Artists, We Are Needed

Artists, we are needed.

I know. It's too hard to find it, to tap into that creative space and pull from it.  We are too vulnerable; with everything going on in the world and in our nation, it just hurts too much.  I know.  I feel it, too.  But we are needed.

It hit me today as I sat at my desk, humming the refrain of 'Hallelujah,' over and over again.  Cohen, I thought, was a poet.  He would have been able to make sense of this.  Because that's what poets do.  As Gwendolyn Brooks said, and my sister lives, "Poetry is life distilled."

I will (with all due respect) take this one step further: Art is life distilled.  It is finding the essential and extracting it.  You've felt it, right?  Something - word, song, photo, paint, animation - something hits you with a ferocity that leaves you shaking.  It makes you realize, as though for the first time, that true beauty is a jagged edge.  It tears you open and drives you to your knees, leaving you gasping and quivering, and somehow in need of more.  You are changed.  Tender, open.  Broken.

So we are driven to our craft, to our art.  We find it deep within us and we pull it out.  It may be loud, it may be soft.  It could be for the world to see, or the solace you find in your quiet garden.  But you create.  You recognize the need.

Artists, we are needed.

We need to show up and let the light shine through our brokenness.  Because that is our super power, our secret weapon: we do not cover up the hurt.  We use it.  We harness it.  We face it and direct it.  We are broken open time and time again, and it lets us see the world with a vision others refuse to face.

We breathe in hurt and breathe out love.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Artists, we are needed.

We are needed to take a step forward, even though the air is heavy and the bog hinders our progress.  One step, and then another, and then another - until the earth firms beneath our feet just enough for us to rest, for only a moment, before moving again.

I have been suspended this week, held in the air, frozen, unable to move as I looked all around me.  Looking through the words I have seen hurt.  Hurt all over.  I see it and I feel it.  It presses on my shoulders, my chest, my back.  Down, down, down.

I turned to look for the light, and saw in surprise that it shone through me, through my broken parts.  So I took a deep breath, and then another, and then I lifted my head.

I cannot promise it will all be okay.  I don't that it will; I am not a Seer.  I can look at the past and see what we've survived, and I can glean hope from that.  But empty assurances are not helpful, especially to those who feel fear and hurt and despair directly in their lives.  So I won't offer them.

Instead, I promise this: I will watch, and see what is going on around me.  I will listen and hear what those who are afraid and hurting have to say.  I will make certain my path is safe for any who come across it.  I will be the vessel for the Speaker: Come to me, He says, and I will give you rest.   The sun will rise and set, and I will let it shine through me.  The earth will turn on its axis, and I will mirror the dance.  The wind will arrive, sometimes drifting, sometimes whipping, and I will let it blow through me, sweeping away the darkness.

Artists, we are needed.

But what if - you ask - what if I don't create art?

I have a secret for you.  Come close, and listen.

Artists, I believe, are nothing more or less than those of us who still remember we are all human.  We live our art in an infinite number of ways: gardening, cooking, writing, painting, designing, dancing, animating, singing, composing, speaking, running, lifting...the list goes on and on.  The only thing that makes us artists is the recognition that we share a nature.  We see that the lines of connection have been covered, they have been twisted and stretched and even torn, but they have not broken.  We are still all connected; we belong to each other.

We see this and we live this.

Artists.  We are needed.

I Heard the Bells

Oh, what a day.

Fear, excitement, panic, hope, dread...the list goes on and on and on.  Sitting at my computer (at work...shhh) I felt it all rise up within me.  I became suddenly overwhelmed.  How on earth will we go on after this election day?  No one can deny that this campaign process has incited and ignited passion within people.  And not just good passion.  No.  Anger...hatred...vitriol...

I wondered how our nation could move on after all this.  Surely we are more divided than ever before.

Except -

As I let my mind spiral downward a song came on my Dave Barnes (Holiday) Pandora station.  (Yes.  Holiday.  Judge not.)  As I listened I felt tears come to my eyes and peace wash over me.  The carol was a song based on a poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow on Christmas Day, 1863.

Folks, 1863 was the middle of the American Civil War.  A time when our nation was more divided than ever before, a time in which it seemed we could only splinter apart.  Longfellow, the widowed father of six children, had recently learned his oldest child had been severely injured in the war.  So he did what the artists and dreamers do: He put his pain and hope on paper.

I think it applies now, just as surely as then.

Here is his poem (emphasis mine):

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

My Quilt Square

I visited my grandma today.

It was a spur of the moment decision; I happened to be in the neighborhood and had a few extra minutes, so I stopped by.  Because it was a last minute thing I didn't follow my normal routine of visiting her.  Usually I stop by Starbucks and pick up some coffee - decaf, because it's always so late in the day.  But today, sadly sans coffee, I followed the now familiar turns and lowered the volume of my radio out of respect for anyone else who happened to be around.  I parked in my usual spot and walked the short distance, wondering, as always, why I even bothered to lock my car. After all, it's not as though my little, red Bug would be out of my sight.

And then, with a quick glance to Grandma's neighbors, I lowered myself to the ground.  "Sorry I don't have any coffee for you," I said, and I touched a hand to her headstone.

This is usually the point when I say (out loud, because I think she would get a kick out of it), "Pour one out for my homegirl," and tip the coffee cup upside down.  We share that coffee as I talk about what's going on in my life.  I alternate between taking sips and pouring some beside her name, and I always feel a gentle swell of pleasure in the knowledge that my love of coffee is something that came from her and Grandpa.  It is not groundbreaking or earth shattering.  It will never save a life or change the world, but it is a part of the legacy I have inherited from her.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.  Legacy.  I'll spare you the sordid details, but "legacy" has been something of a hot topic in some recent drama.  Truthfully, "drama" doesn't at all capture the reality of the pain caused, but that's not currently my story to tell.

Legacy, though, that is mine, though I share it with many.  Legacy is like a blanket - a quilt - which lays over many, offering warmth and comfort, and unique in each individual space.  I've been inspecting my quilt square, trying to see clearly which pieces of each of my grandparents have made it into my little portion.

Mama Bear from The Berenstain Bears and Mama's New Job.  LOVE those quilts!

So today I sat at my grandma's graveside and I thought.

I thought about the moment my grandpa mentioned Grandma's great love of Christmas, when my brother leaned over to me and whispered, "That's where we get it."

I thought about jumping excitedly onto the couch when Granddaddy was GOING TO TELL HIS MICKEY MOUSE STORIES!!!!  And then laughing years later when kids I babysat asked me to please tell a Mickey Mouse story? 

I thought about Mimi and her sense of humor - the moment during our Easter service when she just could. not. handle. the way someone was chanting.  She and I covered our mouths with our hands and laughed and laughed and laughed as silently as possible.  Even now I get a flash of that memory when I notice something ridiculous.

I thought about Grandpa's great love of family, the way you can tell he is soaking up the chaos around him when we're all together, and I remembered moments at family events when I just looked around, in awe of and grateful for all these crazy people around me.

Webster's dictionary describes "legacy" in the following way:

I am going to ignore the first definition, because my family has taught me that while money is nice and helpful and certainly not evil, it is by no means the most important thing in life.  So let's move on to the second definition:

Something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

This.  Yes.

This resonates with me.  Because when I think of my legacy, I don't think of property or money - unless we're joking about how our inheritance was used to buy Beanie Babies.  

Wait!  This is actually my legacy! ;)

No.  Money, properties, or things are not a part of the quilt laid over me.  My legacy is a strong sense of justice, loyalty, and family.  It is a goofy and silly sense of humor, and a sardonic delight in the ridiculous.  It is standing in front of people and feeling comfortable speaking to them.  It is yelling at other drivers.  It is whistling - a lot.  It is a tendency to assume that I know exactly what's best, even when I have no idea what's actually going on.  It is caring about my appearance.  It is wanting to know who is in church this morning - not to judge...just to know.   It is taking everything so hard.  It is being incredibly self-critical.  It is my storytelling.  It is the sound of my exhale when dismissing something.  It is the shape of my mouth and the slope of my nose.  It is the sound of my laugh.

My quilt square is not perfect, but it keeps me warm.  

And I love it dearly.

Photo credit: Aunt Judy Braun

Not Cinderella

I'm a shoe girl.

I.
LOVE.
Shoes.

I know, I know!  It's cliche.  But, hey!  I'm a redhead whose favorite color is red, and while I don't mind a margarita or glass of wine, I'm definitely a whiskey girl.  I'm used to being a cliche.

My shoe closet pretty much holds the spectrum of colors and patterns: glittery ruby slippers, blue suede wedges, black patent leather stilettos...heck!  I even have a pair of pumps that have The Avengers all over them.

And they glow under a black light!

I'm sure it comes as no surprise that a certain pair of glass slippers crosses my mind on a fairly regular basis.  Glass.  Slippers.  (Or possibly fur slippers, if you're sticking with the original telling.  There's some controversy over the translation.)  There's no doubt in my mind that if I had a pair of those suckers they would be in my regular rotation.  Because functional glass slippers?  Yes, please!

But even with my slight shoe obsession (fetish?  No...okay, yes) it hit me the other day that I am not Cinderella.

Now, before I get to the moment in which I had this epiphany, I feel the need to say something:  I don't hate Cinderella.  I don't dislike Cinderella.  I don't have anything against Cinderella.

I LOVE CINDERELLA!

In some ways Cinderella is a perfect symbol of fairy tale princesses.  I would love her for that alone, but there's more.  Whether we're talking the Disney version or the Perrault (and then Grimm) version, or even the Egyptian story of Rhodopis, I am a fan.  She has incredible grace under pressure, is an example of perseverance and kindness in the face of hardship and hatred, and it's great that those traits are rewarded at the end of the story.  I think, "Go back!  Go back!  There's blood on the trail!" is an awesome - if Grimm -  refrain, and "A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes" is equally wonderful.

And don't even get me started on statements like this:

Who says these ideas are mutually exclusive?  Why can't I love fairy tales and dreaming and whimsy and still be a strong, successful woman?  I will make it rain shards of glass while wearing glass slippers.  I will chase my dreams in my cutest pair of shoes.  When I have kids they will be taught to dance and dream and demolish that glass ceiling.  You do not have to sacrifice one at the expense of the other.

Honestly.





Anyway, all that to say: I love Cinderella.

But I am not Cinderella.

Some of you may know that I've been doing the online dating thing for a bit.  While it's cool to meet new people and I always enjoy getting dressed up, I'm not stoked on it.  The guys are nice enough (barring, of course, those who think it's alright to ask for naked pictures right off the bat), but I find I'm in a strange mindset about relationships right now.  I don't want anything serious - but I'm open to that if it happens - and I definitely am not looking for a one night thing.  So something casual and with no pressure, but with the option to explore more if there's a connection.  And no hookups.

See?  It's not fair.  It's kind of setting the poor guys up for failure.

A couple days ago I got a perfectly nice message from a perfectly nice guy who was wishing me a good day at work.  I suddenly felt very clearly and heavily in my heart that while he may be Prince Charming I am certainly not Cinderella.  I looked at my phone and sighed, "I'm not The One, guy," before I typed a short and cheerful response thanking him for the kind thoughts.

Cinderella is delicate and strong, persevering and gentle.  She is faith in good things and working solidly and steadily at the task that has been set before her, all while never giving up on the dream of something better.

I am a temper that is contained 96% of the time and fierce the other 4.
I am constant vigilance against the threat of bedbugs.
I am a laugh that is just a touch too loud.
I am bottles of kombucha abandoned with 1/4 of the drink left.
I am Christmas music year round.
I am lying on the floor when writing feels too hard.
I am SO EXCITED to go to Disneyland.  Always.
I am quiet moments at my grandma's grave, telling her about everything going on in my life, and listening for the little bell of her answer.
I am always going to laugh at a fart joke...and most raunchy humor.
I am a dirty mind (*ahem* sexy imagination) that hangs out behind an innocent face.
I am incensed when anyone implies - or states - that I need to dress in a more modest/conservative/ladylike/whatever way.  Incensed.
I am not quite afraid of the dark, but I sleep much better with just a little light in the room.
I am conversations with random strangers about what on earth it means that they dreamt about that weird thing.  And also they swear they saw their grandfather after he passed away.

I am not Cinderella.

And so when well-meaning people tell me to have faith, that my perfect Prince Charming, with his pristine background and white steed, will come soon, well...I cringe.  Because I don't have time for you, Prince Charming - for you or your perfect posture and bizarre insistence that you will marry a woman you danced one silent dance with.

No.  For as much as I love fairy tales, and believe in fairies (well, faeries), I'm not looking for a fairy tale romance.  I need someone who will suit up and show up.  Someone who will don his armor and step into the gladiator ring to fight alongside me.  Someone who will push me to try new things and who doesn't care that "delicate" is a word that has never been used to describe me.  Someone who will embrace and explore life with me, who will hold my hand when it's scary or hard, or simply just because.

Frank and Sadie from Beyond Belief (Thrilling Adventure Hour)...Relationship goals.

So, until I find him - until we find each other - I'll just keep putting one well-shod foot in front of the other.  And to all you Princes Charming or Fairy Godmothers, I will never turn down the gift of a great pair of shoes.

Never.





Any pictures that are not mine were found on Pinterest, and as such photo credit is not given.

Just A Story Written For LOG...

A few months ago I was asked to write a story for a LOG activity.  This is what I came up with.  Figured I would share it.

The Young Boy grumbled to himself as he stomped toward the well.  This was not a man's work, gathering water.  He hunched his shoulders against both his anger and the heat of the afternoon.  His mother had sent him to the well, too caught up in caring for the Boy's crying infant sister to gather the water herself.  She had yelled at him of the importance of water.  Would he rather them all die of thirst than swallow his pride and carry one jug?  And after all, he was still just a Boy, while she was his mother.  He must listen to her.

The Boy could not deny the importance of water for survival.  It was true that every creature, every living thing needed the water.  Living in the small, Samaritan town, the Boy was well aware of this need, even at such a young age.  The weather was harsh and unforgiving, and if a person was careless or lazy he would regret it greatly.  But at eight years old the Boy chose not to consider this.  He kicked a stone out of his path, cringing when he felt the pain in his toes.

As he approached the well he stopped abruptly – Photini was walking in the direction of the well, carrying a large jug.  Everyone in town knew of Photini.  The Boy's mother would be horrified if she thought he spoke even the shortest greeting to this woman.  He was stuck, unsure of what to do, when he noticed a Man sitting at the well.  The Man greeted Photini kindly, then asked if she would give Him water.  The Boy wondered briefly if this Man knew the kind of woman he spoke to, but then realized with shock that He was a Jew!  What on Earth was he doing speaking to a Samaritan woman, especially one like Photini?

The Boy inched closer to the well, curious to hear what the Man was saying.  “If you knew Who was asking you for water, you would ask Me for water, and I should give you living water.”  Living water? The Boy thought, amazed.  He had never yet heard of living water.  He stepped closer, eager to hear more.

Photini and the Man were speaking about her life – the Boy wondered if he should cover his ears – when she suddenly ran from the well, leaving her jug behind.  As she ran past, he heard Photini calling out about the Messiah.  The Boy looked back toward the Man, who seemed to be watching a group of men walk up the hill toward the well. 

“Come see me, my Boy,” He said.  The Boy jumped; he had thought he went unnoticed.  The Man turned toward him, and beckoned him to come.  The Boy nervously walked forward.  “What is living water?” he asked the Man.  The Man smiled gently, and reached out to touch the Boy's shoulder. 

“It is the water that I give.  Whoever drinks of this water will never be thirsty again.  The water that I give will become a fountain of everlasting water, springing up into eternal life.”  The Boy simply shook his head, not understanding what the Man meant, but knowing somehow that this was important, that this Man was no ordinary man.

“I'm sorry.  I don't understand.  How could anyone not need water again?”

The Man chuckled, and reached into a pack that was resting at His feet.  He pulled out a small, clay cup and a leather strap, and began wrapping the strap around the cup even as He spoke.  “Tell me, my Boy, why you feel water is so important?”

The Boy thought this was a silly question, but he answered anyway.  “It gives life.  No one can live without drinking water.  We would die without it.” 

“This is true,” the Man answered.  “You mother, your father, your baby sister – all of you need water to live.”  He looked up and smiled at the Boy, who was staring open-mouthed at Him.  “But would you like to know a secret?”  He leaned toward the Boy, who nodded and came closer to Him.  “Your soul,” the Man touched a finger to the Boy's chest.  “Your soul needs something else to live.  Your soul needs Me, and my Father Who is in Heaven.  And I will give your soul living water.  And it is through Me that you will find eternal life – life that far surpasses your life here on this earth.  Would you like to hear something else?”  The Boy nodded again.  He had felt power in the simple touch to his chest.  He felt as though his whole body was shining.  The Man looked at him as though He knew what the Boy was feeling.  “Whoever believes in me, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water,” He said.  “I give you My living water, and you pass that along to others, who can pass it to others, and so on.”  He handed the Boy the cup, which now had the leather wrapped around it in such a way that the Boy could wear the cup around his neck.  He did so now, feeling that the cup was somehow sacred.  He knew he would never lose it, even if only because it would make him think of this Man.

The Boy turned to face the group of men who had just reached the well.  They called out to the Man cheerfully – they obviously knew Him well – and the Man acknowledged them with a wave.  He turned to the Boy and placed His hand on the Boy's head.  “Go, my child, and let the rivers of My living water flow from you.  And remember, if anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink.  Anyone, my child.”  The Boy nodded and ran toward home.  He was almost to his house when he realized he had forgotten to gather the water.  He looked down at the pitcher he held in his hands and almost dropped it in amazement when he realized it was full.  He walked into his home, feeling lighter and stronger than he had ever felt in his life.  He took the small cup from around his neck and poured some water into it.  With that in hand, he went to his mother and said, “Mother.  Come sit, and drink, and listen as I tell you about the Living Water.” 

"If Grace Is An Ocean We're All Sinking"

Last weekend I had the opportunity to spend time away from the stress and pressure of everyday life. 

I don't think there are words to adequately describe the experience.  See, when I was in high school I was involved in a youth group called LOG (Love of God).  LOG was important for me...LOG taught me that I could actually be loved for being myself, not because I shared the last name of some pretty incredible people.  LOG taught me that I was worth being cared about and listened to - by people other than my family - even though I might not have been the cutest or the smartest.  LOG taught me how to know Jesus, really know Him, and what it means to love Him. 

LOG was pretty important to me.

Luckily for me, LOG is still a part of my life.  I was asked to be on the Spiritual Advisory Board (a.k.a. LOGBoard) when I was out of college.  Elisa told me to think about it and pray about it - and I used all my self-control to do so - and then said, "YES!!"  My role on LOGBoard is to do a bunch of behind-the-scenes type stuff.  Mary and I are a unit (sometimes called, "Phary"...take the last few letters of "Stepha" and "Mary") and together we write some pretty amazing skits (if I do say so, myself), and get a lot of the more practical things done.  I am also supposed to be there to pray for and love and lift up the high school students who are involved in LOG.  It's kind of funny how I am always the one getting lifted up and loved.

Last weekend we had a retreat where we rented a camp up by Lake Cachuma.  Cell phones are discouraged, but you don't get reception anyway, so it's not too rough to keep them put away.  iPods are discouraged, but there's no time to sit and listen to them, so what's the point of having them?  Watches are discouraged, because up at that retreat you get the chance to be outside of time.  It's tough the first time to have no watch, but after that you begin to appreciate it.  Time has no meaning up at LOG, except that you sleep at night and wake up in the morning, and God is always present. 

While I haven't exactly been screaming it from the rooftops, I haven't made a secret of the fact that life has been a little rough lately.  I have felt weighed down by all the things I have to do.  I am slightly afraid of checking my email, because while there is always one more reminder of something I need to do there is also always the possibility that I will have an email asking, "Why didn't you do this?  Did you forget??"  I feel overwhelmed sometimes, and all I want to do is run away (not the healthiest way of dealing with my problems at all). 

In the weeks leading up to LOG this all reached a peak, of sorts.  I was feeling down-trodden and frustrated and guilty, too, because I was looking forward to the weekend, but only to get away from it all.  I was excited to spend the weekend with my close friends, other LOGBoard members and high-schoolers.  I am sorry to say that I wasn't necessarily excited to spend the time with God. 

Fortunately He met me where I was.  Last weekend I was wrapped up in love and taught a valuable lesson.  Sometimes we need a slap in the face.  Sometimes we need to get knocked out of our complacency.  We need to realize that the path we are headed down is going exactly that way: down. 

My life lately has been the slap.  I was skating along and somewhere along the way had lost sight of what was truly important.  I got caught up in my own world.  I forgot to look outside myself.  And then my life - which wasn't too hard really, however much I had moaned about it - got hard.  I was suddenly left feeling like the things I had before were gone.  I was left without the things that distract me from the important things in life. 

And then, because God is good, I was wrapped up and held tight when I felt most vulnerable.  The slap in the face was soothed by the hug afterward.  And with my eyes cleared from the distracting stuff I was able to see the most beautiful thing of all: Grace.  I saw that even with my faults, my distractions, and my missteps I am loved.  I am offered forgiveness and the grace to stand back up and begin to walk again. 

Mary gets Group-Hugged!

Quite the lesson, really.  And it was taught by high-schoolers. 

And so I leave you now with the words of the theme of LOG 42.  The song, How He Loves states it much better than I can. 

He is jealous for me,
Loves like a hurricane, I am a tree
Bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy.
When all of a sudden,
I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory,
And I realize just how beautiful You are,
And how great Your affections are for me.

And oh, how He loves us so,
Oh, how He loves us.
How He loves us, so.

We are His portion and He is our Prize,
Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes.
If grace is an ocean we're all sinking.
And Heaven meets Earth like a sloppy wet kiss
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest
And I don't have time to maintain these regrets
When I think about the way

That He loves us,
Oh how he loves us.

Oh how he loves us

How he loves us, so.

"The Substance of Things Hoped For"

I heard a priest say once that "faith is the substance of things hoped for."  It struck me as almost lyrical: a poem in the midst of prose.  I was smitten.  I liked the line so much that I did something I never do in church, and in fact is something that usually shocks and offends me when I see others do it (remember how I said I'm trying not to judge? Yeah...It's a work in progress.).  I pulled out my phone in the middle of the sermon and opened up to a "NEW TEXT MESSAGE" page.  Now, I did this to send myself a text of that pretty little quote so I could use it in a story later.  Maybe it could be a character's quote, maybe a theme.  Who knew?  I liked it, and I am always on the lookout for story fodder.

I've thought about that line a lot, turning it over in my mind, whispering it to myself.  I've even meditated on it a bit.  I have never quite found the right place for it, though, and so it remains repeating its gentle rhythm in my mind. 

My mom and I were talking recently and she said something along the lines of, "I just keep hoping."  I made the pretty natural response of, "That's all we can do."  And I was immediately struck with the thought of living a life of hope.  What does that even look like?  Is it a good thing or a bad thing?  Is it positive, always being hopeful, or terribly sad that you are always hoping and never achieving?

And what, if it comes down to it, does that phrase truly mean?  "The substance of things hoped for." 

Merriam-Webster offers the following definition for substance:

             1: essential nature : essence

             2: ultimate reality that underlies all outward manifestations and change

             3: physical material from which something is made or which has discrete existence

      

Substance, it would seem, is a foundation.  Substance is the inside of something - substance is what "makes up" an object.  So if faith is the substance of things hoped for, it must follow that faith is the foundation of our hopes.  Faith is the stool we stand on when we are aiming for something beyond our reach.  So often we want something - whether it's physical or spiritual, material or ethereal - and we can't quite get it.  We have to wait.  We have to have faith that it will work out however it needs to. 

This is something that I am still working on.  Because having faith that things will work out usually means trusting that it will work out - which in my case tends to mean letting go of control.  As my dad said to me today, "You need to trust that God has everything in control."  And this is a hard lesson for me.  But somehow, thinking of trust as faith, and faith as a stool or a building block, I find myself able to relax a bit.  It's almost as if the beauty of the phrase allows me to close my eyes for just a moment and breathe deeply.  It allows me to feel secure on a strong foundation, if only briefly.

So, I sit here typing a message to myself and hoping I can draw encouragement from the phrase I have come to love so dearly.  "Faith is the substance of things hoped for."  I think a life of hope isn't such a bad thing, as long as we stand on a foundation of faith.  Faith in God, faith in ourselves, faith in those around us. 

I hope you can draw some encouragement, too.  Take a moment to close your eyes and take a deep breath. 

Lots of love,



Psalm 33:22



"We make every party we go to. Come on, Steph!"

This morning when I woke up I was at my parents' house.  This was because at 4:50 am I had to be there to "watch" my younger siblings while Dad drove Mom to the airport.  It was so nice to wake up to the smell of bacon cooking, get an early-morning hug from a 5-year-old, and hear "Good morning, Girlie" from my dad. 

I couldn't stay, though, because I had to be back at my apartment and ready to leave by 9am.  Why is that?  Because I was part of a team in the Alzheimer's Association's Memory Walk.  The team was Fr. Gordon's Walkers, and was in honor of my Granddaddy, who has been living with Alzheimer's for years. 

Lara would be at my apartment at 9 and together Cat, Lara, and I would pick up Mary and Libby, who would be waiting at Mary's house.  I got home in my pj's (sighing over how nice it was to wake up at my parents') and tried to wake myself up enough to change into some workout clothes.  This was to be a 5k, afterall.  My eyes were drooping as I heard my phone buzz.

Ima try to stop by starbucks.  Let me know if u want something.

I gave a little whoop in my room.  oh man! i would love a tall coffee with hazelnut and cream please! 

My morning was already a thousand times better than the previous day had been.  Lara showed up and the three of us headed to Mary's house, then off to the zoo!  We made our way toward the check-in tables and waited in line, only to be told that if we had already registered on-line we could just walk in.  This made no sense to us, as the line we were standing in said, "Registered Walker Check-In."  This tale was next to the "Non-Registered Walker Check-In" line.  So when we were told we didn't actually need to check in we looked around, confused.  Oh well.  We figured those of us who had raised $100 would go pick up our T-Shirts.  That would be 2 of us.  However, the lady handing out shirts handed one to each of us.  When we told her that not all of us raised enough money she shrugged.  "We have extras."  Neat.  We each got a shirt!  We put them on over our other shirts and met up with our other team members, then headed up the hill.

We got about five yards in when one of us said, "I think I need to go to the bathroom."  The rest of us heartily agreed.  A bathroom break was needed.  We were singing songs and laughing about the Capybaras (or, as we called them, the R.O.U.S.'s) and probably driving everyone around us nuts.  We wandered up the hill, dancing and fake-power-walking.  Music made it's way toward us.  "What is that?"  We looked at the program that had been handed to us as we walked in the zoo.  (Yes...They gave all us walkers a piece of paper to carry with us as we walked.)  "Umm...This is Ulysses S. Jazz, according to the program."  Ulysses S. Jazz was fun, and made me think of The Great Gatsby, and a joke Mary had made a few years before: "A cocktail?  For me?  Why thank you!"

After finding an empty table to sit at (and some free coffee, of course!) we listened to the Pre-Walk information.  Well, to be perfectly honest, we didn't pay too much attention.   After all, we needed to figure out if that guy who had been talking was Gary from "Gary and Catherine in the Morning on 101.7" and that takes an awful lot of energy.  "Let's go introduce ourselves and take a picture!" Lara said.  Mary and I agreed, and Libby and Cat laughed at us as we tripped across the lawn.  When we reached the edge of the stage, however, we couldn't quite make ourselves go up to him and introduce ourselves.  "What if it isn't him?" Lara asked.  I stood there, camera in hand, trying to gether the courage to talk to him. 

"Sheesh," Libby said, walking up to us.  "I'll go talk to him."  She did, and it turns out it was him.  So the rest of us rushed over and joined them. 

"This is so cute," Gary, of "Gary and Catherine in the Morning" said.  "This hardly ever happens to me!" 

Note how he standing...Yeah, silly Gary from "Gary and Catherine in the Morning."

We laughed our way back to the table and finally took a good look around.  No one seemed to be as pumped for this walk as we were.  "We are making this party," I said.

"We make every party we go to," answered Cat.  "Come on, Steph!"

We had to agree.  While our team was laughing and cheering and having a fabulous time, the other teams seemed to be half-asleep, or just plain boring.  I shook my head at them and gave a little prayer of thanks that our team was so incredibly fun, and then noticed they had a designated "Team Picture Area." 

"Guys...Should we go get our team picture taken?  Come on!!"  We jumped up (well, I jumped up, and was quickly followed by Lara, Mary, Libby, and Cat, and then later Sunny and her daughter Melody) and hurried to the "Team Picture Area."  I'm fairly certain there was dancing and stylized running involved.  We got ourselves organized and took a picture.

Not everyone was there yet, so we took decided to wait patiently for them...



Our first try.



Everyone listened to Lara telling us all to smile.

After that was our warm up.  We should have known by the warm up what the walk would be like.  A geriatric aerobics instructor got in the stage and lead us in a series of marching moves and arm swings.  After one song ended she said, "Alright!  Let's do another one!"

...........

"Alright.  That was actually it.  Okay, let's head over to the start of the walk."  Our team walked (read: "hopped, skipped, and jumped") to the starting line and joined in the speedy countdown to the beginning of the walk.  We where whooping and hollering and cheering and grabbing the stickers that were being handed out and walked over the official starting line. 

"Okay, where to now?"  We looked at each other.  There was no set route.  We shrugged at each other.  "Why don't we go over there?" 

We spent the next forty minutes or so (really, it was quite possibly less) wandering around the zoo, taking plenty of breaks.  Like at the gorilla enclosure (our first stop):

Mary was trying to be invisible.

Or the playground:

Lara decided to catch a ride on the turtle.

Libby needed a break...So she sat down in an egg.

This was pretty much how the walk was for us...

After those 40 minutes (total...breaks included) we walked back up the hill.  "So that was what, a .5k?" 

The free food was DELICIOUS.  And even though we weren't exactly tired out from our oh-so-strenuous walk, we did enjoy the time sitting together laughing about who said what just 10 minutes ago and enjoying our sandwhiches and cookies. 

And it was all for a good cause.

Ephesians 5:2

Glass-Blown Fairytales

While in Nashville visiting Amanda and Elijah and their twin daughters Aida and Sophie, Manda, the girls and I met our Granddaddy at Cheekwood (the botanic gardens of Nashville) and saw the amazing glass art of Chihuly.

Now let me be honest here: I was much more excited at the prospect of being with Amanda and her daughters for the day than looking at plants and glass. Don't get me wrong - I expected the exhibit to be interesting and cool, but I wasn't planning on falling in love.

I was suitably impressed when we arrived at Cheekwood and the girls cried, "We are at Cheekwood!  We are at Cheekwood!"  My nieces are so clever to be able to recognize the road leading to Cheekwood.  Manda pointed out the first Chihuly display as we drove into the parking lot.  "It's macaroni and cheese!" Sophie yelled from the backseat.  She had a point: it looked like an enormous pile of mac and cheese - giant yellow, orange, and white tubes twisted and intertwined, climbing higher and higher. 

Sophie has a point, doesn't she?  

When we walked up to the "macaroni and cheese" and I stood there in awe.  The sculpture was humming - apparently they light up at night, so this was an electric display - and I imagined it was singing itself a little song of contentment.  I hurried to keep up with Amanda, Sophie, Aida, and Granddaddy and we wandered across a dewy lawn to a pond full of glass "Walla Wallas." 

The Walla Wallas in the pond.

I expected them to float into the air at any given moment.  Or maybe if I looked away, but turned back quickly enough I could catch them flying around.  I tried, slyly.  It didn't work. 

My main moment of amazement, however, was on the other side of the pond.  It was a piece called Sunset Boat and this is where I fell in love.  Red, yellow, orange and white glass filled a boat to the point of overflowing.  Points shot out while spirals slithered within the boat.  Globes rested quietly in the middle of chaos and I swear I saw a fairy dancing on the water.  I was smitten.  Even after walking away and looking at other pieces I saw the Sunset Boat in my mind.  I had to go back and look at it.  I felt the subtle sting of tears as I borrowed Amanda's camera and took a few pictures.  I needed, somehow, to keep this boat with me. 

I was in love.

Sunset Boat

Eventually, however, we needed to move on.  (I mean, really, we had two 3-year-olds with us...They needed to keep moving.)  In the house at Cheekwood were some more glass displays: chandeliers. 

I was struck still again by a huge white, champagne, and gold chandelier that immediately brought to mind Christmas.  Glass ribbons and spirals hung midair and I could almost hear sleigh-bells ringing (despite the warmth and bright sunshine outside).  Chihuly's blend of elegance and whimsy was magical.  I was transported to a different time and place.  I'm sure it was only the presence of Amanda, the girls, and Granddaddy that kept me from completely losing myself and becoming "that weird girl" that stood at each display much longer than was necessary. 

A close-up of the "Christmas" chandelier

The stairwell with the "Christmas" chandelier

Another chandelier.  Amanda loved this one.

I know fairytales aren't real...But as I have mentioned before I am inclined to want to believe in them.  And at the Chihuly exhibit at Cheekwood I found something that allowed me to do so: Glass-blown fairytales. 

All of the pictures are from newspaper articles or other blogs.  The use of cameras was prohibited inside the house at Cheekwood and I don't actually have a camera.  So special thanks to those people from whose blogs I snagged the pictures. 

Genesis 1:14-19

Celebrating Life

Today I had the opportunity to celebrate the life of a wonderful man. 

I looked around the park in awe, marveling at my god-brother's talent in making a space simultaneously elegant and welcoming.  I offered my help in setting up, and had to chuckle at how dismal my party-arranging skills are compared to his (we all have our talents, don't we?). 

I stood, mesmerized by the slide show - 54 minutes long - that made me smile, cry, and laugh.  I got butterflies in my stomach when a song that my god-brother and best friend and I sang came on, followed by satisfaction that I was able to do something to help, no matter how small.

I looked around, unsurprised, as a seemingly endless stream of people came in.  So many people were touched by this one life.  So many people wanted to pay their respects.

I felt happiness for my cousins and their growing catering business.  The food was delicious and I was proud of my family and their ability to build their business from the ground up. 

I felt joy at seeing my younger brother laughing with his friends.  It has been years since they were all together, and anyone could see they were practically revelling in each others' presences.  Later Mary and I would spend time with them all, joking and laughing and enjoying the day.

It was bittersweet when I greeted the family, asking them how they were doing and knowing that whatever answer they gave would be only a half-truth.  Knowing that no matter how "fine" they said they were it was too soon to be completely true.  Wondering if it would ever be true again. 

I felt extreme gratitude that my dad is still with us.  He is such an anchor and rock in my life, and in so many others.  Many heartfelt prayers of thanksgiving have been sent heavenward in the past month. 

And I felt love and pride mingled with sadness as a 17-year-old stood in front of the group and spoke about his dad.  I stood in awe as I realized that although I have seen him, and loved him, as the 4-year-old he was when I met him, this 17-year-old is now a man: a man I am proud to call my friend.  I cried as he reached out with only a few words and touched lives just as his father did.  And I listened as he hoped everyone present would take something away with them. 

I did take something...I took a firm desire to live my life to touch others.  I took with me a hope to be a vessel of God, to shine love to people, the same way this man shined love.  I took a need to celebrate life, mine and others, and to give thanks for every part - the beautiful, the painful, the bizarre, the sorrowful, the joyful. 

Memory Eternal, Bobby.  You are missed, and very dearly loved.

Psalm 30:5

Just A Good Fall Day...

Everyday I discover new things. I am constantly coming to realizations about everything - random little things, myself, life. One such realization I have come to is this: some of the best times are the quieter times: the normal, day-to-day times.

I am blessed. I was able to escape the real world and head toward the South. I've been staying with my sister and her family in Tennessee for the past few days. We haven't been doing much; my three-year-old nieces' schedule pretty much rules when we can head out. Plus the weather has been stifling hot and humid.

Until today, that is.

Today we opened the door to go to church and were met by a cool breeze rather than the heavy heat we had closed the windows to yesterday. All three grown-ups exclaimed over the coolness, trying to convince the three-year-olds that Fall had come and they didn't need their white, Summertime church shoes. (It didn't work.)

The air was even cooler when we climbed out of the car after the 30 minute drive to church. "Wow!" My sister, Amanda, said. "What a good Fall day!"

"No, it is not," came the response from a three-year-old still upset over her shoes.

Amanda and I looked at each other with wry smiles. I had to agree with my sister: it was a great Fall day.

In church I was reunited with friends and family whom I have not seen in around four years. Four...Far too long. It was a beautiful and happy church service, and I was thrilled to be surrounded by family.

After church was family dinner at my grandparents house. Some things never do change. Again I was surrounded by love and family and yummy food. Oh, and don't forget the football on TV. The game was on the radio during the drive back home (much to the dismay of the three-year-olds in the back seat..."I don't want to yissen to fyootbaw. I want myusic, Mommy.") and on TV again as soon as we walked in the door.

And an after-church nap...A-MAZ-ING.

Of course, what is a house with two three-year-olds without a few meltdowns? During one such meltdown we decided to leave the house and go to an open field and "fly Daddy's plane." See, Elijah (my brother-in-law) makes little wooden gliders and likes to fly them from time to time. "Usually we are here until he loses the plane," Amanda said. "But he likes to make them so it's not really sad when they're gone."

The wind kicked up on the walk to the field, and the evening grew a little cooler. Amanda and I sat and watched her daughters run after their Daddy and his plane. We chatted a bit, but we spent more time laughing over the girls and the plane. And as one of the girlies ran toward Elijah she yelled, "It is a good Fall day, Daddy. It is a good Fall day!"

Some of the best times are the quieter times: the normal, day-to-day times. After spending a day surrounded by people and things I love I have to agree with my niece. It may not have been an extraordinary day, but it was a good Fall day.

Proverbs 15:13a