Restraining Order for One

It’s no secret that girls are CreepCity, Population: 1.  To mitigate my creep potential, I have a fool-proof system built out to vet whether my actions will be seen as assertive and modern, or straight up stalker with a side of a restraining order. What is that lovely system you might ask? My friends. Only problem…they are just as weird as I am.

The problem with being a seasoned marketing professional like myself is this: I’m scary good at stalking the interwebs. Add a dash of single to the mix and it’s like sticking a recovering alcoholic in the middle of Specs with one of those sweet XL pimp cups. I wish I could say that I am able to resist temptation, but it’s like that giant goblet is whispering to me saying ‘fill me and my bedazzled self up with that trash…you know you want it’. I do, Pimp Cup, I do want to give in and google every guy who could possibly be the future father of my overly-athletic children. With the help of my enterprise-grade social networking tools, that temptation is only a few clicks away. A hop, skip and a jump and I find myself fighting Kathy Bates for the starring role in Misery.

As a young professional in the dating world, I spend my evenings chatting it up with fine fellows about our respective careers. When your life revolves around spreadsheets and revenue model meetings, it’s easy to fall into comfortable conversations, relying on camaraderie built on the foundation of banality, rather than take that first step out onto the thin ice of truly getting to know someone. It’s basically either that or sports. Whichever comes first. Lord knows I’m not going to roll up into a bar discussing my incessant need to document every epic relationship failure by way of this blog. “Hey there. Don’t bother telling me your name, HottyToddy, because I’m just going to refer to you by aforementioned relatively applicable nickname in my wildly read (by 32 people) dating blog”. My night would be spent hacking up the dust left by his rapid exit.

Instead of doing what any normal human being would do, I engage in friendly conversation, ignore any hints of interest and freak out and bolt when he is about to ask for my number (because that’s the healthy option), leaving me to text my friends real-life questions like the following:

Me- “Yo, dude. One a scale of 1-Restraining Order, how creepy is it to LinkedIn a guy when you only knew his name and company to begin with?”

Her-“How many clicks did it take?”

Me-“2”

Her-“I mean it’s definitely not worse than that one time you jumped on a bike with someone in Ireland and that turned out fine…..so I’m all for it.”

Me-“I don’t know if that makes you the most awesome or most awful,friend I have.”

Her-“Awesome. Honesty is the best policy. You’ve got to go after what you want…and all that jazz.”

*Connect Button Clicked*

Her-“….but I’m typically creepy.”

Welp, what’s another restraining order, right? After about five I hear they lose count anyways…

We live in the mixed-up world where the rules our parents lived by are obsolete. A world where face-to-face conversations are no longer the primary way of obtaining information, whether it is related to a business or to your love life. Our world, and our dating, have gone online, but where is the line drawn?

The temptation to forego the tough conversations and conventional methods of asking, accepting and pursuing the opposite sex is a tantalizing enemy because one side is sticky and uncomfortable, while the other allows you the safety of your sweat pants and anonymity.

Where once we had to wait on the dreaded phone call, three days after a successful date, now ladies spend their time analyzing the number of exclamation marks and emoticons used in a string of text messages. What we thought was instant gratification has morphed into instant investigation, each female following the 48 hour rule. Don’t let the trail go stale, or you’ll find youself in 47 cat hell, wallowing in a housecoat, DVR set to a constant slough of Lifetime movies.

It’s exhausting.

This cat and mouse world is evidenced by the multimillion (maybe billion. Don’t fact check me, bro) dollar business of the RomCom. Each heroine following some zany advice of a delightfully off-kilter friend that leads to a love interest, heartache and misery, but always results in a reconciliation of epic proportions. Girls want to know what to do. They want to know that pursuit exists, that the rules they so strictly follow will result in the life Disney always promised them. They want the ends to justify the painfully repeated means.

But ya know what, ladies? They don’t. There is no prescription to this thing we call love. There are no rules to dating. Four days, three days, two hours. It is all a relative timeline in an unchartered world. We kill ourselves over the idea of fate and serendipity, but fail to realize the beauty in the unrepeatable, in the glitches and moments that skirt around the tracks.

We look so hard for the recipe of love, but fail to put the box aside and throw in a few secret ingredients, unafraid of the tasteless failure of a concoction it might produce. If everyday of your life is a beautiful unplanned mess, maybe we should also accept that our love lives may be found somewhere in the chaos.

My future is as bright as my sequin dress.

As the holiday season comes to a close, and couples everywhere go into hibernation to prepare for their pièce de résistance (known to the general public as Valentine’s Day), us poor single chumps are banding together for our one shot at remedying the past month of lonely strolls filled with Christmas lights and chilly mitten-clad hands, left unheld and neglected. Fear not, my single friends. New Year’s Eve is upon us. A night of mayhem, midnight kisses and magic.

Always the best night of the year, filled with epic stories and beautiful people. The perfect capstone to rest the hope and dreams of another year…

….oh wait. It’s New Years Eve. None of that happens. You only wish it did.

I sat at work in anticipation, thinking about how my night would go. Clearly, I would have the perfect hair day, despite the rain and the 7am shower that would have to last through the night, my makeup would be radiant, and my outfit the perfect compliment to the witty banter I would surely be spitting. If I could just get this right, start my 2013 off with a bang, then I’d hit the motherload. The pinnacle of what my awesome single twenties are supposed to look like. They do it in the movies, dude. I can pull it off.

This was my year. After ringing in the last 5 years by shooting stuff in the country, I thought I would dawn my sequined attire and see what midnight looks like when accompanied by champagne, some super sweet hats and an outfit that can be seen from space. Oh I’m sorry….is my dress blinding you? No, that isn’t the sun. It is the soft glow of 10000 sequins shimmering with anticipation at how many compliments I will get because I look so fly. Easy, my sparkly friends, your time will come. At midnight. When that poor unsuspecting bloke gets lured into my clutches (errrr embrace) because his retinas are momentarily rendered useless. We would enter into a coy chat peppered with obscure pop culture references and clever metaphors, he impressed with my breadth of knowledge and wicked cool shoes, I, with his poise and ability to do the Dougie, while still looking like a Kennedy. It would be perfect. Obviously…it’s NYE.

Though imagination has its place, mine seems to kick into overdrive, setting absurd expectations to moments that have not yet come and will more than likely never come to be. Planning conversations, dates, outfits, meals, and interactions, quite possibly months before they are set to take place, I become a controlling crazy person, trying to stack the odds in my favor. My unwarranted expectations are the cause of majority of the tear-filled nights that dot my past. And no night holds more excited expectation than New Year’s Eve. You don’t just dawn sequins for nothing. They are fancy pants….literally.

Since single women tend to be on the eternal relationship advice panel with their not-so-single friends, I hear the stories of repeated disappointment in Girl World. ‘He didn’t tell me I looked pretty when I got dressed up.’ ‘He didn’t propose when I thought he would.’ ‘It’s our anniversary and all I got was dinner at the burger place instead of at the new bistro I’ve been hinting at for months.’ ‘When he commented on my new haircut he said it looks good….not great. I wanted him to say great. He knows that. He hates it. And me.’

So many unfulfilled expectations. Set by us. Covering our hurt hearts with a cloud of repellant that leaves us broken and incapable of the unanticipated adventure that could be lingering just out of our reach. We create our own prisons on a daily basis, walled in by a false reality that does no one any good.

I really hope guys don’t do this….because some day, one of us is going to have to be sane…and we all know it’s not going to be this girl.

As I drove to Austin, stressing about the 43 minute delay when the only place I had to be was the hotel, I realized that my expectations will be the undoing of my yet-to-start perfect NYE. Instead of doing something with the outcome at the forefront of my mind, I vowed to fly by the seat of my pants, going wherever the night took me, my only goal, enjoying my evening. And guess what? It worked.

Facebook is littered with resolutions, each haunted by the ghost of an unmet expectation. Rather than resolve what TO DO this year, I am giving up my own expectations. Giving up my plans for the future, in order to truly experience my now, my current, my life. Losing the weight of a constant need for control and gaining the unexpected surprises that God wants to bless us all with.

“My soul, wait thou only upon God; for my expectation is from him.” Psalm 62:5

In the end, my expecation-less escapade turned out just fine. Best night of my life? Probably not. One for the books? Sure. I was merely one in a sea of sequins, a Richard Simmons-worthy gang, carefully scampering down the streets in shoes as equally awesome as mine. I met some people. Hugged some necks. Laughed a lot. Danced a jig or two. And gained some memories I can be proud of.

When I drop the baggage of trying to create the perfect moment and give up the reins for once in my life, its incredible where you can end up. In a bar with old friends, the American Legion with new friends, or sitting in the back of a cab being a friend to a driver who’s having a less than perfect evening. Our own creations are so small compared to the path God has laid out for us. My resolution is to get out of His way.

Seasons

On more than one occasion in the past month, coworkers have seemed baffled by my outfits at work. I know what you’re thinking, Mom. No, it’s not because I look like a hobo, which has happened more frequently than I would care to mention. It’s because it’s fall. And that means that I have hit my stride. Lookin' fly in my many-an autumn inspired outfit.

As the evenings get longer, the nights colder and the drinks warmer, I always find myself nestling into the comfort of the season. Cardigans? Yes, please. Boot socks? All day. Flannel on men? Lord willing. It’s when girls stop dressing like floosies and dudes start dressing like lumberjacks. Essentially, it’s my paradise. 

Preparing for the season, much like Doomsdayers for the apocalypse, we hit the malls buying our body weight in riding boots and tights, corduroy jackets and even the occasional knit hat. Girls stalked Pinterest picking the right outfits to brave the cold (okay, 60 degree) weather that would soon hit Texas. I stocked my pantry with wassail, soup and my crisper with butternut squash and greens.  

Seasons are unpredictable here in the Lone Star State. You may be greeted with sunny skies and 70 degree weather on Tuesday morning, but in your sweat pants battling 30 degree skies by Wednesday night. To make it here, you have to get your meteorological bob and weave on. 

Many a well-meaning older woman occupying the pew next to me on a Sunday morning has given me wisdom about my ‘season of singlehood’, like it’s some pre-menopausal limbo erring on the side of a chronic illness that is quickly going terminal. 

“Bless your heart, honey, this is going to pass. It won’t always be bad,” she says, patting my thigh in that maternal fashion that only Baptist women know how, as if this moment in my life is for the worst, a wart on my twenty-something timeline. 

Though some seasons are cold, and others are warm, every season is needed to sew seeds into a harvest. 

The sweetest strawberries ripen after a frost has shocked their vines. Stress causing the juice to sweeten, the berry to turn a vibrant red. A season of rain, flooding the fields reaps a harvest full of rice, or if you are a redneck like me, possibly the fattest crawfish you’ve ever seen. What is typically seen as a catastrophic event, is a necessary moment for the harvests that feed our lives.

So why do we see our seasons as this cloud looming over our heads? Why do we shudder at the thought of a season without rain or a season where the rain never seems to cease? 

You may not be single. You may not be happy. Or you may be in the most joy-filled year you have ever seen. Regardless of where you are at, you are in a season. One that is meant to make your fields rich for the harvest, whether shocking or gentle, your fields are not your own, but land bought at a price, paid for by a King. 

Mediocrity is the result of sameness. Lack-luster crops are grown in seasons that see no change. Fields can't grow if they have constant rain. They don't produce a harvest if the sun always shines on them. Seasons are necessary for growth, sowing and reaping a harvest. Don’t shy away from them.

As I face the inevitable hills of my twenties, braving the valleys and the mountaintops, summiting on my weakest days, crumbling by my own stubborn desire to ‘do it alone’, upheld only by the grace of a salvation I don’t deserve, I find that the newness and freshness of each day brings me the most joy.

Could I live a life filled with consistency, my own personal Groundhog Day? Would I rather face the world scarless, no battle wounds to reflect the strength I gained during the hardest winters? Or can I bundle up for the cold, strip down and enjoy the cool waters when the heat turns up, and bask in the crisp autumn airs of my seasons?

You are always in a season, Dear One. That is what my God says to me. You are worth so much more than a common-place life. You are too important to be left where you are.

Backpacking Brazil

You know what always sounds like a good idea? Packing a backpack with a few tanktops and bikinis and heading to a foreign country with one of your best friends. My concept of a ‘good idea’ and everyone elses’ are apparently at opposite ends of the spectrum.

Do you even speak Portuguese? No, but I brushed up on my pointing and obscure hand motions before boarding the plane, so I’m feeling pretty solid.

Isn’t Brazil dangerous?  Have you even read my naked hobo story? Pretty sure I can handle it. 

Have you seen Taken? Fact: If there is anything scary movies have taught us, its ‘don’t be a tramp’. I’ve got that trash on lockdown

Besides one brief moment of panic in streets dealing with yet another barely dressed hobo (they dig me), Brazil made most vacations look like chump change. Spending my days jumping off stuff, meeting incredible people and getting 3^rd degree burns on my precious pale Gringa skin, the ten days melted into one another, forming an amalgamation of memories and life lessons that the states will never contain. 

Sleeping and sharing a bathroom with 12 strangers is a life lesson in and of itself. It’s what Real World would look like if it weren’t so scripted. You know what doesn’t happen in coed bathrooms? Anything cool. You know what does? A ton of pooping. Look, after eating several meals at a buffet that, though delicious, looks like it was cooked in a trailer park, things get real in the ol’ hostel lavatory. Add to the mix several large and drunk Argentinean men and you’ve got yourself one really rank party.

Brazil is not known for its modesty. Me being the incredibly awkward person that I am, would giggle every time a guy walked by in a speedo and blush for the women in thongs. Ma’am, I’m not sure you are aware of this, but your hiney is out in public. So consider me embarrassed when the Polish dude in front of us decided that he was so over the sunbathing and would like to do a quick change into his jorts. Who knew I was getting a tan and a peep show? Sir, sir, sir! You just dropped your drawers in front of ladies! Your man parts are you business, not mine. And now I feel like I owe you at least $2 Reals for the show.

I knew I would get funny stories and adventures while abroad, but what I didn’t expect was to meet people that would teach me more about myself than years of self-help books ever can. From the Argentinean hostel owners who gave us safety and comfort when all we asked for was a bed, to the Brit who taught us the ‘Queen’s English’, each person we encountered gave us a piece of their story. Each story, unique, broken, bruised and beautiful, was a glimpse into the world we tend to forget exists. Outside of our borders is a whole world that functions, thrives and loves, sometimes, I think, in ways we can’t begin to understand.  

Unplugging for ten days put me in a minor panic mode. No emails, no texts, no way to know if my work world was up in flames (as if I’m so important that my absence would cause even a ripple). Others were traveling for months at a time, a career not even on the radar until they finished accomplishing the things they wanted to. We live out opposite lives, basing our accomplishments on our careers and not on the experiences we have. Others view jobs as a means to an end.

When asked my priorities, I have to be honest with myself. I spend majority of my time in the office and the gym, coming home only to eat and sleep. In essence, this girl prides herself on success and vanity. Awesome. I committed the first five years of my post-graduate life to my career, putting other things on the back burner unless they just happen to stumble across my lap. What am I missing in those five years? Brazil, I did not miss. Though it was a ruthless lover, eating away my health and pushing me to my limits, it was a relationship I would not trade in for a casual 3 month fling with an all-inclusive resort filled with mindless entertainment. 

Every day I get faced with a choice: take the same path, or forge a new one. Meeting new people, hearing new stories, learning new lessons. It doesn’t take a 12 hour plane ride and a communal bathroom to find moments worth reliving, and stories worth retelling, and yet that is what I required to be reminded of the delight that can be found around the corner. Maybe, you and I should take the time to peek around the corner and see what adventures lie ahead?

Bachelorette Bashers

Watching a pack of females interact is like watching Animal Planet, add a couple feather boas, some inappropriate drinking straws and an impending wedding and it’s like watching the love child of Animal Planet and Toddlers and Tiaras….if that love child was 7 bottles into some purple drank and a had a bad case of the crack shakes.

Referred throughout the ages as doe parties, hen parties, and now more commonly as a bachelorette party, these rites of passage have long baffled the male population and caused many a flurry amongst the women that frequent them.

I’ve been on both sides of this shindig, both enjoying the celebration of my beautiful friend’s weddings…and judging the snot out of every bachelorette party I see on the street. ‘Oh hey, nice sashes ladies. Judging by the self-proclaimed “Sexy Beast” that’s on yours, girl, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you’re a vodka cranberry sort of girl. No? Oh, vodka Red Bull…sugar free of course, because that’s makes Zumba a bit easier Monday morning.’

And once again, I prove that hypocrisy is alive and well in my life. (Not that I drink Vodka…c’mon I have a palette, but I’m still known as ‘Miss Sassy Pants’ in 3 counties)

At stop #3, I had the distinct pleasure of warding off Beard-y McDump Face (see previous posts for nomenclature explanation). Yo, Dump Face, wipe your mouth because last night’s Totino’s is in a Stage 5 clinger sitch in the worst sort of way.

Moving on…

So Dump Face, in all of his wisdom, most graciously explains to me the wisdom he has gained from hanging out with ‘like 70 or 80’ bachelorette parties. (70 or 80? #popular).

“You’re that girl I hate. There’s always a fat chick or a big sister keeping me from putting the moves on the drunk chick.”

Excuse me, Dump Face, are you calling me fat or old? I got distracted by the spittle on your lip. Maybe what’s keeping you from laying on your moves like Jagger is the faint (read: overwhelming) scent of day old Gin wafting about your person. Do you live with some 99%ers….or did you take a sponge back with some McCormick’s this morning?

Seeing as how I am about 3 bridesmaids gigs away from creating my own rom-com, I’ve had many a run-in with the bachelorette bashers. A motley crew they are, ranging from old dudes on business trips looking to feel young again, or wannabe cowboys that think slithering their snake skin boot up my leg will lead to a number….instead it simply leads to verbal whiplash, and if we are lucky a shank in the liver.

There is something about bachelorette parties that brings out the competition in me. There’s nothing like a little domination on a Friday evening (or Tuesday at noon for that matter, I love me some victory). The problem is….#winning at a bachelorette party puts you somewhere on Charlie Sheen’s level.

In the proverbial good vs evil battle constantly waging war inside my head, I find myself battling whether success is filling pages in my unused little black book, or swallowing my pride, while maintaining my dignity. Do I want an aresenal of numbers that will never be called, names that will never be remembered, and stories that can never be told to my children? No. But do I want to crush every female around me, thus establishing my dominance. Look, I know the right answer is ‘no’ here, but let’s face it….typing it would be as big of a lie as saying that I didn’t eat three cheeseburgers last week. Spoiler Alert: I did.

Luckily, bachelorette bashers are never of the bring home to mom variety, and tend to have the fashion sense of Jersey Shore, so taming my terrible tendency to compare, analyze and pick apart every person in my presence proves easier than if we were at a lumberjack convention filled with bearded tall men of the Jesus-loving persuasion. Regardless, each adventure-laden weekend reminds me more and more that I am a creature of the flesh and need the grace of God more than ever before….or to be punched in the face by someone bigger than me. My thoughts more than deserve it.

PB& no-J

In my youth, I romanticized the woes of adulthood, imagining that the world would treat you like a gentleman, politely challenging you to a duel, allowing you to air grievances and still maintain your dignity. In reality, the world punches you in the stomach, takes your wallet and instead of walking away while you cough up your lungs, it kicks you in the face.

Laying in a heap on the sidewalk trying to trace back the decisions that got me here, I once again am reminded that our world is inherently broken. Luckily, I serve a God that heals the broken, loves the unlovable and never backs down even when I lose sight of His mercy.

I wish I could say that I never lose sight, that my faith is grounded and unshakeable, but in reality it is fickle and fleeting. Last night, I got a call from my mom. Anytime I hear from that lady after 11pm, I dread the news on the other end. As expected, she was calling me to be a prayer warrior for a friend who badly needed it. Instead of getting on my knees to be the intercessor to a God who can create the entire universe, architect atoms and galaxies, and raise the dead, I just sat there thinking how passive prayer was. He isn’t listening to me, He is going to do whatever He wants regardless of my cries.

I stopped believing in the power of prayer. The inadequacies of my own prayer life slowly seeped into my heart, convincing me that God doesn’t answer prayers, when in reality, I haven’t asked for anything in earnest for quite some time. Sure, I “pray” nightly. It looks something like this:

Oh hey, God. How’s life? Yeah, today was pretty solid. Thanks for my super sweet job. Keep my fam safe down there, I think they’re pretty neat. Can you give me some stuff I want like a flatter stomach and a tight boyfriend that likes to jump off stuff and eat foie gras and wears flannel with some sort of facial hair? Yeah-that guy. And can you do some wicked cool stuff in his life right now so he’s all geared up when we meet? Oh yeah, so-and-so asked for some prayer. Can you take care of that trash? Cool. I’m sleepy. Peace out, bro.

Most recently, it feels like I simply yell at God. Yell about the injustice, the pain, the suffering and the sheer magnitude of the brokenness around me. I told him that I don’t even know if I believe if there is anything behind my words or if they only come crashing back from the ceiling and I thrust the skyward.

I was so wrong.

Laden with shopping bags full of treats and groceries, several of us posted up in a park downtown to hang out with what I like to call the ‘locals’, more commonly known as the homeless. As first timers, we had no idea what to expect. Would we have enough? Would people want to talk to us? Were we in danger?

I was naive to think that we would be able to bless those we encountered, showing them the love of Christ just because I took 2 seconds to ask them their name, instead, we came face-to-face with God. The encounter left me reeling, crying and on my face at the throne of a God who hears every cry of my heart, both angry and grateful.

George* approached us to see what was going on, but his joy hit us in the face from 15 feet away. George hasn’t had an easy life, shunned by society for a choice that was not his, he has more reason than me to complain, yet all he did was praise. He showed us the ropes, patiently answering the childish questions I put forth. Apparently, the homeless do not care about having grape jelly with the PB&J’s…the PB will suffice, he told me with a laugh, adding that if they had a lady friend with them, they would be mighty thankful for that jelly to make the meal a treat rather than just substance.

We asked George about his ministry and he told us of all of the things God is doing in his life, then I prayed for him, going through the motions that I was taught so long ago, wondering if maybe this time God would actually hear…being outside and all…that’s got to make it a bit easier.

Then, George prayed for us.

I have never, in my life, tangibly felt the power of a prayer like I did today. George was communing with God and we were lucky enough to witness it. The Holy Spirit left my arm hairs on end, out of breath and in awe of God.

The love of God is so much stronger than I ever manage to give it credit for. I constantly limit his scope, pigeonholing him into the smallest corners of my life because I have the rest ‘under control’. Even in my angry rants, God hears me and answers me, even if it requires a homeless man to do so.

Biggest Loser: Jesus Edition

I think someone literally poured a vat of molten lava over San Antonio. I cut my jog short today due to a slight case of dehydration. Symptoms as follows: salty face, red skin, light-headedness and then the dreaded chill bumps...and dry heaving into the bushes whilst tourist stopped and gawked. No, sweet family of four enjoying the Riverwalk, this is not a product of my Friday night antics, which consisted of my couch and a pint (or two) of ice cream.  I was simply not ready for the heat. 

Spring time had me fooled. I thought I was hott stuff, choosing mile number 6 simply because the day was unfolding into a beautiful evening and I wasn’t ready to turn back and let the day go. Spending an hour on the treadmill, jamming to some tunes in the cool serenity of my gym, lulled me into a false sense of fitness. Now, after gagging several times in public, reality has punched me in the face. I haven’t been training in the heat.  

It’s easy for me to think that my endurance in the temperate 73 degree evenings translates into the same mileage when it’s a meager 101 blazing degrees outside. Maybe I’ve gotten too comfortable in my climate-controlled life, forgetting what it’s like to push until you puke, to run past your comfort zone and then a little bit further. Maybe the consistency of the treadmill beneath my feet, never taking me anywhere, but pushing me just hard enough to maintain my outward appearance, has deadened my soul’s need to turn a unknown corner to search of something more.

The Gospel is wrecking my life right now. 

It tells us to be ready to give an answer to our faith ‘in season and out’, but until I found myself on my knees in public, heaving out bile because my workout got too big for my color coordinated britches, I had no idea what that phrase meant. (not to say that I do now..but I guess I'm closer...kinda)

It’s incredible how much time I spend working out to tone, strengthen and gain endurance. Spiritually though, I’m overweight and sedentary. Eating meal after meal, I expended nothing. I sat on it, growing only cellulite and my spiritual pant size. Yikes. I’ve got some exercise to do. I’m talking straight Biggest Loser: Jesus Edition.

I’ve got to stop simply ‘saying’ the gospel, and ‘be’ the gospel instead. The Creator of the Universe has imparted His spirit on me and yet no one can tell a difference. Am I truly reading the Word if it doesn’t break my heart and turn my world on its head? 

Love is a tangible action of selfless origin. 

So, I’m going to run. I’m going to run with reckless abandon toward the One who gave His life. I’m going to strap on my shoes, tighten up those laces and hit the trail to see what He has in store for me. There will inevitably be times when I get lost, and fear creeps in causing my stomach to sink into my knees. There will be times when I happen across a meadow and drink in the sunshine. I will scrape my knees, roll my ankle and probably puke a few more times as I regurgitate everything I know and transform the fat into muscle. I will cross streets, climb mountains, jump potholes (or more likely, fall into them), but I will continue. 

It's not like I'm doing this alone. Starting with Christ, our little running club will grow. Inviting others into this open-armed gang, we will run. We will cross streets, climb mountains, fall into potholes and help dig each other out. We will bandage blisters, tape ankles, and offer whatever unwounded limbs we have when our comrades fall off the curb. 

What does it mean to be ready in season and out? I don’t have all of the answers, but what I do know is that I am going to try to be the church I want to see, and allow Christ to love through me, in spite of me, and to me. 

Jesus loved with an incomprehensible depth. It was constant, sound and pure. My love is volatile, selfish and about as reliable as the 1996 Mazda I drove when I turned 16. But with the love of Christ residing in my soul, I should be able to love with a magnitude uncommon in our world. Should, being the keyword. 

It’s easy to get caught in the guise of saying that Jesus was just speaking in extremes, ‘go sell everything’ ‘feed the hungry’ ‘carry your cross’ because to read the Gospel, to truly digest what Jesus is saying, is the most terrifying thing I have ever done. 

The Gospel is wrecking my life, what’s it doing to yours?