Neither tongue nor dung

Ok.
It’s official. I am tired. I am really tired. And you wanna know how I know? I’m reading about tung oil online because I can’t focus one minute longer here at work. It’s been an incredibly, insanely busy week, and it ain’t over.

But the tung oil. So a few weeks ago I bought an antique steamer chest on Craigslist for $20. I emailed the guy to see if it was available. He responded that yes it was, and that although he lives about 45 minutes out of the cities, he’d be in town the next day for an eye appt, so we could meet somewhere. We, of course, agreed to meet in the Target parking lot. For those of you who know me, I have this thing about meeting strange guys for the first time in Target parking lots. Well, I made sure my friend could come with me. So on that morning, I picked her up and we drove to Target. It was POURING. As we sat in the parking lot listening to the rain pounding on my windshield, I asked her if she realized that it was 10am on a Thursday and we were sitting in my car in a Target parking lot waiting for some strange man, whose last name was Lime, to bring his steamer chest. Did she find this odd? Yes. Yes she did. But we’ve been in other odd situations together too, so it’s becoming less odd I think. Anyways, long story short, I got drenched, made a new friend with a last name of Lime and got me my steamer chest.

I wanted to refinish and use as a coffee table, so I researched. I found out that after sanding the chest down, taking the rust off the metal, cleaning the inside, and making sure all glue and canvas was off (read: after LOTS and LOTS of work), you finish it with tung oil. Tung oil. More specifically tung oil with mineral spirits. So that’s what I’ve been doing over the past week (And my mom. In fact, she was out in the garage a few nights ago in her pjs putting another layer of tung oil on my chest. Thank you, mom.)

But what the heck is tung oil? Well, let me tell you. It comes from neither tongue nor dung but the tung tree, of course. This kind of tree has a nut and it’s the oil that’s made when you press the seed of the nut. It’s considered a drying oil, which means it makes whatever you’re trying to finish tough and water-resistant. It’s also sometimes called China wood oil, because I guess the Chinese have been using it for thousands of years. But, I’m sad to say, if you are allergic to nuts, you may have a problem coming over to hang out with me and sitting down to eat your dinner on my new coffee table to watch a movie.

Where are these tung trees? Like could I plant a tung tree? It’s native to China, Burma and Vietnam, but was brought over to the United States specifically for tung oil purposes after WWI and has been found to grow best in the Gulf states between Texas and Florida. The tung tree’s fruit is hard and woody and pear-shaped. And guess what? It’s ripe in the fall! Right now.

And I’m ripe for a nap.

Dwell

You know how when you hear about a book, a song, a place, that you’ve never heard about before. And then after hearing about it for the first time, you suddenly hear about it everywhere. Everyone’s talking about it, and you wonder why the heck you hadn’t heard of it before!

The word “dwell” will not leave me alone. And obviously I’ve heard this word before, but just never really thought about it. In Barnes and Noble a few weeks ago, I was looking at magazines. Feeling the ones with the really nice thick pages--so nice. And then flipping through the eye-catching ones. I picked up Dwell. Not only is the magazine stunning but so are the dwellings pictured inside. I mean, it makes you feel bad that you don’t have enough money to outfit your house with all this fancy furniture and decorating, but still.

Then a friend gave me music from Brooke Fraser, and I’m stuck on the last song. The chorus includes the line “Till I only Dwell in Thee.” It’s been my mantra the past few weeks, really only because I can’t get the melody out of my head. But it’s about beseeching God to please come after us until we only dwell in him because we’re so prone to wander about aimlessly.

“If to distant lands I scatter
If I sail to farthest seas
Would you find and firm and gather
‘Til I only dwell in Thee
If I flee from greenest pastures
Would you leave to look for me
Forfeit glory to come after
‘Til I only dwell in Thee”

Yesterday morning, I put my pen the paper, gaining a 30-year-mortgage on a townhome. The woman walking me through the bajillion papers I had to sign was quickly explaining what all the fine print meant. To be honest, I just kept nodding, not really paying attention because I was too busy looking at the seller across the table and imagining her in MY house (even though she’s lived there for 10 years, and me a total of 0 days). But at some point the woman helping me used the word “dwelling,” and I jumped to attention. There is it again! Dwelling. I’m going to have a dwelling?!I was signing for a dwelling!

And, lastly, this morning, I quickly read more of Ephesians while I waited for my straightener to heat up. And guess what? Here’s what Paul said, “I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may DWELL in your hearts through faith.” (3:16-17)

Part of me was like "ok, enough with the dwell." But the learner in me got the best of me. I just looked "dwell" up in the dictionary. It means to take up permanent residence, to reside.

And I was struck by all the things around us here on earth that seek our dwelling. In sucking up our time, our money and our thoughts, things like jobs, material possessions and even family and friends become our dwellings. We act as though they’re permanent, and we decide to take up residence there. Like Fraser’s song we situate ourselves in farthest seas. We set up shop in the wrong places. And I’m telling you, my new home is pretty great. I cannot wait to get a cool welcome mat in front of the red front door and get all my books out of their boxes, but I do not want to dwell there.

I want to dwell in Christ, and I love that if we decide to dwell in Christ, he’ll totally dwell in us in return. Paul says through our faith, he’ll dwell in our hearts. He’ll reside permamently. He won’t leave.

So, where you dwelling today?

Staccato highlighting

I’ve been reading for school for the past two hours, and I’m having a hard time focusing. Not because there are 15 other things I need to get done today. Not because I’m dozing off. No. I’m having a hard time focusing because they former owner of the book was troubled.

I purchased the book used online through Amazon, risking the inevitable dog-ear, some highlighting and the occasional annotating. But I’m OK with that if it saves me money. This particular book is no different. It has all of these things, except, when it comes to highlighting, it is unique. So unique. Instead of highlighting by the line, this person highlighted by the word. As in:

Such HIGHLIGHT sacralization HIGHLGIHT of HIGHLIGHT cultural HIGHLIGHT identity HIGHLIGHT is HIGHLIGHT invaluable HIGHLIGHT for HIGHLIGHT the HIGHLIGHT parties HIGHLIGHT in HIGHLIGHT conflict HIGHLIGHT because HIGHLIGHT it HIGHLIGHT can HIGHLIGHT transmute HIGHLIGHT what HIGHLIGHT is HIGHLIGHT in HIGHLIGHT fact HIGHLIGHT a HIGHLIGHT murder HIGHLIGHT into HIGHLIGHT an HIGHLIGHT act HIGHLIGHT of HIGHLIGHT piety HIGHLIGHT.

This absolutely cannot save time. Lift highlighter, lower highlighter. Lift. Lower. Lift. Lower. Lift. Lower. Rather than dowwwwnnnnnn lift dowwwwwwwnnnnnnnn lift.

Nevertheless, if you don’t care about wasting the time and still choose to highlight by the word, why oh why highlight “of” and “a” and “an” and “of” again?

The words started turning into notes for me. I kept thinking of my piano teacher tap tap tapping her fingers on the piano next to me as I learned to play a piece “staccato.” The notes were to be short, detached, quick. Rapid-fire.

I know the author of this book didn’t write his words to be detached, and yet the former owner of the book transformed them into a staccato piece of music. INTO. AN. ACT. OF. PIETY. And notice how staccato is rarely quiet? Rapid-fire is not quiet. So the former owner now has the author yelling at me!

The sentence "Such sacralization of cultural identity is invaluable for the parties in conflict because it can transmute what is in fact a murder into an act of piety." does not need any further complications. It requires all of my focus to decipher on its own. So, you former owner you, I wonder if you knew this and just thought you’d be funny and staccato highlight throughout? Did you want people to not know what they were reading because they were too uncomfortable with the author yelling at them? Or did you want the reader to wonder what the heck was wrong with you instead of paying attention? Whatever you were thinking, not cool.

In the clear

A couple weekends ago I went camping with two wonderful friends. Have you ever noticed that everything is sharper--clearer--while camping?

The stars, you can actually see them.

Loons singing; crickets chirping; the snap, crackle, pop of the campfire. I can hear them because my cell phone isn’t vibrating, and my music isn’t blaring.

Food. It tastes better because you’re slowly cooking it over an open fire rather than zapping it in the microwave. The corn on the cob I had seriously gave the state fair’s corn a run for its money. And Smores? I’m not even a “sweets” person, and yet I couldn’t get enough! I think I had three? And French-pressed coffee is pretty much heaven when enjoyed on a brisk morning, sitting in a camping chair reading.

And friends. You really hear them. Through the smoky glow of the fire, you hear and feel their frustrations; you listen to their hopes and aspirations; and you’re reminded why you are friends with them. Because they are really stinkin’ great.

While camping, everything feels sharp and clear, but back to the “real world,” there’s Facebook, cell phones, traffic, honking horns, schedules, deadlines. There’s just stuff, and it gets in the way. It’s hard to get clarity.

But, this morning, I hopped on 94 to head to work, and I gasped. There in front of me, just above the line of the freeway and the tops of buildings was the sun. It was the full-circle sun you can look at because it hasn’t risen enough yet. It was this brilliant, deep orange circle contrasted by this crazy dark turquoise sky, still trying to wake up. It was sharp! So sharp. I wanted to text my closest friends to say LOOK AT THE SUN RIGHT NOW! Which, actually, if I got that text from someone, I’d probably wonder about them, but… (especially if they were in a different time zone!)

As the sun continued rising and losing its edges--turning into a big blob of dayness as I got closer to work--I realized I had just seen some clearness. Some clarity in the “real world.” And no, I didn’t crawl out of a Coleman tent this morning, but I did walk out of a house with a roof. And I did have three voice messages on my cell this morning from dear friends thinking of me (I crashed early last night). And I did have some piping-hot coffee in my hand. And it was Friday.

Sometimes I may have to listen a little harder or wait a little longer or watch a little more closely, but it’s so there. The clearness.

The guy who doesn't measure

I just got an update in the mail on my 401K, basically telling me how much I’m worth (how much money my brother will get if I die right now).
I spent nearly 30 minutes on the phone yesterday with someone, measuring out how much my new home and all my possessions are worth in order set up a new insurance policy.
I measured out 2.5 scoops of coffee and filled my pot to the 8 line in order to drink sweet, caffeinated nectar the second I hopped out of the shower this morning.
Last night, I set my alarm measuring out how much time I’d need to get ready, based on time of first meeting, planned hairstyle, etc.
I’ve been measuring furniture to make sure it fits in the back of the car and then its proposed destination in my new place. Inches matter.

We measure. We measure everything from ingredients in recipes and money in our accounts to ourselves compared to others. We think things like “We just don’t measure up” or maybe even say things like “They don’t measure up.” A couple days ago I was reading Ephesians, and I was reminded that we cannot measure God because he’s crazy reckless like that. He doesn’t use a coffee scoop or calculator, and he certainly doesn’t have judging eyes. So we may as well put away all of our measuring tools and gadgets.

“Now to him who is able to do IMMEASURABLY more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.”
Ephesians 3: 20-21

What a relief! And really, what girl doesn’t want the mysterious guy who throws caution to the wind? The guy who doesn't measure...

Paper or plastic

On the way to meet friends in Uptown over the weekend, I saw the best billboard. It’s for the YMCA and it says “It’s OK if your gym bag is from the grocery store.”

A couple things passed through my mind after reading this. First, it’s infinitely better than the billboard for cottage cheese that I see on my way to work that says “the little curd that could.” Honestly. Who thought that was a great idea? And second, a gym where it’s OK if I walk in with my tennies in a red and white plastic Target bag is a gym I’d actually go to. Which says a lot, as I’ve only been a member at a gym once in my life for about a year. And, in fact, it was at a YWCA. But for some reason, the billboard warmed my heart. It’s just endearing. And then suddenly bag...grocery bags...made me think of something else.

I always went to the same beach in Cali with my friends. I’d park in the same general vicinity. Walk down the same trillion steps to the water and make my way to the same area in the sand. In the summer, this was done at least once a week, more if I was lucky. And every time, EVERY time, I saw the same homeless woman, who I came to think of as the “bag lady.”

She had long gray hair and skin sun-wizened and leathered. She always wore a faded blue ball cap, but the clasp in back was broken so it never fit quite right. The rest of her outfit was what you’d expect a homeless person to be wearing. Dirty, holey, dusty. But distinguishing her from the many other homeless people in So-Cal were her bags. On each of her arms she carried two grocery bags filled with other grocery bags. So that’s four grocery bags with what had to be hundreds of other grocery bags inside. Then she also had a filled grocery bag somehow attached to each of her hips...I think tied to her belt loops. She always walked slowly, seemingly without purpose. Her face was expressionless. I saw her every time I went to the beach. Sometimes she was walking alongside the train tracks on the other side of 101 from where I was parking. Other times she was walking along the beach behind where I was sitting. Sometimes I’d see her from afar. Sometimes she’d pass me. And I remember asking my friends if they saw her all the time because I certainly did. No, they didn’t! How could that be, I wondered, that I always see her and no one else does? Weird.

A couple weekends ago, I was back in So-Cal visiting my friends and was able to hit up that same beach like good ole’ times. And I thought about the bag lady as we packed up after a day in the sun and headed to our car. I, for once, hadn’t seen her, and I wondered where she was. Perhaps after a year she had finally moved on. And then, as we got to the top of the trillion steps, there she was! Coming out from behind the public restrooms with all her bags. That’s her! There she is, I told my friend. See?! Every time! A year later and I’m still seeing her!

I often contemplated doing something for her. Should I bring her food? Give her some money? Or we always brought coolers of food, I could just give her our leftovers. I could save bags if she collected them and got money for them? I don’t know. But you know what? I never did anything. I saw her every week, and I never did anything. And if I’m really honest it’s because I thought I was too busy, too important. Maybe there was some fear mixed in with that thinking. I stereotyped and assumed being homeless, she’d waste the money I potentially gave her on drugs. And maybe I even thought she should try to get a job instead of walking around with thousands of plastic bags.

So, I thought of her and the billboard’s words: “It’s OK if your gym bag is from the grocery store.” I want others to be OK with my grocery bags but I wasn’t OK with the bag lady’s bags.

We’ve all got bags. They look very different, and may not be as obvious as the bag lady’s bags, but we carry them around--drag them around--much like she does. They’re deep wounds inflicted by others’ actions and words. They’re disabilities. They’re financial troubles. They’re insecurities. They're addictions. Whatever, but we’ve got ‘em, and we want others to love us in spite of them, and maybe even because of them.

I got to thinking about how God is the perfect gym! With Him, your bag can be from Cub or Rainbow or Byerly’s. And for Cali peeps, Von’s, Ralph’s or Albertson’s. (Paper or plastic too) Or it can be Eddie Bauer, Lowe Alpine or Nike. It doesn’t matter. For Him I don’t have to put on any airs. And no one should have to put on any airs (or take them off for that matter) for me to accept them, to show compassion on them. He loves that bag lady with all her grocery bags. And so should I.

I nearly missed my exit off of 94 thinking about gym bags, but I was struck by the meaning behind the billboard. Pretty sure I took the phrase in a direction the peeps from YMCA weren’t really after, but nevertheless...God accepts any gym bag, loves all. It’s one of the reasons I follow Him! It’s why I walk into His gym every week. But in turn, I, too, am to love all, including the bag lady.

Booked solid

I packed six boxes last night. On the top of each of them, in thick Black sharpie, I wrote BOOKS. I then turned and looked at my bookshelf and across my room. I hadn’t even made a dent in my books. When I moved from California, I knew most of my stuff would go into storage for an indeterminate amount of time, so I needed to be selective with the items I would take with me to mom and dad’s. In all honesty, I really wasn’t that particular about what I’d be bringing with me—save my books. They would not leave my side, much to the chagrin of the movers. (Couldn’t I pick something light?)

I’m currently reading Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader by Anne Fadiman. I love it simply because it makes me feel better about myself. I am not alone in spending too much time contemplating book organization. Do you go alphabetical? (And if so, by what?) Chronological by era? Color scheme? And as I put book after book into box last night, I wondered if Fadiman had any insight on how to pack books. What's the best way? This is important! But as I dusted the horizontal ledges of a bookshelf someone made for me (also something that would not be rendered to the storage unit), I asked myself why? Why books? What’s the big deal?

Well, for me, books tell so much more than one story. There is the one, of course, told on the pages, but there’s also the one about me. Each book takes me back to an exact place, time, emotion, revealing a part of my life, a part of me.

I was in 8th grade, still living in Memphis, when I read Cold, Sassy Tree (Olive Ann Burns) and Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte), books that made me realize I may be different. I liked words. Like, really liked them. Not everyone did. (How could anyone ONLY read Cliff's Notes?!) And then the books from my college trauma literature course, including Tim O’Brien’s In the Lake of the Woods. Oh how I love that creepy book (that I proved by writing an obscenely long paper on it). In that course, I think I came to realize the power that words hold, and don’t hold. How they can heal, and not heal. And it's also about the time I began getting the question "What are you going to do with an English major?"

I was reading Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy) when my then-boyfriend and another couple vacationed to Lake Michigan. Sweating in a tank top and my underwear laying on an awful white, woolly couch in our second-floor apartment on Cleveland in the dead of summer wondering if I could somehow get any closer to the window fan, I read Richard Russo’s Empire Falls as slowly as possible because it just was so good. I didn’t want it to end. I think there may have been a few gin and tonics sipped too. And C.S. Lewis, who I read and scrutinized during a period in my life when I wasn’t sure there was a God and even if there was, I wasn’t sure I wanted Him in my life.

And book clubs! Seriously. In My Blood (John Sedgwick)? I can’t believe we had to read that. Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld. (Oh, R.O., this will forever crack me up!) Many of my books from my Cali book club hold sand between their pages from the glorious afternoons spent reading on the beach.

In Ex Libris, Fadiman talks about the “You are There” reading. Reading books in the places that they were written. This I did in Israel with Walking the Bible (Bruce Feiler). I was there. Feiler was there. Jesus was there. I recommend “You are There” reading!

My books also tell you who my friends are. A dear friend appropriately gave me David Sedaris’ Naked. Without this friend’s steadfast humor and smiles in my life, I assure you I would have many a frown-filled day. Most recently Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist from a friend whose quiet, easy understanding incites a peace in me that is hard to come by in this world, much like the words of that book did.

Point to a book of mine, and I’ll tell you the story within it and a story about it. And maybe that’s it...that’s why I carry them with me everywhere. They bring my friends who can’t come with me. And times that I didn’t want to end, but had to end. And emotions that I’d like to bottle up. Others I never want to feel again, but were life-changing and maturing nevertheless.

I’m looking forward to unpacking them in my new place. And even if everything else is still in boxes, once my books are out, I’m home.

This never happens

“This never happens.”
Oh, but I think it does.
Isn’t it funny how when you’re around... things that “never” happen, happen. Like, take babies, for instance. The one time you go out with friends and their child is cranky (kicking and screaming bloody murder), they look at you with bewildered eyes and say it’s strange, because this never happens. Mmm, sure.
Someone’s late to a meeting and as they rush in they say there was traffic and there’s never traffic on that particular road. Mmm, sure.

Well, I pulled a “this never happens” yesterday.
After being out of town for five days, I returned home to a short stack of mail, one being my credit card bill. Now, let me pause here and tell you--admit to you--some things about myself. I have never been late on a bill. Never. I have an Excel spreadsheet that actually charts all my bills, when I pay them, how much they are. I still balance my checkbook by hand. In addition, I periodically check online to make sure the computer’s record of my account is right (notice I said the computer, not me, because I know I’m right :) ). When it comes to credit cards, I was taught that you must always pay off your credit card at the end of the month. If you know you’re not going to be able to do that, then don’t use it. So, I have always paid it off at the end of the month. And this was recently proven when I went to get pre-approval for a house and the lender told me I had some of the best credit he had ever seen. I only tell you this to exemplify how what I’m about to tell you never happens.

So, I open my credit card bill and there is one new charge. LATE FEE: $29. I flipped. What!? That’s all it says. No explanation. I call the 1.800 line and listen to music for 4 minutes and 32 second. And then Holly answers and asks how she can help me. I say she can help by explaining the $29. What’s it for? She tells me it's because I never paid my bill from last month and thus, have a $29 LATE fee.

I wish I could have heard myself. I’m sure I sounded hilarious. I ridiculously told Holly, “this never happens!” And it doesn’t! And as I told her this, I began making a mental note of all the places I needed to go to confirm that I was not mistaken. But, strangely enough, my hand-balanced checkbook did not show a payment. That wasn’t proof enough though. I went online to see if I had forgotten to document it, but it had already been cashed by the bank. Nope. Not there either. I went home and rummaged through my credit card file (you had to know I have a filing system!). I file all my statements and last month’s statement is just not there. Nothing. I have June, July, September. NO AUGUST.

I didn’t pay my credit card bill last month. I really don’t know how this happened because I can’t imagine I received it in the mail and just didn’t pay it. (So, maybe I can blame the mailman.) But nevertheless, it was not paid. I immediately went back online last night and paid it...I mean because even though now it’s not due for like two weeks, hours matter. I’m sure said Credit Card Company is going to cut me some slack when they see that I paid at 8:05pm versus 7:38am the next morning.

Anyways. It was a little mini-lesson in understanding and giving others the benefit of the doubt. I know Holly’s eyes were rolling when I said “this never happens.” And they probably would have rolled harder if I shared with her what I just shared with you regarding my financial upkeep. But I promise not to roll my eyes next time you tell me "this never happens!"

The Gift of Seats

Really? Could it be? It looked as though the last two passengers just boarded the plane, passed my row and plopped down in their assigned seats. This meant I had row 14 to myself. At least seats 14A, 14B and 14C. I was strategically sitting in the aisle seat for easy access to the bathroom, but now it didn’t matter. I unbuckled my seatbelt and shifted over to the window seat, moving my purse and book. I needed to take full advantage of this! A whole three seats to myself. It was an unexpected gift, really. This just does not happen often. So I pushed up the arm rest next to me and pulled my legs up to sit Indian-style, something so not possible if there were a person—big or small—next to me. Then after we had reached our cruising altitude and the beverage cart had gone by and therefore lights were shut out, I decided it was time to sleep, and I was going to use these free seats. So, seatbelt still on—because they hadn’t turned the seatbelt light off—I awkwardly laid down across the three seats, pushing the second arm rest up too. For the record, I pulled my hood up before laying down. Otherwise my head would have been on the seat. Gross.

I shifted. Ouch. Seatbelt from 14B in my back. Shifted again. Dangit. Other seatbelt from 14C now in my shoulder. Ok. Shifted again. But then after a few minutes, my hip was hurting because the edges of the seats, where they come together, actually raises a little and is firmer, and that area was digging into my hip. Ugh. Ok. Shift again. I had to loosen my own seatbelt so I could move around a little easier. And then my shirt needed to be pulled down because it was starting to ride up with all my shifting. At this point I’m muttering to myself about how stinkin’ cold it is and I should have opted for socks and tennies instead of flip flops because my toes were freezing. Ahh...ok. I’m finally situated. As I calculated in my head how many more minutes we had to go before landing and how many hours—given the time differences—it had been since I had last eaten (these are the things I think about)... I drifted off into a snooze... And then BAM! Owie owie owie! The second arm rest that I had pushed back, had come flying back down to hit the lower left part of my head. (I swear the man behind had to have done it, otherwise why would it randomly fall?) So there I was lying across the three chairs on my side with the arm rest now resting on my head. Wow. Three seats to myself. What a gift! And I just HAD to use it.

This is so me. I will go to great lengths to use up or make the most of certain things. For example, if I have a coupon, it doesn’t matter if I don’t really need anything from that particular place, I feel this need to go use the coupon simply because I have it! So, the coupon is meant to save you money, but I’ll actually go spend money I didn’t need to spend because I have a coupon. So it doesn’t save me anything. It only takes away! One of my friends and I joke about how ridiculous we are when unexpectedly we have a free evening because plans fell through. We suddenly begin stressing out because that free time needs to be well-spent. We need to make the most of it! We’d probably be better if original plans had stayed in place because then we wouldn’t be stressing. And if I have three seats in an airplane to myself, I’m going to use them, dangit! Even if leaning up against the window, using my sweatshirt as a pillow may be 100 times more comfortable. And even if it means getting hit in the head with an arm rest.

I wish I had this problem with life, in general, sometimes. Why don’t I make the most of moments, events, relationships? Why don’t I stretch myself across entire days? Because they are all gifts. Undeserved gifts that I take so for granted. In fact, sometimes I wish them away. I wish certain days would hurry up and be over. I wish some conversations, some chores or responsibilities weren’t necessary. I think if I thought of everything as an undeserved, unexpected gift from God—which I believe truly is the case, even if sometimes an arm rest hits me in the head—I’d make so much more of the moment. Maybe I need to start thinking of days as three empty seats on the airplane...

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” James 1:17

Hearken, ladies!

So, my “Well-played” list posted back in July was somewhat popular. It gave guys a few tips on how to play well with girls. Since then, I’ve been collecting tidbits of information from my single guy friends and family. Girls: here’s a helpful list for us!

1. Do not order the most expensive item on the menu, knowing he’s going to pay. Like the $42 halibut.

2. Don’t hug the dude’s roommate (from behind as he sits in front of his computer) the first or even the second time you meet him.

3. Girls say “I have a crush.” Guys say “I’m into her.”

4. Do not bore your new crush with the “mundane details of your day.” He will be bored and want to run far away from you. (Ok, but this goes both ways. Like, I don’t care about the bolt size or particular kind of wood or the price of different sheets of metal for your current project on the first date.)

5. Do not text him and then when he picks up the phone and calls you two seconds later, NOT answer because you’re nervous.

6. You may have researched the restaurant that he’s taking you to the night before and even picked out what you’re going to eat, but you still have to pick up your menu and pretend like you didn’t do this.

7. If a guy randomly pops back into your life via email, phone call or text, after weeks or months of no communication, it simply means he’s forgotten that he doesn’t like you. So, don’t be fooled.

8. Do not be afraid to lean in for the first kiss. Supposedly guys have been taught to be gentleman, and therefore do not want to offend you. (or they’re chicken)

9. Legs are the new chest. (I’m just sharing what I heard!)

10. After having not seen or even communicated with a guy for two years, don’t tell him you’re thinking of moving to be closer to him.

11. Whether or not he allows you to pay (this doesn’t apply to first dates), offering is always nice.

12. Guys like to be reassured.

13. Don’t profess your not-gone-yet love for your X TO your X while your new beau is nearby.

14. Don’t let your mom buy him birthday or Christmas gifts after mere months of dating.

15. Be careful not to take too many pics too soon.

16. "Been busy" is never a real reason. If a guy is "into you," he makes time. He'll call late at night or text or...something. Anything. But busy-ness does not stand in their way, so says them.

Who needs a carrier anyways?

My parents give me a hard time for never taking the easy route. Sometimes I knowingly choose what’s hardest. Sometimes I think the hardness chooses me, but they’re right. I’m often trouble. While camping this past weekend, I repeatedly picked the toughest way to carry wood.

Strategically staying at campsite #2, my friends and I were yards from the wood shed where we could take a “rack” for $3—on an honor system. I kept wondering how many logs exactly make a rack, given that the shed had no racks or organization at all. It was just really a big mess of wood—and some of it wet, which I thought warranted a discount of some sort. But anyways, I’d load up my arms, usually with four, maybe five, logs. This would get awkward by the fourth or fifth one as I tried to hold the other three or four with one arm, while the other arm lifted the last one on top. Then, when I got the right amount, usually a little more than the right amount because I’d be cursing by the time I got back to our site about to drop them all on my feet, I’d roll them all back against my chest, and voila ... back to our camp site with a rack, half a rack, one-fourth of a rack ... I’m not sure. And usually I had a nice scratch or two on my forearm and lots of wood chips/pieces/dirt on my shirt and sleeves.

Well, one of my friends is an Eagle Scout. So, when I say “we went camping,” really I should say “my friend took us camping.” But he has this handy-dandy wood carrier. It’s a rectangular piece of sturdy canvas with two leather handles on the ends. You can lay this thing down, load up your wood and then carry it easily and cleanly. When I’d jump up to grab us more wood, he’d ask if I wanted his carrier. Nope. No thanks. My arms are just fine. “I’m cool,” I’d tell him. Who needs a carrier anyways? So, off I’d go, sometimes with my other friend who also passed on the carrier. We’d return arms sore. Well, one time I finally acquiesced and took the carrier. I was pleased because, just as I suspected, it was more of a hassle then it was worth. I thought it only made the process more awkward. I proudly told my Eagle Scout friend that this little eagle-ette did not need a carrier. He just shook his head.

So, next time we needed wood, he went and got it. He took his carrier, and when he got back to our fire, I saw how a person is really supposed to use the carrier. Of course, I had been using it the wrong way. Watching him, it made so much sense. Why wouldn’t you carry it like my Eagle Scout friend was?

On our second morning, I woke up before my friends, and I was cold. So, I took the carrier (looking to make sure no one saw me taking it) to the wood shed and filled ‘er up so I could start a fire. I carried it the right way and because of this, I actually carried more wood on that trip than any of the other wood trips I had taken. And I didn’t get any scratches on my arm, and my pjs didn’t get dirty either. I literally smiled as I walked back to camp thinking about how ridiculous I am (and also really pleased that my Eagle Scout friend was still sleeping ... I didn’t want him to know his carrier was kind of cool!). I repeatedly choose the hard route in life, when it’s so not necessary. I’m always telling God, nope, I’m cool. I got it all under control. That is until logs go everywhere and the fire goes out. He offers comfort, hope, forgiveness, and I so often fail to accept these things. He’s the wood carrier! Accepting Him doesn’t mean that there isn’t going to be wood to carry in life, or that you’re not going to have to build any muscles, but dang, it means it’s a whole lot easier and cleaner and better!

Camp site #2 was also strategically close to the bathrooms ... er ... holes in the ground. So, it was midnight, and I grabbed the flashlight to go traipsing through the dark woods to use the bathroom. My girlfriend asked me if I wanted her to come with me. No. I can go to the bathroom alone. I didn’t want to make her come to the smelly holes either. She was nice and warm by the fire. I’m a big girl, I thought. I'm fine. So, off I go with my big-girlness and my flashlight. But when I got to the outhouse I couldn’t make myself go in. I stood there staring at the door thinking there was no way I could open it. And even if I did open it, was I really going to stay in there alone long enough to use the bathroom? I think not. It was way too creepy. (All I could think about was the little ladykiller from “The Shack”) So, I trudged back to camp and sheepishly smiled at my friend. Um, well, yeah, can you come with me? She did. Happily.

Not in vain

Crappity crap crap.
That’s how I’d describe a couple periods of my life. They hands-down sucked.

Now, I am not comfortable saying God purposes bad things. As in, He decided that so and so should go through this horrible thing so that this other good thing could happen. That would mean God somehow needs “bad” to create “good.” There are actually whole classes to discuss issues just like this (and I take them!), so we’re not going to go super deep now. But I just think this line of thinking can be controlling on our part. Are we really going to suggest that we know what God did and why? Admittedly, it feels tidy and neat to say such things, especially when we so desperately want answers. It’s much harder to say you just don’t know what God’s doing or not doing when it comes to bad things.

But anyways. Back to my crappity crap crap times. I recently had the privilege of sharing a little bit about my own tough experiences with someone who is now struggling through something very similar. This person and I do not know each other, and we live hundreds of miles apart. But thanks to a mutual connection, we were introduced via Internet. I emailed, not words of advice, but just my story. I received a response filled with gratitude, assuring me that just my sharing was making all the difference in the world. And I sat staring at my computer screen surprised ... huh... The tears I cried, those awful months, that fear ... none of it is in vain. Years later, they're offering a little bit of comfort to someone else, someone I don't even know. So, I don’t think God made me have bad times so that this person could experience something good. No. I think the world is just filled with bad things, period. So God maybe helps put certain people in certain places at certain times, so that none of our bad times are in vain. And for that, I am grateful.

Because I'm me

Why isn’t a lovely lady like you married yet?
Would you be interested...I have a friend who has a single son…
Have you tried online dating?
Why don’t you have a boyfriend?
Why are you still single?

Really. How does a person politely respond to these things? All well-intentioned and often complimentary, I know. But still. I know there’s not supposed to be such a thing as a stupid question, but...

In a recent meeting at work, a coworker actually blurted out randomly...as if a lightbulb had just gone on..."SO AND SO is SINGLE, Heather!"
Um. Ok. Again, how do I respond?! Thanks for thinking of me, but we’re in a MEETING!

A couple days ago I spent the afternoon at work editing Alum News...the deaths, weddings, births that will appear in the school’s next magazine. Well, I think I may have visibly stiffened as I got to the 2003 graduation year. It’s the year I graduated from college. People my age are getting married, or they are married and just had a baby. Or they are married and just had their second baby! And I’m...well, I’m NOT. I’m not married (and subsequently don’t have children). And I don’t foresee myself getting married anytime in the very near future, based on my recent dating track record, or lack thereof. The wedding and birth announcements were translating in my brain to the questions above. Why isn’t...? Why don’t...? Why haven’t...?

The answer is so obvious though. Because I’m me! I’m ME. I’m HJ, Hedder, Heather J, seester, the biggest 28 there ever was, Heatha B. Jones. I am ME, and today I am single, And why am I single? Because that’s exactly what God has me being today. Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t always embrace the I-am-single-hear-me-roar attitude. I mean, who really loves going to weddings sans date and getting nudged out on the floor for the bouquet toss with the 8-year-old flower girls? And who really loves being single as we’re on the verge of fall and the “perfect” autumn dates are endless? I don’t. I really don’t. I’d love to be pursued. And I’d love to have a best buddy of the opposite sex who makes me laugh and softens my edges and could stay up late talking to me about my classes, and politics and life. But I don’t right now. Admittedly, I wallow in this reality sometimes. I wallow in the Whys, and getting asking the Why questions isn't so helpful. So, I have to choose to—sometimes just once a month or other times daily (or five times a day)—to not wallow.

But, next time that person in all their good intentions asks me a why question like the ones above, they will probably be confused, because I’m going to say “Because I’m ME,” and then I’m going to walk away. I know it’s simplistic and maybe a little snotty, but it’s the truth! I’m ME! And today I’m single. And there are too many other fun things to be doing—like camping—than contemplating the Whys.

And someday maybe someone can ask, "WHY does he love YOU?" And I’ll be able to answer with the same response, "Because I’m ME!"

Brought to my knees

Last night, I fell. I fell first to my knees and then to my hands.

I always get really concerned when I invite someone somewhere. I’ve asked them to MY environment in some way, shape or form, so I feel very responsible for their comfort. I want to make sure they have correct directions, that they know exactly where to go upon arrival and that I’m there to greet them when they arrive. So if that means being near the door at a party, or texting for whereabouts, or whatever.

Last night I invited a friend to this church gathering I’ve been going to fairly regularly on Tuesday nights. So we first chatted on the phone about directions earlier in the evening. I then texted her the number of the entrance she should use once I got there and checked on that. And then told her to text me when she arrived so I could be at the door to get her. I even sat in the back row so I could have easy access to the door. Well, through the window I actually saw my friend arrive and park. Excited, I jumped up and ran—not really ran, but definitely fast-walked—out of the room where the gathering is, into the hall and was about to turn the corner to the lobby where my friend would be entering.

I haven’t quite figured this out, but at this church, there’s also something for the military going on at the exact same time. There are guys and girls in their fatigues, training or something. I know. It sounds weird. But there’s camouflage and boots, and they’re always milling about. I don’t know. So, as I rounded the corner, these military people were all lined up in the lobby.

I’m in heels, having come straight from work. I’m fast-walking, as I mentioned, to greet my dear friend as she arrived. I turn the corner, and I think—I can’t be sure—but I think my heel caught the carpet wrong. And … I’m down. Woman down. To say it like this though makes it sound as though it was quick and painless. Like … she’s up and then she’s down. And that’s not what happened at all. It was a slow process. First, one knee hit the ground. Boom. Then slowly the other knee came crashing down. The second boom. And lastly, both hands met the ground, thankfully stopping my face from planting itself in the carpet. That was the third boom. What instantly came to mind was the movie “Vantage Point” which I watched over the weekend. That movie has an annoying amount of rewind action. It was constantly showing events in reverse. And that’s what I was envisioning … myself in reverse. Hands back at my side. Knee up. Other knee up. Walking backwards, very quickly. Back to my safe seat in the gathering room. But as this image raced through my mind, I realized I’d have to go past the military people to get back to my safe seat. And then reality hit. I just fell. In front of people. I had a line of men and women in camou behind me. I just pulled a major Bridget Jones.

Now, all of these thoughts took up probably three seconds. They were the three seconds of silence that ensued my fall. Everyone was speechless. The military behind me, the two greeters at the front door (if they were there, why did I feel the need to greet my friend?! They can say hello just fine!) and my dear friend. All were quiet, until I began laughing. I was devoid of all embarrassment. There was nothing except humor. The greeters laughed and yelled their condolences. My friend nearly fell as well from laughing so hard as she bridged the 10 feet or so between us. I rolled over onto my side, still on the ground, laughing and shaking my head. And finally one of the military men extended his hand to help me up, asking, with a smile if I was alright. Yes. Yes I was. Thank you. And yes, you can laugh.

So, what actually happened … I didn’t really greet my friend. She was the one there to greet me on my way up, with a hug. A big hug. She welcomed me back to my feet and held my hand as we walked into the gathering room, and even found us seats.

I’m so happy she came...just in case me falling down before her like the magi worshipping baby Jesus didn't get this point across...

Life on a stick

I fair’d it. Yesterday I paid $5 and took the fair express bus from the MG transit station down to the great Minnesota Get Together with hundreds, thousands of other people.

At the fair where people-watching and disturbing smells abound, you can get just about everything on a stick. Ostrich on a stick. Chocolate-covered bacon on a stick. Deep-fried veggies on a stick. Hot dish on a stick—tater tot hotdish dipped in breading, deep-fried and then served with a side of cream of mushroom soup. I’ve kind of wondered about the stick schtick. Is it because putting it on a stick makes it easier to eat? Maybe it started with the corn dog? It’s so much easier to eat than a regular hot dog and you don’t have to touch it at all…which is important germ-wise after using the restrooms or walking through the animal barns at the fair. The user-friendliness of sticks caught on and spread to other foods perhaps?

For work, I volunteered to work the booth in the education building. My fellow booth workers and I passed out rulers; as we did this, one of my friends liked to say “inches on a stick…and no extra charge for centimeters.”

After I worked I wandered around aimlessly with various sets of friends, taking it all in while still trying to pay careful attention to where I was going. Every two seconds I was either running into someone (or they were running into me, for which I would still say “sorry”) or about to step on something that I wish would stay in the animal barns. Later into the evening with a couple of friends, I found myself watching the go-karts zip around this small track, as we ate our chocolate malts which we got right next to the sculptures carved out of butter in the dairy building. We watched quietly until one of my friends asked what we thought the go-kart worker would say if we asked him for life advice. I pondered this as I watched the guy all in blue listlessly help direct and then eventually drag in one of the go-karts into the corral. I wondered if these go-kart workers travel around and do this as their fulltime job? Like, next do they go set up shop at the Iowa state fair? Or is this just a parttime gig that they do for two weeks just for the Minnesota state fair, just for some extra cash? It just doesn’t seem like the type of job that a church youth group or women’s club could volunteer to do. But, back to the question at hand, what would that dude down there tell me if I asked him to give me some quick life advice? Life on a stick, if you will. If he had to put life on a stick for me, to make it easier to swallow, what would he say?

Alone on the bus ride home, tired after 9 hours of fairing it (I’m kind of proud of myself for making it that long!), sweaty, I began to wonder how I would hand life on a stick to someone. If I was only given a couple sentences, what would I say? Because with a stick, there is only so much room. Its not like you can heap on extra as you would if you were serving in a bowl.

I kept coming back to my favorite Bible verses from Romans 5. I think I’d just say there is hope. With God next to you, in you, for you, there is hope. And it's a hope that does not disappoint. The end. And if there was still room on the stick, I'd tell them to go check out Romans 5: 1-5.

“Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.

Give yourself a break

Last week I told one of my friends to give herself a break. She had been running herself ragged, working long hours and getting little sleep. She was feeling guilty for not being able to make it to this get together. And I said, "give yourself a break." HA! This is actually hilarious.

Upon entering grad school I had to take a bunch of self assessments and then meet with a counselor. And the thing is, I’ve done these before, so I already knew what the results would reveal. And I’m guessing that many of my friends could tell me what the results would be too. And really, all I need to tell you is that all my book shelves are alphabetized by the author’s last name, and you probably know the results too. When I met with the counselor she said that I was very self aware. (Does that mean I get a discount on these tests I didn’t want to take in the first place?!) At the end of the session she told me that I maybe want to work on having more compassion. What?! My eyes went from my watch—is it time to leave yet?—to her. Excuse me? I have compassion! In fact, I have a lot of compassion! In fact I stress about not having enough compassion, which means I probably have enough compassion! She then continued though, not compassion for others but compassion for myself. Mouth half open to protest, I was suddenly speechless.

I’m hard on myself, always have been. I feel responsible for things I needn’t feel responsible for. I place crazy high expectations on myself in everything from academics and friendships to finances and my relationship with God. I’ve struggled with anxiety (for certain points in my life, this is a major understatement!). I stress about being 5 minutes late. I should really get an A, not a B+. Often, I hand-make the cards that I give to people—birthday cards, thank yous, congratulations. I actually feel guilty sometimes if I don’t have time to make one and have to go buy it at Target! Seriously. And if I forget to send one altogether?! Oh my gosh. (Believe me. I know my wiring is a little off, and I’m totally blaming mom for it.)

So there I am telling my friend “give yourself a break”? Who do I think I am?

I just finished reading The Shack by William P. Young. If you have not read, stop reading this blog, go to Barnes and Noble, purchase it and promptly begin reading. Anyways, I finished the book and a lot from it has been sticking with me. One thing being that I live in expectation instead of expectancy.

I live by my expectations for myself and for others, and when I do this, I set myself up for failure. Of course they’re not going to be met! I should be living in expectancy … expectancy for what God’s going to do today. For what He can do. For what He may do. That’s a life of hope and faith. Not one of frustration and disappointment, of to-do lists, watching the clock, and stressing out. If I lived in expectancy, instead of my own expectations, I bet that counselor wouldn’t have told me I needed more compassion on myself.

Psalm 5:3
Listen to my voice in the morning, LORD.
Each morning I bring my requests to you and wait expectantly.

Lions and roommates and dorms, OH MY

This morning as I drove into work, lions on rollerblades threw candy at me. It’s Welcome Week on campus so all the new students are moving in, and I guess throwing candy at them through open car windows is a display of endearment. Didn’t the lions—our school mascot—see my name tag though?! I’m not a student!! And I couldn’t help wondering if some of the parents are thinking …great. We’re about to spend lots of money on our son’s education so that next year he can make of fool of himself on rollerblades in a lion suit.

I watched as hundreds of student volunteers unloaded freshman belongings—you know, papason chairs purchased at Pier 1 with the student discount, mini-fridges, irons, stackable shelves for closets—from the back of SUVS. Parents watched in amazement and pleasure—dad got out of trekking up three flights of stairs with Susy’s suitcases. The freshman watched in horror as their stuff was being carried into their dorm and then their room where a perfect stranger awaited. Who are these weird people, and why are mom and dad leaving me with them?! And the weird people are all wearing bright T-shirts and dancing to super loud music.
Other volunteers directed campus tours. Adult staff hosted parent tables to answer parental questions—and provide support. There was food and balloons and lots of traffic-directing. Tables of watermelon and water bottles sat in front of all the dorms. It was loud and energetic and fun.

While in one of the dorms (I was walking around with a photographer I hired to capture some of these fun things I speak of), I chatted with a little boy. He’s 8. His sister, he told me, "is moving far far away from home. She’s not going to be sleeping in her room anymore." I asked, "So how long will it take you to drive here and visit her?" He pondered it… "oh, about 10 or 15 minutes." I thought, C’mon mom, that is not far away.

As I was leaving campus, I saw a freshman guy standing awkwardly at the doors, as if he wasn’t quite sure where to go or what to do. "Can I help you find something?" I asked. "Uh, no. I think I’ve gotten all the things I need. I have my I.D. I have my books. I’m checked in. I got my stuff from safety and security." There were a few other things he listed off nervously. His hands were full of different nametags, I.D.s, papers. Then he looked at me seriously and asked if that was it? Was there anything else he needed or should do? And I’m thinking to myself, well, I’m the editor of the school’s magazine. I don’t really know squat about what you should or shouldn’t be doing. But instead I smiled and said confidently, "Nope. I think you’re good to go. Just have fun." He seemed comforted, and I walked away hoping beyond hope that he doesn’t need to go get the key to his room or something.

Just STOP!

Yesterday I heard three batches of seriously bad news from friends. I heard of babies dying, extended hospital stays and unexpected funerals. Not to mention tears, so many tears.

And this morning I woke up and just wanted to yell STOP. Like a conductor, trying to direct a symphony in which all the instruments are off-key and going all over the place, I want to raise my arms slowly and suddenly bring them down hard together telling the world to STOP. TO BE QUIET!
...The news ticker billboard on 94 at 11th street to stop telling us what’s going on.
...The dude next to me at the gas pump to stop watching the number of gallons he’s putting into his SUV.
...The deejays on the morning radio shows to stop laughing.
...And traffic, well, maybe if it could just slow down to a crawl.

In doing this, I feel like we could somehow validate, recognize, honor the pain. The fact that the world just keeps on going feels so heartless and rude. And actually it is. The world as a whole doesn’t really care. And what good would it do anyways, if the guy at the gas pump stops? Will it make my friends’ pain any less acute?

It just made me realize how important authentic relationships are. That we all need to be and have friends who do stop. If even for an hour, a day or a month. And no, this doesn’t take the pain away, but I know it feels good to have a hand to hold. The hand of someone who has stopped.

Shovel it

So, last night it dropped to 27 degrees in Embarrass, Minn. Embarassing indeed. Who lives there?

I turned my heater on while driving to work this morning.

They’ve taken down all the fresh fruit/vegetable stands in the area.

My dad began his morning with Swiss Miss hot chocolate.

A few misbehaved trees are already turning yellow.

Football is on. Preseason, but still.

Students are back in class.

Newscasts are reporting live from the Minnesota state fair.

There’s Halloween stuff—crap—in the stores already.

None of this is cool. Not cool at all. One of my girlfriends has apologized a couple of times during the past few weeks because she’s ecstatic about the onslaught of fall, and I’m… well, I’m not. And the thing is, normally I am. When I lived in Cali, the fall months were the toughest. I was most homesick then because really, who wants to go to the beach in late October? It’s just a time for fires in the fireplaces and blankets. It just IS. (Don’t even get me started on having to cut down a Christmas tree amongst cacti!)

Autumn has always been my favorite time of year. I want to get married in the fall. I gravitate toward fall colors—browns, oranges, deep reds, golds. I absolutely LOVE making soups and breads. I really can’t make pumpkin bread enough during the fall months. And, hot apple cider. Oh sweet hot apple cider. I love warm sweaters and hooded sweatshirts more. The smell of the leaves...

It’s a time of new beginnings, new pencils. It’s when I moved to California, and it’s when I moved back. And this year, it’s when I will be moving into my very own home. There will be a beautiful, orange pumpkin on my stoop almost immediately to celebrate fall. And if you walk by, you will be sure to smell good things coming from my wonderfully large kitchen. So please come in.

But I’m just not ready yet. This girl's wearing her flip flops for at least another month. And tank tops? They're not going away either. And friends, don't think I've stopped suggesting summer activities yet. Embarrass you can take your 27 and shove it! Or maybe it should be SHOVEL it.

Who really knows

Mom and I have a weird, truncated language.

Did you…
No, because…
Yes, I know, but if you don’t do it soon, th…
I know, but I was…
But still you…
OK. Wh…
On Friday...
Did sh...
Yup

You have no idea what we’re saying, but we do. We know and understand all the details without having to say them. So much so that we cut each other off. We don’t even need to hear everything. We just know because we have this crazy, somewhat eerie connection. Sometimes she freaks me out. It’s true what they say; moms really do know. And sometimes we know how the other is feeling just by looking at each other or by slight intonations in our voices over the phone.

The Bible verse I memorized this week comes from Isaiah 65, specifically verse 24: “Before they call, I will answer; while they are yet speaking, I will hear.”

It’s such a great comfort to me that I don’t need to explain myself to God. And when I can’t find the words to pray, when I’m sick and tired of praying for or about the same thing, all I need to do is mumble a word, and He knows. Oh how he knows. He’s way ahead of me, finishing my sentences.

Dads really do know too.

Not staying in the lines

If life were a connect-the-dots coloring book page, my dots would have ruler-straight lines connecting them (because I would have used a ruler) and all the little areas and shapes would be perfectly colored in…colored, of course, all in the same direction using the same-sized brush strokes. I’m not big on messy. Never have been. I guess when I was little, I wouldn’t leave for school until I made my bed. For the record, I don’t make my bed now unless company is coming over.

But, things have felt messy these past few days. I’m going through three days of anti-racism training at work, and the coloring is out of control. I mean…you can’t see where the lines and dots are. I want to draw perfect squares around victimization, superiority, poverty, blame, guilt, but I can’t. There have been tears and bursts of anger and speechlessness throughout the discussions among the 40 or so of us participating. And it’s because there’s no straight line on how to get from there to here and then to there again. We generally say there is because that’s the easy way to deal with things.

I have a girlfriend who, actually as I type this, is meeting with a friend, who is a boy. They’re meeting to discuss what “they” are because it’s messy. A few days ago, I challenged her, wanting to know exactly what she wanted out of this conversation. And she said she honestly couldn’t say, and how could she? There’s seven years of push and pull. Of tears and anger. Of girlfriends and boyfriends. There’s nothing straight about it. And if they come out of this conversation deciding they cannot be "they," the coloring is still going off their page. And the same if they decide to give "they" a shot.

It’s funny that I keep fighting the messiness. Haven’t I figured it out yet? Nothing about life or relationships is ever a straight line. And actually the beauty of life comes right in that place where purple runs over orange, which mixes with yellow and then runs into blue which goes off the page. Who knows where those dots that are supposed to be connected (at least in my mind) are. Rarely do you see them. It’s when you sit in the tension, in the messiness—and trust God rather than trying to pull out your own ruler—that you hit the heart.

I used to love coloring a blank sheet of paper with lots of different colors. If I could use every crayon in the box, great. Then I’d take the black crayon and color over—really really hard—all the colors. In the end I’d have this heavy black sheet of paper and I’m sure mom or grandma was telling me to get in the kitchen with that before I got black crayon on the carpet. Then I’d find a penny and use it to scratch through the black to draw a picture (actually this is when they told me to get in the kitchen!). There were no dots and no lines to stay in, but that was the best part. You never knew exactly what your line was going to look like…when the colors would change. So, maybe I can do messy.

It'll be a sweet rocking chair

I spent the majority of my afternoon in the driveway, sanding a rocking chair my mom got--when she was 18--at a discounted price from JCPenney (because of a scratch on its backside). I want it for my new place, but right now it’s got this really dark stain complete with weird gold flowers decorating the back of it. So for hours I sanded all of its spindles and grooves. I ruined my newly painted nails and got calluses on my fingers. I think I was sanding my knuckles half the time too. I got sweaty. Me and my swimsuit were completely sandy. My shoulders got sunburnt, and I turned down an opportunity to go out on a friend’s boat to do this.

So, after hours of work with my back kind of sore from bending over for too long, I stood back and looked at my project, and quite frankly, it looks like crap. All that hard work, and it still needs more. Now it’s rough around the edges and can’t even come in the house because it’s all sandy.

Paul (as in the Apostle), in writing to his friends, the Philippians, says, “I don’t mean to say that I have already achieved these things or that I have already reached perfection. But I press on to possess that perfection which Christ Jesus first possessed me. No, dear, brothers and sisters, I have not achieved it, but I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead.” (Philippians 3:12-13) Another translation of this verse says "press on to the goal." That's what I was thinking today after about two hours, sweat dripping into my eyes...press on press on press on. Only one more spindle (shoot me now).

Now quite a few months ago, I was on a first date, and at the end of a seemingly decent night, the guy told me that he thought it seemed as though Christians think they have it all figured out, that they’re always right. If he hadn’t been so good-looking, and if it hadn’t been such a surprise attack (I mean had I known, I could have come prepared…worn shin guards or something), and if he hadn’t been so vehement, perhaps I could have responded with something other than an open mouth. You know, come to think of it, why wasn’t this on my well-played list from a few weeks ago? Don’t tell your date that she and/or her religion are close-minded on the first date. Probably best-suited for the second or third date.

Anyways, the idea that I or Christians have it figured out is actually pretty funny. I’m so far from having it figured it out! And heck, if Paul didn’t have it figured out? Pretty sure I don’t! I am not immune from forgetting to zip up my jeans after going to the bathroom and then walking around for the next hour with my fly open. Nor do I know what the heck I’m going to do with this master’s degree I’m working on. That where-do-you-see-yourself-in-five-years question is just as frustrating to me! I get jealous. I say mean things and I think even worse things. My questions about God are endless. And I wonder why I pray, why I sing praises to God and why I go to church sometimes…why do I work on my faith because, just like my rocking chair, I still kind of look like (and act like) crap. I mean now I’m tan, but…

I guess I worked on the chair this afternoon because maybe next weekend it’ll be pretty, after I find the perfect stain or paint color. And then its home will be in my new guest bedroom for all my wonderful guests. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll rock my baby in it someday. I’ll then be happy I spent a few hours on it.

And likewise with my faith…despite my best efforts, I’m just as rough around the edges as everyone else. And I always will be on this earth. But Paul admonishes us and encourages us to keep working. And don’t focus on the fact that you’re ruining your nails, that you’re tired or dirty. Focus on keeping on and focus on the finished project. And admittedly, doubt about that finished project creeps in from time to time. Will it be as good as I think? Is it worth it? But I do believe God has given us just enough things to be sure about. And I do believe one of those things is that following Him is so worth it. My point being...Christianity doesn't mean having it all figured out. Nor does it mean it doesn't take some effort. Some sweat. And Christians go through all the tough stuff non-Christians go through. But it's worth it. So worth it. So, I’m headed to church here in a little bit, callused fingers and all. And to be honest, I actually really enjoyed working on that chair today.

By golly, it's Friday

Here’s why Fridays at my office rock:
First. I can wear flip flops. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do, and nobody’s said anything to me about taking “casual Fridays” too far. And with my flip flops, I wear capris and a hoodie (Cali peeps: today it’s my Encinitas surfboard one, thank you). No heels. No thin, dressy shirts that may be cute but keep me cold all day long. No nice kackis that have me worried about spilling coffee all day.

Second. The same person brings in donuts from Cub every Friday at 9am. If the donuts aren’t here at 9:02am, I usually hear someone questioning where the donut-bringer is. And is he coming in today? Doesn’t he realize we’re all waiting?! Nobody admits it, but funny … the workroom seems to have quite a few people milling about around the 9 o'clock hour, checking their mail even though the mail doesn’t come until later. They all want to make sure they get their favorite donut! I always cut off half of one of those twisty cinnamon things with a plastic knife, leaving everybody to wonder who the heck took half—I mean for real, just take the whole thing. And I would, it’s really good, but the whole thing would make me sick to my stomach.

Third. Fridays in the summer are pretty quiet in my building, but they’re pretty loud in my office. I turn my music up. Today it’s been Cities97 for awhile and then “She and Him.” The she being Zooey Deschanel. Weird, huh? She did sing in the shower on Elf ("baby, it's cooooold outside"), but who knew she (and him) had her own stuff out?

Fourth. It's C3F: Chocolate Chip Cookie Friday. 1:30pm each Friday someone (a different someone each week) brings in cookies, sometimes homemade, sometimes store-bought, but always with milk. And we, again, eat something sweet because, well, by golly, it's Friday!

And at about 3pm, the countdown begins with one of my coworkers via email. 1.5 hours. 1.25 hours. 58 minutes. 31 minutes. It doesn’t matter that usually neither one of us has a hot date or exciting plans for the evening, it’s Friday. And that’s cause enough for celebration. For the record though, tonight I actually do have some fun plans. Happy weekend.

Package time

I receive a very special package each month from a very special friend in California. When I moved back to Minnesota, we decided that we would send packages to each other on a monthly basis as a way of staying connected. There are no restrictions on the contents of these packages. Common items include new music, fabric swatches, recipes, some type of soup or dip or bread mix. But then there’s always surprise stuff, a T-shirt (from her), a stuffed animal (hand-sewn by me), a clutch (sewn by her), spicy pecans (baked by me), an apron (sewn by her). And accompanying the month’s items is a handwritten letter labeling and explaining each item…where we found it, how we made it, did we come up with the idea ourselves?, how much it cost, when we got it, etc. All very important.

I think what makes this package tradition so great is the time put into it, time spent thinking about what to put in it, time spent at the sewing machine making items, time writing out the letter. I mean, sometimes writing out the thought process behind some of the random items in the package can take some serious time.

And in a society where everything is so dang fast, this old-school, old-fashioned, time-consuming way of saying “I love you” warms the soul. It feels good knowing someone spent time on me. And we text and email and call regularly—all good stuff—and usually done a few times a day, but there’s something different about the time involved with USPS and stamps and pens.

Yesterday at work, I had a red envelope propped sideways in my little mailbox in the workroom. Ha! I smiled! Someone wrote me a letter! And sure enough, someone had taken the time to write out a congrats on my new home. They picked out a card and wrote in it, rather than sending an email. They took a little extra time.

My friend and I haven’t missed a month yet, although my July package to her just got sent a few days ago (Sorry, my dear.) We’re really busy so we may not always be on time, but we do always make time. I know this package will come, and it will brighten my day.

Put your shoes on, Lucy

“Put your shoes on Lucy, donchya know you’re in the city!?”
When I was little, I rarely left my grandparents' house without hearing this. It’s one of those weird family sayings. (And I guess my family had something with the name “Lucy” because my aunt came up with a sentence to help me say my Ls. "Lucky Lucy Loves Lily on a Lilypad in London.) But to be honest, I don’t know where the Lucy-shoe thing came from. If I’ve been told, I’ve forgotten.

I still say it now sometimes as I’m walking out the door with someone. It makes me think about how much I’m in a hurry. Like, you’re in such a hurry that you actually forget to put your shoes on. And you don't live in the country where there's nice soft, clean, green grass! You’re in the city where there are shards of glass, garbage, nasty chewed gum, cigarette butts, etc. on the ground. I mean you’ve got to be in quite a hurry to forget your shoes when you’re in the city.

This is how I’ve felt with God these past few weeks. My mind is racing. I don’t know who I’m racing, but I’m definitely winning. There is just so much going on. I’m in such a hurry that I’ve totally forgot Him.

* I was just traveling for work last week. I booked a flight for a short vacation in September and am hoping to get a weekend of camping in before school starts.
* I’m writing/editing about five features for work, doing some freelance writing on the side.
* I am in the process of signing a bajillion papers for my very first mortgage. I am going to OWN my own place.
* There’s been some boy stuff, including a forthcoming blind date.
* And if I let myself look ahead a month (which is never good) … well, I’m going to be starting school again, moving into my new place, and be on deadline at work at the same time. BEAUTIFUL!

I’ve been waking up at 5:30am thinking about everything from potential headlines for pieces to how I’m going to arrange my furniture in my new place. Needless to say I haven’t been able to focus on anything, let alone God. I stop to pray, I get like two sentences in and realize I’m already off to something else.

So, this morning I asked Phil Wickham (Musician. Check him out.) to help me with this. Instead of praying, I pulled up his song “I Will Wait For You There” in my iTunes. I plopped down on my floor and listened. I didn’t brush my teeth while I did this. I wasn’t putting on mascara or figuring out what to bring for lunch. I just sat and listened. I waited.

I will wait for You there
Down on my knees where I met You
Give You all of my cares
Find a grace to hold onto now
I’m calling for You

It helped. It definitely helped. And I told God beforehand that it was my prayer today, just so He knew and wasn't confused. And what I know is that if I chill out for a minute to hang with God, He helps me put my shoes on. And He also helps me fall back to sleep when I wake up at 5:30am on a WEEKEND!

Don't say it

Tit for tat.
I really don’t like this phrase. Who came up with it? And where did it come from anyways? And people always use such a flippant tone with it. Almost like “sucks to be you!” “Tit for tat!” It’s just not nice. (and "tit" at any time is just bad)

Well, I guess it originated in the 1550s (yup, I spent 10 minutes of my lunch checking into this). And etymologically it came from “tip for tap.” Instantly, I thought, oh, ok, that’s kind of cool. I got this image of a friendly gentleman sliding some pennies across a wood counter toward the bartender in thanks for his tap—his favorite ale. Just a nice exchange. You give me beer, I give you little tip.

But actually that’s the wrong “tip” and “tap.” The original “tip” was tip as in a “light blow.” And “tap” as in another light blow. You hit me, I hit you—not so nice. The ole eye-for-an-eye adage. It’s actually referring to a form of retaliation. And an unequal one at that. Seriously, if someone tips you over, first of all, you’re on the ground and not in a position to “tap” them (maybe on the leg or something). And I hardly think tapping is retaliation for tipping someone over.

We use “tit for tat” now usually in the form of an adjective. Like “He really got her back. It was truly tit for tat.” But I guess there was a popular song in the early sixteenth century, where “tit” and “tat” were used as verbs.
Come tit me, come tat me,/Come throw a kiss at me.

Come hit me, come hit me? And then blow me a kiss?
What?!!

But still I wonder who made the change from tip to tit and tap to tat. Who had the right? He or she must have been a leader though because thousands of people followed suit. My little word study didn’t make me like this adjective anymore. Don't say it.

Don’t cry over spilled pizza

“MOM! The pizza fell on the floor!”

Sitting in the Cleveland airport, I watched a mom and her two children, a girl about four and a boy about 6, rush past. The mom was dragging a rolling duffel, carrying her daughter’s stuffed animal, her own purse and a bottle of water. She was also somehow holding her daughter’s hand trying to simultaneously speed her little girl up, but not pull her arm out of its socket. And the boy, on his own, had a backpack on and was pulling his own brightly colored mini-suitcase, following his mom and sister as closely as he could. He was very carefully and deliberately holding a little individual pizza box from Pizza Hut too. They were rushing, trying to get to their flight. And I just knew this little boy had it all planned out. He probably couldn’t wait to get situated in his window seat, pull out his DVD player and his favorite movie and then bite into a cheesy piece of pizza while on his way to vacation. Life doesn’t get much better than that!

And then suddenly … Pizza. Floor. Together. Plans gone.
“MOM! The pizza fell on the floor!”

I have a tendency, as do some of my friends I think, to get so far ahead of myself. A job interview and we’ve got our new commute mapped out. A grad school application and we’ve got our own little adult version of “Felicity” running through our head. A first date and we have a mini-vacation planned with this boy…if only he knew. And then, “MOM! The pizza fell on the floor!” You’re not offered the job. Your application is not accepted. And the boy never calls you back. The pizza has so fallen on the floor.

The little boy in the airport though didn’t just blurt out “Pizza on the floor!!” He called for his mom. He wanted, needed help and guidance. What the heck am I supposed to do now? My plans are splattered across this disgusting airport floor! The mom slowed (even though it looked like their plane was boarding at the next gate over). She turned and hugged the boy, took the pizza container and threw it away in the nearby trash and said, "hold on, we’ll find something better when we get on the plane." Now I don’t want to rain on this boy’s parade, but I mean, c’mon, what exactly are you going to find better on the plane?! Nevertheless…

It made me think about how God has thrown away my pizza box repeatedly, hugged me and told me patiently, hold on, we’ll find something better. And so often, I can’t even begin to imagine what could be better. But I cry out to Him, listen to Him and then pout with my arms crossed for awhile because my plans are gone. Time and time again though, throughout my life, He has managed to surprise me. He really did find something better!

And who knows maybe that little boy’s mom has a Mary Poppins-like bag carrying grilled cheese, French fries, chocolate milk and ice cream.

What's worse ... ?

Watching conference attendees who’ve had a few too many dance to Shaggy on a dinner cruise boat called "The Spirit of Ethan Allen III." (don’t forget the third)

Watching conference attendees who’ve had far too many grind to Shakira on the same dinner cruise (yes, there was a disco ball.)

OR

Watching conference attendees who should be cut off dance to the Spice Girls, telling others what they really really want.

I’m not sure, but it’s what I tried to figure out last night during the closing event of my work conference.

Sand dollar significance

Something about solitude and bodies of water renders me speechless and often tearful.

It’s the feeling of insignificance. I am alone, without another person to provide descriptors. If mom’s beside me, I am daughter. If friends are beside me, I am HJ. But if I’m by myself, who am I? Next to an ocean or a lake or a river, one thing I am becomes incredibly clear: I am small, very small. The horizon seems to go on forever and ever, and where do I fit on that line? Do I even fit on that line? Because there’s millions of other people vying for their spot on that line too! And the waves just keep ebbing and flowing, and they’ve been ebbing and flowing since way before I popped out at North Memorial Hospital. And they’ll keep ebbing and flowing long after I’m gone, I’m sure. And that river isn’t just flowing past me. It’s flowing past bajillions of other people and places. And I become overwhelmed about my purpose on earth, if I even have a stinkin’ purpose! And I’ve been praying praying praying to God, but really, how the heck can He possibly listen to all of us down here?! When there are things, like oceans, things so much bigger than me. I know people say you always feel closer to God in nature, and I do sometimes, but other times I feel far away from Him. Completely off His map when I’m next to the ocean!

One day right after moving to California, I was running alone along the Pacific as the sun was setting. I was crying. Crying because so many things I had thought were for sure turned out to be temporary. And so many things I desired seemed so impossible. I felt small and my prayers felt weak. I felt like one of the miniscule pieces of sand—again one of a bajillion—I was running on. Until I looked down and saw a sand dollar. I stopped. I wiped my eyes with the shoulder strap of my sports bra. I bent over and picked up the sand dollar, slightly smaller than the palm of my hand. I walked closer to the water so that when the wave came in I could rinse the sand off of it. I held it up in the setting sunlight; It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Symmetrical. Five leaf-shaped points (making the star look a little like weed, but… ) and little indents in all the right places. I knew without a doubt that a God who created such a perfect crazy little thing (what is a sand dollar anyways?), could certainly have a plan for my life. That if He cared enough to make a sand dollar look so beautiful, I may be small but I am far from insignificant to Him. And He most certainly can hear me.

That’s why I’d like to get a tattoo of a sand dollar. So that I don’t forget this, because I forget it on a daily basis. But I remembered yesterday as I ran along Lake Champlain alone that God knows all the drops that make up the body of water known as HJ.

Matthew 10: 29-31 talks about this. Not with water, but birds. It says,
" … not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows."

Speechless and tearful!

Holy blogging!

Now, I’ve recently taken up this blogging thing. And admittedly I think quite often during the day about how such-and-such comment or particular event would make such a good blog post. And sometimes I feel like I got so much to say I could post three times a day (but I don’t!). Other times, I ain’t got nothin’ so could be three days until I post. But, today I saw something I hope I never do.

I sat in a seminar behind a blogger. He had his Mac opened and online to his blogspot blog. I saw the title of his blog and thought, hmm…I should go check it out. Wonder what he has to say. Well, now I know, and I don’t want to check it out.

As the session began, he titled a new post “Afternoon session…” And then he copied the paragraph from our conference booklet about this particular afternoon session. At the end he said “Stay tuned.”

Five minutes into the session blogger man begins yet another new post. This post was one sentence long and was the point up on our Powerpoint slide. The one that really wasn’t all that important, so I didn’t even bother writing it down. He ended this particular post with “More coming.”

And at this point I’m not even focusing on the seminar. I’m trying to wipe the smile off my face. I mean is he getting comments to these posts? Are people really sitting at their computer staying tuned for more coming? Do they really want to know what’s going on in higher education in terms of strategic communications planning? But I’ll tell you, I was staying tuned because I wanted to know what he was going to say next. And then I thought, well, maybe his bosses want to make sure he’s attending the sessions and not off gallivanting around Burlington, Vermont? Or maybe HE’s the boss and he’s told all his employees that for the next four days, they are to sit communally in the conference room in the office and essentially—indirectly—attend the seminars with him. I mean maybe they have budget problems and can't afford travel for everyone.

And yup. Sure enough. Another post 10 minutes later. The next major point made in the Powerpoint presentation. Man, I thought, this brings new meaning to up-to-date. And for my friends who try to post new stuff to their blog each day...try updating by the minute?!

So, favor: if I ever do anything remotely close to this here, on this blog, let this girl know!

We're not lanyards

At work conferences you are reduced to your lanyard. So I am Heather Johnson, Editor, place of employment, St. Paul, MN. In the elevator in the morning, I don’t even look at faces; my eyes go immediately to the lanyard. Oh, New Orleans. Oh, executive editor. Yes. I remember him. He was in yesterday’s seminar. He wore those awful shoes.

But then usually by the time you finish your first provided meal, you have met people and they become a little more than their lanyard. And then maybe after you’ve played croquet with them at the National Croquet Center on the conference evening outing, you know them better yet.

You may discover that Suzy Smith from Pennsylvania is actually stressed about whether or not she should move to Canada with her boyfriend of one year. And you find out that Chicagoan Bob Smith’s wife has breast cancer, so he wasn’t sure if he’d even make it to the conference. And you listen to one of your conference speakers’ talk about her three little girls at home. And the woman staying in the room next to you just lost her mom in a car accident. And I’m reminded that these lanyards are people! They are wounded. They are stressed. They love their family. They have favorite foods and music that makes them smile. They are like me. And I am suddenly saddened because I realize that so often it’s not just at conferences where I reduce people to their lanyards.

I reduce them to the cars they drive (and as far as that goes, I have NO room to talk). And I reduce them to what they look like, where they live, their jobs. (again, NO room to talk.) Their music, their church, you name it…

I just wish my reduction process could be flipped. That instead of seeing people’s “lanyards” first, I saw their heart. Their pain, their fears, their questions about God and life. And in return, they didn’t reduce me to a “blonde” or a “Christian” or a “writer.” Because pretty sure Christian or non-Christian, SUV-driver or bike rider, redhead or blonde…we all fear something. And we all desire acceptance. We want to be happy but are often wracked with various obstacles. We all wonder what the heck God and faith is all about. We all need water and paychecks and sleep.

And maybe if we tried out this reverse-reduction process a little, we’d all feel a little more of that acceptance we crave. It’s only when I challenge myself though, when I venture into the slightly-awkward, slightly-uncomfortable that cool connections happen. I think tomorrow I’ll look my fellow elevator riders in the eye, say good morning, eat breakfast with them and ask how they’re doing. How they’re really doing. And then maybe they’ll ask me too.

One of my dearest friends, and former coworker, had this saying posted above her desk, and it was a great reminder that no one is a lanyard…
"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle"
--Philo of Alexandria

Leavin' on a jetplane, but...

Should you wear flip flops or tennies? Flip flops make the security line so much easier…flip ‘em into the bin and then flop ‘em back on at the end. In doing this though, you render your bare feet vulnerable to that 20-foot strip where thousands of other bare feet (read: foot germs!) have been. Eww. I try not to think about this, but I’m blogging about it…so you know I’m thinking about it. You can go the tennis shoe route, with socks to protect your soles, but then having to untie your shoes, as your purse and/or carryon slips off your shoulder, and you’re trying to hold your boarding pass and your driver’s license and your e-ticket you printed out the night before and your luggage claim ticket as people wait behind you, and your sunglasses are falling off your head…nightmare!

Do you stop and get the Caribou coffee before boarding the plane? It’s 1000 times better than the stuff they’ll serve you on board, but then if you’re carrying a medium dark roast—no cream—how the heck are you supposed to get your carryon bag into the overhead compartment or beneath the seat without spilling all over yourself? And it’s not like your seats have little cupholders.

Do you opt for the window seat so you can rest your head against the window or do you select the aisle? That way you can get up and go to the bathroom (especially if you got that Caribou) without feeling bad for interrupting your neighbors. I’ve nearly had accidents on some flights because I feel so awful bothering the woman next to me trying to sleep and the man next to her trying to work on his laptop…um, excuse me, excuse me…I really did use the restroom before boarding, but I have to go again. Sorry!

And lastly, do you open your mouth (or make eye contact) to greet your neighbor and risk never getting to open that brand new book you picked out the day before at Barnes and Noble, specifically for this trip?

Today I wore flip flops. So I now have dirty feet. And I decided to drink the muddy water that Continental calls coffee. But the stewardess did make a pot just for me. I got the aisle seat, which is good because I had to get up and use the bathroom. And I did chat with my neighbor—an Air Force guy from Anchorage who is voting for Obama, says “launch” instead of “take off” (as in, “well, looks like we’re about to launch”) and said he thought he had long eyelashes until he saw mine. And guess what? I still got to open Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris.

Be home

In California, far from home, Grif was my neighbor. He’s in his 80s, thrice married and thrice divorced. No children. All alone. Diabetic. I’m not quite sure how it evolved, but before long, we had a system. It was never talked about, it just sort of happened.

I knew he was diabetic and had major back problems. And he couldn’t hear very well. So, I rarely went to bed until I heard his TV shut off (in Cali, windows are always open and as his TV was always up to max volume, I was often listening to MASH in the background of my evening, over the movie I was trying to watch). If I heard his TV shut off, I knew he was alive. That he was off to bed, and I needn’t worry that he had fallen or anything.

I often baked, so in the morning on my way to work, I’d leave him a little note with some cookies or half a loaf of fresh bread in a gift bag in front of his door. He’d leave the bag neatly folded up between my front door and my plant, ready to go for next time, with a little note saying “Thanks, Grif.”

I knew he was making sure I got home OK too, simply because he told me. I’d get home super late one night and the next morning he’d ask if everything was OK, saying he didn’t see my car out front before he went to bed.

Now, this sounds all sweet and nice, but I have to be honest, I sometimes dreaded going home because he’d be there. He was always there. I made it a point to knock on his door and say hello every other day if not every day just to make sure he was OK. But sometimes this was a process. He’d want me to come in and tell me all about his coins that just came in the mail. Or the time he was on a ship off the coast of Hawaii. Or how my cooking ranks right up there with his first wife’s who was a trapeze artist in the circus and would cook for all the circus members. But work in California was pretty intense, so I’d often come home tired and crabby, and the last thing I wanted to do was sit down in Grif’s apartment, which always had some weird odor…medicine cabinet mixed with fried hamburger or something…and listen to a long story. And I know you’re thinking he sounds like a cute, old man, but he always had a stash of Playboys sitting on the table. Mmhmm. Nice. Sometimes I’d actually make up excuses: “oh, I gotta run. I’m meeting some friends.” Or if he came over and knocked on my door, I’d see him through the peep hole, turn my music down and not answer.

But, sometimes I’d bring him dinner. I’d make myself a nice pasta, and it being only me, I’d have leftovers, so I’d carry them over. In return, he’d give me all this free stuff that came in the mail with his coins that he ordered…tote bags, pins, stationery. And he’d tell me I’d be out of luck if he ever got himself a girlfriend.

For Christmas I bought him a shirt (it was on the clearance rack at Marshall’s). He opened it, saying it was the only gift he’d be getting. This didn’t stop him from telling me it was too small and I’d need to exchange it. Which I did. And then he wore it all the time.

Then I moved. We still write letters back and forth. And he actually just sent me a package. He went through the San Diego newspaper and clipped stories and cartoons he thought I might be interested in (they hardly interested me, but the fact that he went through the trouble of cutting them out for me is almost too nice to bear). There were some chocolates, some more free stationery. And then his letter told me that he had actually fallen down the concrete steps up to our doors recently. A neighbor found him a few hours later; they called the ambulance and rushed him to the hospital where he stayed for nearly a week. My heart broke. I actually felt like I was partially to blame! I should have been there! And I know he was in that hospital room all alone the whole time. And guaranteed no one brought him cookies.

But this got me thinking of home. Its dependability and how much we take it for granted. At my parents house, there’s a rule when my brother or I sleep at home. The living room light is left on, and we are to shut the light off when we get home. That way mom and dad know we made it home OK. (but I always wonder what good this does if they don’t wake up in the night. We could be dead in a ditch until morning! Thanks a lot!) A few weekends ago mom and dad were gone, and both my brother and I were sleeping at home. I didn’t get in until 2 a.m. My brother was waiting up for me.

But so many people, like my bud Grif, don’t have that “home.” They don't have a built-in family who are obligated to be “home.” They don't have moms and dads with rules or brothers who wait up. They don't have someone texting to make sure you got to your car and/or home alright. And I believe we are called as people, and as Christians, to be “home” to others. And this is so not easy…especially when their apartment smells, and they look at Playboys and they talk endlessly about old coins.

I just recently interviewed a pastor about the family ministry at his church. He said that everybody always comes in wanting community and authentic friendship. He tells them simply, “Go home.” That God has given you the most precious community right in your home, and you often forget about it. And I agree, but I wonder if maybe instead of “Go home,” it should be “Be home.” Because so many don't have a home to go to.

Be home to others. Wait up. Leave the light on. Drop the cookies off.
Grif was my “home” in California, and I hope he thinks the same of me.