REAL Holy Week…As Told Honestly by Your Pastor & DCE.

Get enough complaints about not blogging, and guess what?

You get back into it pretty quick.

Suffice it to say it’s been an extremely busy couple of months for me. I’d bore even myself trying to recount everything that’s been going on, so I’ll stick to one humorous reality I faced for the first time this year: Holy Week with as a church work duo.

We’re both church workers at the same church this year, for the first time–my husband as a pastor, and me as a Director of Christian Education.

What does this mean during the average week? We’re co-workers, and live and breathe church at work and at home. In fact, if we didn’t have two dogs to care for, we might occasionally forget we have a home away from church.

It also means we’re pretty well-prepared in jumping in to do mostly anything at church. Watering flowers? Rearranging furniture? Running registration tables? Creating dessert trays? Dusting shelves? Running screens? Organizing files? Trimming poinsettias? Making coffee? Guiding campus tours? Cleaning bathrooms? Serving meals? Leading chapel? Making hospital visits? Writing or leading devotions, lessons, or Bible studies at a moment’s notice? We got it covered, no sweat.

Holy Week, however, is a different beast entirely.

What might seem like a cheerful holiday for most–yellow bunnies! pink marshmallows! foil-wrapped chocolate!–is nothing short of laborious torture for those of us in church work.

Picture this: seven church services in eight days.

That means bulletins, flowers, communion set up, musicians, announcement slides, song lyrics, lights, candles, service order, sermons, readings, ushers, banners and paraments, food and coffee–times SEVEN.

This year, my husband and I started a new tradition to commemorate our first year in church work–our Real Holy Week picture diary, capturing how we felt at the end of each day. And rest assured, friends, those were some long days we worked–along with our dedicated staff–to prepare for Holy Week 2013.

So here’s a glimpse of what goes on behind the scenes in the lives of two brave church workers during Holy Week:

Day 1 (Palm Sunday)

Cassie: Optimistic

Tyler: God save us…(We’re Gonna Need It)

Day 2 (Monday)

Cassie: Seriously? It’s only Monday?!

Tyler: The calm before the storm…

Day 3 (Tuesday)

Cassie: And we thought tax season was stressful…

Tyler: Kickin’ it into high gear!

Day 4 (Wednesday)

Cassie: I just got home…it’s MIDNIGHT…but holy cow, I love my church!

Tyler: Zzzzz……

Day 5 (Maundy Thursday)

Cassie: Holy  Guacamole!

Tyler: Bringin’ it, Maundy style!

Day 6 (Good Friday)

Cassie: I love the most depressing service of the year!

Tyler: And He saw that it was GOOD.

Day 7 (Saturday)

Cassie: I. am. so. tired.

Tyler: This. Is. It.

Day 8 (Easter Sunday)

Cassie: Hallelujah! We survived Holy Week 2013!

Tyler: Thank you God!

And now….you know the real story behind Holy Week.

Next time you ask us why we look tired after Easter, you’ll know exactly why.

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….

A 21st Century Guide to Survival in the Wilderness.

Trees, ferns, and woods–we go way back.

But how I navigate the wilderness now has changed dramatically in the last 20 years.

I spent a large portion of my childhood living in the woods of Central Illinois, where most of my free time was spent wandering around in undisturbed acres of forest with my massive dog, Bomber.

I would venture off with a book in one hand (and sometimes some marshmallow Peeps that I would split with my furry guardian) and, after blissfully dipping my feet in a small creek or picking a bouquet of sweetly scented wildflowers, I’d sit down on a mossy log and read for hours.

I carefully researched plants and bugs, and listened with rapt attention to my grandmother–who had also grown up in the woods–as she pointed out edible plants and flowers and explained various uses for them. I also read books about explorers and adventurers, filing away useful information about how to build fires, forts, and skin animals. I even went through a phase where I carried around a knife everywhere with me, carving messages into trees for miles.

I’ve since traded in my muddy tennis shoes for more urban living environments, but I’ve always loved getting out into nature as much as possible. A few weeks ago, I had the unique opportunity to return to a hallowed nature preserve that’s been a part of my life since I was a child and flex my wilderness survival skills once more.

We made a trek to The Cabin.

No, it’s not the name of a creepy novel, though that may be valid when you consider that The Cabin has no electricity or running water, so the only place you can use for a restroom is a neglected outhouse that’s been sinking slowly into the same spot for nearly 80 years.

The Cabin is a log home my great-grandparents built by themselves in the 1930s in northern Minnesota, sitting on a beautiful lake in what’s now a protected national forest. My great-grandparents lived at The Cabin for years, and our family has many happy memories of it. My brother and I used to visit often in the summer, and we’d wander through trails in the woods that my great-grandpa set up with little plastic critters lurking in trees and under logs, pick blueberries and make pancakes with my grandma, dig up clay from the lakebed and make statues, and learn how to whittle walking sticks.

The idyllic picture of The Cabin you just conjured up, though, is not entirely accurate.

The Cabin, in its full splendor.

The Cabin also a place of raw terror–the place where we laid in our bug-infested beds, wide-eyed and scared over the animals thrashing around in the woods behind us. It’s where we got lost in the woods at night, had to clean fish while combating thousands of buzzing horseflies, and ended up with aggressive leeches all over our legs every time we went swimming. We once spent an afternoon cleaning out a beaver dam, and ended up walking through a tick colony. You think you know horror? No, you don’t.

And, we had to drink warm cream soda every time we were at the cabin, to boot.

While at The Cabin a few weeks ago, however, our experience was remarkably different–probably because my cousins and brother and sister-in-law and I are all of the Millennial generation and tackle survival in the remote wilderness a bit differently than our parents and grandparents.

Here’s how a 21st century twenty-something survives a trip to the woods:

1) We always have an iPhone on hand.

Need a flashlight? Two clicks, and the flashlight app’s open. Grandma is trying to give complicated directions to the church fish fry? Record it as a video and play it back as you’re driving. Spot an interesting tree behind the cabin? Snap a picture and look it up online. Fact-checking someone’s tall tales? Search Wikipedia to find out the truth. Bored on the desolate ride out to The Cabin? That’s why they invented “Angry Birds”. Making a note on your next family vacation? It’s a cinch with your iPhone’s notepad feature.

2) No electricity? No problem.

Our vehicles are all equipped with electrical outlets. And just in case we happen to end up in an older model car, we have adapters that plug into the cigarette lighter. So we play our iPhone jams recklessly. And we can even plug in a crock pot full of wild rice soup, if we need to…and double-check the reheating instructions on Pinterest.

3) Forget living off the land–we have a supply of vacuum-sealed snacks.

Forget scavenging for berries and roots, or trying to shoot our own game. We may have grown up learning how to catch and prepare our own fish, but now we have coolers and containers full of delicious drinks, organic granola bars, and peach rings ready to tickle our tummies.

4) Hand sanitizer is our best friend.

Dig around in the woods, and then try to clean our hands before eating? No problem. Most people our age carry around at least one small bottle of hand sanitizer at all times–sometimes even clipped to our purses or man-bags. And it comes in such mouth-watering flavors, like sun-kissed raspberry and vanilla cupcake. You almost want to get dirty just to smell the heavenly scent of cleanliness on your palms. Almost. We don’t really like to get dirty, anyway.

5) Skip the “Kumbaya” and get to the s’mores.

We’re not like those darn hippy parents we have–we don’t like to sing by the campfire. Just give us some roasting sticks, a bag of marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate. That’s our feel-good bonding time together. And don’t worry, we know how to build a solid campfire…we’ve seen it done on shows like “Survivorman” and “Man Vs. Wild” plenty of times.

5) Cleaning up’s a breeze.

Collecting trash isn’t a problem for our generation. Since we all carry our own personal (and usually expensive) water bottles, made of hardy repurposed plastic, we don’t have to collect soda cans or clip plastic rings to save the eagles or turtles or whatever gets caught up in discarded waste. And we usually have a stash of large reusable grocery bags in our cars, which means we don’t have to chase down flimsy plastic bags that are flying around because we neatly carry all of our junk. Besides, we secretly like carrying around a stylin’ trash bag on our shoulder.

6) We share the experience in real time.

We’re the generation that overshares everything, and has absolutely no boundaries on our personal lives–as a labor and delivery nurse I was chatting with grotesquely reminded me on the last flight I took. On our visits to the wilderness, we carry our smart phones with us on canoes, into tree tops, and into caves…and our 700 Facebook and Twitter friends can keep up with our adventures as they’re happening. Not sure if that’s a grizzly bear chasing you through the woods? Tweet a description of that dark mass howling behind you and let your friends google the information for you as you sprint through the forest. And then post a picture (edited through a fancy filter in Instagram) of your lacerated torso and no doubt a few dozen people will comment on how you can dress your wounds properly.

7) We’ll either blog about the experience or get a tattoo to commemorate it.

I think you know what my choice was, friends.

This Place is Going to the Birds. Literally.

If you know me, you know I have an ugly history with birds.

I’ve never liked them. When I was on vacation in Italy as a teenager, my dislike turned to loathing. I had two birds poop in my hair in the same week. Try enjoying the Tuscan countryside when the soft breeze ruffles your hair and you reach back to tuck those wayward strands away and glob your hand through hot, gritty bird poo.

It was then that I declared we were at war with each other, and they’ve been targeting me ever since that fateful day. 

I could recount a number of grizzly tales of birds dive-bombing me and targeting my car, books, and person for a long time. Once, I sat under a tree in Forest Park for two full hours, reading a book, and paused to stretch my arms above my head. Instantly, I felt something hot dripping down my armpit. I heard the leaves above me stir, and a bird darted away, cackling with glee. Mission accomplished.

Plotting and planning…always plotting and planning.

Just when I thought I was safe in the bowels of the metal building I work in, it seems that my feathery friends found a way to invade my office. Below is the email I sent to my dear coworkers (including some who now work elsewhere) to inform them of our avian attack, and I think you’ll see another side of our seemingly quiet church office.

From: Cassie Moore

Subject: The Animal Adventures Live On…But WE May Not.

Hey everyone!

Just had to tell you a funny story about the Animal House (er, Hangar). As you know, we still have a mouse problem (mostly because we all secretly want our work space to smell like a hamster cage)….and there was that cat in the storage room a few years ago…not to mention the dogs we rescued this fall, when they ran away from home…but here’s another animal infestation to add to the list.

Today, as (name protected for his own safety from those wily birds) and I sat working, we kept hearing obnoxious squeaks coming from the room. I had assumed that they were sound clips, and didn’t realize that the sounds weren’t coming from a computer. Eventually, it got so loud that we both stopped and listened carefully.

Suddenly, we realized that it was birds–baby birds, to be precise–and that it sounded like they were in the room with us.

That’s a terrifying thought when you’ve seen the movie The Birds, incidentally.

We crept outside like the stealthy ninjas we are, and stole around the corner. It was there that we saw it: a bird’s nest the size of a small car, lodged underneath the corner of the Hangar roof and protruding into the building through a metal duct.

Actually, it may have been bigger than a car. At least, bigger than my car. Which is a glorified clown car, if we’re being honest.

Ok, I’m slightly exaggerating–but it’s a sizeable bird nest, tucked neatly under the building. We can hear every chirp and rustle like they’re sitting in the room with us. They even managed to tear off some of the black plastic material that’s our roof in here, so they must’ve been working on it for a while.

Funny, we’ve had cameras in this building for the purpose of watching people with sticky fingers. We never thought that the animals of the Oakville community would turn on us.

What did we do to offend the animal population in suburban St. Louis? Was it our mission to “reach and equip people to think and act like Jesus”? Oh, goodness–we singled out “people” and not “animals”. They must be upset about that.

Perhaps they found out about that time that one of our pastors wouldn’t allow a dog to walk down the aisle with his best friend at a wedding. I heard that poor pup is still whining about that.

Oh, no–what if they found out about that time that one of us (name protected for fear of PETA backlash) stomped on a little mouse with his heavy boot, squishing it to death in a gruesome manner, while the rest of the Hangar staff looked on like spectators at the Colosseum?

Uh oh, I bet they found out that we now offer gluten-free communion wafers, but not beef or chicken-flavored wafers for our furry friends.

Well, apparently the animals of Oakville have a right to hate us. And now they’ve started a full-out war against us. Great.

It’s a good thing you all got out of dodge while you did. This might be the last email you ever receive from m e eljhgl ligha  doas dfkg    jhg  g eanj   n lk………..

From: Anonymous Coworker #1

Subject: Are You Still Alive…? I’m Guessing Not. This Email May Go to Spam….

Cassie, I felt like I was right back there in the Hangar with you.  I still would like to see a photo of this nest and the birds though!

Do you remember when there was a nest right outside the door into the Hangar?  I had tweeted a photo of that one!  Yup, I had tweeted a photo of birds! – oh, the irony.

From: Anonymous Coworker #2

Subject: I Actually Have Better Things To Do Than Read These Sort of Emails…But The Draw of the Humor is Irresistable.

My favorite part by far is: 

We crept outside like the stealthy ninjas we are, and stole around the corner.

 Pure gold.

 It sure was nice knowing you guys before your untimely avian death!

From: Anonymous Coworker #3

Subject: I’m the Optimist of the Group, and You Know I Didn’t Stomp On That Mouse All Those Years Ago…

The animals should have been nicer to Cassie since she always did such an eloquent job of drawing attention to them.

Good times and happy memories!

Thanks for this. It makes me happy.

Oh, how I love my coworkers…they take a bit of the pain out of knowing that I’m now working with my back to some half-crazed, razor-beaked feathered hellions who have a bone to pick with me.

Or, rather, a seed to pick.

If I show up to church with bird poo in my hair, though, you’re all my witnesses as to exactly how it got there.

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 Proper Etiquette of Complimenting Someone’s Rear End.

Last weekend, I did something unusual.

And I don’t mean dumping flour or frosting all over kids’ heads, getting run over with shopping carts by mentally unhinged housewives, or witnessing a brutal beat-down in a McDonald’s parking lot at midnight–those are everyday occurrences for me.

No, I went to my very first fashion show.

To my great surprise, St. Louis has its own Fashion Week here in the Midwest. It’s a week-long affair, sponsored by ALIVE magazine, that hosts Missouri models, designers, and draws the die-hard fashion savvy crowd to places like Plaza Frontenac and Hotel Lumiere for its shows. I opted for attending Saturday night’s all-out bash, Liquid Style, a runway show where the fashionable crowd mixed and mingled with their stilettos and furs and sparkly headbands and watched exclusive collections from the most posh boutiques in St. Louis grace the runway.

My husband and I ended up being the first to arrive at the hotel, the first people photographed by the professional photographers in the lobby, and the first people asked to step onto the red carpet for our photos to be taken against the “official” backdrop.

That’s right–two people who regularly shop at Goodwill and live on a dime are currently gracing the event headlines at the magazine’s website.

We stylin'.

We definitely stood out from the crowd, as I suspected we might as we dressed for the event. I wore a multicolored Trina Turk top, and Tyler wore a bright pink Robert Graham shirt with a dapper vest and fedora (and I only slightly hinted at putting that particular outfit together–he’s a natural on his own). Many of the people there wore standard black, so apparently they aren’t picking up on the trends that scream, “Color is in! Black is out this season!”

Ironically, as I scored incredible seats right next to the runway–mere feet away from where the photographers and videographers set up, Tyler wandered away in search of hors d’oeuvres and ended up getting asked to be put in the magazine. He had started chatting with another guy, who asked where he got such a bright shirt, when a photographer approached him with release forms and a large camera and had him pose. Apparently, they started asking Tyler what he did for a living (assuming he was in the fashion industry), and their jaws dropped on the floor when he told them he was studying to become a pastor.

Hours after the show, once we had finished with dinner, we had couples coming up to us as we strolled around, asking if Tyler had something to do with Fashion Week. We laughed as one guy came running up and proclaimed that he had seen Tyler “from five stories up” in the hotel and was banking on the fact that Tyler headed up the whole event.

Of course, the man who normally lives in Rays t-shirts and flip-flops would end up getting these kind of compliments all night long.

While Tyler was gallivanting around with photographers, I was chatting with the mother and aunt of one of the models, who had driven several hours to attend the show. I listened to them talk about the girl so much that I felt like I nearly knew her, without even ever seeing her. They pointed out every time she was going to walk the runway in the program, and were so excited that it was infectious–I couldn’t help but root for their daughter, and was eagerly anticipating her stepping out to strut her stuff.

The music blared so loud you couldn’t hear anything but a pulsing beat, the VIPS swung their furs and luxurious leather handbags over their shoulders and took their seats, and the lights dimmed and focused in on the stage, and the show began.

I loved it all–the exquisite clothes, the models gliding down the runway, the crowd saying, “Oooo” with delight.

The model’s aunt and mother started getting visibly antsy, as we neared the moment when their precious teenager would sashay out onto the stage.

“Three more to go,” her aunt whispered to me, “two more, one more….there she is!”

And then I became positively speechless, for one of the first times in my adult life:

The model–their little sweetie with a heart of gold–was prancing down the runway in a teeny black top, sheer fish net tights, and towering black heels.

Sheer tights.

Very sheer tights.

Her whole bum was hanging out  for all the world to see.

I managed to muster up a confused smile as her aunt jammed her elbow into me, saying, “Oh, she looks great, doesn’t she? And that’s really her bottom–it’s not underwear or anything!”

I found myself wondering, “What on earth is the proper etiquette of complimenting someone else’s rear end?”

The model pranced down the runway, with her shoes clip-clopping across the surface. She came within feet of us, flashed a smoldering look at the cameras, and then flipped her hair and whirled around and–um–flashed us once again.

Models prancing down the runway....

As she disappeared behind the curtain, her aunt leaned over and said, “Oh my goodness, she was amazing! What did you think?”

I gulped and said, “Wow, she’s really…brave.”

And then, fearing I had just unwittingly insulted her niece, the words just started pouring out of my mouth, “She had a great walk–so confident and graceful. Oh, she was wonderful. A true natural. She has a future in this. Oh, wow. I’m stunned. Amazing.”

Finally, the next model was upon us and I used the momentary distraction as a welcome excuse to shut my yammering mouth.

Go figure–of all of the models, I had to sit next to the family of the one who was dressed the most risquely of them all.

So, enlighten me, my fellow fashionable friends. What is the etiquette of complimenting someone’s derriere?

That’s right. You’re as flabbergasted as I was, too.

All in all, it was a great night. We had a blast, we talked to a ton of great people–despite what you’d think about the fashion world, they’re some of the most genuinely happy and friendly people I’ve ever spent time with–and we enjoyed the show immensely.

Just don’t expect me to be stepping out in sheer tights anytime soon.

I think I’ll be scarred by that one for a while…

How NOT to Talk to a Cop…at Midnight.

If only I had more free time on my hands–you’d hear a lot more of my mundane adventures in real life.

Take, for instance, last Friday.

We had a youth event for our middle schoolers called “Flour Frenzy”. Where did the inspiration from this fantastic event come from? Not from my brain, unfortunately. Basically, I finally succumbed to the pressure of my male students who have been begging to throw “flour bombs” (cupfuls of flour wrapped in thin tissues) at each other for years.

I texted my leaders a few days before the event and told them that they’d finally get to throw something at the heads of the kids who have been annoying them for the last three years.

So it didn’t surprise me in the slightest that a record number of leaders were clamoring to come for this event. I’m pretty sure some of them strapped on bulletproof vests and did warm ups to get ready to battle these kiddos.

The battle commenced, and we were all literally coated in thick white flour from head to toe. It was every teenage boy’s dream–he could throw things at girls’ heads as hard as he could, and the bomb dissipated with a dramatic “poof”, leaving everyone unharmed and in hysterics.

Suddenly, with a dramatic “poof” of its own, the skies opened up and poured down rain on our flour-drenched bodies as we stood outside in the parking lot.

You don’t have to be a professional baker to know that when you mix dry flour and water, you get a beautifully thick, gummy, sticky paste. Which is exactly what ended up all over us.

When the first drops started splattering down on me, I had just been jumped by one of my high school leaders. She dumped an entire cup of flour into my tightly done ponytail–and then ground it in to my hair, just so make sure she didn’t miss turning every inch of my head white. (She succeeded, quite well).

Guess what happens when you add water to flour that’s been finely ground into your hair?

It looks so innocent--but used properly, it's a deadly weapon.

Yep. I was sporting a lovely white headful of sticky goo, that quickly dried into a brittle helmet.

Once we finished cleaning up that night, our leaders headed to our usual place for debriefing and hanging out to enjoy each other’s company–Steak N’ Shake, a small diner a few miles down the road. We’ve been going there on a regular basis for a few years now, so the managers and waitresses all know us by name and even know the dishes we order each time. It’s as close to an idyllic Mayberry small-town experience as I’m sure I’ll ever have.

When we traipsed our way in on Friday, our waitresses laughed at the sight of us all covered in flour. We tried to brush it off, but I made no attempt whatsoever to tackle the heavy mess on my head.

We sat around, enjoying milkshakes together, when a trio of rough bikers came in the front door. Our best guess is that they were strung out on drugs, because they took one look at us and one of them started shouting across the restaurant at us like a, um, crazy person. She had to be persuaded by the manager to calm down, and spent the next hour glaring at our table of teens and adults and swearing under her breath.

When we eventually got up to leave and the trio was still giving us the evil eye, we decided to wait to drive away until after they drove off, just so they didn’t follow us home and try to slit our throats in our own driveways.

Ok, so that was my personal thought. I’ve been watching a few too many episodes of Criminal Minds, apparently.

Four of us leaders stood huddled together, talking in the parking lot and keeping an eye on the ruffians paying and walking out the front door. Being my usual highly-perceptive-and-only-slightly-paranoid self, I watched them as they walked across the street into an abandoned parking lot. It was then that I noticed them acting strangely, and standing next to a car that had apparently been parked there for some time. The people in the car started talking to the troublemakers who had been in the restaurant with us, and the next thing I knew I heard voices shouting.

When I saw one of the men reach over and start rocking the car furiously, and then slug the driver, I knew there was trouble brewing.

Quick as a flash, two people scrambled out of the car and pounced on the others who had started the fight. Within seconds, they were screaming and one guy was on the ground, getting kicked in the stomach repeatedly and pummeled in the face.

By this point, my cell phone was already out of my purse and I had already pressed “send” on my call to 911. As we watched the fight unfold just across the street from us, I described the situation to the dispatcher. Within seconds, we heard sirens blaring down the street–but not in time to catch the men in the car, who took off.

We watched the blue and red lights blur past us and counted one, two, four, six, eight police cars barrel into the empty parking lot and surround the instigators.

Yes, folks, nothing like this ever happens in Oakville. Every single police officer in the vicinity decided to check out this unusual action.

One of the police cruisers came over to us as witnesses, and told us to stay put while they dealt with the suspects. So, we stood and watched for about half an hour until that officer came back to ask us some routine questions.

Keep in mind–at this point, I’m covered in white dust and my head is a pure white, crusty disaster.

Oh, and it’s midnight now.

I’m glad you remembered–because I completely forgot about how bizarre I looked, as I stood giving my statement to the officer.

To his credit, he didn’t bat an eye at my obviously strange appearance. However, that only makes me wonder about what he normally sees from people. I’d hate to think that maybe I’m on his “Craziest Witness I’ve Ever Encountered” list, but perhaps that’s the case.

Oh, to live in infamy with the Oakville Police. My dream.

So, to recap, the lessons learned from this experience:

1) Carry a large hat in your car to disguise your appearance next time you have to make a police report in the middle of the night

2) Don’t wear white powder on your person when around druggies, because it’ll only needlessly excite and/or provoke them

3) Don’t turn your back on a high schoolers who has access to something destructive, especially if you hit them in the face with a flour bomb just mere minutes earlier

Oh yeah…and that horrible, disgusting, powdery, crusted-over flour that was stuck in my hair? It took six shampoos, six conditioning treatments, and two deep conditioning treatments to get it all out.

Yummy.

Surfers, Simple Living, & The Future of My Generation

I learned something new about myself last night:

I shouldn’t watch surf movies with my husband before going to bed.

Hm. When I say it like that, it seems to imply that I had an unfortunate liquid-related incident in my bed last evening. That’s not the case.

To be a bit more precise in my explanation, I shouldn’t watch movies that portray a relaxing, nature-embracing, simple-living kind of lifestyle–one that seems to be favored by most surfers. Because after watching only fifteen minutes of a surf documentary about a surfer and rock climber who took six months off of “real life” in between jobs to explore the world on a sailboat, I was ready to sell everything I own and buy a boat and sail out to Easter Island, like these two did.

Fine–if I’m being honest, I want to hang on to my jewelry, handbag, and art collection. Oh, and my iPhone. That’s it–everything else can go.

It’s interesting, really, to think about living such a simple lifestyle. I think it’s one that my generation will eventually embrace.

I read voraciously, and love studying generational theories (I can thank my program director, Dr. Ross, for introducing me to this topic in college!). From what I’ve read on my own generation–the ”Millenials”, or “Mosaics”, as we’re sometimes called–it seems that we’re the most egocentric and entitled, but informed and socially-minded generation in history.

We constantly post status updates about ourselves on Twitter and Facebook (and have the gall to think that anyone actually cares what we’re eating for lunch), a Wikipedia article about anything under the sun is accessible to us at any moment, and we dabble in thousands of different interests at once.

At the same time, however, this is the generation that rethought new ways to contribute to the welfare of the underprivileged, as evidenced in companies like TOMS shoes. We’re the generation that invented a way to make a contribution to others via text message donations, whether it be starving children in Africa, AIDs relief efforts, or donations to help earthquake or tornado victims. And we think nothing about spending extra on bottled water or kitschy t-shirts, if it helps others.

We’re also under more pressure and balancing incredibly heavy expectations, compared to any other generation in history. I feel dizzy when I think about the pace of my day-to-day schedule–and it’s nothing compared to the bevy of activities I was handling in high school and college. 18-hour days crammed with multi-tasking every moment until my head hits the pillow at night have been a constant since I was fourteen.

And it’s only gotten worse, as I look at the students I work with. They simply can’t keep up with their increasingly demanding schedules.

You know what sort of comments I’m hearing from today’s teenagers?

“I hate texting. I hate keeping up with everyone all the time and always having to respond to them. I hate that stupid dinging, that tells me that someone wants to talk to me. I wish I could just get rid of my cell phone for good.”

“I’m so over Facebook. I’m sick of watching everyone pretend like they’ve having the time of their lives, all the time. It’s just a brag-book. I hate it.”

“Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be Amish? I mean, to just live simply and provide for yourself and not worry about anything else? It must be great.”

I’ve read that every generation rebels against their parents’ generation. It seems to hold true–the Baby Boomers definitely stood for the exact opposite of everything that their parents embraced and instead turned to mystical influences, free love, and relaxed and fluid lifestyles. And, in turn, their children chased status and wealth and stability in their careers. Just look at the rise of labels and Wall Street in the 1980s alone–that gives you a picture of what they craved.

So, what will our generation rebel against? What will we look like in the future, and how will we affect the world?

Maybe, as history unfolds, it will prove me wrong. But I think that this fledgling generation will give up status and wealth and success in favor of living more simply.

I think we’ll rebel against our frantic childhoods, crammed chock-full of piano lessons and football practice and student council meetings and find our stride in embracing just a few activities we really enjoy as adults.

I think we’ll see more and more people giving up the idea of owning a massive home and a closet full of designer clothes, and living like the surfer and rock-climber in the documentary I watched last evening–where, instead of saving money to splurge on tangible “status items”, they’ll choose to invest in intangible experiences like traveling the world on a boat.

I think this generation will care more about connecting with friends and family than having thousands of friends on Facebook. They’ll give up the concept of texting dozens of people at once, and will instead choose to share their lives fully with a select few.

I think this generation will give up the idea of conformity in a corporate-based world, and will instead celebrate diversity as they unite in their beliefs that we’re all out there to help each other. Don’t forget–we’re the kids that grew up with teamwork ingrained in our very souls from infancy, as we ran laps together for soccer practice and shared Valentines and cupcakes with everyone in grade school. Individuality will be less important, because the overriding idea will be that we’re all one big team. Hence, the passion for social justice and the idea that we should take care of everyone on this planet.

I think our short attention spans will influence everything around us, from television shows to literature to trends. But I think we’ll enthusiastically bounce from one thing to another, and a plethora of newness will spring from our generation, as people throw themselves into something they truly love and are inspired to do, no matter what sort of paycheck it affords them at the end of the month.

Of course, the inevitable outcome is that our children, someday, will rebel against us.

And thus, the chain of history continues.

To paraphrase one of the insightful comments I heard from the surf movie I watched last night, “The greatest lesson in history is that men never learn from the lessons of history.”

I think these surfers definitely had that right.

And if they had that right–then maybe they’re right about this whole “live simply” idea.

Compliments That Double As Insults: On Being Called “Barbie”, “Crazy”, & the Twin of an African-American Girl

Do people ever tell you things about yourself that make you cringe?

It seems to happen to me. Quite a bit.

Usually, people offer up something that they think is a compliment, but actually unwittingly insult me in the process. They mean well, so I can’t get angry–but it makes my soul wince in agony sometimes.

In college, a guy who had a crush on me once remarked that I reminded him of a certain actress he found attractive. When I pressed him for a name, he airily remarked, “I don’t know her name. It’s that one with the super-annoying voice, don’t you know who I’m talking about?”

Owch. I remind him of a woman with an annoying voice? Zing.

Another one of my friends has been telling me for years that he thinks I’d enjoy the show Madmen. While my husband was in Jamaica on a mission trip a few weeks ago and I was bored silly, I decided to fire up the ol’ Netflix and check out this show. I could sum up the show in three short words: 1960s, booze, and plentiful affairs.

Why did my friend think I’d love that show? Do those sound like things I do on the weekend? Do I enjoy watching people self-destruct on television? My self-esteem sprung a small leak there.

I only mildly resembled Barbie's platinum 'do at one point in my life....

Or take this recent happening–I was standing around talking to several adults and teenagers, and someone remarked, “Gee, Cassie, you look just like a Barbie doll today.” I looked down and realized that I was wearing a silky pink shirt, black pencil skirt, and high hot-pink heels and did somewhat resemble a Barbie doll.

Later, I remembered that my own Barbie had the exact same peep-toe heels in the late 80s–so their remark was definitely accurate. But nevertheless, I found myself loathing the idea that I resembled Barbie–of all the toys on this planet. Ugh. Why not an intelligent toy that didn’t drive around in a plastic pink Jeep?

It’s really amazing how personal the well-meaning attack on your character can get sometimes. I once had a guy I dated briefly try to talk me out of becoming a Christian youth leader. His reasoning? “I just think you’d be better off as a nurse–you know, something that actually requires a bit of intelligence.”

It ended quickly. No further explanation needed.

One of the most vicious attacks on my personal sense of style came about a year ago, when a student of mine dared me to step away from my signature tropical wardrobe and intentionally “dress down”, wearing clothes that reflected a sedate Midwest color palette. I donned the plainest clothes I could dig out of my closet: dark jeans, plain brown flip flops, a dark navy t-shirt, and a crocheted cream sweater. I wore no jewelry or makeup and did my hair in a bun to top off the extreme “Anti-Cassie Experiment”.

I kid you not: I had no less than four students compliment me on my outfit that evening. And one of them dared to burst my ego with a well-intentioned, “Oh, Cassie, you look so comfortable tonight!”

Comfortable? Yeah, maybe that’d be a nice description if I was wearing my pajamas. No woman wants to be told she looks comfortable. That’s like the equivalent of telling Lady Gaga that she looks normal–she just doesn’t want to hear it.

It packs the same self-esteem punch as a comment that men unwittingly make on a regular basis to women: “Oh, you look tired today.”

Translation to that woman’s mind? “You look absolutely awful. Noticeably uglier than usual. So much so that I actually recognized your hideousness and chose to make a comment on your physical appearance.”

Men, you’ve been warned. Don’t do it.

The ultimate remark that still makes me cringe, though, takes the cake:

During my freshman year of college, an acquaintance came barging into my room one day with her friend while I was diligently finishing my art history homework, and insisted on borrowing my Disneyland pass so she could sneak her friend into the park without paying. I resisted automatically, without raising my eyes from my book. That’s when this acquaintance said forcefully, “Look, Cassie, you guys look EXACTLY alike. They won’t even notice. You guys could pass for twins, seriously.”

I met eyes with the girl she was talking about–my “twin”.

She was a very plump, dark-skinned African-American girl with long black hair down to her waist wearing a belly shirt and tight pleather pants.

I was a slender white girl with short blonde hair just below my ears, wearing a button-up shirt and shorts.

That one stung at the time. I can laugh about it now, but I spent the better part of a month trying to figure out what that girl saw in the two of us that, in her mind, made us look “exactly alike”.

Am I the only one who’s ever experienced this, or is my life just that odd?

Oh, well. At least the maintenance guy who came to repair our internet connection today told my husband he liked my “crazy sense of decorating style” in our apartment.

I’ll just pretend that he didn’t use the word “crazy” to describe my taste in interior design.

The Final Harry Potter = The Death of My Childhood.

I just got home, after seeing the final Harry Potter movie with my husband.

It was, in a mere word, epic.

Truthfully, it was probably one of the best movies I’ve ever seen. The characters came alive in this movie, and the contrast between good and evil was so strong that it gave me the chills. The humor was perfect, the action magnificent, and the conclusion was a tear-jerker. I loved every moment.

Heck, even the cynical reviewers at Rotten Tomatoes gave it a 97% approval rating.

But I found myself troubled and perplexed at the end of the movie, as the credits rolled across the screen. I couldn’t really put my finger on it until I got to the car and started to drive home:

With Harry meeting his inevitable conclusion, I must face the reality that my childhood has now disappeared.

In a very real sense, I grew up with Harry Potter. I stumbled across the first book in the series when I was going into eighth grade, right after my family had uprooted from central Illinois to live in the Twin Cities. It was my first summer–a cold summer, at

Me with my family, when I was 13.

that– in a brand-new place, where I knew no one. While I made friends quickly when school started, Harry and his friends were my comfort in that first strange summer in Minnesota when I had nothing but pesky mosquitoes and my faithful dog to comfort me.

In high school, I awaited eagerly for each new book in the series. My friends and I went to nearly every midnight screening for each new movie–even when it meant we had to go straight from a graduation ceremony to the theater, still dressed in our formal attire.

In college, I read and reread the books. When a family friend gave me a brand-new copy of the last book while I was home on break, I stayed up all night reading it.

While in various classes in college, my friend Stephanie and I even came up with an entire character cast using all of the people at our university as subs for Rowling’s characters.

I was working at Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida, when it was announced that they had gained the rights to the Harry Potter theme park. I saw the celebration and pride first-hand, and I marveled that I got to be a part of it.

In the last few years, as I’ve worked as a youth leader, I’ve loaned out my copies of the movies to hoards of kids. I’ve talked about the books and the movies more times than I can count, and I’ve even watched the movies with teenagers in my apartment.

Harry Potter has been a constant in my life in the last twelve years. It’s outlasted my favorite sweaters, the framed pictures I thought I’d never put in a box, and my favorite CDs. It’s outlast three generations of iPods, two laptops, and my digital cameras. It’s outlasted my boyfriends, several homes, my first car, my childhood pets, five drastically different hair colors, countless vision prescriptions, four years’ worth of roommates, and my best friends.

It’s lasted longer than nearly everything else in my life, really. The only things that even come close are my Anya Hindmarch bag and my Rainbow sandals (eight years and six years, respectively).

And now–it’s over.

I know this seems melancholy. And it’s very personal. But after all, my blog ultimately my place to share my own thoughts, unfiltered. I think the world would be a much better place if we could actually share our true feelings, fears, and joys with each other. So I guess that’s what I’m doing: sharing my truth, even when it’s not so rosy or politically correct.

I can’t be the only one who has faced this–the death of childhood and the road into adulthood. However, it feels like I’m alone in it since no one has ever really been honest enough to tell me that this is what it’s like (similar to how no one would confess to how horrific soccer tryouts would actually be in high school, really).

This feeling that my carefree days are totally behind me….the knowledge that my life now consists of tracking and paying bills, taking dogs to the vet, working, and making dentist appointments…

Peter Pan sure had the right idea, I tell you.

It’s not that I want to prolong my adolescence, by any means. I’ve always been ready to grow up–whether it was tackling Jane Eyre at ten, flying alone across the country at twelve, writing my autobiography at thirteen, moving across the country at eighteen, or handling a hall of forty residents at nineteen.

I guess this just seems like the final blow to my childhood.

Kind of that “Holy cow, I’m actually an adult” moment.

Sure, there are plenty of perks to being an adult. For one, I get to buy whatever I want at the grocery store–I don’t have to convince my mother that I really need it.

Also, I get to burn candles whenever I want–despite the fact that my brother and I set my trashcan on fire once and I was banned from ever owning candles again.

But secretly, I sometimes wish I could go back to my carefree days twelve years ago–back when my biggest worry was finishing Harry Potter before sunrise.