[mine]

When I was a little girl, I thought my grandpa Jim was the best. And I didn't really get this at the time, but Jim was not my actual biological grandfather, so we never called him Grandpa. But I was little. And he was the one making silly faces at me across the dinner table and the one crouching down on the floor to feign dismay and pretend like it was entertaining when I sent the prince plummeting through the trapdoor on the Fisher Price Castle that I never stopped playing with. And when you're little, that's pretty much the definition of true love. As the story goes, without being told one way or the other, I always referred to Jim as "my Jim." Grandpa or not, I was too little to know that this wonderful man laying on the tile beside me was anyone other than mine.  Because that's what he was - that was the part that mattered to my little self. Just like Nana was my Nana, Jim was my Jim. And that was that.

I didn't know this when I was a kid, but this is a lesson I would be glad I learned early. Because as you may have gathered, I come from a broken home. A phrase that doesn't bother me anymore because even if it is what psychology textbooks call us, it's not what we feel like to me. Generally speaking, brokenness implies a need for grace and I'm cool with that. But distinguishing my family as more broken than any other implies that we by definition inherently need fixing, and I just dare you to try and tell me that. Because I'll be more than happy to knock you into next week. 

Which is a perfect segue to the topic at hand: today is Tim Farrell's birthday. 

Now, first and foremost, Tim has been a faithful reader, commenter, and self-appointed editor of this blog since its humble origins in the Fall of 2007. And that, that's dedication, because I write about a lot of inconsequential stuff that probably doesn't all always interest him. Recently, Tim has been sending helpful suggestions to me via email after I post. Suggestions mostly involving how I could have slipped in a mention of him in posts about things that really had nothing to do with him. When I suggested he had such good ideas that maybe HE should write a blog, he said, "no, I'm just the idea man. I could even be your agent if you want." He's just such a giver, you know?

But in all seriousness - on this, his birthday - let's raise a glass [of coffee, come on, it's morning] to Tim. The guy who comments on my blog even when it has nothing to do with him and thinks I'm great even when I'm probably not sometimes. The guy who drove to Denver to stand in a moving truck bossing my friends around and in so doing made moving 1,000 times less stressful for me. The guy who would drop anything at any moment [and has] to sing karaoke with me. The guy who reminds me that the world isn't ending when someone has knocked out the front passenger side window of my car. The guy who tells the same 3-5 jokes no matter what country he's in, who he's talking to, and regardless of if it makes sense or not. The collector of cool cars and the maker of egg sandwiches and the kind of person who thinks to get me a new hair straightener when mine breaks and I am too poor and unemployed to replace it myself. To Tim, who has been faithfully laying on the proverbial tile beside me for so long I barely remember a time when he wasn't. Who is this, you might ask me? And I might answer, he's my Tim. And if you gave me any lip, I'd probably point at an imaginary stain on your shirt and pop you in the nose when you looked down. Because that'd show you.

When you're a kid, it doesn't matter who anyone is so much as how they are. No one sat me down and explained to me exactly how Jim was related to me, but I knew [in the way that little girls know] who he was. What I love most about that is that I don't think anyone meant to intentionally teach me to feel this way about family. I am thankful that I have the kind of family where this is just the reality. Where no matter how messy and convoluted it gets, family is just that and it doesn't so much matter where they came from or when or how, it matters that they're mine. What matters extends far beyond biology or genetics to presence and silly faces and Fisher Price castles. 

When you're a grown up, luckily, not much changes in this way. I'm always going to care less about who anyone is and more about how they are. I might be older now, but I still know [in the way that even girls who aren't so little know] who Tim is. Because what matters is presence and hair straighteners and egg sandwiches. What matters is that he's mine.

hello, Allen

Some of you may recall reading about when I had to change my phone number. I gave up mine and naturally, got a new one. I was really intentional about it because for some reason I really wanted a 303 area code, but those are apparently a hot commodity, so you have to snatch em up early in the day. So I went, first thing in the morning, and out of a long list, I picked my new number. I guess I never really thought about where phone numbers come from. I guess I assumed they were regenerated by a computer and spit back out, new. But that doesn't really make any sense... eventually we'd run out, right? There can't just be infinite phone numbers. You can't retire them like football jerseys after somebody great had them. I don't know. I've never been great at math.

Needless to say, as I chose from the list of 303's, I unknowingly inherited a phone number from someone named Shelley. And I've been learning some things about Shelley. One of my favorite pastimes is to take context clues and try to piece together the whole story. It's kind of a weird habit and makes me feel a little creepy sometimes, but essentially, I want to be Nancy Drew. Or Harriet the Spy. Really either one would be fine. Anyway, here's what I know about Shelley:

After getting the new number, when I called Kansas, she came up on the caller ID as "Allen White." I know this because for months every time I called my house I was greeted with, "hello, Allen." Which was a real treat. I've decided [based on both my imagination and insinuations of information to come] that Allen is Shelley's sugar daddy. He paid for the phone, so it was in his name. Obviously.

Shelley gets constant calls from collections agencies and other angry sounding 1-800 numbers. Shelley isn't a very responsible spender, I've deduced.

This tidbit was also backed up by the fact that when I tried to change my phone number [which acts as your ID] at 24-Hour Fitness, they asked if I was Shelley, and if I would like to pay the money I owed them. I explained that I was not, in fact, Shelley, nor did I know who Shelley was, so no, I would not be taking care of her debt. That's the other thing about this whole deal - everyone who calls thinks that I should somehow telepathically know where Shelley is. I may have big dreams of covert ops, but I'm not magic, people, ok?

Shelley may or may not be incarcerated. Potentially in Washington. This I know because the other day I got a call asking me to confirm my advance pay account with which I could put money on a card to make phone calls from prison. "Ummmmmmmm, no thank you. I think I'm all set. Yep. Yes. I'm pretty surely sure."

The Child Support Enforcement Medical Support Facilitator Project would like to speak with her. That's a direct quote. I have no idea what that entails but it sounds like nothing I ever want to be a part of. [Maybe Allen was a baby-daddy too? There's just really no way of knowing.]

What's my point, you ask? I probably don't have one. In fact I'm sure I don't. But Shelley, if you're out there, take care of your biz-nass so these people will stop calling me and insisting I tell them where you are. Also maybe call sometime and explain to me just what happened with you to make your number become available in July of 2011 for me to swipe out from under you, because it sounds like it's a pretty convoluted story. And I really want to know if I'm right about Allen.

I guess I should thank you, too, because you have made getting a new phone number not only a fun game of sleuthery but also an exercise in gratitude. As in, fielding your phone calls makes me grateful that my most stressful calls are from my family members reminding me that someone's birthday is tomorrow and I haven't sent anything yet. And those are pretty stressful, and frequent, but not quite so much as the debt collectors and prison phone systems.

Thank God for small favors, that's all I'm saying.

I turned on my tiny red iPod, and...

In the latest of a string of events that I like to call "being a grown up is a real pain in the a-money-money so far," yesterday morning I walked outside to my car, innocently trying to meet Beckie for brunch, only to find that my front passenger side window had been bashed in, and my iPod was MIA.

Please. A moment of silence for my tiny red friend.

I could spend a good while telling you all how and why this sucks, but you are all humans and can probably make many accurate assumptions about that yourselves, so I'll leave you to it. I got in my car this morning, the window fixed and good as new, and I unconsciously reached for the little guy to turn on some jams, and alas - it was not there. And I thought about all of the times I've used the phrase "I turned on my tiny red iPod, and..." on this blog, and I had a nostalgic little moment about it. I miss it already.

It's a bummer, that's for sure. But it's fine. I didn't lose any actual music, just the music receptacle. I still have all my good/bad/show tunes. And as a coping strategy, I kept the Cranberries Greatest Hits in the CD player all weekend, which has been super miraculous. Like, really. Every time I get in my car it comes on and I'm immediately filled with joy and wonderment. I'm not even exaggerating. It's that good.

My mom spent the weekend with her high school besties (or as they call themselves, "My True Blues") helping one such MTB move out of her house. Mom called me last week and asked if I would make them a mix cd for their weekend - and as mix cd's are my love language, I happily complied. But I realized pretty quickly that the only way this mix cd was going to get there on time was if it was overnighted. So I went to the place where you do that, and inquired about how much it might cost me to mail this little brown envelope to Ohio and have it get there in time for the True Blues' arrival. She told me how much and I balked, but agreed to pay the price. She seemed to think this was a little weird, and asked me, "so, are these like, tickets or something? A really important document?" Imagine her surprise when I answered, "Ohhhhh no. It's a mix cd."

But you know what? Worth it. Because music - especially music that is special to us (even if it is Earth, Wind & Fire) - can make things that suck, suck less. Music can comfort. Music is memories. It puts words and tunes to feelings we couldn't name before and it reminds us of things we already know; things that are true. It's familiar in the good way. For some, it's a means of connection. Whatever it is, it's a gift, and it's one of the beauties in this occasionally yucky world that makes me feel all gushy and sappy. It gives me faith. It makes me feel loved.

And though this weekend I lost a meaningful little vessel of that love, this week I was also loved well: in live musical free-for-alls, in the giving and receiving of mix cd's, in the sharing of memories attached to certain songs. I sat with someone in their pain and we found a moment of laughter and relief in the soft beat of the Eagles over the loudspeakers at the dentist's office. I was loved in the reassuring words of the hymn we sang in church this morning, in Disney songs at a friend's wedding, and in the comfort of the Cranberries. That's a lot of love, you guys.

The world can be yucky. And from Moon River to Hotel California, the Cupid Shuffle to Amazing Grace, whether I'm in my favorite concert venue, the pew of my church, or sitting indian style in Michele's living room singing along to the karaoke channel - music makes it seem a little less so. I see Jesus in that.

So rest in peace, my tiny red iPod. May you find fulfillment in the pockets of your captors [or whoever they choose to sell you to on the black market]. Sing to them like you did to me and maybe they'll stop breaking people's car windows and ruining their Saturday brunch plans. Here's hoping.

1403

So the thing is, I moved.

I moved out of the house I have lived in for [nearly] the entirety of my time here in Denver. Aside from my first 3 months in this city [when I lived in a sketchy snazzy little apartment downtown with Alix] I have lived in the 1403 house. As for why this move took place, let's just leave it at this: I tried my hardest to stay and nothing [and I do mean nothing] worked out. The best possible option for what to do next existed in an apartment a couple of miles away. So while I do think this is the right thing, to have moved, the choice made me more than I made it.

There was so little time between said choice and d-day that I was immediately catapulted into action mode and forced to work my little fingers to the bone getting ready. Living in such a big place for such a long time, I think, would turn the most simple of livers into a hoarder. I have packrat tendencies to begin with, so as you can imagine, moving out of that house was no easy task. All that to say, it happened so fast that it wasn't until tonight - the move over and final and done, the house cleared out and cleaned up and empty as can be - that it finally hit me. I went through each room one last time. I started to take the key off my keychain and my eyes got full of emotion and I cried. I cried a lot. Significantly more than I expected to cry, in fact, and I stood there for a solid 45 minutes and I couldn't make myself leave because it seemed so final and suddenly, I wasn't ready for it to be over.

Because on the one hand, it's just a house. And yes, we had mice. The maintenance man who we had to call all the time, Sam Hill [I did not make that up], had a conspiracy theory about almost everything from the Catholic Church to the government controlling cloud formation. The windows in the entire house are painted shut so no air that isn't central air circulates through the house ever. It's arctic in the winter, tropical in the summer. I don't think it was ever really been satisfactorily clean in the entire four years I lived there. It was decorated primarily with items that were a) acquired in some kind of white-elephant gift exchange or b) free. There is duct tape holding my shower together. And I'm pretty sure if you take a shower in the upstairs bathroom at the right time of day the neighbors might can see you a little bit naked. All of these things are true about that house. All of those things are less than ideal on multiple levels.

And while leaving those things behind I'm ok with, closing the door for the last time meant closing the door on a really beautiful four years of my life. On so many occasions it has been filled to maximum capacity with my people. I drank a lot of cheap wine and made a lot of great friends. It's where I spent the night on the floor while my bed went unoccupied because a sleepover sounded fun. I spent snow days watching movies in the basement and I trundled and I baked a bazillion pumpkin cookies and I became a writer. I lived with ten different roommates in this house [thirteen if you count the dogs]. I never quite knew who would stroll in the back door and that was fine because whoever it was was welcome and they knew it. I like who I've become there. And you know what? I actually really like Sam Hill. I like [most of] what I learned there and I am so unbelievably thankful that in these past four years of finding and losing and laughing and crying I've had a home. And like I've said before, there are few things more comforting and lovely than the right kind of home.

So off I've gone. Part of me is excited and part of me is terrified and most of me is just tired, what with all the crying. And I think it's ok to grieve a little because, say what you want, change is hard. But what I have discovered in the past two weeks of purging my life of extraneous items is that without meaning to, I've let a lot of things that don't define me do just that. And maybe that's why I couldn't stay there any longer. That house will always be special to me, but that house is not me. I will be me without the Halloween Party. I will be me without a big house in a perfectly central location. I will be me in my new house, too. And it might take a minute to figure out what that looks like - but just like any good breakup, no matter how amicable the terms, I've got to give myself some time to be sad. Then, though, I have to turn off the 90's breakup ballads, get up, and figure out how to be me outside of 1403 S. University Blvd.

Probably I'll learn some more and then probably I'll write something really magical about it. So we have that to look forward to, which is nice. In the meantime, I'll just be here in my new apartment, listening to Exposé and replaying the good times in a black and white montage in my head. Because nothing commemorates true love like a good saxophone solo.

It was a pleasure living in you, house. Thanks for the memories, as they say.

honest ≠ embarrassing

The other day I had to do a hard thing. As part of my work day, I had to spend some hours at Denver Health. Here is one way Denver Health has been described to me: "Hell is a lot like one of the waiting rooms. Except at Denver Health it's hotter and there's more Michael Bolton music." I feel like that should paint you a pretty solid picture of why I don't love that place so much.

But this particular day in one such waiting room, I watched as two women waited for their labwork to be completed and struck up a conversation. Now, we were in a tiny room, a room so tiny that whispering would have been entirely pointless, as I'm pretty sure the guy next to me could actually hear my thoughts. Which is why it was interesting to me when these women - complete strangers - began talking. Within, I'd say, three minutes of initiating this conversation, they were sharing with one another [and by default, the rest of us as well] about their struggles with addiction, discussing in detail their drugs of choice, and pretty literally comparing rap sheets.

I have chosen a profession where my job will always be, in large part, to allow people space to share personal things. But this? I won't lie to you, I was super freaked out. I wanted to aggressively tap them both on the shoulders and remind them that those things are personal and you are in public! I started to get embarrassed for them and for myself, a little. But as I wiped my sweaty palms on my cloth-covered padfolio, I started to listen. And as I listened I realized that this wasn't embarrassing, it was just honest.

And then I got a little sad that those two things are sometimes, in my mind, synonymous.

There is a researcher named Brene Brown who decided she did not like the idea of vulnerability and was going to do a lot of research and essentially [her words] "outsmart it." It's the greatest thing ever because she totally fails and gets on board with vulnerability as basically an essential to what she calls whole-hearted living. She defines shame as "the fear of disconnection." She says: "Connection is what gives purpose and meaning to our lives. It's why we're here."

In one of those bizarro, colliding-of-worlds moments, though these women were strangers to one another, I happened to be privy to a little bit of both of their hearts on that particular day. And as such, I believe firmly that they both left feeling refreshed, feeling important and validated and loved, because they connected with each other. It was raw and messy, it's true. It was absolutely not the prettiest thing I've ever seen. But it was also unarguably good.

Recently I've gotten to spend time with people who wear their hearts [and rap sheets] right there on their sleeves. In my experience, they can occasionally tend to be construed as uncouth, impolite, maybe even a little bit inappropriate. But even when I put on my judgiest of judgey faces, really? I would give just about anything to be that brave.

So maybe instead of worrying about being socially acceptable, we share. Maybe instead of being ashamed, we connect. Maybe we are even honest with a stranger in a waiting room. It won't always end well. We may even get our little hearts broken. But the lives we get to live are wholehearted ones.

And each time we leave the proverbial waiting room I bet we'll know beyond a shadow of a doubt it was worth it.

if karaoke was a love language, it would be mine

I am a pretty good convincer; it is one of my sharper skills. On the one hand, it probably has something to do with that I'm especially good at being convinced. But on the other, I have a lot of strong desires that sometimes other people don't share, so in order to not to do stuff alone, I convince. For sure in the top five of said strong desires are singing karaoke on a regular basis and also doing the Cupid Shuffle any/all the time. Karaoke isn't a tough sell, but I can't tell you how many times I have had to defend my love for the Cupid Shuffle and basically drag people to the dance floor. Sure, it can be tiring, but this is important work, people. And if not me, who?

So last night I was at my favorite place in all the land, Dubbs Pub, singing karaoke. A little backstory - I have been talking this place up to my coworkers pretty much since my second day of work. And finally, at long last, my dreams came true. Now, I can tend to get a little too excited about things, maybe even overshoot a touch when it comes to talking about something I like a lot, so I secretly worried just a little that once we got there my coworkers would call shenanigans and shun me forever for leading them astray. But that was not the case. Not even a little bit.

I sang, they sang, we sang together - and my heart was full, so full I thought it might burst. And then without warning, I heard a beat. I heard Cupid whispering as if just to me, "cupid, shuffle, cupid, shuffle..." and before you go putting on your judgey pants, here's the thing about the Cupid Shuffle: I just  like it. I know it's a dance and it's silly and inconsequential, but it is a silly inconsequential dance that makes me happy. Sorry I'm not sorry. On this particular evening, I heard my jam beginning and pretty much on autopilot, I walked-it-by-myself to the dance floor and prepared myself to recruit.

But you guys: these beautiful souls, my coworkers, required no convincing, because they were already there kick-now-kick-now-come-on-baby-kicking right alongside me. I thought I might cry. And it's not just because some people know a dance I know - no, it was more than that. Convincing is fine, I generally don't mind it, and like I said, I'm pretty good at it. But sometimes it is a nice thing to look around and see other people who already like what you like and then just enjoy liking it together. For a moment in time I did not have to organize or convince or recruit or rally the troops. Sometimes being social and having fun can be a lot of work, and that is annoying. Last night was fun and great and I didn't have to do anything but show up. And sing and dance, of course.

Let's all take a moment to recall that I looked for a job for a year and a half. How did I get so lucky to find a job I love where I also get to work with people who share at least two of my top five favorite things? Three if you count Yogurtland, and I totally do.

I knew I liked them; I told you about it. But this? I mean really. Beyond my wildest dreams.

it's saturday night

I babysat tonight. I am still babysitting, in fact, but the little tots are sound asleep in their little beds, all worn out from our all-afternoon-and-evening dance party. It's understandable, really, I'm pretty wiped myself.

Anyway I don't usually agree to babysit on weekend nights - mostly because my highly extroverted self can barely handle the thought of missing something, which is a real possibility on a Saturday night. But this time it felt right. Firstly, I adoooore these two, so much, so it wasn't hard to twist my arm. I also think it just sounded really good to have a sure-fire way to do nothing on a weekend night. Being a grownup is tiring, and I was jonesing for a night in. With these two cuties?

Done and done.

We were reading stories before bed [we had a lot of time - we read a lot of books - I did a lot of voices] and he asked to read one about Jesus. (Since I know now you're wondering - no voices for Jesus. Bert and Ernie, absolutely. Jesus though, that might get weird.) We read about Easter and in very simple terms, we read about the crucifixion. On one particular page we read about how soldiers came for Jesus to take him away, and the sweet kid said this: "I don't want to be Jesus. I don't want soldiers to come for me!"

Can I get an amen?

Without thinking - and honestly mostly with nightmare prevention in mind - I explained to him that that's why Jesus let it happen: he loved us so much that he let the soldiers take him just so the soldiers wouldn't have to come for us. And he thought that was just great. I tucked him in, went downstairs, and it wasn't until I was scrubbing mac n' cheese from bowls with cartoons on them an hour later that the beauty of that entire exchange hit me square in the face.

I've tried to wrap this post up a hundred different ways - they all worked fine, sounded good and spiritual, rounded things out nicely. But I typed and deleted them, one by one. Because when it comes to truth, generally speaking, the wrapping is pretty inconsequential.

aaaand ten minutes later:

No, you know what? I want to wrap it. Truth needs no wrapper and I hope that you will take it for whatever you need it to be. But what it is for me is a reminder that I am loved. A reminder that I deserve soldiers. And every day, I think it's fair to say, I really earn them.

But they don't come. And grace, every day, covers my shame. Covers my fear. Covers me.
And that, my friends, is nightmare prevention at its very finest.

blog is a funny word

I will pretty much support anyone who uses the word "bloggy."

But really - this is a fun little website of fun little blogs. And for blogging about them, I get to have my blog listed among other bloggy things! Isn't that fun?

the table's tale

A few years ago, my mom gave me a really cute end table that sat in my storage room for about 2 years because it had been decoupaged with random restaurant menus. I think it's fair to say that I am a crafty person, and I enjoy a good project every now and again, so one day, I undecoupaged said table and painted it roughly 25 different ridiculous colors in a fit of crafting genius. Today I looked at said table, sitting in the corner of my room in all its hideous glory, and decided that I was going to make it presentable. I was going to make it look like something a grown-up might own. I was going to paint it red and distress it and make it look vintagey and awesome.

Such a good thought.

I took it to my friend's house who was going to help me. We sanded it, primed it, and got it all ready for its magical makeover. Once the primer had dried, I valiantly charged outside to get my craft on. And just as we flipped it over to begin, I kid you not, my cute little table promptly fell completely to pieces. No, but like, literally. See?

We hammered. We glued. We said swear words and [thankfully] resisted the urge to beat ourselves over the head with the legs of this stupid table that would not go back on no matter how hard we tried to make them. It was, to say the least, an epic fail. And I was so mad because this table has been in my room for a year, standing on all four legs and holding things on it even! So why, why oh why, am I so untalented and pitiful that I can't even make a basic wooden end table go back together again?!

I was telling my mom my sad tale, and here was her reply: "Oh, you know where that table came from right? [I didn't] Oh yeah, your Nana made that table herself from a kit. Probably 40 years ago? It's been on the back porch outside for years." 

ooooooof course it was.

The moral of the story is this: sometimes things fall spectacularly to pieces and it has absolutely nothing to do with me. A lot of times maybe it does, and that is another blog for another time. But sometimes tables that seem sturdy fall apart simply because they are super old and were handmade by my Nana and have been bearing the brunt of midwest weather for years and years, not because I am a pathetic crafts[wo]man. Sometimes things fall apart and there's not much to be done about it except decide what to do with all the pieces. Decide how to move forward. 

The remnants of my table will likely make roughly 10 new craft projects for me, and I love that so much. 

But it will never be a table again. And that just is what it is. 

ten recent revelations [I will never]

I'm going to share them with you now in the form of a list.

1. I will never not cry when I get in a car accident.

2. ... or when there are needles involved.

3. I will never not appreciate a good doo wop chorus.

4.  I will never get tired of reading Dr. Seuss out loud.

5. I will never feel settled when a relationship is not.

6. I will never not love making small talk with three-year-olds.

7. I will never think that the Bachelor/ette is stupid or smutty enough to make me actually stop watching it.

8. I will never not feel really pleased with myself when I successfully learn all the words to a song.

9. I will never see things clearly.

10. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly of all, I will definitely never think it's a good life choice to call in to Delilah's radio show at 11:00 at night to sing "a few lines of the song I want to hear." I don't care how good she says I am or how many times she calls me sweetie.

I'm an easy read

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I wear my heart on my face.

I don't really mind this about me because it's kind of nice. I don't feel like there's any point in faking it because 9 times out of 10 when I lie I get this response: "you're not a very good liar, are you?" There is a known-ness to it that I like. I am thankful that this readableness is woven into my genetic makeup because were it not there naturally, I might spend a greater amount of my life in hiding than I do. And that, we've established, isn't great.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, at work, I was feeling especially harried. I swear about half my caseload was in crisis and I didn't know where to begin to get everyone situated by the time the clock hit five. I walked into my office and started to vent to my office mates in a frantic manner. One of said officemates, God bless her, stopped me. "Sorry," she said, "I just want to say that I could already tell you were having a bad day. I think I can usually tell what kind of day you're having by the way your hair looks." Mind you, in this moment, my hair was curly [i.e. lion-like] and haphazardly thrown into a sort of side clump of hair by a clip so tiny that it couldn't hold all my hair in if it tried.

Now not only am I wearing my heart on my face, I am wearing it in my hair as well.

I know this is a silly thing, but in that moment, I felt a little bit naked. I felt exposed. This girl has known me for what, 5 weeks at this point? And she can already tell just by looking at me what mood I'm in? This does not bode well for me in the hide-the-crazy department, let's just put it that way.

And then I turned on my tiny red ipod, and Katie Herzig sang these words to me:

freedom is: a naked heart
 And I thought, ok. Fine.

oh me of little faith

When I was fifteen years old, something very special happened to me. It was Christmas morning, and after we opened our presents I was feeling a bit disappointed because one little thing wasn't included in the loot. But then my parents directed me and the boys to the basement, where we were greeted with a foosball table - which I'll be honest, was a pretty major letdown for me. Until the foosball table rang. Following the sound of that blissfully tinny little ringer, I pulled from said foosball table, in all it's glory, a sparkly blue Nokia cell phone. My very own little dream come true.

Last week, eleven years later, something very awful happened to me. I had to change my phone number.

This might not sound like much to you, fine, but to me it was sort of earthshattering because ever since I pulled that sparkly blue Nokia from the foosball table so many years ago, I have had the same phone number. It was my number, and now someone else is going to have it, and this devastates me. One of my oldest friends, when I texted him my new number, told me that he would now have to save my number to his phone for the first time ever. It is the end of an era. There's a lot attached to those 10 digits and on a Friday morning in July I gave all that away for some Colorado number that means nothing to me.

As I approached the AT&T store that Friday morning, having done all my research and thusly prepared to rip off the band-aid of abandoning the 316 and adopting a 303, I started to panic. I thought, what if my future husband tries to call me and can't get me because of my new number? What if someone else super important wants to reach me but can't? WHAT WILL HAPPEN?! I legitimately almost didn't go in the door. It was at this moment I realized that I have some pretty significant trust issues.

This might sound like a stretch, but the thing is, it's a symptom of a bigger issue. It's a microcosm of how I approach everything else in my life. In a matter of seconds I had become convinced that big, important, worthwhile things wouldn't come to be in my life... because I changed my phone number. If the italics didn't tip you off, I'll just spell it out for you: that's completely insane. I worked myself up into believing - on some level - that God is not bigger than my telephone number. Oh me of little faith.

I spend a lot of energy worrying about a lot of stuff. I worry about saying the wrong things, about figuring out what I should do to get the outcomes I want from a given situation. I worry about messing up the plan with my silliness. I worry about missing out on important things and people and never even knowing it. I worry every time I have to make a choice that I will make the wrong one and thus alter the course of history and my life as I know it. I worry about controlling for every possible outcome, and when things go awry I can think of 29 things I should've done to prevent it. 

Do I really believe that by changing my cell phone number [or any other host of things I could do under the reign of my little tiny power] I can actually alter the outcome of the life that is ahead of me? Sometimes I live like I do. 

But you know what? 

Phone numbers may come and go. I will say yes and say no a million times. I will say a lot of dumb things and make some really bad choices. On days when those things feel catastrophic, and those days will come, I will take a deep breath and trust that God is faithful. Even when I'm not. 

please forgive me for time that I've wasted;

I'm a doubting Thomas

I'll take your promise

though I know nothing's safe

oh me of little faith

[fireworks] keep falling on my head

I love fireworks. The fourth of July is far from my favorite holiday, but I think a good fireworks show is easily one of my favorite things. I don't honestly have an explanation for why I love them so much, or why there is so much memory attached to these particular crackles of colored light, but I see them and my heart fills and it's one of those things that - explanation or not - just is.

I am something of a fireworks snob, though, as I grew up watching fireworks the only way I think fireworks should be watched ever - in the middle of a lake. While I can appreciate a good fireworks show on dry land, it's nothing compared to the boat rocking gently back and forth, water lapping against the sides, all quiet aside from the booms and cracks, the Apollo 13 soundtrack playing on the stereo, and the occasional [obnoxious yet somehow endearing] cheers of lake people. It was so good it felt like a secret, like something not everyone could possibly know about or there would be WAY more people out on that lake with us. I watched fireworks the other night from an amazing rooftop patio with a perfect view. I was enjoying people I love, enjoying knowing and being known, and as good as it was, I kept thinking to myself that when fireworks are done right, you should have debris intermittently hitting you in the face as you lie there in the stillness and the dark. That's how you can tell you're close enough; when fireworks keep falling on your head.

I have dear memories of sitting with my little nieces and nephews in my lap as they marveled at the "firecracks." Each time, I've found myself wiping tears from my eyes as their wonder explodes from their little mouths; because I can remember just as vividly watching the fireworks when I was that little, my mouth gaping in equal parts excitement and terror, mesmerized by the colors taking shape above me. Something about fireworks, to this day, makes me feel dreamy. I remember thinking about what my life might be like, someday. I remember being adolescent and thinking about the romance that was sure to come, of the hands I would someday hold under that same red-white-and-blue sky. I remember distinctly feeling great and inexplicable peace as I watched the firecracks, surrounded comfortably by my people, imagining how I would bring my someday people there, someday - how I would let them in on the secret, and take them to the place where the fireworks fall on your face if you're doing it right.

I feel unbelievably humbled that this is the life I have known, that these are my memories. And that someday is here and that there is more someday ahead. Fireworks create, for me, a [very] rare space in which I can love and live my present and feel hope and excitement for my someday all at once. Even still, after years and years of hearing the same noises and watching the same finales, I watch [my mouth gaping] in equal parts wonder at the loveliness of my today and dreamy dreams of romance & somedays to come.

let's go to the movies

One of my great joys in life is to go to the movies by myself. I don't know why I like it so much, and I don't do it very often, but when I do it's the bomb.com. Honestly, I think as a super-extrovert being alone at the movies makes me feel like a rebel. I usually go all out and wear my sorority sweatshirt with the puff paint stain to draw ample attention to myself and my rebelliousness. It's a real treat.

So the other day I was in the mood to go to the movies by myself, like the freedom fighter that I am. Of course by the time I got home and sat down I'd lost all motivation to get up and go out again, so I thought, maybe I will go to the movies this weekend. But then I thought, well that's lame, because 20-somethings are supposed to be in night clubs meeting people and taking pictures to post on Facebook on Friday nights. Right?

As I was considering if it would be lame to go to a movie on a Friday night, I started thinking about how COOL it used to be to go to the movies on a Friday night. I can just see myself sitting in Algebra 2 and passing notes about which movie starring Freddie Prinze Jr. we should go see at Northrock 14 [the cool theater, as opposed to Northrock 6, which was soooo yesterday]. Should we invite the boys?! I mean, we have to invite the boys. Don't tell anyone [pinkie swear!] but I'm totally crushing on Hottie McSweatsalot over there and he totally sat by me in Bio this morning so I'm pretty sure we're in love. I'll call my mom on the office phone at lunch and ask if she'll look up times in the paper. My friend would then spend the remaining 47 minutes of class origami folding notes for the others which undoubtedly included movie details and probably everything I had just said about that boy, too. I'm sure he knew I was in love with him by the time we got to gym class. But I digress.

And seriously, it was like the greatest thing you could possibly be doing on a Friday night. We'd all meet up and buy tickets with our babysitting money. Then we'd file into the theater - and this, this was by far my favorite part. Watch a group of boy/girl adolescents walk into a theater sometime because it's got to be the greatest thing to watch ever. Watch as each one walks at an awkward pace - some too slow, some too fast, some randomly stopping to check for their ticket, some pausing to tie their shoe - trying to stagger their entry to the aisle to ensure that they'll get to sit by their crush. The whole thing was a thrill-a-minute - hearts pounding in suspense of how the seating order will turn out. Watch as they [not in any way nonchalantly] get to the seat they want. Watch as they try to look surprised when they end up there. No one wants to be obvious, that would be social suicide, but how am I supposed to accidentally constantly brush arms with him if he's sitting by that B in the platform flip flops?

The whole thing was just so exciting. We'd go home then and stay up all night talking about how fun the movies were. Seriously - nightclub, facebook pictures, and all - I could not manifest that much excitement now if I tried. And all from a simple night at the movies.

Times were simpler then. Going to the movies was the most glamorous option there was. Brushing arms for ninety minutes was the actual best possible outcome. Now we're all trying to get married and stuff, so the stakes are a little higher. So I hereby rule that going to the movies on the weekends is not lame, rather, it is a throwback to a simpler time. It's a brief moment of no pressure. It's one night of arm brushing in a lifetime of marriage proposals.

I officially have no idea what I'm talking about anymore.

But I fully intend to go to the movies this weekend, if you're wondering.

purple is a metaphor

I distinctly remember having a conversation with Kelly Marhaver in high school about how much I hated the color purple. Like, I really hated it. I don't remember why, at all, but I remember that I was adamant that I would never wear or own anything that was even in the purple family. I was morally opposed and no amount of convincing from my ever-fashionable bff was going to convince me I was wrong. Lavender? Ew. Grape? Absolute detestation. Eggplant? Rage blackout. Yes, at a color. I always have been a very passionate person.

I was cleaning my room today because at present I feel confident that there are more clothing items on my floor than there are in my closet, and when it gets to this point even I can't handle it anymore. So I'm hanging up clothes, sorting through a million piles, trying to decide if I can get away with not doing laundry for one more day, minding my own business, and I began to notice a little trend. A recurring theme, if you will.

I own an obscene amount of purple.

I started thinking about it... and I bet I wear purple at least three times a week. At least. And I love it. It's not a reluctant like, a maybe-every-now-and-then-I'll-wear-purple-undies like, but more like if-something-is-purple-I'll-have-to-think-really-hard-about-buying-it-even-if-it's-not-even-that-cute like. I even have purple pants. I currently spend the majority of my adult life wearing the one color I swore I would forever loathe.

I don't know when or why this happened to me. I certainly didn't ask for it or seek it out or force it. I don't remember ever making a conscious decision to not hate purple. One day I just looked around [that day was today, if you're confused] and purple was all up on my sheets and my fingernails and littered in piles of clothing on my floor and occasionally it's even the color of my eyeliner and I don't hate it. Not even a little.

This is not the first time in my life I have decided something, sworn to forever uphold it as truth, and then been proven radically wrong; to the point that a few of my favorite friendships exist majorly in spite of my first impressions of said friends. Sometimes there is a big picture I can't see and I need to be ok with every now and then recognizing that I don't always know best. In fact, I think I take comfort in the fact that even when I've got a baditude, even when I stomp my foot and swear I'll never change, somehow, purple makes its way into my heart, life, and wardrobe anyway. It was natural and organic and spontaneous in a way that most things aren't and I just think that's great.

Fact is, purple is a good color for me. And if I was in charge, there's a good chance I'd have missed out on that. My eyes would still be lined with boring black every day and then how would the green pop? My nails would be painted with OPI Dutch Tulips until the end of time. My shirts would be black and boring and my sheets would be off-white and lame. I shudder to think of it.

I can be short-sighted, narrow-minded, stubborn and a little bit silly.
But when something's right, it's right, and even my silly humanity can't stand in its way.

What a relief.