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.
           
   

Why I Said No to Social Media

There are generally four acceptable ways of getting in touch with me:
1) Email
2) Phone (Although, that can be questionable some days, as I don't always carry my phone.)
3) US Postal Service
4) Showing up on my doorstep, in person.

You'll notice what this list does not include:
1) Facebook
2) Twitter
3) Instagram
4) LinkedIn
5) Basically any form of social media (minus this blog, which I don't really count because it's not actually all that social.  It's more of a one-way street, and I get maybe three comments a year.  I don't think that really qualifies as a conversation or anything resembling "social".)

Around this time about 5 years ago, I began exiting social media.  Goodbye, Facebook.  Goodbye, LinkedIn.  I was never on Twitter to begin with, so that was easy.  Instagram came on board later, but then I would eventually delete that one as well.  Nothing cataclysmic had happened to warrant the exodus - there was no bullying, there was no massive and public breakup with a boyfriend, there was no privacy breach, nor any other dramatic reason that sometimes warrants people deleting their accounts.

I just simply knew me.

I knew what I was becoming because of social media, the ways I would obsess over whether I had any notifications or not.  The ways I would scroll through page after page, looking at the highlight reels of my friends' lives and wondering why I didn't have what they had.  The ways my insecurities would rise to the surface and threaten to choke me.  The ways I would feel the pangs of jealousy take root when I would see friends getting engaged, only to stare down at my own ring finger and see it empty.  The ways I wanted the whole world to see me, a desire rooted deep in narcissism, but in the next breath I wanted to retreat and hide because I didn't want the world to know anything about me. (When I turned 24, I was very anti-posting my birthday on Facebook, for whatever reason.  But then when hardly anyone remembered my birthday and or sent any birthday wishes, I got super annoyed and had a serious pity party. I have never claimed to be totally rational.)  The ways I would waste time and precious brain space obsessing over all the wrong things.  So, yeah, I knew me.

I know me.

And I knew social media wasn't worth the exchange I was making.  I also didn't care to have so much information out there in cyberspace about me.  Granted, it was self-moderated information, but it was out there nonetheless.  (So maybe there's a little bit of the thought of Big Brother hanging out there as well.  But then I have this blog where I'm willing to spill my guts?  Also makes no sense, I know.)

Do I think Facebook and Twitter and all of that is evil and of the devil? No.  Do I think they are going to be the death of society? Maybe.  Maybe at least the death of our ability to actually have a conversation with another human being in the flesh and instead of on a screen.  I've always equated social media and our culture to the frog in the lukewarm water.  We've been so accepting and so enamored with social media that one day I fear we will wake up and find that we just died a long, slow painful death, just like that frog in that lukewarm water.  Do I think I will never, ever, ever, ever have a social media account again?  No.  Who knows what reasons may arise in the future that might warrant opening an account.  I can't really even fathom what those reasons might be right now, but I'm not ruling out the possibility.  Do I think social media has no place in our lives? No.  It has a place, and I see the value in it for businesses and non-profits and organizations, a means of connecting with a world, your customer immediately at your fingertips. 

But for now, I know me.  And I know me and social media don't need to mix.  So, I won't even attempt to hold up the façade I would surely work so very hard to create if I had a Facebook account.  It would be a charade.  And I'm not a big fan of charades.  I'll spare myself that misery.

Should you find you need to reach out to me or talk with me, spare yourself the hassle of searching for my Facebook profile.  Your searching will be in vain and your search bar will come up with "No results found".

But you're always welcome to find me in the flesh, and have a conversation with me that involves eyes and ears and spoken words. That's my kind of social media.           

Some battles don’t need to be waged. We don’t have to consume the lives of others through social media. And when we do, we should keep in mind that we’re only seeing a small slice, often the best slice. People post about the good times, that fun family vacation with the loving husband and angelic kids. Chaos might have broken out minutes before or after the photo, but that Kodak moment is what everyone sees. - Kim Cash Tate, "Social Media Heart Check" 

2015: Year in Review

Remember this little prayer from the end of 2014?  Whatever gets me more of Jesus is what I prayed.

Yeah, one of those big, bold prayers that we rightfully should make a habit of praying, but then within about 2 minutes you wish you could take it back.

This past year proved to be a tough year, mainly due to my job and the accompanying stress level.  It was an intense time of growth and refinement on so many levels.  A lot of hard lessons learned, and at times life felt a bit like a crucible.  Joy was a struggle.  Motivation was a challenge.  But I was determined to lean in.  And I was determined to press in that much closer to Jesus.   

Similar to last year, I recap 2015, based on my journal entries.  Always around this time of year, I recite my usual prayers of gratitude that I am a journal-er at heart, prone to cataloging my many thoughts, putting ink to paper.  One of my favorite quotes from Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts echoes my soul: "Because the picking up of a pen isn't painful and ink is cheap medicine.  And I just might live."   

I've spent the last year picking up the pen, cataloging the pain I was experiencing elsewhere in life.

And maybe it was cheap medicine, taking pen to paper.

But it was good medicine.

And I lived.

So, I present to you my 2015 in a consolidated fashion, month-by-month:

(On December 29, 2014, is when I prayed "Whatever gets me more of Jesus.")

January:  By January 18, I was writing, "Can I take back that prayer?"  January felt like the month from Hades.  I was already running for the hills and we weren't even three weeks out from that oh-so-grandiose prayer of mine.  It was a brutal month work-wise and I think I came home nearly every day for lunch and sobbed my face off.  But I also kicked off reading the book of Hebrews, working through it with my small group.  So timely, for so many reasons, as there were so many verses that were nudges and reminders to fix my eyes on Jesus.  It's also the month in which I added this t-shirt to my wardrobe.

February: For the first time in maybe 15 years, I found myself not wanting to travel.  Anywhere.  "I feel like a traitor to my own soul when I admit I no longer have the urge to travel," I wrote.  Me, the girl who had spent a large portion of her 20s finding a plane to get on, suddenly didn't want anything to do with driving, flying, packing, or daydreaming of distant lands.  It was short-lived, however.  I booked a flight to Wyoming three months later.  I felt like less of a traitor after that.

March: "I think I would make a very successful hermit," is the sentiment expressed through most of March.  I wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide most of this month.  My job was so stressful that most evenings I just wanted to come home, pull the curtains and not speak to or see another human being for a very long time.

April: There are zero entries in the month of April.  Which means it was either so insignificant that I didn't feel compelled to write about anything, or it was so dreadful that I didn't want to record it for posterity and have to relive it ever again.

May:  In this month there was much writing about the Holy Spirit, surrendering to him, and how I usually am unwilling to do so.  I also wrote of the WordStrong sessions I attended at my parents' church, Northwest Bible.  One of their teaching pastors, Mark Trotter, delivered a killer series on Revelation, particularly the closing segments on Revelation 3, sessions 39, 40, and 41.  Rocked my world.  And then I cat/dog/house-sat for my aunt and uncle on Memorial Day weekend.  I simply wrote, "I haven't even had these creatures for 48 hours and I'm over it.  I'm okay if I don't ever have pets again."  No reflection on them as they are well-behaved creatures, I just suddenly realized that weekend I have no idea how I managed to have pets for nearly 29 years of my life.

June: I don't normally comment on external national or world events, but I did feel the need to note that American Pharoah won the Triple Crown.  The TRIPLE CROWN, people.  I have to work at overlooking the misspelling of his name, but seriously the TRIPLE CROWN.  In other news, I'm still cratering mentally and emotionally.  One friend pointed out I may potentially have depression.  I was so thoroughly annoyed with him for even pointing it out because I totally wanted to deny it.  He probably had/has no idea how angry I was with him for even suggesting it.  I was annoyed not that he said it - but maybe because I knew there was truth in it.  I also stepped down as a mentor with Freedom a la Cart and the CATCH program.  I figured I had no business mentoring women, trying to tell them how to be healthy when I couldn't get my own act together.

July: I'm feeling stretched thin. Just totally pulled apart at the seams.  I wrote, "This job is going to do me in.  Some moments this week I have felt like I am reliving the week from Hades back in January." It's also the first time I ever experienced Lakeside.  Loved it.

August: I spent this month praying for a harvest of righteousness and peace, a verse from Hebrews 12. (There are reasons why God intersects certain seasons of our lives with certain portions of His Word.)  "I'm still asking for my view of Jesus to get bigger and for the view of myself to get smaller,"  I jotted down.  I disappeared up to Lakeside again for a weekend, all by myself. I needed the mental break.  I also spent a weekend down in Louisville, attending the World Championship Horse Show.  It had been over 15 years since I had last gone.

September: Ahhh, Wyoming.  How I love you.  I spent 4 days in Jackson Hole, and I don't know I've ever been sadder to leave somewhere before.  And given the number of places I have been before, that's saying something.
    
October: I wrote some more about how much I love Wyoming.  And then I wrote some more about how much my job was killing me. (Don't worry, if you're tired of hearing about my job just in these few paragraphs, you can understand how worn out I was by my own thoughts over the past year.)  "The phrase I keep hearing over and over again in my head is, 'I just want out.' Jesus, it may not be pretty, and there is a whole host of things I am getting wrong, but I will keep putting one foot in front of the other.  I will keep coming before you with this, wrestling it out, still leaning in.  I'm not giving up."  Sheer grit and determination got me through this month.

November: "I just wish I understood better just what it is about my job that makes me want to come unhinged on a regular basis." 

December:  I resigned from my job.  I did a happy dance.  My brother texted me the morning after I gave my resignation to my bosses, asking, "Are the birds chirping and the unicorns still dancing?"  Heck yes they are, I said.  (But here's the crazy thing - by the grace and goodness of God - despite the fact that I resigned from my job, I still have a job! I know, right?! I realize that is not normal.  I was essentially holding down what amounted to two full-time positions within my organization; I merely resigned from one of the positions, and essentially reverted back to the job for which I was originally hired.)

I haven't decided what my prayer for 2016 will be.  Maybe it will be one just as scary as saying "Whatever gets me more of Jesus."  Because as hard as this past year has been, and as much as I certainly would not want to relive it, I do know this:

I got what I asked for.

I got more of Jesus.

And he is always worth whatever heartache we walk through.

Pearl Harbor Started It All

Pearl Harbor started it all, years ago.  The smashed penny version of Pearl Harbor, that is.  That one is what started what has become my smashed penny collection, mementos of the many corners of the world I have visited.

I have this hazy vague memory of finding that first smashed penny on my grandparents' kitchen table, mixed in with the random assortment of knick-knacks, Saltine crackers, jars of peanut butter and papers that usually got shuffled around their kitchen table.  They had visited Pearl Harbor in the late 70s, a pit stop along the way to New Zealand and Australia.  Little did they know their decision to pop a few coins into a machine all those years ago would launch their granddaughter's love of hunting down and collecting these pocket-sized souvenirs.  Maybe it's a weird collection to some.  I've definitely gotten a few confused looks from folks when I tell them I collect smashed pennies.  Some people have no idea what they are, let alone why anyone would bother collecting them.  It usually makes me sound like a complete nerd, but you know, whatever.          

My current collection hovers somewhere north of 120 (maybe 130 by now?) pennies.  Some are different designs from the same location, so that doesn't mean they represent 120 distinct locations, but they do represent a fairly wide variety of places I have visited.  I don't mind if other people bring me coins from their own travels, but generally speaking, I try only to collect coins from places I have personally been to. 




Part of my international collection - Auckland and Moscow

I remember the summer I spent in Russia, there
with a handful of other college students.  At the end of the trip, we bummed around Moscow for a few extra days.  We traipsed around Red Square and squeezed ourselves through the closing doors of a few metros and a whole lot of places in between.  As much as I was enjoying Moscow, I was eager to get out of the country.  It had been a long, hard summer - and I wasn't too keen on sticking around much longer.  But there we were in St. Basil's Cathedral, climbing stair step after stair step.  My roommate that summer, Tiffany, comes around the corner, proudly announcing she had found a smashed penny machine.  Clarification: smashed ruble machine, in this instance.  I didn't even know they had these machines in other countries, as I just assumed it was an American thing.  It was probably a seemingly insignificant find to the rest of the world, but I was delighted to find one of these machines stashed up in the stairwell of this centuries-old cathedral.     

The collection has continued to grow since that first one my grandparents brought back from Pearl Harbor - New Zealand, Jackson Hole, Alaska, Florida, random little towns scattered across Ohio - they have all been added.  I'm sure many more will be added, reminders of the adventures and the memories.  Fifty cents and a smashed penny later is a small price to pay to hold the memories close, to mark the moments that have shaped my life.  (And don't worry, there's an app for that.)

Yes, I'm nerdy enough to have them all enclosed in specially-
made display booklets. 

When You Travel Alone, Have Short Arms, and No Selfie Stick

I am not in the habit of taking selfies.  They just feel weird to me.  Maybe one part a little too narcissistic.  And maybe one part just plain awkward.

When I went out to Wyoming, I took lots of pictures, of course.  The mountains, the sunsets, the wildlife, the geysers, the truck.  (And then I maybe took some more pictures of the truck.)

There were, however, a series of bad selfies I took that got scattered through.  For one, I have short arms, so it's kind of hard to get the camera very far away from my own face.  Two, I haven't had much practice, so this selfie thing is a whole new ball game for me at times.  Three, there was no one around to rescue me from my own bad selfie-taking skills.  Four, I had no selfie stick to help me out.

So, allow me to be so vulnerable as to share with you my series of bad selfies:

Let's start with perhaps the best one out of the bunch, the one from Old Faithful.  With the guy behind me also taking a selfie.  See?  We're already off to a bad start.  Fail.

And then there was the one with the backside of this buffalo in Yellowstone.  And I'm awkwardly holding my right shoulder for some reason.  And I'm not smiling.  And I'm standing in the shadows.  And the picture is tilted.  And there are a bunch of campers and buses in the background, cluttering the view.  Fail.  

And then there was the one where I tried to get a picture with Old Faithful over my shoulder. But too bad my head kept getting in the way.  Fail.  

Maybe the one with the truck is the only legitimate one that mildly passes as a decent selfie?  I feel like I have a cheesy grin on my face, though. Not a total fail.

And then there's the one with the boats?  Which makes a horrible and highly uninteresting and cluttered background?  I'm not sure what I thought my goal was with this photo. Fail.

And lastly, this one, next to another geyser not far from Old Faithful.  I'm looking off to the side, and I'm clearly very disgruntled about something, but I'm not sure what.  Maybe my inability to take a good selfie?  Fail.  

I showed my friend Jill my photos from Wyoming, joking with her about my bad selfies.  She was so kind as to buy me a selfie stick for my birthday here a few weeks ago, perhaps out of pity, but perhaps she was just trying to problem solve for me.  Too bad my phone is a dinosaur (a whopping 3.5 years old) and the selfie stick is not compatible with my phone.  Go figure.  Apparently the bad selfie saga is to continue for the foreseeable future, at least until I upgrade to a new phone (which will not be any time soon) or until I get longer arms.  

Remember My Caterpillar-Hating Friend, Johnson?

This picture does not do Johnson's personality justice.

Remember this kid I saved (I use the term loosely) from a caterpillar?  And the kid who asked if little girls could eat dirt? The kid who did this crazy little dance and often brought me to tears from laughter? The kid who discussed Al-Shabab and bombs with me? The same kid who makes goofy faces and holds a special place in my heart?

It turns out he is growing up and becoming a star.

I happened to be checking Rafiki's blog recently and stumbled across this post about Johnson (click the link if you want to see the video of him performing):

http://rafikifoundation.org/site/latestnews.aspx 

Johnson Waindo is a ten-year-old living at Rafiki Village Kenya. He recently presented at the national level of the Kenya Music Festival in the boys ages 10–14 years soloist competition.

The festival competitions go from sub-county, to county, and then to regional levels. At these first three levels Johnson earned first place. Each region sends its top two ranked students to the national level, so Johnson competed against eighteen other boys aged 10–14, all singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning."

Johnson achieved second place in all of Kenya—we are all thrilled! Mr. Samuel Agufa (pictured to the left with Johnson) has done an outstanding job training this young boy to compete with mostly older boys. Mr. Agufa helped Johnson develop his natural talent through hard work, discipline, and determination. Moreover, Mr. Agufa has been an outstanding example for Johnson; he has shown him that talent is from the Lord, but talent alone isn't enough without dedication and hard work.

Johnson’s mother died of an illness ten days after his birth, leaving him abandoned in the hospital. His father is unknown, his elderly grandparents impoverished, and his teenage siblings were unable to care for him. With no relatives to take him in, Social Welfare referred him to Rafiki Village Kenya. Johnson arrived to his new Rafiki family in November 2005. We are so proud of him and look forward to all his future accomplishments. 

Yay for Johnson!  Clearly that day I saved him from that caterpillar set his life on a trajectory to achieve stardom.  You're welcome, friend.

That Time I Got Called "Sir"

So there I was in the Jackson airport, minding my own business.  

I had arrived at the airport hours before my flight was supposed to leave, thanks in large part to the fact that the pickup truck I had rented (aka the other piece of my heart) was due back by 2:00 pm, but my flight wasn't until 5:30 pm.  So, I had a lot of free time on my hands.

I milled around the ticket counter area for awhile, sorting through receipts and photographs and mementos from the trip.  I decided to finally make my way through security, find a quiet corner in the terminal and stretch out for awhile before the flight home, knowing I was about to be folded up into a little cube once I hit that airplane seat.  

The Jackson airport is small enough that only a handful of flights go out each day.  And the gate area is maybe half the size of a football field.  People were bustling about when I walked through security, as there were a couple of flights getting ready to board.  Unlike other airports, Jackson actually has legitimate furniture in the form of comfy leather couches, chairs and overstuffed ottomans.  Most of them had been taken over by soon-to-be-departing passengers, so I decided to bide my time until these next couple of flights took off and then I'd see about staking my claim on a leather couch.  

The 3:30 flight boarded and departed, and I discovered once they cleared out, there were a grand total of two other people left in the terminal.  Even airport staff was vanishing.  My 5:30 flight was the last flight out for the day, and since I was so early, there was hardly a soul around.  They actually temporarily closed down the security checkpoint, as one staff member informed me, telling me that if I wanted to leave the terminal I wouldn't be able to get back in for awhile.  I moseyed on over to the appointed leather couch, stretched out with my feet propped up, pulled out my latest reading selection of Friday Night Lights by H.G. Bissinger (brilliant book, by the way.  And we won't even talk about my recent obsession with the TV series) and settled in for the next couple of hours.  

Let me pause here and describe to you my appearance at this point, as this will prove highly relevant.  On days I know I am traveling, I tend to go as comfy and practical as possible.  So that morning I had pulled out my favorite pair of holey jeans, a plaid button-up shirt, my black fleece and a ball cap.  I had zero makeup on, which I didn't even bother to pack and hadn't worn for the entire trip.  I hadn't even bothered to wear any nail polish either, which is rare for me to go long without nail polish.  I also had a football book in my hands.

Okay, so back to the story.  I'm curled up on the couch, reading my book, when out of the corner of my eye, I spot this airport/TSA staff member heading my way.  He's kind of a big guy, holding a sticker-covered Nalgene bottle in his hands.  I look up and make eye contact with him, when he says, "Excuse me, sir, is this your water bottle?"

*Long pause while my brain does double-time, trying to process whether he's talking to me or some imaginary male figure sitting next to me.*

There isn't another soul within 200 feet.  Process of elimination: he's clearly directing this question at me.

"Eh, no, that's not mine," I said. 

And I could tell as soon as I opened my mouth that he realized his error, as he fumbled for a second and clearly got nervous.  

I didn't say anything else, and I didn't bother to correct him.  And he didn't bother to say anything else either, as he just kept walking right on by, eager to escape the awkwardness of the moment.

I texted my mom shortly thereafter and said, "I just got called 'sir'..."  First time for everything I guess.  

I suppose I can't blame the poor guy because I did kind of look like a boy, sitting there reading a football book.  And I always look like I don't have much hair anyway when I've got a ball cap on, given that it's so short to begin with.  When it gets tucked underneath a hat, then it really disappears.  So, I really wasn't offended by his mistake, and I even had a good laugh about it with family when I got home. 

But seriously, sir.

I am not a "sir".

Note to future self: ditch the ball cap, put on my some makeup, and avoid reading football books when traveling.  Maybe then I'll avoid a repeat of this little episode.