My Mom Taught Me to Raise My Hand

My mom taught me to raise my hand. 

My mom taught me to raise my hand because I am capable. Not taught to wait on the world to notice my aptitudes, I was told to be confident in my abilities, to be sure of what I know, and able to admit what I don’t. In the classroom, work place, sports arena or grocery store, she led by the example of leading rather than following, of doing rather than watching. 

My mom taught me to raise my hand in the face of injustice. If you see it and do nothing, she would say, you are nothing more than part of the problem. She repeated, again and again, that I was called by God to be a light in this world. An example when none are present. A living example of the love of Christ in a world that is dying.

My mom taught me to raise my hands in praise because no matter how hard it is, you have something to be thankful for.

My mom taught me to raise my hand to own up to my mistakes. Lying received the worst punishment in my home. It was better to admit your guilt, rather than hiding behind untruthfulness. You are going to make mistakes, she said, but it is what you do with those mistakes that separate the leaders from the weak. You are not weak. You are not a liar. You will grow and you will learn, but you will not hide. 

My mom taught me to raise my hand because asking a question is better than faking an answer. Always an advocate of learning, she taught us that when you stop growing, you become obsolete. The world is too big to ever stop wondering. We should be seekers because out there on the edge, on the cusp of the world? That is where true adventure lays waiting on those brave enough to find it. Hidden inside those nuggets of knowledge are the moments that are worth fighting for. They are the moments that people go their entire lives missing, wondering what is lacking, and never having to courage to go in search of it. To live life to the fullest, you must search for experiences because life doesn’t find you, you have to find it. 

My mom taught me to love. My mom taught me to strive. My mom taught me to hope. My mom taught me to persevere. My mom taught me to live.

My mom taught me.

Surviving the Wilderness

I spent somewhere between 30-60% of my day pondering the Hunger Games. After a close call with a tornado last week, I began to rate my survival techniques by considering the very realistic hypothetical of being placed in a large technologically advanced arena with 23 other people poised to slit my throat, all while evading man made death traps.

When the news let me know that a tornado was headed down my street in 18 minutes, my mom called in a semi-panic. Yeah, Mom, I have a survival plan: I put on tennis shoes, duh. Why?

1. I’m not a country bumpkin and when the news trucks comes, I want to look my best.

2. When the zombies attack and everyone is running a muck in chaos, I can easily trip the lady running next to me who will stub her toe because she grabbed something stupid like a flashlight instead of putting shoes on. Hey, hope that mattress over your tub was helpful. Oh wait..that’s right, you just got eaten by a zombie because your feet were sliced up by shards of glass. Sorry, about ya, but I’m about to go pillage this Family Dollar for treats. I’m not going down in this apocalypse.

I also threw a knife in my already stocked backpack full of granola bars, some water and a clean pair of clothes (weird, right? I never shower, but I think clean clothes are a solid choice.). I’m an offensive player; I don’t want to get put on the defensive all day. You never get a leg up. And the careers get to keep eating all the food. 

According to Pinterest (known for its accuracy, much like Wikipedia), 58% of females between the ages of 16-24 want to be like Katniss, which is interesting since she is a cynical, untrusting girl who shuns marriage and was raised in the school of hard knocks….not to mention that she spends a large majority of her time in excruciating pain, both physical and emotional, struggling to maintain a grasp on reality and figure out who she is and what she stands for. Right, ladies, that sounds delightful. 

I have a issue with getting inappropriately attached to characters. I have more empathy for them, than real people…who I see every day. This poor girl is taken from the only place she has ever known to fight for her life, and that is the easy part. She is constantly in her own literal wilderness. Unknown, foreign and dangerous. And no one is there to lead her home. Luckily, the wilderness of my life doesn’t involve Tracker Jackers, and I am never in the lead.

"Therefore, I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the wilderness and speak tenderly to her.” Hosea 2:14

Do we identify with Katniss because God leads us into our own wilderness regularly? It is in that alien place that I find myself growing deeper in love with my Christ. There is a chasm created in my soul when I find myself drifting through the mundane tasks of my day. Knowing what meetings lay before me and what my menu holds when I finish my daily workout, along the same path I have traveled since I started this blog. But, when God leads me to those places of delight, meant only for my heart, my soul awakens to the wonders I so long ago forgot.

Nowhere on my urban journey do I have to fend off mutated rodents, or dodge knives hurtling at my chest, instead my wilderness is the sheer vastness of the unknown that lies in my path. Dodging doubt, insecurity and societal pressure as God allures me further away from myself, away from what I knew or worse, expected, and closer towards the richness He has intended for me, whether it is what I want or not. 

He never promised me what I wanted. 

My favorite lyrics are from Needtobreathe’s “Keep Your Eyes Open”:

Just past the circumstance, the first light a second chance
No child could ever dance the way you do oh
Tear down the prison walls, don't stop the curtain calls
Your chains will never fall until you do

'Cus if you never leave home, never let go
You'll never make it to the great unknown
Till you keep your eyes... open my love

If we maintain our status quo, experiencing only those things that are safe and secure, we will never lose the chains that we willingly placed on our limbs, holding us back from discovering the beauty of the wild. It took me quite a while to understand what they meant by ‘no child could ever dance the way you do’. Children are kept safe by their parents, completely provided for under the nurturing hand, ensuring comfort and stability. They have not been to the wilderness. Our joy comes from not simply surviving the hardships we encounter, it comes from the completeness that perseverance brings (James 1). 

You weren’t called to survive, beloved. You were called to commune; you were called to be allured; you were called to trust and love; you were called to the wilderness.

Hip Flexors Are Hazardous to Your Health

Stretching is for chumps and old people, neither of which I am. So for the past six months, post five-mile jog, I bend over clutching my sides, willing the fire in my lungs to go away, dry heave a few times, and go on my merry way to my car. Cool down? Sorry, I’m in impeccable shape. I don’t need that trash.

Or so I thought, until I ripped my hip flexor and was thus introduced to the medieval torture device commonly referred to as a foam roller. 

Much to the dismay of my #Occupy friends, getting a job really does solve a lot of problems, including the debate of healthcare. No thanks, Socialism, I prefer to pay my employer to provide insane benefits like an onsite physical therapist…until I realized that some sick sort of demon must be downstairs because only Lucifer himself could produce that sort of pain in my thighs.

Let’s first state the obvious but important fact: hip flexors are in a really awkward spot. 

Hey, Doc, can you massage my lady area for a minute because I’m physically incapable of walking up the stairs without short outbursts of pain? Awesome.  Also, your fingers feel like daggers. Good news there. 

After 30 fun minutes of Edward Scissor Hands stabbing his way to my recovery, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting the new bane of my existence: the Foam Roller.  For such a benign looking apparatus, this little cement cylinder of joy packs more pain than breaking my arm and getting my appendix taken out combined. After a mere three rolls on my thighs, I was sweating profusely in a lump on the floor of the doctor’s office trying to bury my shame and tears in the cold tile. 

“I know this sucks now, but keep doing it and you will feel so much better. You’ve got a lot of old wounds to work out,” says the greek god of a medical professional, who is more than likely judging the fact that my arms and legs are shaking like a tweeker with nothing to do.

Ouch. On so many levels.

The past 10 months of trails left their mark on my body. My back cracks more than it used to, there is a slight pink scar from a parkour attempt gone terribly wrong, and when the weather changes, I could swear I have the knee of an 86 year old.  Doc told me about this gross stuff called ‘grey matter’. It is a result of the toxins that seep their way into your life daily, and if left unattended begins to weave itself into the fibers of your muscles, slowly reducing your ability to move freely. Seemingly harmless, a small amount of grey matter finds its way into your body daily, and will go unnoticed until one day, you can’t life your arm above your head. Stretching after exercise breaks down that material and disseminates the toxins, allowing your body to undergo the natural healing process, breaking down the unwanted assassins slowly picking away at your health. 

Life altering wounds are glaringly apparent. Infected, painful and excruciatingly public, our injuries are exposed to the world, forcing us to answer for them. We wear our divorces, break-up and losses on our arms like gauze-laden bandages, unable to hide them from prying eyes and genuinely concerned friends alike. The smaller lesions are easier to cover and even easier to ignore. Bitterness and hurt are covered with new outfits, sleeves pulled down, makeup put on thick to cover the bruises and cuts left from biting words of disappointment from a parent. 

There is no foam roller for life, forcing you to bear down and slowly work out the kinks of the day. We emotionally push ourselves to the limit with new jobs, new lives and new relationships; yet forgo the integral piece of healing through community, prayer and encouragement. Striking out solo to fight the emotional battles of the day, we brush off the pain and play through the ache, more willing to speak to those closest to us about the wicked bruise we got sliding into home than the failure we felt from a presentation gone awry. 

Healing isn’t a onetime thing, only needed when a bone juts through the skin or post-surgery. It is a daily process that both grows and comforts. Christ offered us spiritual foam rollers through accountability and prayer. It hurts. It isn’t fun, and most importantly, it takes effort. I have to physical force myself to lie on the ground and get on what I now call the 7^th circle of hell, but after snotting all over my carpet and shedding a few unhindered tears, I find myself more limber and a bit less fearful of the contraption in front of me.  After particularly grueling runs, I find myself running straight to the roller, straight to the comfort from the journey that left me winded and hurting, straight to healing that I so desperately need.

Wisdom-less

Diets are on the hearts and minds of every girl from about January through…Spring Break. Right about now, self-control is giving way to self-loathing and late night binges filled with cupcakes, Reese’s cups and 73 breadsticks when you totes only meant to have like 1/7^th of that one at Olive Garden.  Ladies, I have finally found a secret weapon. One that is so powerful, you have no hope but to lose 7 lbs. Throw out that arsenal of relentless calorie counting, stressing over sugars and battling your gag reflex as you force down some sort of cayenne pepper concoction straight from the fiery pits of hell. Let me tell you about my little secret:

Wisdom teeth removal.

 Liquid diet, doctor’s orders; and if that prescription weren’t enough, your entire face feels like it got river danced on by the starting line from the Packers, so the thought of a cheeseburger really makes me want to cry and shove my face in an ice pack. 

Ironically, though I have eaten a total of like 23 calories since surgery a few days ago….my face looks like I stuffed it full of cheese puffs and then gargled with Mountain Dew to really seal the Fatty McFatFat deal. Going to work was awesome. The revolving doors were at max capacity with my 95 bottles of pain meds and chipmunk cheeks, the jars of soup had to find their own way in. 

I think I had a mental breakdown when the doctor told me I would have to eat ice cream and mashed potatoes all day. Sounds great, Doc, but bathing suit season is like 172 days away….now is not the time to lose our cool and jump into bed with the carbohydrates. I’m a 21^st century woman. Let’s make the most of a bad situation, drop some pounds and amp up my self-esteem, all on my insurance’s dollar.

First things first, I need some trendy all-liquid recipes to match my trendy post-surgery outfit. Pinterest it is. Faux mashed potatoes? Check. Skinny peanut butter banana smoothie? Duh. Low Cal Jello? Don’t mind if I do. All while rocking super hipster headbands, oversized shirts that could fit me and the 600 pound lady, and the ever popular yoga pant.

I make the road to recovery look good. 

Feeling domestic, I thought I would spend an enjoyable evening baking treats, jamming to some folk music and basking in the cleanliness of my apartment (thanks to a very welcome house guest who shall be known as Nurse Mom, who left me well stocked with pudding, jello, Gatorade and cleaning supplies). One should be smart enough in their twenties to mitigate all known risks from certain activities. Baking banana bread bars during a medical fast is an awful idea. Mother Theresa didn’t have that sort of self control, clearly I don’t. 

It’s just squishy banana bread, how bad could it be, right? I can handle avocado. I sipped some chicken broth today. Chewing some warm gooey treats shouldn’t be that far off in right field. 

Wrong.

After cursing the walnut that snuck past my molars right into my gaping tooth hole, and spitting soggy bread dribble out of my mouth, I immediately regretted my impatient move towards solid food. 

Curse you, solid food! Curse you and your delightful texture and tummy filling ways. I shall bid you farewell for the next five days and continue my saga along the trail of soggy, my trek along the track of tepid salt water rinses and puréed veggies. Sayonara, steak, until we meet again my tasty friend. I, seven pounds lighter, and you sturdy and filling, I bid you adieu.

Post-Vacay Blues

I spent the last week gallivanting around the Emerald Isle in search of forest nymphs and fairies. Instead I found blue-butted sheep and my soul mate.

Let’s be clear here. After a quick calculation of the number of church camps I have been to plus the vacations I have been on, divided by a few bad hair days, he is approximately Soul Mate #49 and shall henceforth be known as Ireland.

Ireland and I started as any normal couple would start. We shared a sultry glance across a crowded room. Then things got pretty intense. We said four sentences while waiting for my parents to finish their drinks. Love isn’t wordy. Then, I did what I am assuming to be a coquettish American giggle followed by some sort of hip flick-y/eye batting combo thing that resulted in his undying endearment. Our connection was beyond conversation….duh….we’re soulmates. (Clearly, those four sentences were mind blowing). It was a whirlwind affair that ended a few short hours after it started. 

After 49 similar experiences, I have finally learned not to dwell on these encounters. My imagination makes ‘falling in love’ an everyday occurrence that takes place somewhere in my twisted mind. One particular episode took place after my sophomore year at church camp. I met Flip Flops, who was ‘the most beautiful boy I had ever seen’. We sat together at lunch and during worship, spent our free time playing volleyball and basketball, and did what every church camp couple does….smear each other with shaving cream and pudding during messy day. It was the stuff romance movies are made of. When I got home, I knew I would never hear from him again….but I dwelled on our interactions for days.

When I was younger, I dreaded the days immediately following my return home. It didn’t matter if I left for two weeks on a family vacation or a week to youth camp; I call it the Post Vacation Funk. The Funk has ended all but one relationship that I’ve been in and lead to more tears than I care to recall. It’s like a cloud of depression and discontent fills the void left from the freedom of traveling. For a few short days, I can free myself of the burden of the mundane and live one adventure after another. Ireland was my biggest adventure yet….and the Funk is knocking on my door. 

I have my back against the door, holding the Funk at bay as it claws its way back into my life. I thought I was old enough to avoid it, but the inevitable restlessness has settled in. There is no boyfriend to get rid of, no new chapter on its way, only the endless days of work ahead. Is this grass always greener? In this case…yes. I mean it was Ireland. Not to mention that we haven’t seen rain since 2004. 

The metaphorical grass is so tantalizing. It lures me in every single time, despite my knowledge of its deception. In my head, my life would be exactly what I want it to be, would encompass every dream, every desire, every facet of my imagination that my current life lacks. 

Discontent is a constant battle in my life. It seems that what is at one time exhilarating quickly becomes the mundane in the expectation of newer and better things. Like a pool of water, my life requires a fresh flow to avoid stagnancy.

With the future looming as such a large unknown, I find myself quickly latching onto each new stream that offers a taste of crisp clean hydration, however small its source may be. Whether planning my entire life during a four sentence encounter, or planning a cross-continent move while daily scrolling through the travel sites, nothing in my current situation seems enough to hold my attention for the long haul. What is it about me that needs constant renewing? The answer is simple: my soul, the very essence of my creation is based on the need for revival and transformation, yet daily, I look to other sources of renewal rather than relying on the Source of redemption.

Spanx Make My Thighs Sad

Sometimes I want to punch the inventors of silk in the face. Why would anyone create such an unforgiving fabric? Those extra 2 ounces I put on from the Christmas cookie are clearly visible on the lower left side of my back bulge, which is unacceptable as one of the bridesmaids of the stupid beautiful bridal party I was included in several weeks ago. 

It’s like People magazine vomited on this wedding party. Since I am anti-diets, I traded a few cheeseburgers prior to the big day for a salad or two and crossed my fingers that the dress would zip up. But as I sat pinching the unwanted bumps in my dress, I decided it was time for reinforcements. It’s time to bring in the Spanx.

Spanx form an impenetrable fortress of the fat blocking kind. It’s like creating a tiny prison for your chubby parts. Not tonight, Back Fat, you are going to have to stay put. I would much rather not be able to breathe…or sit down….or eat…or laugh comfortably, than have you make an appearance tonight.

I’m starting to sympathize with the bra-burning hippie feminists.

Spanx may be the least attractive thing ever created, strangely enough, to make you appear more attractive. This enigmatic product is the bane of my existence.

Curse you, Spanx. Curse you and your uncomfortable fabric that looks like my grandma’s unmentionables.

When we get right down to the meat of the matter, Spanx will only become more prevalent in my life as I age and one day have children (those little guys pretty much ruin your ability to ever wear silk…or a size 4…ever again).

I feel for all of the husbands who have ever seen their wives in Spanx. That has to scar someone. It’s like watching a hotdog get made….you may never again eat at a backyard BBQ. But, how do you avoid the situation?

Here are a couple of options:

1. Install a Clap Off light system in my room, so I can clap off before the hypothetical husband sees me in the anti-libido contraption of doom. Then ensure that nowhere in our frisky encounter do I see that need to give us applause. (No promises on this one. Give credit where credit is due. If the man deserves a handclap of praise (not to be confused with those really weird handclaps at church) then he will get one))  
2. Make punching my husband in the face to induce temporary blindness a typical part of our foreplay, thus giving me a few seconds to slip—read: wrestle my way out of—the Spanx, while he will be none the wiser…and more turned on than when we started.
3. Become a nun. Simple, yet effective.
4. Lose weight and be happy with my body……pfffff yeah right
5. Find Harry Potter and figure out how to steal his magic so I can cast a spell that make me appear lean and fit and bump free.

Clearly, #5 is the way to go.

So, Are You Dating Anyone?

What do Christmas and your Singles Ministry have in common?

If you thought it was Jesus….you’re wrong. C’mon Sunday School answer, think outside of the box. Just because church is involved doesn’t mean the answer is always Jesus, sometimes it’s God, or Holy Spirit…..or Nebuchadnezzar.

The answer: They’re always getting in your business trying to play matchmaker. 

Like many a sardonic single has stated, Christmas makes solitude glaringly apparent. As friends and family members depart to spend time with their ‘other’ side of the family, and each start frantically searching for a gift that truly represents their unabashed love for their lobster (read: soulmate…whatever that means), the wary single prepares for the storm of loneliness that may or may not come knocking on their door sometime between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

 Even if you can buck up and make it past the need to stroll hand-in-hand while looking at the Christmas lights, the lack of snogging when the ball drops is sure to elicit some desire to have the opposite sex around…unless it’s that really creepy guy who has been eyeing you all night (which there always is one), in which case my only response is: You’re better than that. Don’t stoop. I promise it won’t be worth it. Just grab another glass of champagne from your friends who are otherwise occupied with their dates and give yourself a toast because you would much rather be that girl who double-fisted Brute all night, then that girl who took a desperate dive into the face of someone’s awkward cousin who was visiting from Kansas for the weekend.

The first question out of the mouths of my aunts, cousins and the women at church are all the same. It is like the married woman mantra: So, are you dating anyone? Apparently, answering that you are really focused on your career right now translates into something along the lines of “I can’t find anyone who will go on a second date with me and all I really want to do is get married, but I’m incapable of sealing the deal”, which is strange because I thought it meant “I’m focusing on my career right now”. Good news: When you say “I do”, you also learn how to read minds. Marriage is magic. 

Half of society is telling me to settle down now, because I’m only getting older, but the other half is telling me I’m still young and need to live life. Interestingly, the Christian crowd is of the former persuasion. 

Somehow Christianity has become synonymous with a married lifestyle, which is strange considering how the writers of our handbook were single and loving it. I’m pretty sure the disciples never sat down and were like look, Bro, I love that you are out spreading the gospel and whatnot…but what I’m really concerned about is your dating life. Are you sure you want to be focusing on your career right now? You should probably find someone to settle down with. After all, you aren’t getting any younger, and your robe is starting to fit a little snug around the waist. I’m just saying. 

Now before all you domestic lovin’ ladies get all up in my kool-aid, I’m going to need you to hear me out. In no way am I saying the marriage is not a good thing, I’m sure it’s great, but it is not, and cannot, be my sole —or soul’s— goal in life.  We were created for more. 

As I beat back the desires brought by singlehood during this season, I want to remember the reason I am celebrating in the first place. (Cue lame Christmas clichés: Jesus is the Reason for the Season, HOLYday, ect.) If you find yourself in that place of longing, dwell on the words of Song of Solomon:

 ⁷ Oh, let me warn you, sisters in Jerusalem,
   by the gazelles, yes, by all the wild deer:
Don't excite love, don't stir it up,
   until the time is ripe—and you're ready.

                                                The Message

We have to stop forcing ourselves to be ready because it feels like you failed if you aren’t.