currently

listening to so many great podcasts. I could never get into them until I started cleaning houses, and now I'm obsessed. If you like Gilmore Girls (and, honestly, even if you don't), Gilmore Guys is way fun. I'm also enjoying Around the Table and Elise Gets Crafty.

drinking looseleaf tea gifted to us by my sister. Looseleaf tea feels so luxurious to me that I save it for only those quiet moments when the house is clean and the neighbors aren't blaring techno music and all is right with the world.

watching Gilmore Girls, season four. And now I'm all, "Thirteen-year-old self, why the heck are you not watching this?" Also, every Audrey Hepburn movie on Netflix. Obviously.

reading Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton and Middlemarch by George Eliot. I love starting the year with thick, chunky reads. I would highly, highly recommend both.

wanting to do a juice cleanse. To stay in the habit of waking up early. To come up with weekly meal plans so I don't find myself in the checkout aisle at Target every afternoon at 4:30, flipping through all the magazines I pride myself in not reading.

attempting to wear real clothes instead of my flower pant leggings every day. But once you have flowers pants, it's really really hard to justify wearing anything else ever again.

feeling desperate to write again. I'm learning that my cute pink journal doesn't always cut it. Sometimes I need the clackety clack of keys in order to get down to business and write something worthwhile. I'm attempting fiction again (hold me.)

taking way too many photos of my husband, as I continue to learn the ins and outs of my camera. The scrapbooker in me is having a panic attack with all the 300+ photos on my computer of just. his. face. Maybe some things really don't need to be documented.

grateful for a fresh start. Carolina winters. A new shelf of books. Not having to work in an office, or at a mall, anymore. Just enough busy-ness to keep me sane, just enough quiet to give me space to breathe. A husband who encourages and challenges me.

staying

I love our apartment. I really, really do. It's so carpety and homey and when you walk in after a long day away it smells cold and clean like a beach house.


We signed our lease, one more year. And at first that freaked me out a little. Another whole year. Because, yeah, sure, it's cute, but another whole year? In an apartment? Does that mean that we're stuck, that we're not moving forward into adulthood by buying a house, settling down, growing babies (or at the very least, tomatoes) etc?


Mostly the thought of staying is what keeps me up at night. I've spent so much of my life planning and rushing into the Next Thing that the thought of actually staying somewhere, even somewhere I love, is daunting. Because staying means that those pictures on the wall are going to be there a while. It means I can't distract myself with figuring out what's next. It means I have to be fully present right here because we ain't going anywhere.


I moved around a lot as a kid and learned to love change, to almost need it, because it was an easy escape. Too shy to make friends at this school? That's okay, I'll be somewhere new next year. Don't like this house, these neighbors? Well, we're moving in a few months. Things will be better then.


But, now that I'm forced into it, I have to admit that I kind of like this staying thing. It's like your favorite show, how it doesn't really get good until the second or third season when you've gotten to know the character's quirks. Staying put helps me to slow down and see things long term, find the beauty in the process. I'm learning alternate routes through town, the names of the cashiers at the store, what this person's story is, the story you can only earn the right to hear over time and cups of coffee.


And that being-present mindset is starting to take over my whole life. I've stopped stressing about finding a new job. I'm slowing down, shifting my thinking enough to where I can actually see the people around me - to appreciate them, reach out just a little more, get out of my head and into a conversation at a coffee shop. It's weird and new, being this person with her feet planted firmly on the ground (or in this case, carpet.) But I love it. I love becoming this more content, settled version of myself.

on forever friends

It'd been a long day, a long week. Not enough sleep, but we were going out for coffee so that would help. At least, that's where I assumed we were going. Trevor said we were just going out for a cheap date, but the actual location was going to be a surprise.

We cruised into downtown Raleigh and drove by a fancy restaurant. "This is it," he said.

"Ooh, this is a surprise. Doesn't look cheap, though."

"Well..."

We walked inside and I headed towards the hostess. "Burris," I said, "We have a reservation for two."

"Burris, party of eight," she corrected. We followed her silently; I assumed she meant that the reservation was for eight o'clock. But there it was, a table with eight places settings.

"Hey, uh, should we tell her that they made a mistake? That we need a smaller table?" I asked as she turned and left.

"Nah."

"But...don't you...what?"

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Let's just say there are a few more people joining us."

"Wait, what? Who? Why? Is this for my birthday? THIS IS FOR MY BIRTHDAY. Who is it? Ugh, where's my lipstick?!"

I kept running my palms over my pants, nervously watching the door, trying to suppress a goofy grin. And in walked all my favorite people in the world, my sisters and brother-in-law and best friends, all of whom live at least a couple hours away. All of whom I've missed like crazy since we moved. We celebrated with wine and dessert and my heart was full. We went back to our apartment and stayed up till the wee hours, acting a-fool, picking up right where we left off.

I miss this - being surrounded by people whose quirks and sense of humor I know. People with whom polite conversation is totally unnecessary. People who don't think twice before borrowing my toothpaste. I've met great people here, people I've felt instant connections with, but it's not quite the same. We're still trying to figure each other out.

As they trailed out the door the next afternoon, I suddenly realized that I'm twenty-five. Which means I have known these people for ten years. Ten years. (Except for my sisters, of course.) And you know what's funny? It took us years to become close. Most of us were casual, say-hello-in-the-hallway friends for years in high school. And then, slowly, we began showing up at each other's birthdays and graduation parties, still trying to impress each other. Still polite. It wasn't until college that we truly became forever friends. Gosh, even Trevor and I were casual friends for five years before we dated.

And that kind of made me stop and think. Of course I can't move somewhere and make instant best friends. It doesn't work the way, the same way instant coffee just doesn't work. True friendship takes time, so much time, and isn't that something we'd like to ignore in this instant,  "follow me and I'll follow you!" fast-paced world.

Time, patience, showing up. That's what it takes. That's what I'm willing to give. Because those forever friends who drive two and a half hours just to celebrate your silly birthday - they are the stuff of life, the people who make you realize who you are and who you want to be. They make it all worthwhile.

Where I'm Coming From

I've been blogging on and off here for the past year and a half. My posts have always been rather clumsy and random, but they've all been written from a place of passion and honesty. My intentions and dreams for this place have shifted since that first click of the "publish" button, but I still ultimately want to use my words and stories to glorify Jesus.

Many of you are new readers. Maybe you found me through Project Life or...well, I have no clue how the rest of you found me. Either way, welcome. I am encouraged and inspired by each of you. And I think you deserve, if not my entire backstory (you can search the archives for that mess), then at least my front story. Who I am, where I'm coming from. I'm often vague about the details of my life, and I want to change that.

So, this is me. I'm a follower of Christ, on a journey of falling in love with Him and His word. This is not something I say lightly, because so much of my life has been spent "being a Christian" and not following Christ. But I'm learning.

I've been married to my high school and college crush Trevor for two years. He's the worship pastor at our church and is also currently serving as the youth director. (If you've been reading for a long time, you'll know that we've had all kinds of adventures in youth ministry.) I am learning to love ministry and church even though I was once a very bitter, reluctant pastor's wife. That's a story for another day.

A year ago we moved to a tiny suburb of Raleigh, which is like a Southern, American version of Avonlea (tell me you've read Anne of Green Gables?!) It's dreamy and quaint and there's swing dancing downtown in the summer.

Me? I've struggled to find a "real" job since moving here (since graduating college, actually.) But currently I'm working at Anthropologie, which means I come home smelling like the volcano candle everyday. I'm also getting a lot of mileage out of my vintage skirts and tube of red lipstick. All I really know is that I love words. Even if I never find a "career" I will be satisfied simply writing stories in my floppy journal every night. That's good enough for now.

My dream for this space is to record my stories as I fumble my way through ministry and marriage and discovering what it means to live for Christ. When I graduated college, I mourned the thought of never being in a classroom again, but I'm finding that life is a never-ending lesson. And I guess that makes blogging a field journal.

So - what's your "front" story? What's the plot twist you're finding yourself in right now?

on life lately

This winter has been a struggle for me.

It seems like every winter is, really. The monotony of cold and grey skies always pushes me deep inside my already-introspective self. And the deeper I am into myself, it seems, the further I am from God.

Working retail in January, February is no joke either, and the lack of shifts certainly didn't help matters. It left me with plenty of time to sit on my couch and think about things like, oh I don't know, mortality. Purpose in this fleeting life. Why I have such a problem figuring out what to make for dinner every night (I've fallen into a chicken trap.)

And what, I wondered, is the purpose in all this? In living most of my life in this tiny apartment, thinking of all the grand things I could and should be doing with my life. Isn't there more?

We were quietly sipping tea one afternoon when Trevor looked at me and said, "You're not a very happy camper these days," which was his kind husband way of saying, Would you quit moping around, woman? Also, the bathroom hasn't been clean in weeks.

So I swung open the door and invited him in to my own personal pity party. He wasn't as entertained by my dramatic monologue as I, however; the overly dramatic one I had been rehearsing in my head all winter. After I was through explaining my small little tragedy, he said, "Heather, don't you know you have to create purpose?"

I didn't like that. Create purpose? Okay, well, yeah, if I was free to pack up and do whatever I wanted, that would be easy. I'd sell my stuff and do something meaningful like teach English in Guatemala or start an orphanage or something and drag Trevor along with me. But I can't do anything, I said, when we're stuck here.

"Do you think the people in this community are any less important?" he asked.

Ouch.

He was right. I didn't want to look around and see the needs around me because that would mean taking a small step outside myself. And isn't it the small steps that are often so much harder than the big ones? It would be so much easier for to to sign up for a mission trip to a remote village in Africa  than to initiate a conversation with the girl in the corner of the room who looks as lonely as I feel.

This life, I began to see over this long lonely winter, is not about me. It's not even about what I can do to make a difference in the world. It is only, only, only about Jesus. I had to grasp that before I could even think about how I could be used by Him to serve and bless others. Isn't it funny how we can make idols out of the things that are so good?

Spring is coming, in little bursts of sun between the wind and little snowflake icons on the weather reports. My heart is free for the first time in months because Jesus didn't just set me free, he is setting me free every day. There's a sense of newness and bravery and stepping out in nervous faith. I'm watching in awe as God is beginning to use me right here in the squeaky clean suburbs of North Carolina. Because He is too big to be confined to only one method of ministry, one way of living for Him.

So that's where I am. That's what I've been wrestling with and why I've been so silent here the past few months. But finally I'm recharged and energized and a little like a kid coming home from church camp because there is so much passion fired up in my belly right now. This season is good. This life is good.

Chicken casserole for dinner every night is not good, but I'm working on that, too.

around here

I'm learning to be brave, put myself out there. Having the new neighbor girls over for coffee. Initiating conversation when I would be more comfortable watching from a corner. Applying for jobs that I'm afraid to apply to. Volunteering for things when staying home with a book in my hands sounds so much more tempting. And I'm finding that it's making life so much more rich, that I'm able to see God move and hear Him speak so much more clearly in those scary, uncomfortable moments. He's stretching me hard core and I think I like it.


We're getting ready for a camping trip to the Outer Banks this weekend. Gathering our camping gear, making lists, dreaming about an afternoon of sailing. Praying our air mattress is still in working condition (we tent camp, but in a very cushy, caffeine and chocolate-fueled kind of way.) Nothing like an end of summer camping trip.


I'm still writing my book, still loving and hating it. Plowing through, ignoring the voices that say, "Now, this is just dumb. You actually think you're writing a book?" Sometimes you just have to tell that voice to shove it. I'm starting to get distracted, however, by other artsy endeavors. Watercolor, art journaling, photography, scrapbooking. But it's all fun.


Loving that this is starting to feel like "our" church, like we're not in the "Hi, my name is ______" stage, we're actually becoming friends with these people. It's such a good feeling. We had baptisms in a nearby lake on Saturday, the first crisp day of the season, and it couldn't have been more perfect.


Dreaming of a new direction for this blog in 2014, which I know is still a ways off, but I'm already excited about where I want to take it. Thanks for reading, friends. xo

from my notebook

Thinking this morning about connectedness. Someone once said that our lives are circles, and that is so true. That's one of my favorite things about life, really. Discovering patterns that loop around. I love finding myself in a conversation about something I was just reading about the other day, or when someone shares their story, and it resonates with everything I'm going through. Overhearing fascinating conversations. Learning and growing and finding connections in all of it.

And it's all interconnected through God. In Him we find meaning and purpose, a divine order of things. That gives me hope, more than almost anything. I can't help but be comforted when I see divine patterns bringing together the tiny pieces of my life, surprising me at the most unexpected moments.

* * *

So this morning I was making scrambled eggs for breakfast. Cracking eggs is something I've always had issues with, but I was explaining to Trevor my new egg-cracking theory. "It's all about confidence," I said. "You can't just give it a little tap, you have to really whack it like you mean it." And I whacked the egg against the bowl and the yolk went flying onto my leg. How these things happen to me I'll never know. 

* * *

I finally brought my yellow bike Gloria up from Mom and Dad's house. She's still rusty, and both the front tire and the chain have this pesky habit of falling off, but I guess she's not any worse off than she was in college. The wheel popping off on the way to class, me carrying the parts across campus like an idiot. Trevor coming to my rescue.

Trev and I went for a long bike ride yesterday on the most gorgeous tree-lined trail. It was incredibly peaceful and invigorating at the same time. Why is it, I wonder, that the most peaceful activities are the ones where wind is blowing on your face and through your hair; sailing, flying, biking.

* * *

I hate this--being twenty-four and still not exactly sure what my personality is. People are always telling me what I am: shy, ditzy, soft-spoken, funny, quiet, quirky. Which is it?

* * *

Mondays are for messy buns. Every single Monday I throw my hair on top of my head. Because I won't see Trevor much today and because today is not for being pretty. It is for getting down to business, cleaning, writing, creating. It is not a sign of laziness. The bun means business.

* * *

I was wearing my new Banana Republic shirt to church this morning, feeling pretty cute about it, too. I floated through church, hugging people and talking and laughing, floated home and admired my shirt in the mirror. And then I turned and saw that it was totally unzipped. All down my back. 

Why. 

from summer 2013

I want to remember the sense of calm that came with our first season here. After-dinner walks around the neighborhood at dusk, exploring parks and cities. Late night chats on our porch, sipping chai and watching thunderstorms roll in.

I want to remember afternoons in my yellow writing room. Forcing myself to the desk, staring at the page in defeat or soaring with unexpected inspiration, all of it teaching me something. Occasionally pausing to watch the little single engine planes come to a descent at the airport just past the trees. Making me miss my dad, the pilot-farmer, who always encouraged me to write.

I want to remember this as a new season of our marriage, one free of the stress of moving, the anxiety of wondering and waiting. Just relaxing in the absolution of finally being here, pictures on the walls, that place we dreamed of for so long.

I want to remember being so excited to not only live near a Starbucks, but near one that it is only two minutes up the road. Spending rainy Sunday nights there in the velvety chairs by the window, talking about books and what we're learning and what's next. Trevor letting me take endless pictures of him, his embarrassed grin as he tried to ignore the camera.

I want to remember the hard things, the crappy jobs and the sense of desperation. The "what am I doing with my life?" questions. I want to remember the ways God showed up as well as the ways I'm still waiting for Him to show up. I want to remember the little gems of new friendships and new ideas and dreams that kept pushing me forward.

I want to remember the seemingly insignificant details. Watching Cheers reruns every night and singing the theme song as we settle into the couch with popcorn, Trevor always pointing out with his musical laugh that I am way off-key. Living in my grey V-neck. The whir of our first dishwasher. Lemon-scened soap. Avocados. Devouring The Prince of Tides. Late night swims under clouded moonlight.

Mostly I want to remember this as a season of unapologetic rest and peace. All from Him.

life lately

We're nearing the end of August but it's still a hot, Carolina summer here. I get a sunburn just walking to the pool. But as soon as night falls it gets so deliciously cool that it becomes a little easier to imagine long sleeves and boots and socks (socks! I've all but forgotten about the things.)

I am unemployed, still. Well meaning people at church, upon finding this out, ask what I do, what kind of work I'm looking for. "Uh, well." The heck if I know. Truly, the heck. Normally it suffices to simply shrug and say, "I was, like, an English major..."

I don't know what I want to do. This is disappointing, for an instrospective person who has a tendency to overthink things. I should at least have some sort of inkling. But I'm learning that, so far, all I really know what I don't want to do.

After months of working in a professional setting at the college nearby, I'm finding that it's starting to matter less and less, this whole question of what I should do. It's becoming less of a big deal as I accept that I am probably not missing out on some cosmic calling, at least not concerning a job.

I used to get so angry scanning job websites. "I am way too qualified to file papers and answer phones; I'm smart!" And then I would look over to Trevor. "Right? Aren't I smart?"

But God (I guess it was God? who else?) reminded me, yet again, that I was being prideful. And was that what I was really after in life, anyway? A swanky, suit-wearing career? No. I've never been that girl. I'm an artist. Who cares what I do for work as long as I'm making time for writing, for my "life's work" as they say.

So yesterday, after perusing jobs online until my eyeballs practically bled, I applied at a grocery store. Whole Foods, but still. Bagging groceries would have been so beneath me even in high school, but now? Now I am a married woman, involved in a church I love, writing a book I actually like, and on top of all that my bangs are finally starting to grow out. My life is not perfect, but it's so full that I don't need to find my identity or purpose in a job. Who cares?

Okay, a part of me will always care. A part of me will always loathe working entry level jobs to pay off debt for a college degree. But I'm making peace with that.

Anyway. So for now I'm waiting. I'm writing like a mad woman, punching away at the keyboard, high on caffeiene and life. Coming home from the libary with stacks of books I've never heard of. Having long chats on the phone with people I love. Being a housewife and, yes, even making dinner on occasion. Life is good. And no matter what happens next, I believe it will continue to be good.

So if you see me around town wearing a visor and nametag, well, you'll understand.

from my notebook

[at a coffee shop] This guy plopped down at the table next to me with his yellow motorcycle helmet and asked if I lived up the road; I looked a little familiar.

"Yeah!" I said, recognizing him as the motorcycle guy down the hall. "Cameron Village Apartments!" Pause. "Oh, I mean Cameron Woods." Blank looks of confusion. "Cameron Lake. Gosh, Lake Cameron!" I am an idiot.

* * *

The business world is, shall we say, not my cup of tea. It represents everything that I despise and I never want to darken its door again. It smells like microwave popcorn and cheap perfume and Lysol. It is flourescently lit, that same awful light, never changing, not a single window to be found. It is ties and tassled loafers and porcelain coffee mugs, the ones with vacation destinations printed on the side, Aloha from Oahu!, that people cling fiercely to as they move down the halls, the only sign of life in this place. It's stale jokes and even staler donuts laying on the counter. It's routines and spreadsheets and "Is it Friday yet?" all week long, hardy-har-har.

It is one of Dante's circles of hell.

And I'm not going back. Even if I spend the rest of my life pulling espresso shots or shelving books I will feel a heck of a lot more alive than sitting in that cubicle. And I would like to spend my one human life feeling human. 

* * *

We had a nice, quiet weekend. Now that I stop to think about it, I'm not really sure what we did. Let's see, we baked a cake. 

Gosh, is that the highlight of my weekend, we baked a cake?

* * *

Looks like Mom and Dad will be selling their house soon. It'll be so strange not having the farm to come home to. So much of Trevor's and my relationship bloomed right out of those hills and fields. I met him right when we moved in, sixteen and starry-eyed, not wasting any time in making him a main character in my journals.

My favorite room, the library downstairs, was where I dialed his number with shaking hands to tell him that yes, I would go to prom with him. Red faced and swallowed up in tulle and cologne, we posed for pictures in that same room, Mom and Dad were so impressed with this future pastor they told him not to worry about a curfew.

It was at the kitchen counter that I sat while Mom peeled potatoes and I told her that it was all over, he was getting serious about this girl, and she said, "Honey, it ain't over till they're married."

And she was right because in a few years he would be back in the foyer, picking me up for a date, sans the corsages and bad hair this time. Out on the dock over the pond was where we went dancing that night in June, that time I almost fell in, and then he asked me to be his girlfriend. And right across the pond, up there by the pasture, was where we had that first, most awkward kiss. Right next to that, out on the field looking up at the stars, was where he told me that he loved me. And also that I needed a tic tac.

A year later and I was running out of the house, grabbing that same sequined purse I took to prom, only this time I was in all white and wouldn't be coming back.

To think I will never return to the place where I went from a braces-wearing teenager to a married woman, the place where I fell in love with Trevor, doesn't seem possible. But that's the way it goes.

* * *

Saturday evening at an almost empty Starbucks that smells of heated milk and cinnamon. Stevie Wonder is singing our wedding song on the radio. It's raining outside and I'm sitting across from Trevor, both in our lazy summer clothes, too hot to look cool.

Often I hear people (happily married people) say that marriage is hard. Rewarding and wonderful, but hard. And I just don't get it. Sure, there are always things to work out and adjust to. And that whole selfless, unconditional love thing doesn't exactly come naturally. But to say that marriage is hard, as a general rule? 

Nah.

 Maybe we are just naive newlyweds, slap-happy and stupid. But I sure hope we stay that way.

from my notebook

Who I am, right now: I am barely twenty-four years old, currently unemployed as of last Friday. There is chipped red nail polish on my nails and an iced coffee in my hand. I guess I should be home searching for jobs, but do I ever do the logical thing? Sealing my fate into yet another receptionist job does not sound like a fun summer activity on this perfect sunny day. Instead I am at a coffeehouse with my navy and blue striped bag full of books. This is only my second day of unemployment, after all, and I need a break. Everyone deserves a week or two of summer. Right?

I've been able to listen--to myself, to God, to the poems hiding in each moment. And that's hard to do when you're driving to work at seven and driving home at five, each hour already planned out. I like the freedom of setting my own schedule, saying, "You know, I think I'll dabble in watercolor today." It wouldn't be healthy to live like this for very long, of course, but I'll take it while I can get it.

* * *

It's chilly in the apartment and it looks deceivingly cold outside, with the grey and the shadows under every leaf. I'm tempted, in the dark of this room, to wish secretly for autumn--for Irish sweaters and chunky glasses and hair in a fat bun, taking long walks to coffee shops on cool mornings. I'm tempted to wish for apple cider in my crock pot and Trevor in a beanie and the magic that falls with the leaves. But I stop myself because this day was once longed for, too--bare feet and ice cream and midnight swims under a full moon. Parks, porches, and a certain spontaneity unique to the summertime.

* * *



This is the first slight shift of seasons I've had since moving here, and I guess that's natural--we've been here three months, a whole season (hard as that is to believe.) The first months were this: adjustment, new faces, falling in love with every neighborhood and street corner, rearranging furniture, making friends over Mexican food and our favorite stories to embellish, panicking about and getting settled into jobs.

And now we're happily settled and this is where we live. I'm obviously back to square one as far as jobs are concerned, but I don't have that panicky, what-is-my-life feeling. Everything was go go go the first months, breathless and exhilirating. And now God has so mercifully given me a moment to pause and reflect on all he's done for us here. A time to rest my racing thoughts and prepare myself (or rather, let him prepare me) for whatever is next.

this time last year

from my journal one year ago...



Wednesday, July 19, 2012

Slowly God is teaching me to love. Slowly he is showing me that real love is messy, difficult, unorganized, raw, challenging, selfless, joyful, annoying, the only thing that lasts. Love is giving to others when they can't give anything back to me...extending time and friendship to the new person at church who couldn't really give anything back to me because they get on my last nerve.

Huh.

on the important things

It's another grey Wednesday morning, the kind of morning made for introspection, and such. Right now I'm thinking about the important things. The things, the moments, that really matter. And apparently it's not tea time.

I am a girl who, true to introverted form, needs my space. My quiet time to be alone and read, write, stare aimlessly at the ceiling, be. It's essential to my well-being and overall sanity, but I wonder if I have placed this alone time as too high a priority.

I'm not one of those people who needs coaxing to take a load off, take time for herself. That has never been a problem for me. I schedule "time to myself" like I would a dentist appointment or trip to the grocery store. I need it that much.

But lately, life has happened. I am working full time for the first time in my life and, boy, if that isn't a wake up call. Welcome to the real world, where I don't get to crawl into sweats at 3PM and read on the porch all afternoon. Thankful as I am for this job, I hate being in rush mode at all times, racing through the week until Friday finally comes.

And just when I am ready to wipe off my makeup and plant my yoga pants-butt on the couch, something happens on my sacred Friday. Weekend house guests come. Friends want to do dinner. There's a meeting at church. And before I know it, Sunday night is here and I have barely written  a word, barely had time with God, barely slowed down. Part of me wants to get just a little bitter. Do people not understand that I work all week? That I need a break? That things are getting just a little too extroverted around here?

Never mind that it was only two short months ago that I was sitting home all alone, getting quite corpulent on books and tortilla chips, wondering aloud why I didn't have any friends. Any real purpose. Well here it is, sister. Here are your friends and purpose and job and activities and then some.

I give a sleepy smile as I write these words and shake my head. How interesting, that life is not actually all about me and what I want.

Maybe, (huh.) maybe life is about other people.

Not that it's wrong to need time away, even for just an hour, to refocus and think. I will never not need that. We all need that. But I'm realizing that once I push my whiny self aside, I can find real Joy in early morning conversations with friends over coffee and homemade raspberry bread. In having an intelligent conversation with my husband instead of saying, "Mm, not now, I just need to be alone, thanks." In being surrounded by other women, laughing so hard because it's way past my bedtime, and there's mascara streaming down my face and I'm basically a train wreck, but in the best way.

Of course I will continue to carve out time to pray, to breathe. I can't do those other things well without it. But I'm choosing to make people more important than myself, to push all those "But what about me?" thoughts aside to become intentional about investing in others. It's uncomfortable and foreign at first, but at the end of the day, gosh, it feels good.

 

men's bathrooms and the usual

I believe in over-dressing. Wearing heels to grocery store because that's just the kind of person I want to be today.

In staying up much later than I should to finish that chapter...and then mayber another. How have I not discovered reading in bed before now? Reading at night is certainly not a new thing, but to read under fluffy white bed covers, dim lamp illuminating my side of the bed, curled up husband beside me? This is real life grown up stuff, the stuff married people do in movies and on sitcoms, and I like it. A lot.

In eating intentionally; knowing what I'm putting into my body and asking myself why. Someone once said that food can be either the best medicine or the slowest poison, and that thought has never left my mind.

In absolutely abusing my library card privileges.

In lipstick, hallelujah.

In the importance of a morning ritual. And three o'clock tea, complete with tea cookies.

 

In using the men's room at Starbucks when the homegirl in the lady's room is taking forever. This must be done as quickly and discreetly as possible, of course.

 

In using "homegirl" to refer to any female whose name I do not know and/or anyone who is particularly annoying me at any given time.

 

In the Loch Ness Monster.

In sitting by the pool for as long as I want because the dishes will always be there.

In smiling at strangers when they do something embarassing like trip on a step. I can only hope they would do the same for me.

In marriage.

In the power of story.

In private dance parties in store aisles when my favorite song comes on.

In carrying heavy boxes by myself. By all means, please be a gentleman. Open the door, pull out my chair, walk on the traffic side of the sidewalk. But, darn it, let me carry a box. Part of being a gentleman is letting a girl feel tough.

 

In using the self timer on my camera in public, even if it generates stares from strangers and an eye roll from my husband.

 

In hanging out all alone in crowded coffee shops, eavesdropping and watching, table covered in more books than I could ever read in that one sitting. This, to me, is worth the dollar and ninety-five cents for a cup of hot water and lousy tea bag.

 

 

 

loving lately

Bare legs and sundresses.

Natural beauty regimens (baking soda instead of shampoo, honey instead of face wash).

Coffee dates with new friends.

Farmers market and pool dates with my favorite boyfriend.

Feeling content and knowing that I am exactly where God wants me to be.

Planning our first dinner party since moving here (as in, I'm doing the planning and Trevor is doing the cooking. I don't want to be responsible for giving anyone food poisoning this early in the game.)

 Going for nighttime jogs which turn into spontaneous dance-walking like I'm in some unfortunate 80's video. As far as I know, only one person has caught me (but I've noticed people seem to do a lot of drugs in this complex, so maybe it's nothing they haven't seen before?)

How do normal people manage to listen to music as they run and not burst into their favorite Zumba routine? Have I watched too many musicals and somehow deemed this appropriate behavior? Please help.

Slowly meeting more people and getting involved at our new church. (I'm helping out with VBS this summer aka free birth control).

Getting into a writing rhythm (ooh, how'd you like that alliteration?) Between fiction and articles and journaling and blogging, I'm staying busy. Coffee and Anne Lamott help. Also, dance-walking.



 



on orange eyebrows and loving myself

Last night I was hanging out at Panera, working on some writing (*cough*, staring into space). I had been there for hours, writing and reading with a tall cup of iced coffee by my side. One of those early summer nights that make you want to go jump into a pool with your clothes on. You know the kind.

Anyway, it was late and I had to go to the bathroom and I was doing the hand-washing thing and checking my hair in the mirror. I don't know about you girls, but I'm one of those people who knows store mirrors. Like, "I look okay in the dressing room mirror at that boutique downtown, but any mirror at Target makes me look like pond scum. Panera, ehhh, it's iffy." Does anyone else think like that?

For years I have had this down to a science. It wasn't fun, always afraid of catching a glance of myself in the mirror only to find that I looked like the bride of Frankenstein on what I had thought was a good hair day.

But I've noticed something lately, over the past few months. When I look at myself in the mirror these days I don't look for "pretty" or "not pretty", desperate to know ONCE AND FOR ALL. Sometime between my disastrous post wedding haircut* and now, I've come to recognize that girl in the mirror as me, not a face of features to be scrutinized.

Somewhere along the way I realized that globs and globs of makeup don't do me any favors. Rushing out to buy the newest makeup will never make me feel like I've made it, like oh now I look like Heidi Klum, sheesh, shoulda bought that lipstick a long time ago!

The days when I feel most confident are the ones when I can look at my frizzy hair, uneven skin, and orange eyebrows and say, "Oh, hey, it's me! I like her." I wish I had learned this years ago.

I still have bad days and feel like these dumb bangs aren't ever going to grow and I may even say prayers like, "Please don't let me get hit by a truck without knowing what I would at least look like with long hair! I've just got to know." But those things don't have a say in my attitude towards my self. My hair doesn't make or break my day.

I had coffee with a friend the other day, one of those times where you just talk and laugh and don't even realize how long you've been sitting there until you get up to leave. As I got into my car, I realized that my eyeliner was totally smudged and that my bra had been showing the entire time. I like to think I at least make others feel better about themselves. And I just had to laugh. Because, at the end of the day, who remembers other people's smudged eyeliner anyway?


*Tip: Don't ever get your hair cut by a girl whose cosmetology license was issued a month ago and says, "I'm pretty new at this," as she cuts your hair literally strand by strand. 

a day in the life

Four-thirty and I am into my warm apartment, heels off, crackers and hummus spread on the coffee table as I decide how I want to spend my evening. The sun is out and bright, even through the trees, and I have all the time in the world. I stab sweet potatoes with a fork, wrap them in aluminum foil, and toss them in the oven, hopeful that they'll be finished by the time Trevor comes home.

I pick up baseball caps and mascara tubes off the floor and shuffle wrinkled pajamas back into the closet. I unload the dishwasher and sweep as Benny Goodman plays in the background. Is big band and swing music too much for this peaceful afternoon? I don't care.

Apartment is clean-ish. Success! I feel all wifely inside.

I sit down to my laptop in the bright, appropriately named Yellow Room (aka the guest room that I have taken over with all things yellow.) I flip it open and poise my hands over the keys. A scratch of another key, Trevor's, against the latch, and the door creaks open. I frown a little at the screen. But he comes in, wearing that grey shirt I like and I hop into his arms and give him a kiss or two or ten.

He asks me about my first day at work, eyes eager and smiling. I recount the cubicles and the communal coffee pot and the quarter jar beside it, the one I didn't notice until after pouring a cup. What else? Scanning, staring. Sunlight during lunch. He tells me about his day; meetings and vision and leadership. We eat sweet potatoes, not quite done. We kiss and he's gone; band practice.*

I sigh, suddenly tired. What was I doing? Writing. For the blog. I sit back down and strike at the keys, mind distracted. The words fall flat. I'll try again tomorrow.


*Long story short: the bridal shop job did not end up working out.  I know.  Still super bummed, but I was offered an office job at a college nearby and, though not as exciting as working with brides and dresses, I am beyond grateful for it.



Linking up with Jenni at Story of My Life for her May blogging series. Have you been following along with her daily prompts?

a new job (and it involves tulle and lace!)

Tomorrow is the first day at my job and, in spite of the awkwardness that comes with being new and not really sure where to park, I'm over-the-moon excited.

I am the newest employee at a glamorous, Southern bridal boutique. Outside of writing a few books and playing Ariel at Disney World, this is my dream job. As a senior in college I would scan Craigslist for jobs and moan, "But why can't I just sell wedding dresses?"

I am not under any illusion that this job will be a fairytale (I mean, we've all seen the shows.) It'll be busy and chaotic. But, as a recent bride myself, I have a strong desire to help girls during this strange and exciting time in their lives. Being engaged is not easy. You're faced with this impending, eternal decision that will change your life forever while dealing with the inane: napkin colors. It's enough to make anyone nuts. But I'm excited to be a part of that and to do what I can to make the whole thing just a little bit easier for everyone involved.

(If that sounded like an answer to an interview question, I promise it's not; I'm just so darn tickled about the whole thing.)

It all happened so fast I have a hard time believing it's real. I am not especially great at interviews (recall my fuzzy dice story) but somehow they decided they wanted me, praise the Lord.

At one point the manager glanced at my resume and said, "Hmm, an English major. And what did you want to do with that?" Everyone wants an answer to this and I am sorry to report I have yet to make up a good one.

"Oh, well, I wanted to write...things."

She leaned in with a raised eyebrow and said, "You will have so many stories to tell working here."

And if there's one thing I am hoping to find with this little move across North Carolina, it's some good stories.

on seasons and starbucks

After a long day alone, while Trevor was at work, I happened upon a Starbucks only minutes from my apartment. I ordered an Earl Grey and handed my last Starbucks gift card to the unsmiling barista, silently praying I had just enough money left on it for my tea. We are both still looking for jobs (Trevor's job at the church is part-time), and are trying to be as careful as possible with our spending.

I need a job, not only for the financial aspect, but as something to fill my long days; a place to, oh I don't know, interact with people. The loneliness was weighing on me heavily last week, each day stretching into the next until I couldn't tell them apart. I spent hours on the couch devouring cheesy chick-lit novels and endless amounts of tortilla chip crumbs. I was lazy and irritable, determined to believe the lie that I would be forever stuck in a cycle of yoga pants and messy buns.

I had just learned that I would not be getting the job as I had been counting on and, aside from the pathetic array of choices in the Job Finder newsletter in front of me (which was nothing but ads for cruise trips and rosacea pills), I didn't have too many options.

After trashing the Job Finder, I sat by the window with my tea and Margaret Feinberg book, desperate to hear through its pages that God was there, that He had a plan for me. And I did, and He does. I was there for hours, teary eyes racing across the pages as love and grace worked its way back into my heart.

I think, in this season of blurried vision and unclear direction, God is asking me what my foundation is. Is it in Him or is it in the things I can see and grab onto for a momentary sense of security? I have decided I want it to be Him. This entire move is such a God-thing; all for His glory. It's not supposed to be an easy ride intended for own personal comfort, it's a season of growth and renewal. And I'm so thankful for His process, for all that He's teaching me.

I'm through with this "woe is me" attitude that leads to entirely too much tortilla chip consumption. I'm ready to receive what He has for me right now, with or without answers or certainties, with or without immediate gratifications. And for the first time since moving here, I am totally at peace.

on finding our place

We spent the past weekend in the quaint little town of Apex, NC. Trevor and I were visiting a church, interviewing to be their worship pastor. (To be clear, Trevor was the one interviewing. Homegirl can't carry a tune in a bucket.)

Everything about the weekend was perfect. The church was incredible, the people were great, and the town was something out of a fairytale. We both instantly fell in love with it. While Trevor was in worship practice Saturday night, I thought I'd drive around town. (Technically, I was heading back to the hotel but I got lost and ended up downtown, but you know how it is. I'm not known for my sense of direction.) I parked the car, walked into a charming little coffee shop across the street and immediately claimed the little table by the window.

I let the twinkling lights in the window and the laughter in the shop distract me from my Pat Conroy book. I was entertained just sipping my green tea and watching the world of Apex, North Carolina pass through this tiny coffee shop.

The place was alive; fragrant with life and community and friendship. An older couple strolled in to meet with another couple, explaining with waving hands that they had just sold their house. A younger couple made their way inside, murmuring softly to each other as they balanced their coffee and their tiny newborn baby. College aged girls laughed on the couch for hours.

This, I thought, is the place I've been waiting for. A quaint little town where I can see myself having friends over for dinner on Saturday nights, where Trevor and I could spend our Sunday afternoons riding bikes through town before stopping for a latte. I could see myself writing one day, at this very spot by the window, a book about all the fascinating people I would meet here. This is the place where I want to one day rub my hand over a baby bump and call my mom when I feel its first flurry of life.

Sitting there alone in that cafe, I knew that this was what God had been preparing me for. The town, the church...they had our names written all over it.

Sunday morning was when Trevor would be leading worship for both of their services, the moment of truth. I was eager to cheer him on after weeks of watching him practice and prepare. I even managed to roll out of bed at six in the morning, which is no small feat.

He had someone pick him up at the hotel, and I was to drive over at the church before the first service began. As I was walking out of the hotel, I reached into my purse to grab my keys, but they were gone. Frantically pulling everything out of my suitcase and searching the hotel room from top to bottom, I finally realized that Trevor had my car keys.

I texted and called him a million times but it was too late. He was already onstage.

I managed not to burst into tears, but did come close to sweating through my silk shirt. What a day to wear organic deodorant. The hotel staff just kind of stared at me as I paced back and forth, sucking in air like I was in labor. They're not going to hire him now. They probably hate me. Trevor doesn't know where I am. It's all over!

After an hour, I realized there was nothing I could do but sit there and pray. Finally, just before the second service, the pastor's wife came and rescued me, and we made it in time to hear two of the songs.

And, long story short, they offered Trevor the job. You better believe we cranked up the music in our living room and did some booty dancing as soon as we got the call. We don't have an exact moving date, as there is still so much to figure out (jobs! apartment! finding the library!) Because finding the library is one of my top priorities. 

Thank you SO much for all your prayers and encouragement! It means more to me than you know. In the meantime, I'll be packing boxes and googling, "jobs involving books in Apex".