to the Thirsty]
Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy, and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost. Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare. Give ear and come to me; hear me, that your soul may live.
try as we may to deny it, we're all thirsty. & we're all invited.
I don't know about you all, but I think I would like for my soul to delight in the richest of fare.
yes, please.
cary grant is a dreamboat [a salute to the classics]
I love the classics. I do. Old music, old movies, old movie stars. Classics are classics for a reason! Now, I'm not going to sit here and try and sell to you that Bonnie Tyler is considered either "old" or "classic" - but it is oldER and MORE classic than, say, Beyonce. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Last night, as per usual, we found ourselves singing karaoke. No one is surprised by this. My friend Adam and I sang a breathtaking duet of Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart. We had an entire table of girls serving as our backup singers, which was festive. Needless to say, it was a crowd pleaser.
So later that night, I'm in the bathroom (let me preface: the Dubbs bathroom is a horrible experience. The stall door is awkwardly sized so when you stand you can see over it & when you sit the person waiting can almost definitely see your underoos. Not to mention the naked lady mural (its her back, relax) which you are forced to stare at while you... you know. Unfortunate to say the least. I'd really hate to see what the men's room is like.) So I'm standing there, and I have this conversation with rando girl:
rando: hey, are you the girl that sang that song earlier?
me: oh, you mean "total eclipse of the heart"?
rando looks exceptionally confused: no, no, no. the old school one.
me: yeah, the Bonnie Tyler song?
rando looks at me like I'm nuts: no, that song from Old School, you know, with Will Ferrell?
me, trying desperately not to reach over and slice rando: right. "turn aroooound, briiiight eyes"?
rando is excited: YES!! that one! from the movie! you guys should have said the f-words too like they do in the movie!
Aside from my stroooooong desire to slap her ridiculous face (I refrained, fear not), my heart broke a little.
Total Eclipse of the Heart is a GREAT song. And now it's known as "that one from Old School with the f-words?" ?!?! This chick was at the very least the same age as me. I was so ashamed.
My defense of 80's power ballads has caused me to recall how much I love 80's movies (Don't even get me started. Pretty in Pink, 16 Candles, Some Kind of Wonderful, Ferris Bueller... you know, everything John Hughes ever did.) This caused me to reminisce how much I love old movies in general. (This was also spurred by a favorite movies conversation & the fact that I spent the afternoon watching Audrey Hepburn & Cary Grant in Charade.) Current movies are just not as good as the old ones. Nothing today compares to how happy I am when Mr. John Truett catches up to Miss Esther on the trolley in Meet Me in St. Louis. My heart swoons when Dean Martin and Judy Holliday dance in the park in Bells are Ringing. (Seriously. I want that dress. And I want to dance in a park. I do not think this is too much to ask.) No current actress is as glamorous as Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's or Grace Kelly in High Society. No one writes a mystery like Hitchcock, and few if any current actors are as dreamy as Cary Grant. It's just a fact. Sorry, George Clooney. You lose.
I'm not altogether sure what my point is, other than that I don't ever want to be ignorant about classic entertainment and its superiority to contemporary pop culture or be generalized as a generation who doesn't know who Julie Andrews & Humphrey Bogart are. I grew up watching Hello, Dolly!, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and Thoroughly Modern Millie. (Em, Lainey, can I get an amen?!) I wouldn't trade that for whatever ridiculous trash girls are watching today (sorry, Hannah Montana). I will not stand for living in a world where "who's Jimmy Stewart?" is a valid question. My children will know who Doris Day is. They will also be familiar with Bonnie Tyler & probably Journey. I'm just saying.
So later that night, I'm in the bathroom (let me preface: the Dubbs bathroom is a horrible experience. The stall door is awkwardly sized so when you stand you can see over it & when you sit the person waiting can almost definitely see your underoos. Not to mention the naked lady mural (its her back, relax) which you are forced to stare at while you... you know. Unfortunate to say the least. I'd really hate to see what the men's room is like.) So I'm standing there, and I have this conversation with rando girl:
rando: hey, are you the girl that sang that song earlier?
me: oh, you mean "total eclipse of the heart"?
rando looks exceptionally confused: no, no, no. the old school one.
me: yeah, the Bonnie Tyler song?
rando looks at me like I'm nuts: no, that song from Old School, you know, with Will Ferrell?
me, trying desperately not to reach over and slice rando: right. "turn aroooound, briiiight eyes"?
rando is excited: YES!! that one! from the movie! you guys should have said the f-words too like they do in the movie!
Aside from my stroooooong desire to slap her ridiculous face (I refrained, fear not), my heart broke a little.
Total Eclipse of the Heart is a GREAT song. And now it's known as "that one from Old School with the f-words?" ?!?! This chick was at the very least the same age as me. I was so ashamed.
My defense of 80's power ballads has caused me to recall how much I love 80's movies (Don't even get me started. Pretty in Pink, 16 Candles, Some Kind of Wonderful, Ferris Bueller... you know, everything John Hughes ever did.) This caused me to reminisce how much I love old movies in general. (This was also spurred by a favorite movies conversation & the fact that I spent the afternoon watching Audrey Hepburn & Cary Grant in Charade.) Current movies are just not as good as the old ones. Nothing today compares to how happy I am when Mr. John Truett catches up to Miss Esther on the trolley in Meet Me in St. Louis. My heart swoons when Dean Martin and Judy Holliday dance in the park in Bells are Ringing. (Seriously. I want that dress. And I want to dance in a park. I do not think this is too much to ask.) No current actress is as glamorous as Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's or Grace Kelly in High Society. No one writes a mystery like Hitchcock, and few if any current actors are as dreamy as Cary Grant. It's just a fact. Sorry, George Clooney. You lose.
I'm not altogether sure what my point is, other than that I don't ever want to be ignorant about classic entertainment and its superiority to contemporary pop culture or be generalized as a generation who doesn't know who Julie Andrews & Humphrey Bogart are. I grew up watching Hello, Dolly!, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and Thoroughly Modern Millie. (Em, Lainey, can I get an amen?!) I wouldn't trade that for whatever ridiculous trash girls are watching today (sorry, Hannah Montana). I will not stand for living in a world where "who's Jimmy Stewart?" is a valid question. My children will know who Doris Day is. They will also be familiar with Bonnie Tyler & probably Journey. I'm just saying.
February 18, 2010
and to dust you will return [ash wednesday]
I love Ash Wednesday.
One year ago, I walked into to Ash Wednesday service and felt so broken I was sure I could never be put back together. I expected nothing. (Aside from more disappointment, maybe.) I sat and listened to how Lent was a season that brought us to Easter, and how for many it was a messy, muddy, windblown path. I related. Then I read these words - "the ashes are a prerequisite for Easter. Brokenness for healing, death for resurrection." I remember vividly how those words pierced my heart. They comforted me unlike anything else had done. I came there, broken, & now saw clearly the exchange that was possible.
I was excited all day yesterday, and I think it's because that memory of comfort and of the glimmer of joy that felt, in that moment, like more than enough. It took a long time after that Wednesday night for things to look better for reals, but the groundwork was laid. That glimmer carried me to Easter, which carried me through March, April & May, when everything fell to pieces. I wanted this year's to yield similar results.
In church tonight, my pastor talked about the meaning of Ash Wednesday. He spoke of a time when the worst sinners were called penitents, and were adorned with ashes on their foreheads as a scarlet letter of sorts, to set them apart. As time passed, people began to realize that they were no better than the penitents, and took on the ashes themselves. Now we wear the ashes to symbolize the beginning of Lent, a season which is intended to bring us closer to the God and Savior who created and redeemed us. The ashes symbolize our repentance, our grief over our sins. I just think the whole ashes business is a really exquisite picture of community and of our brokenness before God. I have a hard time thinking of anything more beautiful than this: to love broken people with our whole broken selves. It's the best, most genuine, most authentic, boldest thing we can do, really.
Thinking about where I was when I wrote about Lent last year is really hard. I can't not cry over that place, knowing what lies just ahead. And this year, I am proud to bear the ashes, to bear my brokenness for and with my beautifully and similarly broken community. I am honored to walk hand in hand with those who love my broken heart with their broken hearts. We sang "Come Ye Sinners" in church tonight, which is one of those songs that I used to sing a lot, have since forgotten about, and tonight met me with the same familiar comfort of the season itself. One verse in particular resonates with me every time I hear it:
come, ye weary, heavy-laden, lost and ruined by the fall;
if you tarry till you're better, you will never come at all
We enter this season in a state of collective brokenness. We repent of our sin and are washed clean. And how fortunate that we needn't tarry [delay, wait] till we're better. Or else I think the song is right... we would never come at all. We aren't required to get better. We just come broken, as we are; and Jesus pretty much takes care of the rest.
cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
wash me and I will be whiter than snow.
let me hear joy & gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice.
you do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;
you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.
the sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;
a broken & contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.
[from Psalm 51]
One year ago, I walked into to Ash Wednesday service and felt so broken I was sure I could never be put back together. I expected nothing. (Aside from more disappointment, maybe.) I sat and listened to how Lent was a season that brought us to Easter, and how for many it was a messy, muddy, windblown path. I related. Then I read these words - "the ashes are a prerequisite for Easter. Brokenness for healing, death for resurrection." I remember vividly how those words pierced my heart. They comforted me unlike anything else had done. I came there, broken, & now saw clearly the exchange that was possible.
I was excited all day yesterday, and I think it's because that memory of comfort and of the glimmer of joy that felt, in that moment, like more than enough. It took a long time after that Wednesday night for things to look better for reals, but the groundwork was laid. That glimmer carried me to Easter, which carried me through March, April & May, when everything fell to pieces. I wanted this year's to yield similar results.
In church tonight, my pastor talked about the meaning of Ash Wednesday. He spoke of a time when the worst sinners were called penitents, and were adorned with ashes on their foreheads as a scarlet letter of sorts, to set them apart. As time passed, people began to realize that they were no better than the penitents, and took on the ashes themselves. Now we wear the ashes to symbolize the beginning of Lent, a season which is intended to bring us closer to the God and Savior who created and redeemed us. The ashes symbolize our repentance, our grief over our sins. I just think the whole ashes business is a really exquisite picture of community and of our brokenness before God. I have a hard time thinking of anything more beautiful than this: to love broken people with our whole broken selves. It's the best, most genuine, most authentic, boldest thing we can do, really.
Thinking about where I was when I wrote about Lent last year is really hard. I can't not cry over that place, knowing what lies just ahead. And this year, I am proud to bear the ashes, to bear my brokenness for and with my beautifully and similarly broken community. I am honored to walk hand in hand with those who love my broken heart with their broken hearts. We sang "Come Ye Sinners" in church tonight, which is one of those songs that I used to sing a lot, have since forgotten about, and tonight met me with the same familiar comfort of the season itself. One verse in particular resonates with me every time I hear it:
come, ye weary, heavy-laden, lost and ruined by the fall;
if you tarry till you're better, you will never come at all
We enter this season in a state of collective brokenness. We repent of our sin and are washed clean. And how fortunate that we needn't tarry [delay, wait] till we're better. Or else I think the song is right... we would never come at all. We aren't required to get better. We just come broken, as we are; and Jesus pretty much takes care of the rest.
cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
wash me and I will be whiter than snow.
let me hear joy & gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice.
you do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;
you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.
the sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;
a broken & contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.
[from Psalm 51]
February 14, 2010
ahh, valentines day... we meet again.
Maybe you've heard of the concept of love languages?
Well, I'm 97% sure that blog commenting counts as a love language.
And I'm 100% sure that it's mine.
I want to say thank you to all of you who comment (be it in emails, texts, in person, on the phone, in the actual comments section, or just in your hearts - yes, those too) - I am so thankful for you. You love me so well & I am so blessed. It's like all the best human beings found me and decided to, for some unknown reason, be in my life. How fortuitous.
Oh, and speaking of the L bomb - it's love, if you were confused - it's valentine's day. Weird. Last year I was relatively positive about good ol' VD. This year I find myself in a similarly un-bitter state. Although my inner cynic thinks this e-card is really funny.It is my sincere hope that on this, the Hallmark* inspired day of love, each of you feels loved. Somehow we have been convinced that in order to call VD a successful day, you have to be on a hot date, staring deeply into another persons eyes (and making everyone around you uncomfortable), rose petals need to be sprinkled somewhere, and probably at some point you need to be serenaded with some crappy Bryan Adams song. False. I'm calling BS. I hope that you just get to spend it with people you love. Or at least like a whole lot. No disconcerting PDA needs to be included, if you ask me.
(Although... I'll probably partake in some of that at some point or another - probably in the form of touching Alli's butt, holding Kimbert's hand for a longish period of time, or just face kissing unsuspecting friends. Physical touch is a love language too, you know. Shoot, I might even sing Bryan Adams. But that's not Valentine's Day specific, just run-of-the-mill behavior for me. So I think its acceptable. Yes, I'm finished now.)
I hope you are hugged, face kissed, or otherwise groped in some acceptably inappropriate manner this Valentine's Day. I hope someone tells you that you're their favorite. And I really hope that you feel in the deepest core of yourself how very much Jesus loves you. I assure you, it's a lot.
If nothing else, I love you. Probably, anyway. So there's that.
* Let it be known, I have no beef with Hallmark. I love Hallmark, actually. I am a huge proponent of greeting cards, and a frequent flyer at the Hallmark stores... just ask my rewards card.
** And if you're into the sappy stuff, here's my very favorite love poem of all time. Of. All. Time.
February 2, 2010
music & lyrics (not the movie, though. that movie was terrible.)
Many moons ago, I found myself in a karaoke bar (shocking, I know) in San Antonio. On this night, we were granted the immense pleasure of hearing a grown woman in a skin-tight black dress sing Monica's "Angel of Mine" with a fierce intensity unlike I have ever seen. My dear sweet friend, Kristin Ann Foster, said this: "Remember when this song was popular, in middle school, and you'd sit in your room in the dark listening to it on repeat and think to yourself 'THIS IS WHAT LOVE IS!!!!'??" Needless to say - we all knew what she was talking about. Crystal clear. Just like the Pepsi. (I can't stop. This post is going to be positively riddled with 90's references. You'll be fine.)
If I was lucky, though, I could get a ride to the mall and buy the CD single at Sam Goody. I distinctly remember when I obtained the single of the not-nearly-popular-enough song "Never Ever" by All Saints. I LOVED that song. Loved it. (Actually, lets be honest - I still do. Whenever it comes on my tiny red iPod, I immediately revert back to age 12. I feel a thrill of teen anguish coupled with an exceptionally impassioned love for Jonathan Taylor Thomas. The latter I have no excuse for.) I distinctly remember sitting on the deck in the backyard with my Discman, listening to this song on repeat. As I listened, I furiously wrote the lyrics in my journal - pausing every few lines to catch up - so as to memorize them. To this day, I can flawlessly sing the intro to that song. Lets just say its something I'm pretty proud of.
Quite literally the only reason I wrote all of that was to preface the fact that I am still a pretty big fan of music & I am eternally grateful to the internetz for providing me with the lyrics to define my life's meaning at my beck and call. Can I also say right here that I am SO thankful that the internet was not the way it is now when I was 12? So. very. grateful. But I digress.
There is just something so lovely about good music, and for me as a lover of words, something even more lovely about good lyrics. The newest craze in the community of my friends is the band Mumford & Sons. It's one of those magical albums where every single song is good. This hasn't happened to me since I discovered Maroon 5's Songs About Jane when I was in college. I was beginning to think I would never feel that way again - then, just when I wasn't looking, along came Sigh No More. So delightful. And oh, the lyrics - be still my heart!
I will leave you with my (current) favorite lyric - from the song Roll Away Your Stone - and also a firm suggestion that you listen to some of this music ASAP. (You can even Google the lyrics, if you want. No one will judge you.)
it seems that all my bridges have been burned
but you say, "That's exactly how this grace thing works."
it's not the long walk home that will change this heart -
but the welcome I receive with every start
I just love that.
Music & lyrics, my friends. Really bringing things full circle.
January 18, 2010
like an unforeseen kiss
Much as I hate to admit it, my adherence to the belief that God is good is a little bit conditional. Are things good? Ok yeah, God's good! Do things suck? *Crickets.* Suddenly I'm hesitant. This might sound just horrible, but it sometimes feels to me like conceding, giving in. (To what? I'm not sure.) It also, at times, feels to me like a platitude - like something people say to gloss over something uncomfortable. And I like that even less than I like concession. I'd go so far as to say that I like platitudes even less than I like encased meats. Which is to say, I hate them with the burning passion of a thousand suns. (Oh hyperbole, how I love thee.)
BUT. In recent weeks, I have been floored by how well I am loved. I feel like it's legitimately ridiculous. I call a friend to say I had a yucky week, and we are sitting on my bed and drinking wine and talking and laughing. I talk over breakfast burritos about hurt and pain, and I get prayed for, encouraged. I freak out and panic about the future, and my roommate sits and watches Criminal Minds with me. I laugh and laugh with some of the funniest people I have ever known. I am hugged and face-kissed and listened to and cared for and I don't deserve any of it. (Maybe the face kisses I deserve. I did kind of start that trend, after all.) All that to say - God is loving me, and loving me well, through these people. My Father has been taking care of me. I was wrong. And that is unspeakably good.
I wrote a while back about struggling. In being honest, I have genuinely gained some freedom back, which has been a great gift. But oddly enough, a couple of weeks of honesty and cathartic blog-writing did not instantly mend my relationship with God. Turns out, I have to like, keep working on it. In addition to blogging about praying, I have to actually, I don't know, pray. (I may have also mentioned before that I like immediate gratification?) If I'm supposed to learn something during this time on the desert road, I think maybe its that I need to: relax, trust, pray, wait, trust, pray, wait, and did I say relax?
As I've mentioned, I don't have to wait to be ready.
Which is good. Cause I'm totally not.
It's ok if I push "publish" and things don't magically improve.
It's ok if tomorrow I still feel a little yucky.
It's ok if for the rest of my life I work on the stuff I'm working on right now.
And it's ok if I concede.
January 11, 2010
step 1: admitting you have a problem
I like books. Perhaps a little too much.
See the thing is - I can't stop buying them. It's horrible. Actually, not even just buying them - I will acquire them with whatever means possible. I borrow, I steal from my mom, and then, of course, I purchase. I like reading books, but I also like having books. My bookshelves are full and that pleases me greatly.So at this point, in this pile of unread and neglected books, I have book club books (for this month, and last month, since I was a slacker), I have poetry books (cost me $6.98 at Barnes & Noble. I don't know how one says no to that), I have personal growth books, I have "Christian Inspiration**" books, I have books for clients, I have novels, books from friends, etc., etc. And this isn't even all of them! I sugar-coated this pile because I didn't want you all to think I was a freak. Which I am. A bookwormy freak.
My friend (another of my blog crushes, Sarah) wrote about this a while ago, and I thought to myself, "Wow, she is really out of control. Good thing I don't have that problem. I can stop whenever I want. Really, I can." Yes, little readers. You're right. Denial is NOT just a river in Eqypt. As this mountain on my mantle began to grow with each passing day, I realized I shared in her affliction. We were the same, she and I. The very same.
All this to say, I need to start reading and STOP procuring more books. This stack needs to get smaller, not bigger. Maybe I will even master the art of reading more than one book at once. Well, no. I don't want that. Lets not get crazy. Baby steps.
[**Lets spend a tiny minute talking about the genre "Christian Inspiration." That title constantly irritates me. I feel like people who are even considering Christianity are going to see that genre title and find it so cheesy that they can't even bring themselves to be seen in that section of the book store. I just think we can do better! This has been on my mind lately, as I spend lots of time in book stores. Thank you for letting me get it off my chest. As if you had a choice.]
January 9, 2010
Shameless Self-promo Saturday
Yes, that is correct. (And yes, from now on I'll be preemptively answering all of your questions. You're welcome) Also, I live my life by the simple rule that anything is acceptable if you alliterate it [SSS, see?]. So, luckily, I have that going for me too. Also, I am sort of copycatting from my blog-crush, Stuff Christians Like. Yes, blogs can have crushes. (Isn't this helpful?)
This little post will be two-fold. One fold will be a commitment that will change your life. (Or probably it won't, but I just really want you to keep reading.) The other fold will include the aforementioned shamelessness. Off we go.
Part 1: my commitment to you. (and to me.)
For a long time, I didn't tell anyone I had a blog. First, my sneaky cousins found me. Then, some of my super-talented and hot friends had/got blogs, too. But otherwise, it was pretty much a parents-siblings-grandma kind of following. I was ok with that, because I was not ok with being a blogger. Laaaaame.
But now, I've kind of embraced it. I sometimes post it on my facebook. I tell my friends. I am no longer a card-carrying member of Bloggers Anonymous. I accept this about myself. I am a writer who has a blog. I am a blogger! (And gosh-darnit, people like me.)
So the commitment is that I will write more, and I will like it. So there.
Part 2: what feels to me like shameless, embarrassing self-promo. eek.
I write stuff because I really like to. For me. But the thing is, I like you guys. Yes, you, readers. I like to hear your comments and I like your feedback and it's my favorite when someone tells me they read my blog. Even if they say, "I read your blog, and I hate you," I still get giddy like a school girl. Yes, I know its shocking, but I like validation. Weird.
I really just like knowing who's reading. Not in an "if-Allison-is-reading-I-can't-blog-about-how-I-think-her-feet-smell" kind of way, or in an "if-my-pastor-is-reading-I-shouldn't-mention-the-job-application-process-for-Shotgun-Willie's" kind of way either. (Yes, crazies, that was a joke.) More like in an "ooh-I-can-mention-Shotgun-Willie's-and-I-know-it-will-make-Kenneth-laugh" and "if-I-say-giddy-like-a-school-girl-Kelly-will-love-it" kind of way. (And no, I will not be pointing out ALL inside jokes from now on. You'll have to pay attention. I'm sneaky.)
Point being - make yourself known! Leave comments. (You too, Mom.) Follow, should you so desire. (You will see to the right the portion that says, "Don't fight it." So... don't.) (Also if you are old and can't figure that out, I can set it up so you get emails when I post. Have your people call my people.) Email me. Whatever you liiiiiiike. (Yes, newbies, sometimes I quote rap lyrics.) Also, if YOU write, I want to know! I enjoy blog-stalking as much (if not more than) as I like blog-writing. Tis true.
Thats all. Pretty simple. And I will never pressure you again.
(Probably I will, about something, sooner or later. Don't hold me to that.)
(And n0, I have no idea why this post is riddled with parenthesis. It just kind of happened.)
all about twentyten, baby -
Meggie
This little post will be two-fold. One fold will be a commitment that will change your life. (Or probably it won't, but I just really want you to keep reading.) The other fold will include the aforementioned shamelessness. Off we go.
Part 1: my commitment to you. (and to me.)
For a long time, I didn't tell anyone I had a blog. First, my sneaky cousins found me. Then, some of my super-talented and hot friends had/got blogs, too. But otherwise, it was pretty much a parents-siblings-grandma kind of following. I was ok with that, because I was not ok with being a blogger. Laaaaame.
But now, I've kind of embraced it. I sometimes post it on my facebook. I tell my friends. I am no longer a card-carrying member of Bloggers Anonymous. I accept this about myself. I am a writer who has a blog. I am a blogger! (And gosh-darnit, people like me.)
So the commitment is that I will write more, and I will like it. So there.
Part 2: what feels to me like shameless, embarrassing self-promo. eek.
I write stuff because I really like to. For me. But the thing is, I like you guys. Yes, you, readers. I like to hear your comments and I like your feedback and it's my favorite when someone tells me they read my blog. Even if they say, "I read your blog, and I hate you," I still get giddy like a school girl. Yes, I know its shocking, but I like validation. Weird.
I really just like knowing who's reading. Not in an "if-Allison-is-reading-I-can't-blog-about-how-I-think-her-feet-smell" kind of way, or in an "if-my-pastor-is-reading-I-shouldn't-mention-the-job-application-process-for-Shotgun-Willie's" kind of way either. (Yes, crazies, that was a joke.) More like in an "ooh-I-can-mention-Shotgun-Willie's-and-I-know-it-will-make-Kenneth-laugh" and "if-I-say-giddy-like-a-school-girl-Kelly-will-love-it" kind of way. (And no, I will not be pointing out ALL inside jokes from now on. You'll have to pay attention. I'm sneaky.)
Point being - make yourself known! Leave comments. (You too, Mom.) Follow, should you so desire. (You will see to the right the portion that says, "Don't fight it." So... don't.) (Also if you are old and can't figure that out, I can set it up so you get emails when I post. Have your people call my people.) Email me. Whatever you liiiiiiike. (Yes, newbies, sometimes I quote rap lyrics.) Also, if YOU write, I want to know! I enjoy blog-stalking as much (if not more than) as I like blog-writing. Tis true.
Thats all. Pretty simple. And I will never pressure you again.
(Probably I will, about something, sooner or later. Don't hold me to that.)
(And n0, I have no idea why this post is riddled with parenthesis. It just kind of happened.)
all about twentyten, baby -
Meggie
January 6, 2010
ready or not...
I never liked playing hide-and-go-seek.
Nothing about it sounds appealing to me, even still. You hide; you find some location clever enough that you won't be out first but not so clever you are lost forever in the abyss that is whoever's enormous basement you're hiding in. Of course, the wretched children whom I regularly played hide-and-go-seek with always wanted to play it with the lights off. Basements grow approximately 37 times scarier with the lights off, by the way. That's a fact.
Then there is the counting. But within mere seconds, before you have even adjusted your eyes to the dark and stopped hyperventilating long enough to find somewhere to actually hide your person, you hear the dreaded words - the six words that still to this day send chills up my spine:
READY OR NOT, HERE I COME!!!!!
The yeller is practically peeing their pants with glee, but off in the dark, panic ensues. Hearts beat faster, all of us thinking "we're NOT! we're NOT!!" but knowing that now there was nothing we could do to stop it. All that was left to do was try with all your might to stop yourself from mouth-breathing too loudly in your hysteria and wait your turn to be found.
As a child, when someone excitedly suggested we play hide-and-go-seek, I'd lie and feign matched joy and delight. Nobody wants to be that kid who doesn't like hide-and-go-seek. I mean, come on. I had a reputation to protect. As an adult, praise the good Lord, no one ever wants to play hide-and-go-seek anymore. But I still fear those words. People aren't yelling them at me anymore, though, mostly because that would be incredibly creepy. Now the person yelling it has to be me. And I find myself saying this a lot: "I'm just not ready." Or sometimes - when life asks, "Ready?" - in a panicky-child-hiding-voice, there's me: "I'm NOT! I'm NOT!!!" Recently, however, something came to my attention: there is no way to actually assign an operational definition to "ready." In fact, what does ready even mean? What is ready, anyway? Tell me! WHAT?!
I'll tell you what I've come up with. The entire concept of ready is a bunch of crap. Yes, crap. There is no pretty word which makes this point as adequately - only uglier ones, and I try to keep things PG around here. Although by current rating standards I believe that under the PG rating I could drop the f-bomb and probably even have a little nudity. But that's neither here nor there.
The point is: I will never be ready. I will never be ready to try for freedom and healing. I will never (ever) be emotionally ready to go on dates with boys. I will never be ready to start taking the terrifying risk that comes with actually seriously trying writing. I will never be quite ready to perform the duet I have been practicing with KK for karaoke at Dubb's. I will never be ready to do most of the things that I think might be the most worthwhile things to be doing. I won't be ready until I am ready. Under this logic, I end up doing a whole lot of nothing. I end up sitting around, reading another book, another blog, listening to another sermon which I think will help me to be ready. I get ready all day long and then I don't DO anything. Which is a little bit ludicrous, is it not?
Although lots of my examples are a little silly, we do this with our faiths too. I'm just not ready. When I have my stuff together, then I'll come to church. When I get back on the right track, I'll start praying again. When I'm worthy, I'll approach Him. And this, my tiny pets, is a lie. In saying these things, we nullify what Jesus did for us. We don't have to be ready (and we won't be - we covered this, keep up) to come. Because: (Hebrews 4:14-16)
Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace when we're ready & when we have all our crap figured out.
OH WAIT! My b. I was quoting from the MPB translation (Megan's Psycho Brain). Try this instead:
"Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need."Ahh. Good. That sounds way more like Jesus.
So here's what I'm going to do: I'm just going to start doing stuff. I am taking the words, "I'm not ready" out of my vocabulary. If even the Bible says that I can approach the great high priest in my time of need - and with confidence, no less - surely I can face you fools! And so: my new motto for twentyten has become my least favorite combination of 6 words spoken by any human ever. My how the tables have turned.
[whether I'm] ready or not... here I come!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)