On Being a “Yankee” in the Heart of Texas.

I’ve been called a “Yankee” many times since moving to Texas about 9 months ago.

A few weeks ago, I was called a Yankee 8 times in just a few days. I found  it slightly disconcerting to be so obviously an outsider in the state I now claim as my home. Growing up in Illinois and Minnesota and then attending to college in California failed to prepare me for the reality of the “glorious South”, I guess.

With my husband at the Texas State Capitol in Austin…

Which means I’m pursuing my Texas education in my own way, as a an intrepid and bespectacled scholar might study a native tribe in the wilds of Madagascar.

Do they have native tribes there? I don’t know. I don’t have time to consult Wikipedia on this one, so just go with me on it.

Without further ado, here it is…

Various Things this Yankee has Learned from Living in Texas:

• Everyone really does say “bless your heart” and “y’all” and “fixin’ to”.
• Yes, I have to be instructed on how to use a bootjack. And what the heck it is.
• I’m open-minded when it comes to barbecue. I’m not ready to stab someone with a pitchfork when they claim that my homemade BBQ might not be the best they’ve ever tasted.
• No, I don’t have a clue what “pearl snaps” are (to the rest of the world, it’s a complicated name for what appears to be fake pearl buttons on a western-style shirt).
• Everyone has handled guns from a young age, and pretty much everyone owns one. And it’s not unusual to keep yours in your vehicle–even at church.
• People dawdle on roadways, usually driving a few miles under the speed limit no matter if it’s 55 or 80. I wonder if it’s a holdover from galloping horses over the trails?
• Two-stepping? I thought maybe it was a move you did to step over a rattlesnake.
• Speaking of rattlesnakes, every single person in this state has had a close call with one…at some point. Supposedly.
• The state capitol is holy. Even the grass, I’ve been told.
• High school football is possibly even more holy than the state capitol.
• I didn’t know what they did to the horses and bulls to make them so angry at the rodeos. Yes, I had to ask. The answer made me blush.
• It’s apparently normal to have dinner at someone’s house and then spend the dessert hour perusing their gun collection.
• People know livestock here. Even the city “folks”. Who knew how many people could factually instruct me on the finer points of a longhorn?
• It’s socially unacceptable for a woman to drive a large pickup truck. My first vehicle was a pickup truck. Gulp.
• There’s no such thing as a universal salsa or queso dip anywhere. Every restaurant and/or household has its own unique concoction, and each one is proud to proclaim their creation as the best.
• Texans are serious about being a republic, and if this country ever falls apart, I’m pretty sure they’ll go back to defending it as such.
• They consider it chilly when it hits below 70. And it’s incomprehensible to them that that used to be a nice summer day for me as a Minnesotan.
• Hot sauce is served universally at every single restaurant.
• Water moccasins do inhabit every lake, and they do swim towards your boat. And yes, it’s terrifying when you’re  alone in a kayak.
• Everyone does own cowboy boots, regardless of age, race, or gender.
• In the summer, the streets are devoid of life. Except for fire ants. They rule every inch of sod in this state all summer long.

However, there are some uniquely Texan claims that I must (somewhat begrudgingly) admit are true…and better yet, I actually enjoy…

Surprisingly True Things About Texas that I Love:

• Spring in Texas–particularly the fields of gorgeous wildflowers dotting the landscape– is indeed the most beautiful thing in the world.
• Without a doubt, the best ice cream in the country is here. And it is Blue Bell.
• Men are more chivalrous. I don’t think I’ve ever opened a door on my own when I’ve been with a man.
• Prickly pear juice is real–and delicious.
• Children are incredibly well-mannered (“Good morning, Ms. Cassie” and “Yes ma’am” are phrases I’m still getting used to hearing on a daily basis)
• Food is spicier, but a thousand times more delicious than any other state I’ve lived in.
• The Texas state flag does indeed fly as high as the national flag. And it’s treated just as reverently.
• It’s normal to eat tacos for breakfast. And every gas station and fast food joint has its own style of taco.
• People love it when you play the banjo and/or harmonica in church.
• There’s more fierce pride in Texans than any other state I’ve ever lived in. And it’s well-earned, when you manage to survive summer here.

As for what I’ll learn in the next few years? Well…I guess you’ll just have to wait and see how countrified this “Yankee” will end up being.

Bless your purdy lil’ heart…

6 Countries, 16 States, and 13,648 Miles Traveled…in 6 Weeks.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I’ve had several people in the last few weeks ask me what I did all summer. Why this topic is coming up in December is a mystery to me, but perhaps it’s a warm-up question used by my friends to gear them up for similar inquiries to seldom-sighted relatives sitting across from them around the Christmas tree.

I’ll tell you exactly what I did all summer–I asked myself the same question nearly every week:

“Where am I again?”

You see, my husband and I traveled through 6 different countries, 16 states, and logged a total of 13,648 miles traveled (over 4,000 of which we drove) this summer.

Were we on tour, as my bank thought?

No.

Oh, then we must be writing a travel book, as strangers asked me?

No.

We’re simply intrepid young souls, gallivanting around the world on a delayed honeymoon…and visiting our families at two opposite ends of the country…and moving to Texas…all in the course of a month and a half.

Ambitious? Or suicidal? You be the judge.

Of the hundreds of humorous and maddeningly frustrating little adventures we had over the summer, several important insights about travel emerged. I’d like to share what little wisdom I’ve gleaned with you, my friends. You never know when it might be useful in your own travels–be it to your grandma’s home over the river, or your cousin’s mansion through the woods.

Tip #1: Pack light & get yo’self some wheels.

We seem to have  a strange condition when we travel to our parents’ homes in Minnesota and Florida: we always come back with a packed car, even if we only bring 1 suitcase and a dog crate with us. There’s probably a scientific name for this–but for the sake of this article, we’ll just call it “Delayed Parental Unloading of the Junkitis”.

Follow our advice and bring as little with you as you can when you go vacationing. Save room for the antique swords, football helmets, old yearbooks, and plethora of American Girl dolls your parents are sure to unload on you.

And when you’re venturing out of the country? Think wheels. Thank goodness we had friends who insisted we borrow their small rolling suitcases for our trip to Europe. I thought we’d have to replace those little wheels, they spun around so much.

Oh, and don’t pack dumbbells in your luggage. Rookie mistake.

Tip #2: When lost, let the female beg for directions.

This tip works best in Paris, according to my inexact scientific calculations. City of Love, my foot. More like “City of Confusing and Inadequately Marked Transportation and Historical Site Signs”.

Well…I guess they can’t fit that on their little French-only travel brochures, can they?

People usually responded with more warmth when I (usually frantically) asked for directions. Perhaps it was my charm…or my worried expression…or the fact that I took French in high school and only butchered half of the words in my request…who knows? Ce la vie.

Tip #3: Don’t talk to people on trains.

They don’t like you. Especially if you’re an American, traveling through Europe. That’s all there is to it.

The Swiss especially hate you. I’ll never feel comfortable drinking “Swiss Miss” hot cocoa in the same manner again.

And if you’re in America? Don’t worry…hardly anyone rides the train here.

Tip #4: Always bring bottled water.

We spent our entire summer lugging around plastic water bottles with us and using them for everything–hydration for our dogs, water for brushing our teeth in the car, and distracting toys to make little swirling tornadoes as we conquered the asphalt.

After nearly passing out at the exorbitant prices of liquids in Venice (where you can enjoy a nice $8 cola or a $10 bottled water), we pooled our rapidly-decreasing euros and bought a giant 2-liter bottled water that we lugged with us the rest of the trip. It was too big to fit in my purse, so we took turns hefting it around like the Midwest hoosiers the Europeans probably thought we were. We refilled it at public fountains all day long, and even snuck it with us into restaurants, taking secret swigs from it as our waiters turned their backs on us.

My husband, filling up our infamous water bottle in Florence, Italy.

Tip #5: Don’t read travel books and blogs at length.

I never realized how many things there were to do in the city I grew up in until I started researching it online and in travel blogs. Suddenly, it was as if a whole new world opened up to me–the possibilities for fun were endless! We could spend years in just one city, squeezing every possible experience out of endless combinations of sites and events! It was so exciting!

Yeah…until I started making lists of all the things I wanted to do in all the cities and countries we visited. Suddenly, my summer turned into pages and pages and pages of destinations. It’s a mathematical impossibility to squeeze everything out of a city when you’re on vacation. Researching it so thoroughly beforehand only made me regret all the things we couldn’t do.

Tip #6: Flip flops are the universal vacation shoe.

I spent my entire summer in the same trusty pair of Rainbow flip-flops. After I researched long-lasting, comfortable, and durable footwear for a summer filled with walking several miles a day in Europe, as well as time spent on beaches, in hills and woods, and in cool and hot climates.

Months of meticulous research on travel and shoe forums. Weeks of walking laps around my apartment to test out pair after pair of shoes. Dozens of blisters and band-aids. It came down to 2 carefully-chosen pairs of winners and a last-minute decision to toss in the flip-flops for the Europe trip. I spent only half a day in one pair of shoes, walking miles through France, before switching to the flip flops…and never taking them off again for the rest of the summer.

And my feet never felt better.

There you have it, friends. Six travel tips that will change your vacationing life.

Now, to daydream about our next vacation….

The Summary of My 26th Year…

It was my birthday last week.

I’m coming to grips that I’m officially “over the hill” in my twenties and, at 27, closer to 30 than I’d like to think.

I perpetually have that same astonished feeling as I did eight years ago, when my father called me out of the blue as I was on my way to class in sunny California. I said hello, and without any sort of pleasantries, my dad blurted out, “In eleven years, you’re going to be THIRTY!”

I woke up before everyone else this morning and dared not open my eyes, for fear my dogs would seize upon my wakefulness and attack with slobbery kisses. It gave me time to think about this last year, as it’s been quite an eventful one.

Here are some highlights from the last year of my life:

• I joined a great team of people on a resource team at a fledgling ministry, giving me the chance to work with dear friends on a regular basis
• I led a large confirmation retreat in central Illinois with a wild small group, and watched as my former students–now upperclassmen in high school–became formidable leaders with a younger generation that now looks up to them as role models
• I co-led a confirmation group that existed of some of the craziest junior high girls I’ve ever met, but I loved every one of them (even when I had to look up creative ways to discipline them)
• I was asked to keynote a youth conference in Canada in the middle of winter, and learned that Canadians teach their students valuable survival skills at such events–so I now know how to properly build a fire in the middle of a snowstorm
• I learned that not only do I have famous Lutheran ancestors on my grandmother’s side of the family, am a direct descendent of Myles Standish and had Thomas Jefferson as the family lawyer back in the early days of America, but that my grandfather’s side of the family goes back to a famous medieval family who’s mentioned in the epic Beowulf as magical blacksmiths
• I watched my wonderful little brother get married to his college sweetheart on a perfect fall day in the vineyards of southern California, and have loved having a new “sister” to roam the corridors of Mall of America with, whenever I visit
• I caught mono and experienced the joy of balancing a demanding full-time job with a sickness that made me feel like I wanted put my head on my keyboard and sleep all day
• I pulled some epic pranks on my co-workers, including one in which we covered every square inch of an office with poinsettias
• I went through the pastoral call process with my dear husband, trudging through snow in heels and a suit as we interviewed with churches all over the country
• I facilitated a Missouri District youth leadership training with some of the most talented pastors and DCEs I know, and watched our largest group ever come to recognize their calling to serve their peers
• I discovered that my husband had been requested as a pastor by six different churches all over the Midwest and East Coast, and ultimately was given an exclusive call by the Texas District which landed us in Cedar Park at a wonderful church
• I watched the joy of our middle school students as they came up with creative ways to serve people in our community on a weekly basis–everything from making dog treats for animal shelters to creating “appreciation baskets” of candy for our local schools
• I moved out of a third-story apartment, with the help of a bunch of middle school kids as my drug-dealing neighbor lounged on his front porch and told us, “Yeah, it’s time to move out of this joint–the whole place is bad news”
• I left my job in a church that I loved, saying goodbye to people that had become like family to me
• In the six weeks of freedom that our summer afforded us, I traveled through 6 different countries in Europe, 16 states in the US, and logged a total of 13,648 miles traveled (over 4,000 of which we drove)
  

  In the heart of Rome, on a blissful 98-degree day in the middle of this summer…

• I watched my husband get ordained in his home church in Florida–the same church in which he was confirmed and married–as the pastors and DCE who mentored him from a young age presided over the tearful service that ordained the first “son of the congregation” into the pastoral office as they celebrated their church’s 100-year anniversary, and as friends and family from all over the country flew in for the milestone day
• I moved into a beautiful new apartment in Texas, with the help of an ambitious team of adults who managed to empty our storage unit in a staggering 15 minutes
• I started a new job doing lifespan ministry, overseeing Christian education in every age and every capacity at my new church, and meeting a whole host of new friends and church workers in a new state
• I joined a team of wildly talented people who are orchestrating the next National Youth Gathering and am seeing just how much work and dedication go into these amazing events

It’s hard to believe that so much has happened in one year. I wonder what the next year of my life will bring?

Rest assured, I’ll be sharing it with you.

The Tale of the Sneaky Squirrel and the Baffled Businessman

I live a pretty ordinary life, but my ability to observe the world around me at all times with acute awareness has given me an arsenal of unique stories to tell.

Some might say I’m hyper-aware of what’s going on around me at all times. That’s true.

For instance, I was once shopping with my best friend in high school, when a blaring siren went off in the department store where we were checking out. I looked up to see a man drop a giant trash bag full of stolen designer purses and sprint out through the parking lot. When security arrived a few moments later, they grilled the clerk who was checking us out, asking about a physical description. My friend and the store clerk could remember nothing. I was able to give a complete physical description, accurately giving details about his height, weight, the color of his shirt, pants, shoes, hat, and what row he ran down in the parking lot.

Trust me, with the level of attention I pay to the people around me in public, you definitely don’t want to see me in airports.

I’ll often observe something going on in daily life that others haven’t noticed. I once noticed Elijah Wood, famous Hollywood hobbit-extraordinaire, as he walked through Disneyland in disguise. Without cluing anyone else in on who he was, my friend and I managed to sneak behind him onto multiple rides and overheard his private conversation with his pals. Another time, I saw a disguised Tom Selleck in LA, and locked eyes with him and smiled and winked. He smiled back at me, as crowds of people swarmed by with shopping bags.

Last week, though, I observed one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time.

I was eating a late lunch at Chick-fil-A with my husband, and was aware of two well-dressed men having a business meeting a few tables over. One of the men had his laptop out and they were intently discussing some sort of important business deal. Suddenly, one man’s phone rang and he looked at it. “Excuse me,” he offered up as he stepped away.

Not far enough away that I couldn’t hear him, mind you. Because what I heard was classic comedic fodder–even though I could only hear one side.

“Hello?” the man said into his phone.

“Wait, wait…hold on. Say that again.”

“Um………………..are you sure?”

“How did that happen?”

“Wait, he’s in the house?”

“How did he get in the house?! Get him out!”

“What do you mean, he’s been in my office? Seriously?”

“Honey, get him out!”

“Well, I don’t know how. There’s gotta be a way.”

“But……….I’m in a meeting right now. I can’t.”

“Honey, he’s not going to hurt you. He’s probably just scared.”

“Listen, I’m not mad at you. I don’t really understand how this happened. Just get him out of there.”

“Baby, no. No. Don’t even open the door again.”

“Fine. I’m sorry. Just….I don’t know. Try looking it up on the internet.”

“I love you too. Good luck.”

The businessman hung up his phone and trudged back to the table with a somber expression. My mind was racing as he went to sit down. What could that strange conversation possibly be about? An intruder broke into his house? An angry client forced his way into his office and stole his files? His wife let a crazed circus clown in the front door, and now he was busy painting tears on his face in the bathroom?

As the man sat down, the other man looked up from his notes and said, “Everything ok?”

“Yeah,” replied the man. “My wife called.”

He hesitated, obviously quite conflicted about admitting what was going on. I awaited his explanation with bated breath.

“She…uh…she told me a squirrel somehow got into the house. And he got into my office and tore up a bunch of stuff. And now she can’t figure out how to get him out of the house before the kids get home from school, because she’s afraid he’ll attack the kids.”

I hid my smile in my sandwich, listening to him relay this saga.

Plotting….always plotting….

The man started packing up his stuff, regretfully explaining that he was going home to chase this marauding squirrel out of his domicile. Suddenly, his phone rang again. He zipped away, and came back in just a few moments.

“Never mind!” he said almost gleefully to his associate. “My wife just called and said my father-in-law is coming over to get rid of the squirrel. I can finish up with you here.”

The other man settled his papers and asked the question I would’ve asked, too: “Are you sure your wife doesn’t need you at home?”

“Nah,” said the man. “It’s just a squirrel.”

“I wonder if he’ll be saying that when he gets home and finds his office torn to shreds,” I thought to myself.

Although I have no closure to the Tale of the Sneaky Squirrel and the Baffled Businessman, I can tell you this: I’m always watching. I’m always observing. It’s just a matter of time until I see something else that makes me chuckle.

Until then, carry on, my friends.

Just keep an eye out for the hilarity hiding all around you, in thin disguise.

When You’re Pretty Sure You’re a Target for A Serial Killer.

I have a bad habit.

I like to talk to strangers.

Maybe that seems sweet, even endearing to you.

But I’m here to tell you that I’m pretty sure I was targeted by a serial killer yesterday.

It all started when I took my unsuspecting pups, Bonzer and Tucker, to a new dog park. We just moved to Texas, and our furniture has been delayed in arriving to our new apartment–which means we have a grand total of two camping chairs and an inflatable air mattress in our home. That’s it.

As I contemplated the day’s activities before me yesterday morning, I had a choice between A) Reading the 10th book in 4 days, B) Color-coding my husband’s clothes, and C) Searching for a dog park that would entertain my perpetually wound-up Australian Shepherds.

I went with option C. And after trekking to the local library to access the internet (and pick up 3 new books to devour), I found a brand-new dog park only a few miles from me.

We hopped in the car, leashes and water bottles in tow, and explored the new park. The dogs ran around wildly, splashing in a lovely pond, barking and rolling around in the dirt with others dogs. It was when Tucker started playing with a strange-looking dog that resembled a hyena-wolf mix that I jogged over to make sure he wouldn’t be mauled to death by this creepy-looking animal.

Now, I’ll be honest–I’m not sure what a “wild jackal” looks like. But I think that’s what Tucker was playing with yesterday at the park.

As I jogged over to the hyena-wolf-jackal, I noticed a middle-aged man standing in the shadows of a grove of trees. As I walked over, he emerged from his hiding place and said hello to me. Not wanting to be rude, I returned the greeting and asked him if he was the owner of the hyena-wolf-jackal. He nodded, saying, “Oh yes, that’s Gene, my good ol’ boy.”

I looked at the dog, now stalking Tucker across the dog park like a lion stalking an impala in the African sahara. “Oh”, I said, trying not to sound concerned, “What kind of dog is he?”

His own looked at him and smiled. “He’s a terrier mix. Sweet lil’ thing, isn’t he?”

Dog expert I am not, but this was no terrier mix…unless Satan himself bred his own line of terriers and let these hounds of terror loose on humankind.

Despite me walking across the dog park in what would surely be a futile attempt to save my puppy from the jaws of certain death, this fellow followed me. I politely answered his questions, deflecting his more personal questions like, “So, where do you live? How long have you lived here? What do you do? Where did you go to college? Where do you hang out?” with vague answers. I was getting a weird vibe from this quirky man, who doggedly pursued me across the park.

Smile, Tucker–we survived the clutches of a wild jackal and a serial killer…

After fifteen minutes of small talk–in which the Mystery Man gave me his whole life story, tried to get my number, and tried to get me to head to his car with him to give me a “CD”–I was desperate to get away from him. I pulled out Tucker’s favorite toy, a soft frisbee, from my purse.

“Oh!”, cackled my unwanted friend, “You’re a creative girl, aren’t you? Yes, you most certainly are! Oh, boy, I knew I liked you!”

Something about this phrase, “I knew I liked you!” rang out in my head with warning bells. Suddenly, I realized that I living out what was likely to be the opening scene in a Criminal Minds, Season 8 episode, where the serial killer stalks unsuspecting women at a local dog park.

One that I wouldn’t even be able to enjoy, as I rotted in a shallow unmarked grave in the far end of the park.

It was at that precise moment that Gene–the Hound from Hades–turned his attention on me. I stumbled back as he lunged at me, sailing through the air to snatch Tucker’s toy out of my hand. He sprinted to mangle the toy under a bench, snapping ferociously at Tucker when he tried to retrieve his toy.

I tried to get it back, but decided my hands were probably more precious than a $4.99 dog toy. So I asked Mr. Serial Killer to get my toy back.

“Well”, he said hopefully, looking me up and down, “I could just give this toy back to you next time we meet up.”

Criminal Minds indeed.

I decided it was time for Operation Escape-With-Your-Life. Claiming that my other dog looked “exhausted”, I bolted to him with some water and then ran around the park with him, refusing to stay stationary so I couldn’t get cornered. Eventually, after attempting to talk to me several times, my serial killer friend begrudgingly exited the park with his beast.

Once the coast was clear, I booked it out of the dog park with my puppies, checking my rearview mirror the whole way home to make sure I wasn’t being followed.

I thwarted the serial killer this time. Let’s hope I’m just as lucky the next time I take my dogs out for a trip to the dog park.

Let that be a lesson, kids–don’t talk to strangers with pet jackals.

“We Call It ‘Hell Week’ Around Here.”

I won’t mention any names, but that exact phrase was uttered last Sunday by a staff member,  in reference to Holy Week this week.

You thought maybe we were a wild college frat, hosting a frighteningly ridiculous pledge event? Nope. We’re Lutherans.

“Hell Week” is probably a fairly accurate term for those of us who are working behind the scenes to prepare for one of the biggest and busiest holidays of the year. For those of you who don’t speak Churchenese, “Holy Week” refers to the week leading up to Jesus’ death, and involves 10 action-packed services in one week for us here at the church where I work.

I didn’t grow up with any family members who worked in churches, so I didn’t ever realize how stressful holidays are when you’re a church worker. But suffice it to say that the squishy toys one of my dear coworkers keeps stockpiled in his desk have been chucked my direction plenty of times in the last few weeks.

I can’t throw anything back at him, because his computer is a lovely MacBook Pro and didn’t come out of the sale bin at Computers R’ Us like mine did. Besides, the Bible tells me to “turn the other cheek”–so I “turn the other cheek” and duck under my desk when the missiles start flying.

I count myself lucky, that I’m only going to be spending every single day this week at church, and that I only have to be here for 3 of those nights. My other coworkers and all of our hardworking choir, band, and media team members can’t say the same thing.

How do you, as an ordinary member of the public, know when Easter is right around the corner? Here are some tell-tale signs you might spot in your church staff:

1) You see your worship leader’s car in the parking lot for approximately 12-15 hours a day–but you never actually see him. You’re fairly sure he’s in the worship center, even though you haven’t seen him for days…either that or there’s a friendly spirit lurking around in the worship center, singing praise songs and practicing guitar chords.

2) Oh, you wanted to use the copier? Ha! Thanks for giving us a hearty chuckle–you couldn’t have actually thought we’d stop printing thousands of bulletins from printing to give you the opportunity to print out your measly 3-page spreads.

3) Staff meetings take place in the hall as staff are walking to and from the microwave, where we’ve heated up leftovers for the third time. Incidentally, it’s for this very week that I keep an emergency supply of Graham Crackers in the bottom drawer of my desk.

4) That blinking light festooning our office phones, alerting us to messages, is totally ignored. The only person it actually registers with is the worship leader, who nervously checks the countdown for Christmas and has a slight panic attack, realizing that Christmas is only 264 days away.

5) Hammering and painting at all hours of the night is totally normal. It’s also normal to see staff wearing old, ratty clothes as they paint the paper-mache tomb, apply touch-ups to crosses, and haul flowers around the worship center.

6) The coffee machine is perpetually empty, as the entire coffee-imbibing staff has guzzled it down faster than you can say “caffeine fix”.

7) Staff members go home at the end of a long day and only then realize bizarre afflictions, like whistling “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today” for hours at a time, or that they’ve unknowingly spray-painted their toes black as they painted the set for Easter.

8) Things that aren’t actually funny become uproaringly hilarious to frazzled church staffers and volunteers who have rubbed off their fingerprints after folding bulletins for hours on end.

9) The church office becomes festively stuffed with chocolate goodies and an abundance of cookies in bright pastel colors. Of course, you could be risking death by consuming these mysteriously-delivered treats. I generally employ rigorous quizzing of the receptionist, to see if these delectables can pass my strict standards of consumption. If I can’t determine A) Who made them, B) How old they are, or C) If anyone has passed out minutes after consuming them, I generally avoid eating them.

10) We cry a little on the inside when we see marshmallow Peeps for sale at the local drug stores.

If your church staff exhibits any of the above signs, I’d be willing to be that they too are experiencing “Holy Week Syndrome”. There’s only one cure known to man:

Throw up some prayers.

Oh, and wear comfortable shoes. Jesus doesn’t like blisters, either.

100 Posts Later, It’s Out of My Hands.

100.

This post marks a milestone–the 100th post I’ve written on this blog.

And the pressure of writing something stunning for this mini-monumental moment has been mounting for some time.

Do I write something extra-sarcastic and humorous, or deeply heartfelt and gut-wrenching? Do I write about joys and blessings, concerns or worries, insights and observations?

Ironically, I only started this blog on a whim about a year and a half ago. I only intended to use it for my own friends and family, at first–and in my spare time, working around my wacky schedule. I was stunned to find out that my youth and their parents were reading it…and then that I had a steady few hundred followers…and then that it caught the attention of the WordPress editors, who nominated it as a top post of over half a million writers, and recommended it to as many readers. I was surprised again to find that one of my most personal posts–one about the realization that my childhood was dead–was nominated by these same editors again, and that it was read by the equivalent of stadiums full of people all over the world.

So, you can see the interesting conundrum that’s going on: I intend only for this to be a fun, once-in-a-while side outlet, and people around the world are writing to me and telling me that they “love my work” and want to hear more from me.

Add to that the fact that I’m really not interested in devoting too much time to my personal blog–since I’d rather be engaging with the people around me–and you can see why this blog is a difficult balancing act.  I refuse to utilize the “tricks” that professional bloggers use to gain more readers and make waves to garner interest, posting at ideal times of day and with certain keywords  and word counts to maximize exposure. I’m simply a twenty-something who loves people, loves to write, and wants to be real. That’s it.

So, in the spirit of authenticity, I’ll devote this 100th post to something deeply meaningful to my life.

This past weekend, I helped facilitate a retreat for our Missouri District’s Peer Ministry Training team. Picture the cream of the crop student leaders from all around Missouri gathering at a camp and spending the entire weekend learning counseling skills and leadership training to use right away with their own peers, and you get a little glimpse of what we do at PMT. I brought 5 high school youth from my churches–young leaders who have been instrumental in my own middle school ministry–and it was incredible to see them be challenged and grow in knowledge and confidence right before my eyes, over the course of the weekend.

I had a flash of personal insight this weekend, however, while I was teaching a room of nearly 30 teenagers about “letting go” of all the things you’re holding onto in life. As I was speaking, I was struck by the absolute truth of what I was telling these students: when I let go off all of the “stuff” in my life, I’m more open to receive the blessings God wants to pour out on my life.

I know, it seems so simple. But it’s so profound.

To be frank, I shudder to think what my life would have been like if I would’ve ignored the Holy Spirit’s whispers in my life to let go of all I was holding so tightly to. In middle school and high school, I devoted nearly every waking minute to being perfect. I strove to practice my instrument diligently, trained to be the best athlete I could be, studiously completed my homework, took on every conceivable club and extracurricular activity and leadership position possible, and poured my life into friends. I spent countless weekends at school, hours at the gym, and every waking moment enjoying my whirlwind social life.

I knew I couldn’t possibly sustain the level of activity I was operating at. But I refused to let go of all of these things I was doing, and all of the things that I loved.

My life changed when I finally released my white-knuckle grip on everything–my future, my friends, my life goals, my choice of college major, my daily activities–and let it drop into God’s lap. I realized that I could finally open my hands up to what God wanted to give me, once my hands weren’t full with the immense burden I was trying to carry on my own.

So often, I pick things back up and cradle them to my chest, refusing to let go of them. And they aren’t just bad habits–many of them are noble, worthwhile endeavors. But it’s not until I let the Holy Spirit pry open my hands and gently drop this “stuff” that I’m able to clear my vision and see how much my Heavenly Father has blessed me with, and how much more He wants to give me.

That’s not to say that life is necessarily easier when I let go, or that God is guaranteed to pour out an abundance of blessings in my life. God isn’t a magic genie who grants my every whim. But He’s proven to me that His peace, love, and joy are lasting and deeper than anything this world can offer, and I’d rather possess that than earn a staggering paycheck or be known as the “top banana” in my field.

It certainly hasn’t been a coincidence that the incredible opportunities I’ve had in the last two years–chances to speak internationally to teens, write a youth ministry column professionally, participate in radio and video interviews, and help our international Lutheran organizations in various ways–have all come right after those moments when I’ve again dropped all of those things I’ve been holding in my grip.

A thought-provoking devotion arrived in my email inbox this morning, sharing the story of Jesus’ first miracle–turning water into wine–with a new twist: when Jesus told the servants at the wedding he was attending to “fill the jars”, they went and filled them “to the brim” (John 2:7). The devotion pointed out that Jesus likely would have transformed those water jars into wine even if they had only been filled halfway, or three-quarters full. As the author pointed out, “Likewise, God will transform as much of our lives as we give Him.”

I read recently in Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s The Cost of Discipleship these words:

“When Christ calls us, he bids us come and die. It may be a death like that of the first disciples who had to leave home and work to follow him, or it may be a death like Luther’s, who had to leave the monastery and go out into the world. But it is the same death every time–death in Jesus Christ, the death of the old person at his call…But if we lose our lives in his service and carry our cross, we shall find our lives again the community of the cross with Christ.”

It is so true. If we lose our lives to Christ, we will find it again in Him.

Perhaps it took me 100 posts to reveal that one valuable nugget of Truth–but it’s certainly been worth the rollercoaster ride it’s taken to get here. Because no matter where I end up in life, or what I do, or whose approval or respect I earn, I know one thing:

My life is securely in Christ’s nail-scarred hands, and there is no safer or more satisfying place to be than there.

The Many (Not-So-Serious) Reasons I Love Apartment Living…

I’m generally a patient person, but having experienced several frustrating situations at our apartment complex over the last few weeks, I’ve had it.

After slipping and sliding down inadequately shoveled and salted flights of stairs and sidewalks over the last few days, it started me thinking about the plentiful reasons why I love apartment life:

#1. It’s convenient that only one person can cook in the kitchen at a time.

I don’t really like to cook–so it’s quite helpful that only one person can stand in our adorably tiny kitchen at a time. In fact, one of my students even warned me of how her uncle was nearly bludgeoned to death in an unfortunate kitchen accident–simply because two people tried to use the kitchen at the same time. The bonus? You get to wait to set the table, get anything out of the pantry or fridge, or load or unload the dishwasher. It’s almost like you’re forced not to multitask–because, after all, why wouldn’t we want less time in our day?

#2. You get to learn all about your neighbors.

That’s right–paper-thin walls ensure that you hear every baby cry, every drunken fight, and every wild frat boy that’s invited over on the weekend. Oh, did I mention the oven timers going off, the cell phones ringing, and every dog bark? It’s like every moment in apartment life has its own unique soundtrack–and you learn all about those neighbors you never even have time to talk to!

#3. All the free entertainment you could possibly watch.

Forget paying for cable to watch Jersey Shore and Jerry Springer–that sort of drama is right outside my front door! All I have to do is walk out to the balcony and listen to the unfolding saga of betrayal, violence, and stupidity happen in my building. And when the cops are called in, about two or three times a week, they conveniently bring the troublemakers out to the front of the complex–which means I can literally sit on my couch, eating popcorn and watching the show.

#4. The chance to interact with your property manager builds self-discipline.

It’s really great to be able to regularly flex my debate muscles with a property manager that was no doubt so excited to graduate from the 8th grade. And it’s so nice that she keeps such careful tabs on everyone in our building, and cares about spending their money for them in so many ways that we didn’t even know possible. I’ve really appreciated the opportunity to exercise verbal and physical restraint over my body whenever I see her.

I really hope heaven is as nice as our apartment life...

#5. My neighbor got Rock Band–and it’s almost like we have it too.

Doesn’t everyone love a beginner drummer banging away on a cheap plastic drum kit while you’re trying to fall asleep at night? We didn’t even have to pay for some fancy, new-fangled video game in order to reap the benefits of it.

#6. I love having pride in the building that I live in.

Yeah, you see that dog poop over there from the multiple owners that don’t clean up after their dogs? That serves as a cost-cutting fertilizer for the beautiful rock gardens we have here at our apartment complex. Oh, and look at that–our next-door neighbor left his trash out for the ninth day in a row…he must have a really clean trashcan inside his place. I know, the little boys downstairs just love riding their bikes and proudly displaying them in the middle of the entryway so the whole apartment can get a close look at them as they get some added exercise by clambering up the stairs in a new route. See that empty beer bottle sitting on the steps, leftover from a party two weekends ago? It just serves to show how careful our neighbors are with each other’s property–it hasn’t even been touched by the chain-smoking owner who sat and guzzled 6 of them in an hour.

#7. It’s refreshing to have people yell at you, every once in a while.

I know–how dare I think I should be able to water my potted plants outside on my balcony early on summer mornings? Don’t you know my downstairs neighbors have hundreds of valuable items sitting outside on their porches that can heartily stand up to a deluge of rain, but can’t handle a few sprinkles of water on a hot day? My poor neighbor had to find another place to leave her two-year-old when I accidentally misted the plants as she was smoking and talking on the phone to her best friend for an hour…but it’s always nice to have someone scream and curse at you for ten minutes, isn’t it?

#8. It helps me appreciate my own health.

I can’t tell you how great it’s been to now take pride in my teeth, skin, hair, lungs, and nose now that I’ve lived in apartments for a few years. Not everyone has been blessed with the ability to withstand binge drinking every night, chain-smoking all day long, going six months between hair bleaching, and consuming a balanced diet of Twinkies and potato chips–but I count myself as one of the lucky ones. Gosh, I even have a college degree and a job, to boot–I’m really spoiled rotten.

#9. You have opportunities to invent games about the strangers visiting your building.

Is that a new UPS man? How long did the man in Apartment C really date that blonde girl with the motorcycle before moving onto the redhead? Does the guy across from us indeed only own sleeveless shirts? Are the downstairs neighbors actually running a human trafficking ring out of their place? Why did Apartment F buy a full-sized, retrofitted ambulance as their new car? If I was a gamblin’ girl, I would have lots of opportunities to bet on the strangers that traverse our hollowed hallways.

#10. It’s strengthened my mathematics ability.

I haven’t had a whole lot of opportunities to use the mathematics that were drilled into me for so many years, although I’m sure all my teachers’ claims about geometry and calculus being useful for everyday life will prove true at some point. Nevertheless, I’ve been able to engage in some rudimentary math and learn exactly how much I’ve paid for every square foot of my apartment for the last few years–and the results have motivated me beyond belief.

To all of you friends living in apartments out there, good luck. You’re going to need it.

And…possibly a really good defense lawyer.

The Best 11 Books I Read in 2011…

The chances are good that if you know me, you know I read like a fiend. I love to read, and made 2011 my year to plow through as many books as I possibly could–and to actually keep track of them for once. My goal was to beat my record each month–so, if I read 4 books in January, I would read at least 5 in February.

Well, I started last January and ended up reading 6 books in that first month–so I eventually stalled out around 7-10 books per month. To be clear, this included only my “for funsies” list of books–not the books I read at work.

That’s right, this was my spare time. Luckily, I read quickly…or else I would’ve given up literature forever after reading such duds as War and Peace, Middlemarch, and Madame Bovary. Those were definitely the low points of this year’s reading.

Here’s a quick review of the 11 best books I read in 2011:

The coveted #1 favorite goes to this gem....

#1. Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy by Eric Metaxas

This book is an absolute gem, a timeless treasure, and a lifelong member of my “favorites” list. Don’t let the size of it fool you–even though it’s a sizeable book, if you’re like me, you’ll want to read more by the time you get to the end. Metaxas is a masterful writer, and I can only hope to someday write with as much passion, humor, and insight as him. Even though I was merely reading words on a page, I felt like I had met a kindred spirit in Bonhoeffer…and I was genuinely torn up about his death in the end of the book. I treasure this book so much that it’s one of the very few books I absolutely refuse to loan out.

#2. A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle

Not since I read L. M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables series as a youngster have I been so transported through literature to another place.  Mayle has the most charming descriptions of food, wine, art, landscape and daily life in France, that I read his books over and over again to enjoy his style. It’s like having a seven-course feast for the mind to read his books. Every book I’ve read by him is utterly charming in every way.

#3. The Next Christians by Gabe Lyons

This book is a must-read for anyone in the ministry…heck, for any Christian. It’s fascinating, thought-provoking, and inspiring. It will challenge you personally, as well as the way you look at ministry. I wrote more notes in the margins of this book than any other book, and I feel like my brain was jump-started when I read this.

#4. The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell

One of my college friends–who wasn’t religious in any way at the time–told me that this was her all-time favorite book. When she then went on to mention that one of the main characters was a priest, I made a mental note to check this book out sometime. I finally buckled down and bought it this year, and while I wouldn’t necessarily say that everyone would love this book, I enjoyed it. The best word I can come up with to describe it is “haunting”–the sort of book that lifts you up, and then sends you crashing down to the ground, then to sit on the ground bruised, pondering the whole situation as you rub your head in reflection.

#5. Amazing Grace: William Wilberforce and the Heroic Campaign to End Slavery by Eric Metaxas

Is it cheating to have two books by the same author on your favorites list? If it is, then sue me–but I guess I just have a soft spot for biographies written by an excellent wordsmith. I read this book after reading Bonhoeffer, and it was just as inspiring. I love a good story about how one person can stand up for what’s right in the midst of an entire society that is stuck in apathy–and when it’s a true story, that’s even better.

#6. E Squared by Matt Beaumont

I’ll admit, I was dubious when my husband brought this home from the going-out-of-business sale at our local bookstore. “It was only 39 cents!” is what he claimed–how could a good book be so cheap? However, reading just a few pages hooked me. The entire book is written in the form of emails, blogs, and texts from co-workers and family members, but in that hilarious tongue-in-cheek style that the rest of the world admires in British literature. I laughed out loud throughout the whole book and often read sections to Tyler because it was so funny. It’s irreverent and occasionally off-color, but will definitely make you feel a bit better about the humdrums of life.

#7. A Testament to Freedom by Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Yes, I’m a bit of a history buff. I’ve been on a WWII kick lately, so I read Mein Kampf (which is like chewing on a wad of dry paper towels–mundane, painful, and not something you’d wish on your biggest enemy), and then launched into a few other history books. After reading Bonhoeffer, I had to go to the primary source and read what Dietrich Bonhoeffer himself had penned in his own hand. This is a great collection of all of his books, as well as many sermons. I’ve been more uplifted and touched by this book than by dozens of other devotional resources. Sometimes it pays to read the classics.

#8. Plan B by Pete Wilson

This is one of those books that magically comes back to you when you’re having a bad week. It’s relevant, raw, and real–and usually, I’d rather have truth delivered to me that way. This has been my go-to recommendation for people when they’re in a tough season of their lives, to offer a fresh voice on how God works through the most difficult times.

#9. The Lords of Discipline by Pat Conroy

This author was recommended to me by a friend, and he’s a fabulous writer. It’s unusual for a book to make me feel so much righteous anger–especially when it’s a fictional piece–but this story did. It’s well-crafted, gritty, serious, and painful. The end is incredibly sad, but I think only a true artist can end on such a sad note. I will warn you, though–the death scenes in this book are awful.

#10. The People of the Mist by H. Rider Haggard

When I stumbled across this little nugget of a book, I had no idea that something written so long ago (published first in 1893) could be such a quaint and captivating adventure. I also had no idea that this British author was friends with Rudyard Kipling and inspired the fictional “Indiana Jones” character that we all know and love today. In his day, these adventure novels were read out loud in classrooms by youngsters across the country–and now, they are resigned to the “free” section of my Amazon Kindle. Regardless, this was a clever and daring little story that I thoroughly enjoyed.

#11. Decision Points by George W. Bush

I don’t care if you hate the man, this is still a fascinating glimpse at the mettle of a true leader. I have a newfound appreciation for how difficult the job of a president is–despite whether I like the president or not. Running this whole US of A thing ain’t easy–and this book will show you that in a way that will make you respect the office more than ever.

There you have it, my friends. My top 11 best reads of 2011.

Now…what about your list?

The Way the World Treats a Blonde, a Redhead, a Brunette, & a Black-Haired Girl.

I won’t point the finger at anyone in particular.

And I can’t really explain it, other to say that my personal rebellion as an 18-year-old took a strange form:

Hair dye.

I know. What a shocking past.

In the last 8 years, I’ve been almost every shade of hair color you could be: platinum blonde, strawberry blonde, dark blonde, light caramel, honey brown, chestnut, dark brown, black, bright red, auburn…you name it, I’ve had it.

It all started right around my 19th birthday, when on a whim I decided to dye my hair black. Where did the whim come from? I have no idea–I had never even touched my hair with even so much as a highlight before that fateful night. With my roommates egging me on, I chose the darkest shade possible at our local drugstore.

The rest is a blur of uber-dark hair, shocked friends and relatives, an angry stylist, a failed attempt to restore me back to my natural color, an overly zealous stylist dying my hair platinum to “even me out” (and then subsequently bleaching my eyebrows because she screwed up), and several years of throwing up my arms and saying, “Whatever, it’s just hair. It’ll grow back.”

A few days ago, someone curiously asked me if people treated me differently, based on what color my hair was. I’d never really thought of it before–although once I thought about it, I realized that they had.

So to summarize how I’ve been treated as a blonde, a redhead, a brunette, and with gothic-black hair, read on, my friends.

My natural color....at 18.

         Caramel:

This is my natural color, and probably my most-complimented by random strangers. People often remarked, “Is this your natural color? It’s beautiful!”–and boy, do I regret not appreciating the color now. Apparently, having dark honey-colored hair is unusual enough that people took notice and felt compelled to talk about it.

               Platinum Blonde:

I had two experiences with platinum, one with bleached blonde eyebrows (as I explained, a horrific mistake), and one with my naturally darker eyebrows–and thus, I had two different experiences with this hair color.

Platinum...at 20.

With the bleached eyebrows, I truly felt like I was treated like a ditz. It was subtle, but I felt that many strangers wrote me off as an impulsive shopaholic. It was at this point in my life that well-meaning strangers tried to evangelize to me the most–probably thinking, “Boy, that girl sure needs it”. I was once shopping with a friend in the mall, when a middle-aged man came up and attempted to tell me about Jesus, and despite our efforts to politely decline the conversation, he had a hard time leaving us alone.

Platinum, with my natural brows (whew!)...at 20.

After undergoing the unpleasant process of having my eyebrows grow back to my normal dark color (and boy, is it fun to have different colored eyebrows for a period of a few weeks), I noticed a change in how strangers treated me. I received a lot more random male appreciation, most notably, often in the form of freebies from restaurant servers and store clerks.

Regular Brown:

Regular brown...at 19.

With this hair color, I literally felt invisible. My friends often overlooked me in the crowded university cafeteria, and not a single person ever told me they liked the color. I felt like a plain-Jane, nameless face in the crowd with this color.

              Black:

This was the most striking hair color I’ve ever had, for my fair complexion. Strangers would regularly stop me in the street and say, “My goodness, you have the most amazing blue eyes!” Oddly, I received a ton of attention from people with this hair color–especially men. I’m not sure if it was because when I had this color, I was living in Southern California (the land of blonde-haired beach babes) or if it was because I’m naturally so pale-faced–but regardless, I got a lot of looks from your average Joe on the street (and even got a number

Black...at 18.

from a much older police officer with this hair color). Several of the guys at my college told me that they “loved me” with dark hair, much to my surprise.

Regrettably, however, was an unpleasant experience I had in being compared to a whiny actress from a show I absolutely loathe. That was enough to persuade me to get rid of this hair color as fast as possible.

        Red:

If I wanted to be a magnet for teasing for the rest of my  life, I’d stick with red hair permanently. I can’t even begin to describe how often I was made fun of by total strangers, friends, and co-workers when I had bright red hair. Usually, it was accompanied by some cliché taunt about how I must have a fiery temper–unfortunately, in my case, this is true–which only made me a bigger target.

Red...at 24.

               Strawberry Blonde:

Perhaps it was a childhood of adoring Nancy Drew, but I had always wanted to have strawberry blonde hair. Always.

Until I actually had strawberry blonde hair. It’s just not for me, and it’s so darn hard to match it to clothing. I felt washed out and dulled by literally everything I wore. I don’t know a single person that liked it–not even me.

Strawberry blonde...at 24.

There you go. How the world treated me, based simply on the color of my hair. It’s been an interesting social experiment, and only one real question remains:

What color will I dye my hair next?