Aaah Romance.

I am a romantic at heart. I don’t mean flowers and candy romance, although a bouquet of daisies is always welcomed, but life in general has always seemed to me to be somewhat romantic. I can remember watching You’ve Got Mail with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks and fantasizing about someday living in New York, owning a book shop and walking to work with a cup of coffee in my hand, a large overcoat for the cold weather, and a short, funky haircut with blonde highlights. If I weren’t a bookshop owner, then perhaps I would have some other sort of important job, like an editor or journalist.

As I got older, I dreamed of different jobs and lifestyles, always in my sub-conscience where my ideas were protected from the real world. A writer in Seattle, a professor at some college with some amount of schooling behind my belt… always with a cup of coffee in my hand and a large overcoat with a red knit scarf covering my bare neck.

My dreams consisted of me and only me. I never imagined kids or a husband, not because I didn’t want kids and a husband, but because those were separate dreams that took place in the real consciousness of normal life. In reality, I very much dreamt of who my husband might be and what he was like, but for some reason, this is a very different dream than my romantic fantasies that belong in my sub-conscience.

To be honest, it is my romantic, idealistic persona that drives me and keeps me sane. One might think I am only setting myself up for disappointment, but I have learned that quite the opposite is true.

Most of the time.

While studying in undergraduate school I romanticized being a great student. At the beginning of each quarter, while each professor handed out their syllabus and voiced their expectations, I would secretly envision myself working diligently at a coffee shop with my laptop, writing a brilliant paper with my headphones in my ears, and a table full of books blocking me from the rest of the world. Actually, walk into Westwood on any given Sunday of Ninnth Week, and this is what you will find at Starbucks, Coffee Bean, Corner Bakery, and the other Starbucks down the street. What I did not envision, and what mostly happened, was cramming to type my bibliography the last ten minutes before the paper was due, or, even more often, begging one of my roommates to type it up as I struggled for the concluding sentences because I happened to get distracted at Starbucks and ran out of time. This was college for me.

I loved it.

I am still a romantic. Living in the “real world” has not jaded me, yet. I still have fantasies about living in the Northwest someday, and I certainly dream of going back to school for a degree or two more… of course I will have more discipline then.

While living in Hawaii and working as a youth director is not a part of the aforementioned fantasies, well, it’ll have to do I guess. Just kidding. I love my life – my husband, my job, Hawaii… I am very blessed.

But real life happens here too. 13 hour days once or twice a week are common. Marriage is hard sometimes. I’m not a terrific housekeeper. Kids complain. Parents raise their eyebrows. I feel inadequate most of the time. Our office looks like a barrack. Etc. Etc.

This is where the romance comes in. No overcoat or red knit scarf, but I do have a cup of coffee on the way to work (my fifty feet commute) and I have learned to make my job (and life in general) romantic. For instance, I love writing my lessons at a coffee shop, so once a week (or more) I drive to Morning Brew or Starbucks for a few hours and type out the week’s lesson. I dislike running, but we live at the beach so my friend Jessica and I run at the beach early in the morning, and sometimes I stay after to read my Bible and journal at the beach. I discovered the local craft store, invested in some paints and canvas, and paint once or twice a week to let my mind settle and focus on only the brush stroke and liquid color. I learned to bake bread so we don’t have to buy it at the grocery store. My husband and I drive to North Shore once or twice a month to keep our marriage alive and fresh. Cleaning the house is always more fun with music playing in the background…

I function between a tension of reality and romance. Reality is, well, real life, and romance adds beauty to the mess. Because while I am a romantic, I am fully aware that life is messy and that I myself am a mess. But hand me a cup of coffee and a scarf and then life makes sense. I think Jesus walks with me when I walk with my overcoat on and sit in coffee shops and paint with acrylic colors and run on the beach. I think Jesus hangs out in the mess too, and makes himself known in grungy, chaotic, helpless situations, but I think and hope that the Kingdom is near when we understand that life is good and our Maker knows us and loves our secret little fantasies. I am not underestimating the cost of discipleship or following Jesus or solidarity with the poor or whatever else is necessarily connected with loving God – because those have a definite place too - I am merely proposing that Jesus likes to give us life, and life to the fullest so that we can rest and be free to enjoy a good cup of coffee on a brisk, cool morning walk.

Yum

Writing seems awkward right now. Too much going on. Minimal coherent thoughts. So instead I'll post a picture. Of the CRUTON I baked a week ago.

A Pineapple Princess I am Not.

I began taking hula classes with our neighbor-friend to establish a relationship with her and well, why not learn to dance hula? So every Tuesday evening at 4:45 pm Nicole and I trek over to the hulau to dance with the keiki (kid hula) for an hour, and then join the big girls for another hour. Early on I discovered that a graceful hula dancer was not in the cards for me, and so I merely suck in my breath, find my place in the back corner, and awkwardly dance hula with the local Hawaiian girls.

To give you an idea of my dancing background - well, there is none. My parents had enough awareness to know I was not suited for dancing due to my lack of coordination (rightfully so - they really were sparing me, not being mean) and encouraged me to do other activities, like swimming, which would not require as much coordinated grace. I tried a hip hop class in college and confirmed the fact that choreographed dancing is extremely hard for me. Really. I'm not being hard on myself, just being very honest. I'm ok with that.

Last night, however, was just plain embarrassing.

We had a special hula night to honor a five year old girl with cancer through Make A Wish Foundation. Her wish was to come out to Hawaii and learn to dance hula. The plan was to teach Julianne an easy hula called Pineapple Princess while the rest of us learned with her. Because of the special event, a few news crews came to report the cause. Which is all well and good and I'm so glad that precious Julianne, with her bleach blonde hair and bright blue eyes, was able to be honored and recognized... but, well, it was an absolute nightmare for me.

Before the grand entrance of Julianne, all the hula girls got into skirts and t-shirts to prepare for the dance. My neighbor-friend Nicole told me she wasn't bringing her hula attire because she thought only the little girls were dancing. Of course, I don't do anything without consulting my expert hula friend, and I leave my hula skirt behind as well. Instead, I sport a jean skirt, tanktop, and headband which looks nothing like proper hula attire. As the little girls and ladies get ready (because at this point the ladies are dancing too - glad I got the memo) I walk around aimlessly, looking for a place to escape when one of the ladies hands me a t-shirt and motions for me to get a skirt because the cameras are ready to roll. I'm absolutely mortified and rush to get dressed, pulling my hula skirt (which looks like cloth Aloha curtains cinched around my waist) over the jean skirt. Great. Now I look lumpy and sloppy. While we are waiting for Julianne to come in, I decide to try and take my jean skirt off underneath the hula skirt, because honestly, I don't want another ten pounds added on top of whatever the camera adds. Right as I am slyly doing a deck change, the camera lights turn on and the door opens to reveal the most beautiful five year old girl I have ever seen. She walks in with a shy smile on her face... and my hands are down my skirt trying to undo the zipper. This is not happening right now. Not happening. This only happens on TV. And now it's happening to me - on TV! In a moment of panic, I turn around, zip up the skirt and settle for bunchy hips as the hula instructor motions us to take position.

As our instructor begins teaching us the hula, a panic starts to wash over me. The camera pans the room, and I am one of maybe three hauole (white) girls in the room. Only I'm not born and raised in Hawaii, and I'm not five years old, so my awkward movements look extremely out of place. Escape now! I look for the nearest exit while the music to "Pineapple Princess" fills the room and the hula girls start dancing. Left? No right... Oh gosh they're going left and I'm going right. Lift arms. Oh, sooner. Dip lower. Let hips sway. Don't be awkward. Don't be awkward. "OK hula girls, let's try it again from the top." Dear God, please let me disappear. The entire church is going to watch the news tonight and see me moving opposite what I'm supposed to while wearing a frumpy hula skirt. Left foot, right foot. "Let's take a quick break hula girls and go over the motions one more time."

I know, you were all hoping I'd stick it out and just look goofy on TV, but that's not the case.

I bolted.

Literally.

In that moment of pause I ran across the room and out the door to watch the rest of the night with the smiling parents who came to see their six year old daughter dance hula with the sweet five year old Julianne. I avoided the quizzical stares the best I could and waited for the pizza party after. "Why didn't you dance with us?" asked the hula ladies after the dance was over. "Um, er, uh, well I was um just really awkward and the camera made me nervous. So I ran away." "But the hula was really easy, you could have done it." Not with bunchy hips and awkward arms. "Aw thanks, maybe next time." They politely smile and tell me they all started where I am today, except they were ten years old and not almost twenty three.

I did manage to make some new friends and I am so grateful for the experience, but from now on, I do believe I will stay far away from any TV cameras and live performances until I can get over the awkward white girl hula....

This Blog is Rated "G"

In case you were concerned, or wondering... this blog is rated G and is appropriate for all audiences. If you'd like to rate your blog, click here.

The only red flag that came up was the word "dangerous," used once. I don't even know where I wrote that word... apparently somewhere in my blog. This is very amusing to me.

Writing

I posted this on my writing blog, but I think that probably people don't check that blog often, especially since I rarely update it. And since I have nothing to write about right now, or at least I don't have the energy to turn everyday life into writing, I am just posting this to have something new and different. Partially influenced by Annie Dillard's "The Writing Life" which is both motivating and depressing at times.

Took two jr. high girls to the mall yesterday for three hours. I love that this is part of my job ;)





Writing sentences is like writing equations. Each word travels and carries and builds its way through a page, and it is the punctuation’s duty to surround and confine the words into formal structure. The effect creates an absurd, yet formidable mathematical equation. Literature and math, I think, possess the same limitations and opportunities. The laws of algebra, trigonometry, geometry, and calculus are learned and held fast – except, perhaps by the few who dare to rewire equations in an affix to defy mathematical laws. In literature, we are taught the value of the poetic license. In school we are taught the grammatical laws. In the writer’s hands is the opportunity to use her creative license… without being bound to laws of punctuation and structure. Few dare to defy these laws, however, just as few mathematicians venture outside the stable world of well-worn equations.

To the writer, this is both terrifying and exciting. Too much freedom releases the harness of the work and it dissipates before forming any sense of cohesion. In the opposite direction, structure breeds boredom and predictability.

I have begun many stories of prose. I have finished one. And I hate it, so perhaps it isn’t at all finished. The idea of reworking the story pains me. I have no interest in it any longer.

On most mornings, I am given a cup of coffee. My husband makes the coffee, puts one sugar in the raw and an inch of milk in the bottom of my mug, and fills the rest with bold coffee. Sometimes I pour my own cup of coffee. Regardless of who pours it or how it is made, I will only drink about four swallows of the dark, caffeinated liquid. My roommate in college used to fill my mug up to only two inches when she prepared the coffee. This is how she loved me.

Writing is like drinking coffee. I am overjoyed by the sight, sound, and taste of it, but when it comes to drinking it whole and swallowing the last ounce, I rarely follow through. Finishing is not my forte.

There are exceptions, of course to my coffee drinking delinquency. If I order a small, iced coffee with a half an inch of nonfat milk and one Sugar – in – the – Raw, I will drink the entire cup without hesitation. I will also finish a cup of coffee if prepared in a friend’s home. Not out of obligation, but because coffee tastes better to me if it comes from somewhere else.

If I sit down to write because it should be part of my routine and I feel the need to pursue its practice, I won’t finish. If I grab my laptop out of sudden inspiration and begin typing sentences, I will complete three paragraphs, maybe three pages, but I won’t finish. Somehow, there must be a marriage between the two to complete a piece of work. I believe this happens when inspiration meets discipline, and visa versa. My paranoid antics might just keep me from ever achieving my dream of becoming a writer. All because I can’t finish a cup of coffee. And coffee wasted is no good at all.

Getting in My Groove

Things are starting make sense... I understand the weather moves fast through the Island, dinners taste better when prepared with someone else, and face paint makes any Jr. High activity better.

Not your Average Parade

We attended Kailua's 4th of July parade this past Wednesday, and experienced a parade of interesting sights. It was amusing, to say the least, to watch Darth Vador walk the streets of Kailua carrying an American flag with his companions. Where do we live?!!!!

My favorite

Heather Brown is my new favorite artist. She might also be my first favorite artist, modern at least. She hails from the North Shore and creates fabulous paintings of local surf spots. JD and I would love to decorate our house with her work one day. For now we go to the galleries in Haleiwa and gawk until the shop owner comes over and tries to sell us an original for over a thousand dollars. We're actually just fine with small copies, thank you. He prods further, mentioning that many young people purchase her paintings, that she is very affordable. Nodding and smiling we slowly back our way out the door and walk to Deep Ecology Surf Art Gallery (my favorite store in Haleiwa) to purchase a fifteen dollar 5 x 7 print of hers in their deep blue painted art gallery.

A bit homesick

Stepping on the airplane for the second time to fly back to the Island was especially hard for me on Tuesday. Knowing that it will be a long time before we return to the Mainland (save Teddy's wedding weekend) sets a deep reality in my soul. And the disease called homesickness once again crawls through my skin and enters my bloodstream. Only this time there isn't a countdown. We've grown to love this island, its people, its weather, its culture. We sense a directional calling from God to remain until He moves us. It's my dream job, dream life, really... but 2500 miles away is no quick trip to friends and family.
I'm told it's normal.
It can take a year or two, they say.
When is being normal ever a pleasure?
But so I go, moving toward the normalcy of making our home on the island a daily reality that gives me both great joy and deep sadness.
In an effort to escape from sounding completely emo, here are some highlights from the past few days that make me glad about life...
1) an entire day devoted to watching season 1 of scrubs (a waste, you might say - but I beg to differ... a much needed break is more like it)
2) ocean swimming
3) swimming in Kailua Rec Center with Jill
4) the piano guy at Muddy Water's coffee shop
5) the high school girls I went to Muddy Waters with
6) Jessica Palmer
7) a break in the routine of office life to go to the beach
8) the brownies that are 10 days old in our refrigerator
9) talking to pastor brad about being homesick
10) jd.
11) tv and dessert every thursday night with the Palmers
12) calls home.
13) the steepest green mountains i have ever seen...
14) iced coffee
15) our new bamboo sheets

The abuse of The Call

I believe there is a great misunderstanding amidst the body of Christ, er, the Church as a functioning community of people who follow Jesus as Christ and Savior. We toss around this phrase called "The Call..." The great, mystical, mysterious event in which an individual decides he/she has been asked by God to be responsible for leading the Church in vocational ministry. And those who haven't received "The Call" are put into an entirely different category all their own in the Church. There are those who are called, and those who aren't.

What the?!

What a dangerous hierarchy we've created in the Christian Church as the Called seek to lead the non Called... As the Called lead holy, mystical, righteous, and pious lifestyles while the non Called observe a nearly unattainable relationship with Jesus and measure their own spirituality by church attendance.

I observe a tragedy on both sides.

The Called (pastors, youth pastors, elders, leaders, etc.) experience a great deal of pressure to have all their ducks lined in a row... to boast of a neat and tidy spiritual life in which questioning and doubting God does not exist, and God's voice is heard on a daily basis. Furthermore, the Called are expected, by many an average church goer, to immerse themselves into Christian subculture, a world marked by the Jesus fish car decal and Christian music. No wonder many pastors are creepy (picture blank stare, fake smile, and extended hand).
On the flip-side, the congregation, or the "non Called," finds Christianity embodied in the pulpit, pointing to their pastor as the great spiritual instructor, often in place of Jesus. Church members don't get involved because they don't feel called. They say the janitorial role is just as important as the pastor's role - because that's what 1 Cor. 12 says, but I doubt many believe it (leaders and followers alike).

I find an imbalance.

I realize I'm not unpacking this all the way, but hear me out for now...

Jesus called Saul and He called fishermen. He called demon possessed people and prostitutes. He called tax collectors, tent makers, carpenters, homemakers, and doctors. He called children, the crippled, and the blind.

The Call is a Call to follow Jesus.

The Call that we think and know of today, is, in its manifestation, a gifting coupled with a passion for the Body (by the way, the gifting doesn't necessarily mean extroverted, bold, and skilled at the guitar - I've met many a shy pastor who is great at what they do).

Same word... two very different meanings.

I was once told by a college peer that they give me "an A + with God." Flattering to be sure, but I wonder if my stellar score with Jesus was matched with intimidation that I had somehow reached a level of spirituality that she could never have. I wonder, if she knew the questions, doubts, insecurities, and messiness that actually exists with my faith, that she would have still given me an A +.

I believe God is strategic with His bride. Jesus called a highly influential, zealous, and bold leader to lead the Gentiles into God's kingdom. Saul was gifted in leadership. He was also a murderer before Jesus encountered him.

Do we believe 1 Corinthians 12:12-40? Do we believe that all who are Called into His kingdom are responsible for the nurturing and function of the Body of Christ? Or do we roll our eyes and nod our heads when we hear this passage, secretly asking what gifts God has possibly given us to contribute to the furthering of God's kingdom?

I struggle with the word "Call." My relationship with God has never been so unstable in my entire life and I am in full time ministry. Does this mean that I'm not called, then? Or is God perhaps tweaking my eyes to see the Kingdom in its entirety... Yes, I lead students (and their parents) into a deeper relationship with God as a vocation, and I enjoy my job very much. No, I'm not all that holy. I'm a freak show really. I think the homeless man who lives in our parking lot and maintains the landscape is much more like Jesus than I am. Mel mows our lawn, pulls our weeds, takes other homeless men out to lunch with his pocket money, and gives his homeless friend his spare broken down van to live in so that he will be off the streets. Yet the jr. high students in our youth group turn away when they see him in his raggedy clothes, terrified expressions written on their faces because they've encountered a homeless man... and they run to us with open arms when they spot JD and me. Interesting.

There is a lot more to say about this... and to be honest, I haven't sorted it all out. There are a lot of things that I didn't say that maybe I should have, and probably even more that I shouldn't have said but I did.

I do believe in the Call. But I believe it has been misused, and even abused to unhealthily exalt church leadership, and in turn, confuse the people God has gifted to serve the Body through leadership by placing unrealistic expectations for their "spiritual walk."

And, as my friend Caitlin says, this makes me want to eat cookies. Double Stuf Oreos to be exact.

Tacos and Salsa

"What do you want for dinner tonight?" JD asks as I recline in the lazy boy near the window, feet propped up with a Wendell Berry book in my hand. It's Saturday night, date night. And for us, date night means we eat dinner at home. "Ummm tacos!" I respond, eager to get started on tonight's meal. "OK, but we need to go to the store to get some tomatoes, onions, lettuce, tortillas, and hot sauce. Hey, maybe I'll make some salsa too," my gourmet husband answers as he grabs the keys. "I'm coming with you, because you need supervision when traveling to the grocery store alone." Our grocery bill may or may not be significantly higher if one of us doesn't keep the other in balance when meandering through the grocery aisles.

60 dollars later, JD and I leave the grocery store with two new beach chairs, and all the necessary ingredients for homemade salsa, spanish rice, and tacos. The beach chairs were only ten dollars each...

We take our places in the kitchen and at the grill, JD jokes that I am his little Latina wife (only not at all - have you seen how white I am compared to my husband? Light brown hair doesn't help either. The only thing going for me in that department is a curvy figure...) as I prepare the rice and taco meat. Apparently I have gained a knack for making rice, because it is now my dish of choice. At one time, JD even went so far as to say I prepared the rice just like his mom and aunt do (flattery or a tremendous compliment, I'm not sure which - but in this family, rice is not cooked in a rice steamer, so I appreciate the kind words). Rice and chocolate cake - dishes I can serve in confidence.

JD stands at the BBQ on our lanai and grills the vegetables for our homemade salsa. He has a talent and a gift when preparing food.

When my husband makes a meal, he doesn’t do it to check it off the list of household duties or to fulfill a task. Out of quiet necessity, my husband pours his love into his hands as he prepares our dinner. Each seasoning added is well thought through and deliberately placed. He worships God as he serves me with his cooking. It is second nature to him. I don’t think he consciously serves with the intent of worshiping God; he just does it because his life is flavored with the love of Jesus.

Preparing dinner together has become one of my favorite activities in life. We've created a rhythm in the kitchen as we take turns sauteing, steaming, cooking, chopping, and grilling. Almost like a dance, we move around our tiny kitchen space to create a meal that is experienced in the preparation much more than what sits on our table in complete form.

And so our date night, although spent inside the normalcy of our own home, becomes an experience of unity, love, and refreshment.

I like Saturdays.

And in case you were wondering... JD's salsa was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Created Ensemble

I sit at the Heiau in wonderment of my new hillside escape. In reverent silence I observe the landscape before me. A tiny ant crawls near my foot and I watch as it busily scavenges for food. It's antennae is perked so as to alert the other insects that it is, indeed, on a mission. I watched for a while, until it found its way under a rock, hidden from my view. The boulder behind my back provides a relaxing recliner as I continue observing my surroundings. The branches to my left are gently swaying back and forth, as if a conductor is orchestrating a violin ensemble before my eyes. These tropical branches are none like I've ever seen before, but their movement is very familiar to me. I watch as their leafy arms wave in the air, praising their creator for His masterpiece. I shift my focus again. The marsh remains a huge, quiet expansion of tall stems and slow moving waters in front of me. It lays low, in perfect humility as if always it lay prostate before God. The stems gently sway as a breeze picks up, and the entire marsh moves as the Spirit hovers over it. Then the mountains... they provide a backdrop to the entire picture before me. Never moving, always standing. Peaks climb higher than others, and the skyline is broken with jagged points along its horizon. These mountains stand in perfect reverence. I relax deeper into the boulder and close my eyes, seeing the entire picture in my head as I had just experienced it. The ant scavenging for food so it might serve and feed its colony, the branches swaying in disjointed unison to provide corporate worship among the trees, the solitary marsh that lays in humility under the blue sky, waiting for a gentle breeze or harsh wind to bring life to its otherwise still demeanor, and the mountains... the mountains that keep all in perspective as they wait in salute for the coming of the King. And I think God must very much like this picture... All of creation as it contributes to the pleasure and praise of its Creator.

Shifts

My dad asked me last night if I could write a "good blog entry." I told him I don't know what to write. But actually, I don't think I know what a "good blog entry" looks like. He meant that he is tired of me just posting pictures and little snipets to fill my page... but it got me thinking. I spent some time looking through my old blog entries - beginning with my xanga and then the entries during Europe... all the way through school, engagement, etc. My writing has definitely transformed in the past three years... I wore my heart on my sleeve in my early entries (post break up w/ the ex-bf of 4 years)... then got theological... then journalistic... and now - well - kinda random... almost newsletterish.

I'm more cautious now. Partly because my audience has expanded and changed, partly because I don't risk as much, partly because I've gotten off my soap box a bit, and partly because I have to be careful with what I say while working in a church (can't talk about the crazy conservative culture I've stepped into as much as I'd like).

This isn't an apology, nor an explanation - more just a glimpse into my thought process toward blogging right now.

All that to say...
Here's what's going on in my head/heart as of late:

I wonder if we often make idols out of our ideologies, theories, passions, etc... As if the issue of the heart becomes the focus of our life and the reason it became important in the first place is long gone. "I have a heart for _________" suddenly becomes our agenda and the Reason it was placed on our heart gets shoved aside. In trying to gain focus and perspective, we often lose the big picture... If we stare at a famous painting for hours and narrow our eyes to focus on a small detail of the picture until the small detail becomes either a blur or a splash of color - the entire painting gets boxed into the small detail we are so fixated on... I'm not talking about gifting or how we all play different roles in the Body, I'm talking about the danger of glorifying an issue/agenda/even theology to the point where we forget that it is merely a microcosm of the Kingdom. Enough ambiguity. Here is my confession:

I got stuck. Recently I found myself trapped in my own persuasions and convictions of 'proving' that women belong in leadership in the church. As you will recall from previous blog entries, this is my strife, my passion, my agenda, and so on. I even want to write a book about it - well, I did. Until it started taking over my life. I found myself walking to and fro the office convincing others (in my head) that women are, in fact, called to be a part of the ministry of the Church. I found myself volunteering to pray at staff meetings, not because I felt like Jesus had a word to say through my prayers, but because it seemed pastoral. I even found myself getting discouraged if I felt like a lesson didn't go well because I thought I needed to prove that women are capable in the pulpit. Now, of course, I do believe all these things still and I will still be the first to step up and question why we only have male elders guiding the direction of the church and why women at this church can't have the title of 'pastor,' but gone is my own personal ownership of this debate. I became so wrapped up in proving my point that my own worth, value, and sentiment became attached to it. Bitterness crept in, the chip on my shoulder slowly carved its way into my bones, and I became my own worst nightmare.

Hear my heart on this... I have not changed my beliefs or convictions - because I feel like God has placed a significant burden in my life to persevere through some very real stuff in the eyes of redemption and the role that women might have in the Kingdom - but not for the sake of proving a point - especially this point. Rather, God has chosen a crazy lady to speak some truth into the lives of His kids, and no matter what your view or theology might say, it fits into His plan.

This all came about as I was confronted with my own worst version of myself. A dear dear woman with an extremely beautiful heart spoke to me about her frustrations with the church and the lies told to women about their 'place' and so on... and as I was listening to her reactions and solutions to this problem, I actually became frightened. She was sold out to this cause - and it can't be helped because she's been burned pretty badly and she's seen women thoughtlessly cast aside - but I realized that her words didn't reflect her heart for Jesus and His kingdom, but rather for correcting some misshapen theology. And I guess there are probably times when this is good and important and necessary... but in reflection of this conversation, I found myself asking if I hadn't done the same thing. I didn't get into ministry to prove a point. I entered full time ministry because I love seeing Jesus transform His people and I feel like He's given me certain giftings to allow me to thrive in this setting. I don't need to prove what has already been approved.

I'm not sure if I articulated this very well at all... but I feel like God has shifted my heart back into a place of peace... life makes sense here. I feel free to pursue the heart of God and lead where He has placed me without the added sensation of pushing my agenda.

Maybe this makes sense for you, maybe it doesn't. I certainly don't mean to imply that people shouldn't be sold out for a cause or shouldn't spend their life working toward social change or necessary adjustments... because I think there are healthy passions and even causes to die for that God wires us to pursue... but if not done out of pure love for Jesus as an act of obedience... then my question is why.

Ugly Chairs

"Honey I bought the chairs!"
Huh? I thought... "What chairs?"
"The chairs I was telling you about. At the Salvation Army. Four chairs for six dollars!"
"Oh... what do they look like?"
"Well, they aren't very nice."
"That's a good start," I said.
"They are patio chairs with horizontal vinyl stripes."
"Like beach chairs?"
"No. They don't fold up or recline. Oh, and they are pretty old so there is a little bit of red stained on the chair."
"Sounds amazing. Where are they?"
"We have to go pick them up, I can't fit them in the car."

The next day we drive over to the Salvation Army to pick up these chairs. On the way, I mention to JD that I am very nervous about these chairs. "They sound really ugly," I tell him. "Well, they aren't that great, but they aren't that bad either. I'm trying to make them sound worse than they are so that I won't build up your hopes." "OK," I said, and then we pull up.

We walk into 'the Army and walked past several pieces of furniture. That chair looks nice, I think as we walk past a white wicker chair with blue cushions. So does that one... a wooden chair with an oak finish. After what seemed like an entire store length of furniture, we walk up to a bundle of patio chairs, stacked on top of each other, with rusted seats and a sheet of paper reading "Groves, paid." Oh my goodness. These can't be them. No way are we taking these chairs home. What was he thinking??? "No." I said. "We can't bring these home. These are the ugliest chairs I have ever seen in my entire life. These are someone else's trash! They just felt guilty throwing them away since they are so large and awkward and so they brought them here!" And then I see the look on his face and pick up my foot to stick it in my mouth. "Honey, I know they aren't very nice right now... but I want to fix them up! A little spray paint will do them wonders." Half joking and half hurt, my husband insists we lug the four, most hideous chairs I have ever seen, into our car so that he might fix them up. I walk out the door a few steps ahead of him, still shocked that he saw potential in these chairs.

On the way to the hardware store I apologized for my words, "I'm sorry, it's just that... well... I think I underestimated their ugliness." He smiles and looks at me, "Just you wait babe. Just you wait." And then he says, "I just need to you to trust me." Well now I feel like the worst wife in the whole world but I still can't believe that he bought these chairs. "Just think of it like two drinks at Starbucks Annie, that's all we paid for these chairs," he tells me. "Now come help me pick out some paint."

The paint aisle is full of different colors of spray paint. I point to the neon pink can. "Really?" He asks. "No," I joked... "but if we have to buy ugly chairs we might as well buy ugly paint." JD smirks at me and points to a tan color. "That will be fine," I say, and we walk up to the counter and purchase spray paint so my husband can make ugly chairs beautiful.

I tell him that everyone must see these ugly chairs and take a picture of them with my camera phone to send to our parents. "Are you sending that picture so you can send after shots too?" He asks playfully... "JD, if your chairs turn out OK it will be a miracle. But yes, I will," and I agree to give his chairs a chance. "You are going to eat your words," he tells me.

And so here I am. Eating my words. Because my husband took a piece of garbage and turned it into something worth using. And I'm thankful that God has given him an eye for this sort of thing... because I think this piece of Jesus - the piece that wants to heal and restore and make things new - is in my husband and is used in a very real and tangible way... even with ugly patio chairs.

Annie Groves

I'm not alone! I just googled my new name to see if the world wide web knows me as a married woman yet, and lo and behold - I discovered an established writer named Annie Groves who has published several novels, including the one on the left.

A few months after getting married, my friend Jen said to me, "Annie Groves... hey that is a great pen name!" I happened to agree and we had a small discussion of how cool it would be to see "Annie Groves" on the cover of a book (mostly just because we were excited about name changes) ... except it's already being used! Not sure what I'm going to do if I ever publish a book... are names copyrighted? Anne Groves... not so much I'm afraid. Anne C. Groves perhaps - though I'm not sure I will publish something scholarly anymore. Annie Burdette-Groves? Maybe I'll just become Hawaiian or Japanese or Spanish and go by Ana Groves or something.

Of course, this all falls under the assumption I ever sit down to write a book that might someday get published (chances slim I'm afraid)... But still! This discovery perturbs me a bit. I liked my romantic little fantasy of publishing a book someday with the pen name Annie Groves. Now I know the name is attached to girly fiction novels that look like the adult version of American Girls or Anne of Green Gables (my favorites growing up, by the way - can't knock Anne of Green Gables, my all time hero).

Ah well, now I can be a poser. When people look at my ID in the grocery store and ask, "You're Annie Groves?" I can proudly (or not so proudly, I haven't read her books) nod my head and smile, "why yes, yes I am. It is an absolute delight to meet you..." (isn't that what you think she'd say based on looking at her selection?) :)

Weird. This is all too weird. On a positive note, JD just bought a Weber BBQ and we're having tri tip tonight!!!

Dukes at Waikiki

Touristy it's true - but great environment nonetheless! This taken when my parents were here a month or so ago...

Some happy things

A snipit...

JD and I had a great half anniversary (6 months and we're still writing thank you cards)... We went to North Shore, spent a couple hours at the organic coffee shop in Hale'iwa reading Berry and Kerouac, walked around the quaint little town, and finished the day with margaritas and Mexican food at Cholos. We really enjoy being married. Aside from the occasional heated discussions about proper dishwasher loading, we have a blast together.

AND my brother is going to attend the University of Hawaii in the fall!

Turkey Bowling with a Dear Friend

"I'm on my way to work and my mom asks me if I can take these turkeys to the Rescue Mission. I have time to spare so I say yes and walk into the garage to open the deep freeze. And then I see them. These turkeys are huge! I mean the biggest turkeys you've ever seen!"

My family and I listen to Cait intently as she tells us the events of her day. It's a few days before Thanksgiving and Caitlin is over for a family dinner at my parent's house, something we've done since our early years of high school.

Caitlin opens her arms wide to demonstrate the size of the turkeys. "Of course I can't carry all these turkeys by myself, so I start rolling them down the lawn in my front yard and then put them in the trunk, one by one."

We start laughing as we imagine the turkey bowling in Cait's front yard as she frantically tries to get these huge turkeys in her car in a timely manner.

"But that's not even the half of it! I get to the Rescue Mission and no one is there who can help me with these turkeys! But, I have to get to work soon and I can't just leave them in my car. So one by one I carry the turkey up a flight of stairs to leave at the doorstep. I'm carrying one of them that's super slippery and it slips out of my arms, rolls down the staircase and into Truxton Ave. Literally cars are honking at me as I try to recover this poor turkey that is now in the street!"

We all howl at Caitlin's story. So classic. Dad leans back in his chair and gives a great belly laugh. Mom sits in her spot with her elbow on the table and chin in hand with a smile on her face. Pat sits across from us grinning quietly. I sit next to Caitlin beaming, almost with pride, at my best friend. She's definitely part of the family. Maid of honor at my wedding and a true kindred spirit, Caitlin is my dearest friend.

Today is her birthday, and while I don't normally make birthday posts for my friends, I decided to write one for Cait because she is in Europe editing a book and I can't give her a present - or even a call for that matter - just now. And while a silly story about Caitlin might seem a little more like a roast than a sweet sentiment, I chose this story because it reveals Cait's heart a bit... Faithful. Servant. Honest. Joyful. Determined... Dependable. And let's be honest, I have waaaay more embarrassing moments that Caitlin has witnessed than I have on her. She's seen me through more than my share of "Annie moments" and loves me anyway. She is brutally honest and yet saturated with grace, she pursues Jesus' truth with ruthless endurance and she gives of herself endlessly. These pictures are taken from New York on a trip she treated me to just before I got married. Yes, she's that good of a friend. I guess there's a lot more I could say about her, but for the sake of not wanting to lose creativity and fear of sounding more sappy than I already have, I will end it here. Cait, here is my Happy Birthday to you... Sorry if I butchered the story a little bit, but I love you and miss you - and wish I could spend this birthday with you. Enjoy your day in Spain lovey...

Mattress Pads

JD and I sit at the computer, looking at mattress pads online... Earlier, I purchased some mattress pads on target.com, but they never seemed to arrive. We discuss the proper pricing for these items in the following playful conversation:
JD: "See honey, this one only costs 26.00! The ones you picked were 50.00!"
Me: "But the ones I picked were comfortable!"
JD: "The ones you picked had bells on them."
Me: "Well, the other, more expensive mattress pads came with bells and whistles on them, so I compromised with only bells." :)

In case you wanted to know...

So I haven't written anything outside of blogging in a very long time. However, this past week, per Leisel's suggestion of actually describing the sitcom of our lives for the previous 10 days and my own desire for creative documenting, I began doing a little writing and decided to post it on my writing blog - which hasn't been updated in nearly a year. The piece on my ma and gma's visit isn't complete yet, but I did a little writing this morning and decided to post it on the other blog. The difference between this blog and my writing blog being mostly that I write my other stuff in Word and might possibly double check it, whereas this blog contains daily musings, thoughts, glimpses, etc. that are often shorter... So hopefully I will update my writing more often, for now, there is a piece for you to read that will hopefully provide a bit of laughter for your day.