I'm Twenty-Two for a Moment

I was with some people at church recently, just a few of us.  Within the group there was a girl I hadn’t met before.  I introduced myself and asked if she attended our church and the answer came, “No, I’m just hangin’ out with him” and a gesture to a guy I already know.

As the evening went on, there would be times when I would catch her shooting him a sneaky smirk or a sly smile and it got me a little emotional.  Watching their interaction made me happy and sad all at the same time. 

I guess the happy part was remembering what it was like when I was 22 and hanging out with a guy who frequently and awkwardly plunked me down in the middle of his social circle.  Even though it was awkward, I was with him and we held our little secrets away from the rest of the group.  It always made me feel special. 

The sad part of watching these two people was missing my 22-year-old self.  I want to say something like, “22 is such a heady time”, but frankly, I am not sure what heady means.  Thankfully, Google knows some sites that do and I’ve learned that heady means “tending to intoxicate.”  If you know anything about my life at 22, you’ll get a kick out of that.

But there’s another definition of heady that I found, “tending to upset the mind or the balance of the senses.”  That’s it right there.  For me, being 22 was like being constantly out of balance.  College self clashing with back-at-home self.  Party self rumbling with church self.  Finding my way in a new job while trying to hold on to friends who now lived across the country instead of across the hall.  Everything about my life was so unsettled and uncertain.  But it was so awesome!

There were endless possibilities.  I could move to New York, I could go to grad school, I could get an apartment with a friend, I could marry an amazing guy, I could get Flyers season tickets…  Along with the plentiful possibilities came drama, usually brought on by the guy I was hanging out with.

I don’t remember when life stopped being so heady.  Maybe when I stopped paying student loans and started paying a mortgage.  These days my life is a little more predictable, a lot less dramatic and I’m not sure I’d want to be 22 again.  But on a summer night, the potent combination of boys and uncertainty can be so intoxicating.

I Get Around

During the Advent season, I will be contributing some posts to a blog my friend Debbie is putting together with the purpose of keeping Advent worshipful and Christ-centered.  I hope you will check it out and be encouraged by it.

Advent Reflections

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

It is Sunday, November 20, 2011.  As I walked out my front door this morning, I picked up the newspaper.  What I could read through the bag said, “Holiday Countdown Inspiration.”  I shook my head, and added this to the list of ways Christmas comes too early.

The first time I heard someone talk about Christmas coming too early, it was probably some stressed-out woman, fretting about getting all her shopping, baking and card-mailing done.  And all the other women around probably nodded their heads in agreement.  Gone were the days when we sang with the Chipmunks, “Hurry Christmas, hurry fast…”  Because, as little kids, the days leading up to December 25^th were interminable, but as grown-up responsibilities started filling those December days, Christmas came too fast.

That’s not what I’m talking about, though.  I am saying that, these days, Christmas comes early, literally.  It’s the local radio station that started playing holiday music on November 1^st.  Remember when radio stations started after Thanksgiving? Or limited it to the weekends?  Now “It’s a Marshmallow World” while the trees still have their leaves and “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”—even if it’s still 70 degrees.  It’s the neighbor who transitions seamlessly from Halloween decorations to Christmas.  It’s the Christmas lights for sale at the end of the Halloween candy aisle.  It’s the Salvation Army bell ringing on November 18^th.

So I have to wonder, why is this happening?  What does it say about our society?

I believe the early Christmas syndrome is a symptom of our nation’s outlook.  Times are tough.  Money is tight, unemployment is high, and foreclosure is a part of daily conversation.  We need a reason to be happy, we need something to rally around—you might say we need a little Christmas, right this very minute.  What better source of happy escape than Christmas?  Who doesn’t love the movies, the songs, the twinkling lights, the baked goods?

To that end, I believe that this year a lot of brands are selling joy.  McDonald’s food promises comfort and joy.  Sears assures that giving gifts will give joy.  Target will sell you a joy t-shirt and put a smile on your face.  People want to be happy, and stores are happy to sell them the chance. 

On the surface, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.  We’re being encouraged to be kind to others, to give them thoughtful gifts—there’s nothing wrong with these things! It’s as if society is aiming for the right target, but going past it, or coming up short. 

The real source of joy is Jesus.  He is the source of hope and stability, but instead, we’re putting our hope in Christmas.  We’re excited about Christmas, but we’re missing out on the One who really came and who really brings comfort and joy.  We miss Him when we make Christmas about nostalgia and being kind.  We miss Him amid the pressure of getting to concerts and baking bread for the kids’ teachers.

The problem of Christmas coming early is that it makes us rest our hopes on one day.  A day that ends with all the beautiful wrapping paper outside in a trash can.  No day can bear the weight of all our wishes and needs.  But, “the hopes and fears of all the years” were met by One who came to Bethlehem.  If He’s truly the focus of our celebration, then our joy won’t be limited to one day, or a couple months—our joy will be eternal.

Come Ye Thankful People, Come

When I got to my parents’ house yesterday my mother greeted me by saying, “You’re just in time.”  This could mean many things when my mother is involved, so I was a little worried.  It turns out I was in time to help them move things from their garage to the attic.  My dad climbed into the attic, I stood on the ladder, and my mom handed me various items they wouldn’t need for a while.

The animated light-up reindeer came down the ladder, and the medical supplies went up.  A year ago, a couple college students had been moving these Christmas decorations. My dad was recovering from the second of four surgeries he would have in a 9-month span.  But yesterday he was climbing around in the attic, storing the chairs he’d needed for his recovery. My mom was happy to see them go—she, too, had used them throughout the summer while recovering from hip replacement.  As I left them later, it occurred to me how great it is that they have both recovered and are enjoying active lives again--especially my retired mother...

As this is the time of year for giving thanks and reflecting on the Father’s many blessings, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the healing my parents experienced this summer.  It probably annoys them that I treat them like they’re made of glass these days, but they are so much fun to have around, I want to make sure they’re here for a while.

Thankfully, the One I trust for my parents’ health (and my own!) is not fragile like we are and He promises us eternity with Him and with each other.  For now, though, I look forward to a couple days at the beach with my parents and a family trip to Disney World in 209 days.

It's All Coming Back to Me Now

This blog tends to be kind of introspective and serious.  I feel this pressure to not say anything if I can't say something deep.  Today, I throw all of that out the window.

These epic music videos made me late for class for most of my junior year of college.  They also involve motorcycles, heartbreak and deserted mansions.

 

Is it me, or does Celine's hairbrush foreshadow Titanic?

This one gets the PG-13 rating.  VH1 did a fine job editing it back in the day.

 

This modern retelling of A Star is Born gave us Tyson Beckford (thank you!) and sent me running to the video store to rent the Streisand/Kristofferson movie (no thank you!).

I Got Them Moves, Mick Jagger

There is something kind of awesome about watching a person do what he or she is meant to be doing.  Maybe this is what has always drawn me to pro sports.  There's something beautiful about a pitcher throwing a no-hitter, or a perfectly-executed pass resulting in a goal.  When I see SportsCenter's Top 10, I can't look away.
To matters more close-at-hand, there are some instructors at my gym who are excellent.  They don't spend a lot of time talking, they don't guilt you into responding to questions like, "Are you warm yet!?", they make "increased weight factor" sound like a good thing and they make complicated dance steps look smooth.  When I'm in their classes, I get a great workout, but I also get to see someone who is in that sweet spot.
How many of us really get to earn a living in the sweet spot?  How many of us wake up in the morning and fill our days with the activity about which we are most passionate?  How many of us can do what we were born to do and put food on the table?  I would guess the answer is some of us, but not many.
I get that work is supposed to be hard.  It's in the Bible, the land is cursed and we will have to toil and sweat to survive on it.  The thing is, I don't mind working hard if I believe in the cause.  This morning, for instance, it was monsooning outside.  I had been up late last night, but woke up early on this rainy Saturday so that I could run a few errands.  I hydroplaned my way along the highway to reach the farmers' market, got wet and dirty carrying mums to my car and I was singing the whole way.  Why?  Because my errands and my early wake-up call were for a women's ministry breakfast happening at church today.  I was excited to get there and to pull together the last-minute details.  There were extra hours at church this week setting up and tearing down this breakfast, but I didn't mind.
In contrast, my other job also had me working long hours this week.  Meetings, workshops, and paperwork have filled my days.  What can't be done at work gets carried home.  There hasn't been a moment this month when I have been officially caught-up and I hate it.  I feel like a cute little hamster running running running on a wheel that goes nowhere.  I've lost passion for what I do, even though I know I'm good at it.  It doesn't matter if you're good when the people above you constantly remind you that you're not good enough.
So when I see a fitness instructor dancing her heart out, smiling and sweating away, I think about that sweet spot and I wonder how I am going to get there.

Dear God, Don't Let Me Fall Apart

I’ve been in a strange place lately—and I don’t mean Milwaukee. I mean, for the past week or so, I’ve cried at least once a day. Thursday’s tears lasted for an entire 30-minute car ride, but most days they’ve only lasted a couple minutes. A friend of mine texted me on Thursday to ask if I was OK (she’d seen me after the teary ride to work) and my response was, “I think I’m getting soft.”

Confidence hasn’t really been a problem for me—except for those two God-forsaken years in middle school. Competence hasn’t really been a problem for me, either, so waking up in the morning, riddled with anxiety and fear, has really taken me by surprise. My usual approach to work and to ministry has been to speak loudly and carry a big stick, but lately, facing my job has shaken me. Add to that the new responsibilities of overseeing my church’s women’s ministry and…oh my goodness…

As awful as these weeks have been, I am not ready to leave this place where I am so acutely aware of my need for a mighty God. The alarm goes off and I want to pull the madras bedspread over my head and hide, but then I start praying, pleading, begging—God, get me through this day. Help me to be good enough for these people I’m working with. Help me not to lose control.

At the end of every day, I’ve been taking stock: There weren’t any brawls. I didn’t say anything hurtful. I accomplished some items on the to-do list. And, more than ever before, I know that those victories did not come about because of my ability or my preparation. They happened because my God took care of me.

It’s a strange thing for me to see God showing up and fighting for me. Of course He has been forever, but the problem with being independent is that I am more likely to give myself credit for the day’s win. Being a useless weakling has stirred in me an incredible affection for this One who steps into my reality and carries me through these days that I simply cannot face on my own.

At some point, my life will become predictable again. Once the tears dry up, I will start believing that it’s my self-discipline or my fancy education that has brought me here. When I overlook the dependence, I will also miss the closeness and the affection. The trick is to stay dependent without being a total mess.