Dear Younger Me

I recently finished reading the book I Don't Wait Anymore by Grace Thornton.  It messed with me - and continues to do so - in all sorts of good ways.  I began following her blog years ago, after a friend of mine had sent me a link to a post of Grace's that went viral, which also is where she gets her book title.  It is hands-down one of the single greatest treatise I've ever read on singleness and reflects my own sentiments. 

In her book, Grace posed the question to a friend, "If you had the chance to go back, what would you tell yourself, the college girl from ten years ago who thought she knew what life was about?"

Her friend, Amy, responded, " 'If I could go back, I would say, ‘Amy, that pathway to holiness, that journey to truly deep faith is a lot narrower than you think. And it starts, continues, and ends with a definitive love for the Word of God. I want you to know that what you love now is not really the Word. What you love is what other people tell you about the Word.  You love emotion and worship songs and books about God and the social aspect of church in college. But you do not love his Word. Not yet. That takes discipline and study and sacrifice. But you’ll get it.'"

Me, on the left, ten years ago, while living in Russia

for a summer

Amy's story is my story. All these things I thought I knew when I was in college.  I thought I knew Jesus then.  I thought I knew his Word, knew his people, knew what community and church and prayer and following him meant. 

I am learning more and more every day that I have absolutely no stinkin' clue about any of those things. 

So, to the me ten years ago? I have a few words for you...
 
Dear younger me:

You think you know Jesus.  And you think it's enough to live on yesterday's manna.  You still haven't figured out yet how to eat that manna every day, to gather it fresh, like God had instructed the Israelites while they wandered around the desert.  And every day you wonder why you just can't seem to pull it all together, why you can't seem to live in victory.  You wear your self-sufficiency like a badge of honor.  But it's that badge of honor that is costing you a more intimate relationship with Jesus.  Your independent streak robs you of knowing what it's like to depend fully on Him.  You have made picking yourself up by your bootstraps your higher calling instead of forgetting both the straps and the boots and deciding that trusting Jesus is a holy calling.  This is not the Girl Scouts and Jesus doesn't give out merit badges for people who decide they don't need him.  That's what hell is for.        

You let your insecurities rule you, and more often than not you choose to believe the lies over the truth. You've got to do double-time to defeat the schemes of the Enemy.  Take captive every thought and give it over to Christ, time and time and time again.  Get up, and do it again the next day and every day thereafter.  The Enemy will never relent, so neither can you.  Don't live in the discouragement, and don't spend so much time dwelling on all the things you got wrong, or should have said or done differently.  Reliving the past and hitting the replay button in your mind isn't going to do you any good.  Accept the grace given to you.  I know, grace feels awfully scary and uncertain.  You feel the need to earn whatever it is you're seeking, and grace feels like a handout, like you're being let off the hook.  It's not.  It's the scandalous love of a Savior who has repeatedly said, "My grace is sufficient for you."  You prove nothing by believing you are above or beyond this free gift.  

And that boy you thought you loved?  Let him go, sooner rather than later.  And close the gap between expectations and reality.  Those expectations will get you in to trouble if you don't deal with them.  Trust me, you don't want to spend the next seven years of your life wondering if he's going to show up on your doorstep and tell you what an idiot he was for letting you go.  He's not going to do that.  And that's okay.  Jesus has a better story coming.      
   
Embrace the introvert in you.  But don't let it become the justification for not engaging in the world around you.  Take chances and pursue the people, the strangers, the neighbors, the family around you.  You have much to learn from others, and they each have a story to tell.  Take time to listen well to the stories being told around you that are going unspoken.

Be quick to deal with your sins and your pride and your self-righteousness.  They are ugly things, those things that go unconfessed.  It's just easier to deal with them right away rather than letting them take root and become numb to your own depravity. 

You fixate and worry about all of the wrong things.  Either Jesus is who he says he is, or he isn't.  Make it a conscious choice every day to believe Him.   

Lastly, get over yourself. Fix your eyes on Jesus and life will get a whole lot easier.

P.S. Those black Chinese mesh slippers you love? Do yourself a favor and go ahead and buy them in bulk.  You'll wander 6 different countries with them, so just stock up now.      

Oh, and dear future me:
You've got a thick head, so I'm pretty sure you're still going to be learning these lessons in 10 years.  See above.

 

You Don't Need a God You Can See

I'm a collector of sunsets.

It started back in December of 2005.  I was on the heels of a summer that had rocked my world.  It was a season of life when I had spent my days making demands of God, begging him to show up in real, tangible ways, ways in my mind that would prove that He was who he said He was.  Pages and pages of my journal were filled with frantic scribblings, sometimes in all caps, things like "WHERE ARE YOU, GOD?" My faith  depended on what I could see.  I was in pursuit of physical evidences of God, proof that he was real and present in my life.  I was looking for the mountain top, the bolt of lightning, the writing on the wall, the pillar of fire.  I wanted something I could touch and see and feel.

I rounded out that summer coming to the conclusion that if my faith was based on what God did, then it wasn't much faith, because it was going to be contingent on what I could see before me.  But if it was based on who He was?  That was a different story.

For Christmas that year, my mentor, Debbie, a very dear woman who pointed me to Jesus time and time again throughout my early and mid-twenties, gave me a photograph of a sunset, with a note on the back, quoting Matthew 16:

The Pharisees and Sadducees came to Jesus and tested him by asking him to show them a sign from heaven.  He replied, “When evening comes, you say, ‘It will be fair weather, for the sky is red,’ and in the morning, ‘Today it will be stormy, for the sky is red and overcast.’ You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times.  A wicked and adulterous generation looks for a sign, but none will be given it except the sign of Jonah.

I've since added to my collection of sunset photographs, various ones hanging around my apartment.  I have one of a sunset over the Masai Mara in Kenya.  Another one of a sunset over the Grand Tetons in Wyoming.  One of a sunset over a cornfield by my parents' house.  A sunset over the Pacific Ocean in San Diego.  Daily reminders that I had been looking for a God I could see.  I was looking to the skies to see when he was going to show up and behave like I thought he should.  The Pharisees and Sadducees were no different, searching equally so for a God they could see.  They had the very God made flesh standing before them, a man named Jesus Christ, and yet they still demanded a sign.

What foolish, foolish people we are.

I've been reminded of this lesson afresh here lately.  The Holy Spirit and I have been hammering away on Exodus 32 as of late, the story of the Israelites and the golden calf.  God had brought the people out of Egypt, he had sent the cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night to lead them.  He had given them Moses, the man who would lead them through the desert, the man who would speak to God as if they were friends. God had loosed the chains of slavery, and set their feet upon a path to freedom. He had parted the waters and drowned the Egyptian army.  God had made himself known to them time and time again.

And then Moses ascends Mount Sinai to meet with God.  The Bible says that the mountaintop was covered with fire, evidence of God's presence.  Forty days Moses is up there.  The people get a little impatient in the waiting, wondering where the heck this Moses guy is. (Don't we do the same when we are waiting on God?  "Where the heck did God go?  And why isn't he doing what I think he should be doing?")

When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, they gathered around Aaron and said, “Come, make us gods who will go before us. As for this fellow Moses who brought us up out of Egypt, we don’t know what has happened to him.” Aaron answered them, “Take off the gold earrings that your wives, your sons and your daughters are wearing, and bring them to me.”  So all the people took off their earrings and brought them to Aaron.  He took what they handed him and made it into an idol cast in the shape of a calf, fashioning it with a tool. Then they said, “These are your gods, Israel, who brought you up out of Egypt.”  

Come, makes us gods who will go before us.

Come, make us a god we can see.

We're standing in the shadow of the Almighty, but we're not really convinced he is who he says he is, and we're not convinced he can do what he says he can do. So, we're going to march ourselves over here and craft a god we can see, one who is right before our very eyes.  

We spend our days searching for a God we can see, a God we can touch and feel, a God where we can know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he exists.

But here's what I am learning:

You and I don't need a God we can see.

Because we have a God who sees us.

Hagar, the mistress of Abraham, said in Genesis 16:13, after she had fled Abraham's wife, Sarai, and an angel comes to minister to her, "You are the God who sees me."

Beer Lahai Roi.

Well of the Living Ones Who Sees Me.

It's what she named the place where the angel came to visit her.

You are the God who sees me.

We have a God who sees us.  Why, oh why, do we spend our days hell-bent on fabricating a God we can see, when we get the God of the universe who has proclaimed over and over and over and over again, "I see you"?

You and I do not need a God we can see.  If our faith is dependent on a God that has to manifest himself in tangible ways before we believe, then we've got the wrong God on our hands.  All we've done is make an idol in his place.  And the horrible news about idols and false gods?  They can't see you.  The Israelites could worship that golden calf all they wanted.  They could dance around it and offer it sacrifices and bring their burnt offerings for generations to come.  They could sing their praises to it, pat it on its head, and build their altars around it.

But that golden calf was never going to develop eyes and see them.  That golden calf was never going to be able to respond to them, speak to them, feed them, save them, sanctify them.  Never.  And neither will the false idols we create.

After Jesus hung on the cross, was buried in the tomb, and was resurrected, he appeared to his disciples.  The disciples proclaimed, "We have seen the Lord!"  But good ol' Thomas, he wasn't going to believe the others until the saw the nail-scarred hands. So, Jesus came to him, invited him to put his hands on Jesus' nail-scarred hands.  And then Thomas saw and believed.

And then Jesus said this, "Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

Thomas, Thomas, Thomas.  You want a God you can see and touch and feel.

But I am the God who sees you.

I see all your doubts, all your fears, all your wanderings, all your moments spent wondering if I'm really who I say I am.

Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.

I am the God who sees you.

You and I?  We don't need a God we can see. The world has enough of those and every single one of them is bogus and every single one of them has eyes that are tightly closed, unable to see or respond to those who worship them.

Don't go searching for a God you can see.

You have a God who sees you.     

The One Thing I Swore I Would Never Leave

People often ask me if I miss horses and horseback riding.  It’s a fairly straightforward answer most days: no.

But here lately?

Here lately I’ve been getting a little more sentimental about the question.  A friend asked me just a couple of weeks ago, after watching a documentary called Unbranded (I highly recommend seeing it), which was about these four guys who broke and trained 16 wild mustangs and rode them from the Mexico border all the way up to Canada.  Stunning cinematography and a testament to the strength and ruggedness of these creatures.  After we got done watching the movie, I got in my car to drive home, thinking about her question, and I burst into tears. What on earth.  Tears that were totally unexpected and somewhat unexplainable, even in my own mind.  I’m still not sure I completely understand why the dam broke in light of her question.

I came out of the womb loving horses.  I was that little girl who actually got a pony as a child.  My grandfather had a herd of ornery little Shetland ponies that occasionally liked to escape from the pasture, and I was completely in love with them.  I have no conscious memory of this, but the family legend goes that one day I was over to my grandparents’ farm. My mom and dad were both working, my mom down to the county fair for the day, working in the fair board office.  My brothers and I were down to my grandparents’, under their watchful eye, although “watchful” may be relative if you ask my mother.

My mom called up to the house, wanting to check on us kids.  I was maybe three or four at the time? My grandfather answered and when my mom asked how I was doing, he calmly informed her that I was doing just fine, and that I was currently outside riding one of the ponies. No clue how I got up there.  I didn’t seem bothered, the pony didn’t seem bothered, and my grandpa didn’t seem bothered.  I don’t know that we could say the same for mother.  Apparently the thought of her toddler of a daughter traipsing around on the back of pony unsupervised was not her idea of “just fine”.

But that was just the start of the love affair that would turn into nearly a two-decade relationship.  I would eventually start taking lessons and training with a professional when I was maybe nine years old, started showing a couple of years after that, and bought my first horse a couple of years after that.

I ate, slept and breathed horses.  My walls were plastered with horse posters from Horse Illustrated. My bookshelves were overflowing with Breyer horses and horse books.  The All-American Quarter Horse Congress was one of my favorite places to go every year for my birthday.  I cut up the daily newspaper in the weeks leading up to the Triple Crown races, saving articles and features on various thoroughbreds and trainers, wondering if this was finally going to be the next big Crown winner.  I spent a couple of times a week at the local stables where I rode, inhaling deep breaths every time I walked in, loving the smell of hay, sawdust, leather and Murphy’s Oil.

It’s the one thing I swore I would never leave, the one thing I vowed I would never walk away from or abandon.

I wrote in my journal in January 2003, my senior year of high school, “I wouldn’t give horses up for anything.”

In a mere nine months, I did exactly what I swore I would never do: I quit riding without so much as a second glance or a second-guess.

It’s a long story of what happened in those nine months leading up to that decision, so I’ll spare you all of the details.  Mind you, by this time, I’m off to college at William Woods University, a university known for its equestrian program, the first of its kind in the nation.  That program was the whole reason why I had moved 8 hours and 500-plus miles away from my home and family.  The short version primarily boiled down to the fact that I had a lot of conversations with Jesus and that I literally woke up one day and didn’t care if I ever got on the back of a horse again.  And for all intents and purposes, I didn’t. I lost all desire, all interest, and all passion for the thing I had loved most in my life.  God had made it clear: walk away from horses.

I would write in my journal in October of that year, hardly eight weeks into the first semester, writing about how I didn’t want to pursue riding anymore, “And the crazy thing? I’m not the slightest bit upset about it.  I’ll never stop loving them.  They were my first love.  At one point I couldn’t imagine my life without them.  But now I can.”

And that’s how I knew – when I began imagining my life without horses, something that had never ever occurred to me before, like a light getting switched on for the first time, I knew it was time to put the saddle away and pack up my riding clothes.  I dropped both of my riding classes shortly after that journal entry in October, not even bothering to finish the semester.  I still went back to the stables that following summer and worked for my trainer, but I think it was because I was still trying to figure out what else to do.  At that point, I had spent practically ten years riding horses, in the saddle at least a thousand different times on who knows how many different horses.

I can count on one hand now the number of times I’ve been on the back of a horse since that last summer.

Walking away from horses was one of the smartest decisions I have ever made in my life.  And if I had to do it all over again, I would do the exact same thing.  God had given me the possibility of new and different dreams, ones that were better than anything I could have imagined, including horses.

So, do I miss them? Yeah, on occasion, if I’m honest.  I miss the feel of their neck underneath my hands, feeling their mane run through my fingers.  I miss the feel of the brush in my hands, their muscles rippling beneath the movements.  I miss the satisfaction that came from manual labor and long hard days.  I miss the smell of molasses grain and saddle soap.  I miss the quiet mornings spent grooming the horses and getting them ready for their workouts.  I miss the feel of the saddle underneath me.  I miss the routines.  I miss feeding them mints after a hard workout.  I miss the solitude and the stillness of the barn, the occasional munching of hay drifting down the aisle.

Yeah, there’s a lot that I miss.

But not enough to pick that dream up again.

And I’m okay with that.  Until God upends that dream and turns it around like he did once before, I’ll be content to enjoy my once-every-couple-of-years horseback ride on the beaches of New Zealand or through the Grand Tetons.

That’s enough for me.  For now.

Because you know what they say - never say never.

A Series of Palm-to-Forehead Moments

We've all had them.  Those moments when you walk away from a conversation or an interaction, and you smack yourself on the forehead and mutter under your breath, "You idiot."  Those moments when you realize in hindsight that you completely missed a social cue or stuck your foot in your mouth.  Those moments when you are so completely oblivious that you said or did anything stupid, and it's not until much, much, much later that it ever even dawns on you.  You know, those moments.

I'm a collector of those kinds of moments.  Particularly with the male gender.

Exhibit A:

Years ago, maybe sometime when I was in grad school, I went off to a dentist appointment.  This was a dentist that most of my family went to, and I had seen him maybe a couple of times before.  Nice guy, on the younger side, not married.  It seemed almost every time I went into the office, though, either his assistant or the dentist himself asked if I was single/dating/married.  Sometimes I often thought annoyingly, "What is with you people? Why does everyone feel such an incessant need to know my relationship status every time I walk in here?" So then one time, I'm chatting with the dentist, and he gets to talking about music and how a buddy of his is playing in a band at a venue in town that coming weekend.  He told me the times and the name of the venue, said I should come check out.  I didn't think much of it, and I said yeah, maybe I'll ask my friend if she wants to come with me, even though I really had no intention of pursuing the idea.  I thought he was just making general conversation.  I, of course, didn't go to the concert that weekend, but I really didn't give the whole thing another thought.

So, about a year or so later I'm back in the office.  The same song and dance - everybody's asking me about my relationship status and I'm still wondering why these people are so freakin' concerned about it.

And then it dawns on me.  Waaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit a minute.  Was that a very subtle pick up line of some kind a YEAR ago when he was asking me to come check out his friend's band??  Was he interested and I just completely missed the boat??

Yes, palm to forehead.

Exhibit B:

Then there was that one time at the grocery store.  I'm minding my own business, doing my usual weekly shopping.  I see this rather tall, good-looking guy come around the corner, pushing a shopping cart.  Has a ball cap on, in workout clothes.  I definitely did a double-take, but continued to go on my way.  He then stops me and says, "Excuse me, do you know where the honey is?"  Again, me and my oblivious self just thought he genuinely wanted to know where the honey was.  I said, "Nope, sorry," and kept right on walking.

I walk out of the store, unload my groceries into my car.  And then it dawns on me again.  Waaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit a minute.  Was that a very subtle pick up line YET AGAIN that I totally missed??  I mean, what guy wanders around the grocery store and then asks a random girl where the honey is?  That's not normal, right?  I guess maybe it could have been a legitimate question, but I don't think it was?  Why do these things keep happening?

Another palm to forehead moment.

Exhibit C:

An acquaintance of mine had been talking to me for almost a year about this guy she knew, a former college roommate of her husband.  She kept pestering me about the two of us meeting, thought we would be a good match, so I was finally like, "Okay, okay.  I'll meet him."

So, the four of us - me, my friend, her husband, and the husband's friend - all gather together at my friend's house.  We're all shooting the breeze, getting to know one another, the friend's kids are playing outside. You know, a casual, relaxed, no pressure interaction. We're winding down for the day, and I was getting ready to head out the door.  One of our final conversations was about technology and social media and the like. One of my favorite topics.  If you know me, that last line was entirely sarcastic.  I avoid social media like the plague and I intentionally have no internet at my apartment.  I'm currently sitting at the public library writing this post.

I left the conversation, bid adieu to everyone, and then never heard a peep from my friend or the college roommate about anything further.  That struck me kind of odd, given that my friend had been talking about this guy for so long.  Suddenly now there was radio silence.  Which was fine by me because I don't know that I was all that interested.  But nevertheless.  The real kicker was when I got home and did some detective work. I Googled the guy.  I find out he works for a tech firm.

He's the Chief.Technical.Officer for a digital.marketing.firm.

Translation: the guy eats, sleeps and breathes all of the things I try to avoid on a regular basis.

I thought of the scene from National Treasure, when Ben and Riley are trying to convince Abigail that there is an invisible map on the back of the Declaration of Independence.  As they rattle off facts, each one proving more and more far-fetched to Abigail, Riley would say, "That's where we lost the FBI."  "Annnnnd that's where we lost the Department of Homeland Security."

I'm pretty sure when I uttered the words, "I don't have internet," the Chief Technical Officer was like, "And that's where we lost all hope of this relationship going anywhere."

Palm to forehead.

I'm sure given time, I will eventually experience Exhibits D-Z.  What can I say?  Sometimes I am just blissfully unaware of how these social interactions are supposed to work.  Cut me some slack.

Some day, somebody's bound to come along, one who won't find me smacking my palm to my forehead after I have a conversation with him.

A girl can hope, right?        

The Power of a Simple Thank You Note

I love a good handwritten note, whether it's of the love letter variety, a thank you note, or just a note to say hello. Maybe it's the nostalgic side of me, wishing we still lived in a world that was a little less technology-driven.  And maybe I just appreciate the discipline of a handwritten note - it takes extra time and requires far more intentionality than just zipping off a text message, email, or a quick post to Facebook.  When you get a handwritten note in the mail, you feel a little more loved and valued (or at least I do) because you know that the person on the other side of the pen and the postage went out of their way to gather up a card, draft their words, sign with a flourish and then get the card in the mailbox.  

I do my best to send handwritten notes to friends and family on occasion, maybe just a note to say hello, or a note to encourage.  Last week I decided to go on a thank you note writing binge, though, and send thank you notes to the people in my life that I maybe interact with semi-regularly, but they aren't the people I generally think to stop and thank.  The staff at the public library, which some days I feel like is my second home.  My pastor and his wife. The church secretary.  The nursery coordinator at church.  The owner of Just Pies.  The staff at Bibibop, one of my favorite restaurants.  They were all an assortment of people that I am very grateful for, and I thought they should know.

So, off I went to write my notes.  I dropped them in the mail and didn't give them another thought.  I just liked the satisfaction of knowing that I could offer a few words of encouragement to people who probably don't get thanked very often.

I marched off to my mailbox the other day, keeping my expectations low, because let's be honest - the only mail I get anymore that is remotely exciting is Sports Illustrated.  And I actually think my free subscription expired so my mail just got infinitely more depressing.  But as I rummaged through the whole two pieces of mail I got on this particular day, I noticed a card with a handwritten address.  It was from Bibibop.  I ripped it open and inside was a note from the general manager of the location I had specifically written to.  And it also included three cards for free meals at Bibibop.  Say whaaaaat?!  I was not expecting anything in return, but I got super giddy at the fact that the manager had likewise gone out of her way to write back to me.  And bonus - I had planned on going to Bibibop that night for dinner anyway, so it was perfect timing.  The whole thing just made my day.  

So, do yourself a favor.  Think of a few people or businesses that you cross paths with and send them a handwritten thank you note.  Don't do it because you expect anything in return.  Do it simply because sometimes people just need to hear the words thank you.               

You Know You Need a New Phone When...

I was raised to believe that you maybe pay a little bit more to buy a quality product, and then take really good care of it so that it lasts forever.

I take that approach to heart.

As evidenced by my laptop.  Which will turn 13 years old this summer.  Still working like a champ.  I mean, I may not always be able to connect to modern Wi-Fi, but minor detail.

Let's also not forget the shoes I wear to the gym, which will turn 11 this year.  My feet are living the dream.

I have another pair of black, semi-dressy slip-on shoes that will turn 10, shoes which I have super-glued back together more times than are necessary.  But these are probably my very favorite shoes.  They have been with me to every country I have ever visited, having bought them just before I went to Russia in 2006.  And I have never, ever found another pair like them.  I will go into mourning and wear black for a year when they finally kick the bucket.  But until then, I am holding onto them for dear life, with obvious super glue patches and all.

There's the faded red t-shirt I have had since I was a child (sadly or not sadly, I can still fit in it comfortably).  It has a giant horseshoe on it with a draft horse walking through the center.  I remember going to draft horse pulls a lot as a kid, which is where I think I acquired it.  It's so soft, so comfy, worn-in just so.  So, on the conservative side, maybe a good 20 years old?

And then there is my smartphone.

Which will be 4-years old this May.

For those of you who like to have the latest and greatest technology, your palms probably just broke out in a sweat and you felt anxiety settle in on my behalf.

Don't worry, the feeling will fade.  

I have a love/hate relationship with my phone.  I went kicking and screaming when I had to upgrade to this phone, so reluctant to join the rest of the world and their smartphone madness.  I was very partial to my basic, slide-keyboard phone, that was working just fine, thank you very much.  But I was getting ready to head back to Kenya at the time, and for a variety of reasons, it really did make sense for me to get something that was a little more useful overseas than my little Samsung Rogue.

I switched over to my current smartphone before I went to Kenya back in 2012, but I kept my Rogue on hand.  After I got back, I switched back to my Rogue, probably out of stubbornness because I didn't want to pay the data fee that was now attached to my newly-acquired smartphone.

I have noticed, however, in recent months that a vast majority of apps no longer work on my phone.  My bank app quit working because it said it was no longer compatible with my phone.  I uninstalled a couple of apps where I listened to sermons and podcasts because my whole phone would crash when I tried to open them.  Alas, the old gray mare ain't what she used to be.  

Let's take the ESPN app, for example.

It still loads on my phone and I can still get current scores.  But none of the headlines are current.  

The headline now reads "Warriors Hold Off Clips", with a picture of Blake Griffin.

Which happened roughly 367 days ago.

That apparently is the last time my ESPN app experienced an update.  And when I try to get the latest version from the app store, I get that oh-so-frequent error, "This is not compatible with your phone."

But I'm not complaining.

So long as I can text and make calls, my little phone and I will continue on our merry way.  

Because who cares if ESPN doesn't load right when you've got Sports Illustrated, right?!

Three Things I Should Be a Spokesperson For

My last post was about two things.  I figure I should continue the trend and expand on another three things I have strong affections for.

We all have our favorites in life - favorite restaurants, favorite foods, favorite colors, favorite places, etc.  And I am no different.  Let's discuss three things that somebody out there should seriously consider hiring me as a spokesperson for.

1) Cheez-Its.  This is serious, people. If you know me at all, you are well aware of this love affair. I am usually never far from a box of these cheesy bits of amazingness.  On a really good month, I usually have a box in my car, a box at my apartment, and a box in my office drawer.  I usually receive Cheez-Its for birthday and Christmas gifts.  I think every trip I have taken overseas for the last several years (or any domestic road trip for that matter) has without fail included a box of Cheez-Its somewhere in a suitcase or carryon.  And let's make one thing very clear - I don't do any kind of Cheez-It except the original kind.  Not the ones with special characters or letter printed on them, not the reduced fat ones, not the groovy ones, none of that.  Original is the only way to go and anything less than that is just not worth bothering about.  

For kicks I decided to track my Cheez-It intake for 12 months, starting a year ago this month. Roughly 365 days later and TWENTY-SIX boxes of Cheez-Its later, I am still not sick of eating them, which my mother finds very perplexing, and maybe slightly concerning.  I'm sure there are plenty of people out there who eat way more Cheez-Its than I do, but I thought 26 boxes was a solid effort.  

If I had Twitter, I would tweet Kellogg's and say, "Hire me. #ILoveCheezIts. I have the data to prove it."
 

2) George Foreman Grill.  Alright, probably an odd one, but nevertheless.  This thing is amazing.  And you would be amazed at what you can cook/reheat on this thing.  I've reheated leftover mashed potatoes, I've reheated rice (a bit messy but totally possible), I've warmed up cookies, I've toasted bagels and bread on it, I've grilled stuffed pita bread on it.  Heck, I even took a Hershey's Kiss off the top of one of my mom's cookies the other day, stuck it on the grill, just to melt it just a tad. It was perfect.  I do occasionally use it for what it's actually intended - like grilling normal things such as chicken.  Some of you are probably wondering, "Courtney, why on earth do you use it to reheat all these random things??" Well, when you don't have a microwave, you have to come up with alternative solutions.  It takes too long for the oven to heat up, so the George Foreman is my go-to option when I want a quick reheat.  Works like a charm.  I should start my own Youtube channel on all the things you could make with a George Foreman.

3) Just Pies. On a cabinet in my kitchen, I have the business hours for three places - the gym, the library, and Just Pies.  This should tell you a lot.  Total and complete bliss. I want to either cry when I eat one of these things I'm so overwhelmed by their goodness, or I just want to jump up and down with giddiness.  I'm starting to lose track of the number of times when I will hop in the car and head out for the express purpose of getting a pie from this place.  I did it last week at work - I was craving chocolate something fierce and had zero sweets in my desk drawer.  So, I went very much out of my way to go buy a pie. Which I then kept all to myself and shared with no one.  My day was complete.  I did the same thing this past Saturday.  And the really great thing is that they have these little baby pies, which can be cut up into about four small slices.  Just my size.  
  

So, Kellogg's, George or Just Pies - if you ever read this and want to hire me, don't hesitate to contact me.  

Thursday Nights Are for Two Things

Mondays are usually my nights to hit the gym with my personal trainer and then come home and catch up on all the things I've been procrastinating on.  Tuesday nights are for the gym and then writing a Bible study I've been working on, or maybe going to the library to catch up on emails. (I have no internet at my apartment so I have to retreat elsewhere when I need to respond at length to people.)  Wednesday nights are set aside for another round at the gym and maybe catching up on phone calls, writing notes to friends, watching a movie, maybe seeing my parents for dinner.  (Don't be impressed by my efforts to make it into the gym often. I am a reluctant member at times. I'm only compelled to go because I vowed I was never going to go through this again.)  Friday nights are for mentally checking out.  I usually skip the gym and settle in for the evening with a good book or movie, maybe exert some effort to cook something decent.  Saturdays tend to look the same.  Sunday evenings are spent mentally gearing up for the coming week, possibly channel surfing, and generally cleaning my apartment, paying bills, etc.  And organizing things - that falls on just about every evening, as I really love to sort, clean and organize things.  Even with only 350 square feet of living space, I still find things to rearrange and tidy.  

And then there are Thursday nights.  

Thursday nights are extra special.  

They are set aside for two very important things:

Sports Illustrated and Jesus.  

I feel slightly irreverent for even putting those things in the same sentence, as if I'm going to get struck by lightning for even thinking about putting them on the same level.

But seriously. Thursday nights are kinda sorta my favorite time of the week.  

The Jesus part involves my women's Bible study.  I've been leading this Bible study for I don't know how many years now.  I love these women.  I love their hearts. I love their devotion in showing up every Thursday night and occasionally listening to me ramble.  I love laughing with them.  I love telling stories with them.  I love talking about Jesus with them.  We talk about the hard things in life, the things that leave us feeling a bit raw on the inside, the things that we wouldn't breathe out loud to anyone else.  It makes for worthwhile time and I wouldn't trade that time with them.    

And then there is Sports Illustrated.  Now, don't mistake me for a super serious sports fan.  I'm not.  But I love good stories and good storytelling.  And Sports Illustrated delivers on good stories and good storytelling by good writers.  I practically want to sprint to my mailbox every Thursday after I get off work because this is the magical day on which the magazine is delivered.  As I stick the key in my mailbox and slowly swing open the door, there is probably a split second where I stop breathing, half afraid that I'm going to open it and find that the mailman failed to deliver it for some reason.  But there it is, 9 times out of 10, tucked safely in the confines of mailbox #26.  I sometimes want to quietly jump up and down and clap my hands I'm so excited about getting it.

It makes me think of Meg Ryan in the movie You've Got Mail. (How many times I have now quoted this movie? Here, here and probably a variety of other occasions. It never gets old.)  Her character, Kathleen Kelly, is corresponding with Tom Hanks' character, back in the days of AOL and chat rooms: "What will NY152 (that's Tom) say today, I wonder. I turn on my computer. I wait impatiently as it connects. I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You've got mail. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beating of my own heart. I have mail. From you."

I've got mail.  From Sports Illustrated.

I have to force myself to not abandon other tasks and immediately sit down and start reading it as soon as I get back to my apartment.  There's usually a laundry list of things I have to accomplish before I go to Bible study later in the evening, so I try to power through those and then head off to study.  I meet with the girls, we laugh, we cry, we talk about Jesus, we get our fill.  

And then when I get back home, I change into my pajamas, crawl into bed, curl up and unfurl the pages of Sports Illustrated, faithful to read it from cover to cover, usually staying up way later than I normally do because I just can't stand not reading the whole thing in one sitting.  If you try to call me on a Thursday night, you will probably get my voicemail, with your call to be returned on a night other than a Thursday.

"Sign of the Apocalypse" is probably my favorite part, even though it only takes up about 2 square inches of real estate.  Cracks me up nearly every time.  And that Yogi Berra /obituary/tribute that Tom Verducci wrote here awhile back right after Yogi died?  I nearly wanted to cry after I read it.  Before I read that tribute, about all I knew about Yogi Berra was that he played baseball.  And I really don't like baseball.  But after I read Verducci's column, I was wishing I loved baseball more and had been best friends with the man, such an endearing image was presented of Yogi Berra.  Same way with Rick Reilly's latest article on the Warriors and Steph Curry.  Amazing writing.  I also don't care for pro basketball, but I now have a Post-It note sitting on my desk with the dates of when the Warriors play next. 

And pictures.  I probably have a dozen or more photos that I have ripped out of the pages of SI, using a glue stick to tack them down to this notebook I keep of magazine articles and random things I want to keep. (It's like the waaaaaay old school version of Pinterest.  You know, the non-digital version that involves scissors, paper and glue.)  I probably cut out three or four just this past year alone thanks to American Pharoah.      

I secretly want to contact Sports Illustrated and gush about how much I love their magazine, and how I carve out a chunk of time just to read their magazine.  Is that weird?  Probably if I had any form of social media, I could actually improve my chances of making my love known to them by tweeting them or posting a message on Facebook. 

But  my sincere apologies, SI.  Even you aren't worth creating a social media account for.  There are limits to my affection for you.

But just know that my Thursdays will always belong to you.  After Jesus, of course.                      

But Later On, A Harvest

Endure hardship as discipline; God is treating you as his children. For what children are not disciplined by their father? If you are not disciplined—and everyone undergoes discipline—then you are not legitimate, not true sons and daughters at all. Moreover, we have all had human fathers who disciplined us and we respected them for it. How much more should we submit to the Father of spirits and live! They disciplined us for a little while as they thought best; but God disciplines us for our good, in order that we may share in his holiness. No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.  Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. “Make level paths for your feet,” so that the lame may not be disabled, but rather healed. - Hebrews 12:7-13

I'm sitting on the other side of a season in life that proved to be one of the hardest I had walked through in awhile.  Not ever, but in awhile.  It was a season of tremendous weight and stress and sadness.  I just wanted it to end.  Isn't that how it usually goes, when we walk through seasons like that?  We don't care what the lessons are to be learned.  We don't care about how it's making us better people, or shaping our character.  We just want out.  Now.  We want the pain to end, and we want our misery to vanish.  We want to run back to the season of easy, a time of peace, days spent coasting.  

In the thick of last year, I started studying the book of Hebrews with my women's small group.  There were lots of verses that were pertinent, but Hebrews 12 came to mark most of last year.  I tend to date segments of my Bible according to when they correspond to my life.  Psalm 32 is marked with "Summer '06", when I was in Russia.  Ephesians 1:17-18 is marked with "Fall '05", at the start of my junior year of college.  And now Hebrews 12 is marked with "January 2015," when I first started wrestling my way through these verses.  

I felt like a lot of last year was a season of discipline.  The good Lord was clearly trying to purge my character of a few nasty traits.  At times it felt like a crucible, and quite frankly, I was sick of the heat getting turned up.  But I came back to these verses, and I had to keep trusting that God was disciplining me for my good, even if I didn't understand it all.  And it definitely didn't seem pleasant at the time, but certainly painful.  

And the verse I started to cling to more than any other was verse 11: "Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by." 

Later on, however.  

An annoying little phrase.  It means not right now. Not overnight.  

And in a world that thrives on right now, that phrase "later on" doesn't sit well.  I live in a generation of instant fixes, immediate responses, microwaved food, and "rocket mortgages".  Later on feels like eternity to my generation.  

But on the other side of later on is a harvest of righteousness and peace.

For those who have been trained by.

Also annoying.  

Because I only get the harvest of righteousness and peace - even if it is later on - if I am willing to be trained by the discipline.  So, not only do I have to wait for the harvest of peace, I actually have to endure a season of discipline to get to it.

I wrote in my journal last year:

I really want the harvest of righteousness and peace, but can I get it without the planting season of discipline, of conflict and tension?  Can you get those things without experiencing their opposites?  That's what this season feels like at times, a season of discipline, of refining in me and purging sins of pride and critical spirit, lack of grace and mercy.  And the hard part is that the verse says "later on." Which means we still have to lean into the discipline in the meantime.  In the meantime, you don't get to exit.  In the meantime, you don't get to escape or walk away.  Because if I'm willing to do that, if I'm willing to be trained by this season, then on the other side of it is a bountiful harvest of righteousness and peace.

I really love the closing verses to that portion of Scripture, verses 12-13, which give a very simple command: Strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees.  

Translation: Buck up.

Sometimes we don't get a choice as to when the seasons of discipline and hardship come.  (Although, sometimes we do - especially when we do knuckle-headed things all on our own.)  But we do get a choice as to how we will endure them.  Are we willing to be trained by those seasons?  Are we willing to strengthen our feeble arms and weak knees?  Or are we just going to whine about it and look for the quickest way out, and totally miss the harvest on the other side of our pain? (Believe me, I did plenty of whining and crying and stomping my feet last year to Jesus about it all, so don't think I sailed through last year singing praises of gratitude.)  

I definitely didn't find it easy to say this in the midst of all that was last year, so maybe it's easier to say this on the other side of it, but I know I want the harvest of righteousness and peace.  So, I'm going to be about the business of strengthening my feeble arms and weak knees.  

Because later on?  

A harvest.   

When Doors Open

I stood just inside my apartment, my ear pressed to the door, straining to listen to the noise coming from down the hallway.  This deep, profoundly sad wailing came from somewhere within the building, the sound traveling through my paper-thin door.  It didn't sound frantic, it didn't sound traumatic or urgent - it just sounded so mournful.  So out of place, so distraught. 

It went on for at least a good 10 or 15 minutes, and with each passing moment my curiosity was growing stronger and stronger.  What on earth was this noise - and who on earth was it coming from?

I finally couldn't take it anymore, so I mustered up the courage to walk down the hallway to investigate. 

I stood outside this unknown neighbor's apartment door, silently staring at the threshold, wondering what on earth to do, as the crying would not relent.  For the longest time I couldn't even discern if it was a man or woman, it was so guttural, so other.

Through the sobs and moaning and the groaning, I heard the fumbled words, "I just want to kill myself."

My mind went into overdrive, and it was then that I started to get a little desperate, wondering what on earth was happening on the other side of this door frame.  In a matter of seconds, my mind quickly ran through the scenarios - is there anyone else in the room with her? Could I make out any other voices? Do I need to call the police? Is this person in danger? Am I in danger by even knocking on this door?

I debated for what seemed forever before I finally decided to just knock and be brave enough to deal with whatever was on the other side of the door.  I knocked.  No response.  I knocked again.  The crying didn't relent, and quite frankly, I don't think the person could hear me.  I finally rang the doorbell (which is an insanely obnoxious noise, one that makes me cringe, which is why I had avoided ringing it up to this point).  I heard the crying soften.

And then the door opened.

Standing before me was a young blond-haired woman, mascara and tears streaming down her face, cell phone in her hand.  Hair a mess.  Clothes disheveled. 

I simply asked her if she was okay.  I told her I had heard her crying and I just wanted to make sure she was alright.  In a matter of minutes, her life story spills out, in fits and starts and ragged breaths.  She was in the midst of a panic attack when I found her, thus the uncontrollable crying.  Her dad has terminal brain cancer.  Her mom is in drug rehab.  Her boyfriend of six years cheated on her and was currently off on vacation with his new girlfriend.  The poor thing was just a mess.

And my heart broke. 

In the time since then, I've had an occasional encounter with this girl.  We'll call her Kate for the sake of this story, even though that's not her real name.  And it seems every time I encounter her, I'm catching her at her most vulnerable moments. 

For awhile now, I've wrestled with what it looks like to be a Christ-follower in this apartment complex.  The entire building is nothing but studio apartments, which basically amounts to a whole lot of people who want to live alone, whatever their reasons.  This is a group of people who are not looking for community, not looking to make friends.  If they wanted to make friends and wanted community, they'd be finding themselves at apartments elsewhere in the city that create those kinds of dynamics for their residents.  My apartment complex is not one of those places. 

So how do I make sure my neighbors know Jesus?  How do I love neighbors who aren't looking to be known, aren't looking to meet other people?  That has become my prayer - Jesus, open up the doors and provide the opportunities to interact with those around me. 

And he has quite literally opened doors. 

Just the other night, I came home late after attending a simulcast of the IF: Gathering, maybe 10:30 or 11:00.  I pulled into the apartment complex parking lot, and I noticed Kate's car in the lot, lights still on.  I figured maybe she had forgotten and left them on.  As I walked by her car, I noticed her car wasn't running, but she was propped up in the driver's seat, passed out, her head tilted back against the headrest. 

I tapped on the window (parallel deja vu maybe to knocking on her apartment door?), and got no response. I tapped again.  No response.  I finally just opened the car door.  Her eyes slowly opened, clearly a little dazed. Tears and mascara streaming down her face, just like the first time I met her.

I asked her if she was okay.  She sat there for a moment, as if it took effort to collect her thoughts, and then for those thoughts to make it from her brain to her lips. 

"My dad died," she said.

And my heart broke all over again. 

Turns out her dad had died several weeks ago now, the pain obviously still fresh.

As I stood there, I couldn't help marveling in some small way.  Hadn't I just been praying in recent days that I would figure out how to tell my neighbors about Jesus, praying that God would open doors for opportunities and moments? 

I guess he took those prayers seriously. 

I don't know what comes next in the story.  I know that so long as God keeps providing the opportunities to step into this girl's life, I'm going to keep stewarding them.  Even if I don't always know what's on the other side of that threshold.

Because what I want for Kate to know more than anything else is that Jesus is wild about her.  And I want her to meet Him, to know him, to find that he is everything that she is searching for.  For her to open that door some day and to find Jesus standing on the other side, not just me.