The last gal in our group is a mom. She has several kids, the oldest of which is six. She laughed with us and said, “You know girls, it never goes away. You never get that feeling that you know what you are doing.”

She the went on to tell us that a few weeks ago, she wasn’t sure how to discipline her six year old for something he’d done. Feeling frustrated, she grabbed her head and said to him, “I don’t know what to do with a six year old!” Calmly, her son looked back at her and said, “It’s ok Mommy, can’t we look on the internet? We can just Google it.”

If Only It Were That Simple

After laughing at how cute, honest and innocent six year olds can be, I couldn’t help but agree with him. Why can’t life be that simple? You cannot even imagine the sense of relief I might have right now if I could simply type into my computer “How to do really great at my job, have my boss and my coworkers all like me, and not screw it up in the process.” And because the whole world knows that Google’s secret algorithm is like a magic spell that brings all correct and relevant information to the top 10 links on my results page, I would simply have to click around and Voila! I would know how to do the rest of my life.

The interesting thing about Google is that I use it for more than answers. I use it as my spell check – that little link asking “Did You mean…?” keeps me from all sorts of wrongs (in fact I just used it for voila, because I almost wrote viola, which is a kind of a violin, thanks Google!) I use it to find dates on the calendar when I can’t find my phone. I use it to help me explain things, like last week when my roommate didn’t know what caprese salad was. Thank you Google Images.  I use it for maps, phone numbers, email…the list goes on. But I am assuming you know all of this because if you’re around my age, your probably just as addicted as I am.

Now the question for me is, how is it that a six year old’s knee jerk reaction to life’s questions is simply to Google it? He grew up with Google ingrained in his worldview as “The answer to all of life’s questions.” At least I was in college or something before Google really came barreling into the market. In some semblance, I did know life before Google. But this kid, he has no clue. In his mind, that’s what we do for all of life’s question, simply run to the computer and look them up.

I suppose his mom doesn’t really have to sit him down and explain life to him. Eventually over time all of the kids who grew up on Google will have to sort the tough stuff out for themselves just like the rest of us. And in the mean time, it seems cruel to say to a six year old, “Honey life is hard, and sometimes there aren’t any good answers. Even Google can’t solve them.“I can tell you this though, I really wish he was right. Life would be a whole lot easier if we could just “Google It.”

There is a part at the end of the book that really has stuck with me. He’s talking about a sculptor and her love hate relationship with her art. How it’s tumultuous, painful, and agonizing. Yet she is so emotionally connected to her work, it is like its a part of her soul.

And when it is all finished, it is the pain that gives it meaning. It is the struggle for the art to come out of the clay that makes it beautiful. That the parts of the art that are tarnished and ruined are the very parts that make it valid and valuable.

It is then that Bell poses the question, “Was this sculptor really talking about art? Or is this life?”

Right in the Middle

This season has been interesting in that it has been painful. Or maybe I need to knock the words “this season” from my vocabulary, because maybe that’s just life. It’s painful. It asks a lot from us. Good lives do anyway. They’re scary. Art is scary. Doing something worthwhile is terrifying.

But I think Im in a moment where Im on the fence between beautiful and painful. I see both. I feel both. And this is one of the few moments in my life where I wouldn’t change the painful hard parts. They are so integral from this view. Taking them out of the picture would render the whole thing meaningless. The beauty has validity because it was painful.

The View from Here

Being here in the space between beautiful and painful, this is what I know.

Art is important. Create it if it kills you. Foster it, take care of it. Go to museums, paint, shut your self in your room and create beautiful music, stay up late and go to Indie shows, and support your local film director. Make friends with people who love it too, do it together and create it for the community.

Adventure is important. We weren’t meant for freeways and concrete jungles. Go to the mountains, the forests, the beaches or the deserts. Carve out a time in those meeting notices to make it important. Feed your soul with fresh air, great hikes, and camping under open skies. Remind yourself that you are just a part of something bigger than yourself by standing at the foot of something natural and majestic.

Love is important. Make a place in your heart to love people who are hard to love. It makes you a better person. Loving those who love you is easy. That doesn’t require vulnerability, just reciprocation. But go first, love first, extend your heart to those who might break it. Remain soft. Don’t let the word jaded enter your vocabulary. Carve out a space in your life for good friends who know your heart well and love them. Make space for memories and wine. Don’t get swept in the dailiness of live, create breathing room to love and be loved.

Risk is important. Do the things that scare you. That’s what life is for. Sure, it’s painful, but as I said before pain is what gives life depth and meaning, so if you’re not in pain your doing something wrong. Make a list, find what scares you, and start checking things off. You’ll be more alive than you were yesterday.

As predicted, today that shift shouts gently in the background. To me it seems almost as if there is a light crispness in the air. I’m still searching for the right words to describe it, but I think it has something to do with the fact that we have officially left Summer and have entered the Fall.

Autumn has always been my favorite season, and every year my mind spins to try to capture why. I’m not sure if it’s the gorgeous reds, yellows, and oranges. I don’t know if it’s the pacifying feeling of pulling pea coats out of the closet, or if it’s the aroma of sweet and spiced coffees in the brisk mornings. It could be the contented excitement that washes over me when I think about how many meals need to be prepared in the next few months. There are spiced loaves, turkey dinners, prime rib Christmases, holiday drinks and parties to be had.

I don’t claim to be a Betty Crocker, but I have been so excited for Fall cooking that I have already started looking up recipes. I’ve been telling HNB for a few weeks now that I’m excited to cook Thanksgiving dinner and to host our friends for an evening of relaxation and eatery.

But the feeling in the air is bigger than excitement to cook. It’s a feeling of change. Maybe even good change. It’s a feeling that laughter is on its way. It’s a feeling that there are memories to be made, friendships to be strengthened, wine bottles to be opened, and champagne bottles to be popped. There are engagements to be had, weddings to go to, and Christmas parties to attend. There are scarves to be worn, fall boots to be purchased, and coats to be wrapped in.

And even more than this, there are thanks to be had. Thanks that the fall is here and the world is about to be stunningly beautiful in crisp colors and scents. Thanks to be given that the darkest parts of the economic crash might be behind us, and that our nation is forging forward. Thanks that in the trying parts of this last year we were able to hold to what was important, to grow with our families, to spend our money on things that mattered, and give our time to things that were noble.

There are stories to be written this fall. There are beautiful stories begging to leap off of the pages and into action within our days. There are daring stores, sacrificial stories, and epic stories. And for me, in my mind, these grand stories and adventures are embodied in the leaves that fall, crisp and brown, reminding us that change has come. Autumn is here.

So, here’s a first list of why today is a good day:

Today is a good day because:

1) I have smart friends that know how to speak wisdom into my life in context of my strengths and passions. Not to mention that they let me cook authentic Mexican food for them, and then laugh with me over tortillas, conversation, and beer.

2) I’m going to the mountains with friends on Sunday. Something about pine trees and mountain horizons that make my soul free.

3) I’m thinking about starting to paint. I have no idea how to paint. Not a single clue. But I’m convinced it will help with releasing creative juices.

4) I have a growing stack of books on my bedside table. Including “Make Success Measurable” which is a workbook about defining and achieving your life goals.

I can’t help but feel like today the world is my oyster. Between a few bottles of paint, some time in the mountains, and a new perspective on success…I’m ready to go for it.

Why is today a good day for you?

This Sunday, a good friend of mine and I headed down the coast for a good hike in the Canyon. You can’t beat a view like this:

What I like about this particular friend is that our friendship has been like a smooth wine or a sharp cheddar cheese in that it has gotten significantly more valuable to me over time. We have grown into one another, which has felt like an unexpected surprise and I like that.

Aside for my growing affection for this person,  I love that recently she has had a growing sense of self-awareness. She is asking some really hard questions about herself, including, “Am I hard to get to know? Am I a warm open person? Am I friendly? What type of  experience do people have when they first get to know me?” She isn’t asking to be affirmed, but really wants to know if there are areas where she needs to grow.

On our hike, she was mentioning that over the past few years she’s really battled a long and hard war with loneliness -constantly feeling left out, forgotten, not connected, and anxious about it. It’s like that feeling of junior high never left. However, in the past few months she’s  come to a place of acceptance in her war with loneliness.  It’s like a ghost that follows her around. A ghost that used to scare her. And now she simply turns to it and says, “Hi Loneliness. I know you’re there. And that’s ok.“

As she was telling me this on our hike, the only words I had were “Wow.”  It seemed like such a upper-handed place to be. And I’ve been thinking about that all week.

Birthdays, Weddings, Life and My Own Ghosts

Recently I’ve had my own series of whirlwind life events. I threw a surprise party for HNB a few weeks ago, I’ve recently had a close friend get married, I’ve been to countless engagement parties, bachelorettes, and baby showers.  And as I have checked the celebrations and events off of my calendar with each passing week, there has been a silent ghost that has settled on the periphery of my consciousness.

There have been moments where I am with my friends and they are beautiful, radiant, laughing and enjoying life as it passes us. We have been in beautiful dresses, tuxes, and sitting in great restaurants. There have been smiles on all of their faces. And as the moment fades, as I go home and wash my make up off and change into pajamas, there it is – I become acutely aware of the ghost.

The last time I felt this clearly was after coming home from a wedding reception. I’d showered and begun to unwind for the evening. I climbed on to the couch with HNB and sitting in that spot between his arms, I slowly began to feel the tears sliding silently down my cheeks. The ghost was here.

“What’s wrong?” he asked me.

I sat in silence for a long time.

Finally I whispered back, “I  just feel…pressure.”

As we sat there whispering in the dark, I told him how the ghost shows up and I feel like there has been someone sitting on my shoulder, watching and making tick marks at everything I’ve done. I told him that I’d realized that although I have great friends that I love and cherish, there are moments where I can’t help but feel small and left out ( or too young, or under developed, or inexperienced, or juvenile, or unimportant… sorry, still searching  for the right word).

There are moments where I look around and feel pressure to be simply fabulous. To look stunning, to love my life, to be in love, and to be whizzing by in the journey of life – quickly approaching destination of bliss. Maybe it’s just that when I look around at my friends, they all seem to have such glamorous lives – they’re getting engaged, having babies, moving overseas, traveling to exotic places, and taking risks at their dreams. And it’s not that I’m jealous, it’s just that I don’t always feel like my life measures up.  But, at the time, sitting with HNB in the dark,  I couldn’t get those words out.  I sat in silence, trying to figure out how to not sound crazy as tell him that I had a ghost that followed me around and measured how fabulous I was in comparison to my friends.

“It’s just that all of our friends are getting married….” I started.

Nearly choked, he asked me, “So you want to get married?”

(Poor Guy.) “No,” I clarified, “It’s just that…”

I sat there and tried to tell him what I meant. I choked on my words. I stumbled. I reached for a comparison to help give a clear visual.

“The best way that I know how to describe it was this: I feel like I have this cup. It’s mostly full all the time. But this weekend I felt like I went to a wedding with other people carrying their own cups. And I realized that I might be full, but I was the smallest cup in the room.”

Right. Clear as mud. I’m at least lucky that I have a man that kisses my tears off my cheeks even when I’m still grappling for words.

Dangerous Games.

I don’t know if any of you had to read the short story The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell. I remember doing some sort of language arts project on it when I was in the 9th grade. It was a story about a main character who is literally hunted by the antagonist. The antagonist set up the exchange as a game or a way to raise the stakes on traditional hunting.  The story is worth reading and I could recommend it simply in terms of being a literarily complex individual.

With the all of the events of this past summer and the ghost who has decided to become my emotional squatter all echoing in my mind, suddenly this title seems to be of utmost importance. The Most Dangerous Game could be hunting people or it could be comparing your life to others. It could be looking around at a wedding and wondering who your bridesmaids would be and if they liked you enough to ask you to be theirs. It might be wondering if you even knew 100 people to invite to your wedding. It could be looking at your girlfriend and her boyfriend and wondering if it’s ok that you’re not as in love as they are. It could be holding someone else’s brand new baby and hoping that you are as happy as they seem when you have your first kid.

See, it’s not that I’m unhappy. I am happy. I am pursuing my dreams, dating a great guy who gets me, creating my own schedule, and finding out who I really am. Those are all great things. It gets dangerous when I start asking, “Yes, but am I as happy as THEY are.”

The Three Part Irony

The really interesting thing is, even as I am having these thoughts, I become keenly aware of a few things:

1) That even beginning to embark on this game with myself, I am already giving myself disclaimers. “Jenni don’t do this. You’re always going to lose. If you compare and aren’t as good – you lose. And if you compare and come out on top, your happiness is based on someone else’s life – which is a huge lose. Stop right now. You’re happy. Stop stop stop stop….”

2) This second point is the one that I never seem to expect or understand. That when I don’t stop and I play the game, it really gets under my skin. I always feel shaken for a few days. I feel left out, insecure and small, which amazes me every time. For all of the growth I have done, all of the things that I have endured, and all of the parts of me I have discovered and love, it seems odd to see that in reality my ego is very fragile. I get left out of a few things and suddenly I’m questioning my friend’s love for me. I experience a few hours by myself and suddenly the ghost of loneliness feels like is reigning from heaven and might overtake me. And it is at this point that I have to stand back, metaphorically grab my own shoulders and give a good shake. “Honestly Jenni, get a stinking grip!”

3) I know I’m not alone in this. In talking to my good friend, it was SO good to hear that she has battled with various ghosts over the years too. And they get at her as well. It felt good to know that other people come home, take off their dresses, wash their faces and suddenly become aware of the ghosts of loneliness, or depression, or anxiety, or frustration, or unimportance.  And while there are times  I can greet the ghosts, saying “Hi, I know you’re there. It’s ok,” there are seasons when I can’t help but crawl into bed and let the tears slide – and it shocks me the same every time.

So why do we do it? Why do we play dangerous games? Why does there seem to be times when the ghosts sneak in and hover over your shoulder? Why do we look at other people’s jobs, bank accounts, cars, thighs and abs, teeth, and boyfriends? What makes us unable to stop? We have a thousand reasons why we do it. And most of us know them in our heads. But we cannot help but ingore the warning signs and plunge into the Most Dangerous Game anyway. Why?

1) Indescribable.

2) Hades.

Let me start with point two:

Yes, this is the one of the coolest days. The heat of the day is 127…and it’s 113 at night. Basically, you lay on top of your sleeping bag and try not to be miserably drowning in your own sweat until sleep over takes you.

Ok, onto the first point, which is obviously the better of the two.

Have you ever had a moment when you realize that you just stumbled upon something bigger than yourself? Talking to these kids this weekend was an experience that could be described as just a glimpse of the massive story that God is writing. It was for all intensive purposes…chilling.

I was sitting in church the weekend before when I got the inspiration for what I wanted to talk on. I had been praying for days, “God what do you want to tell these kids? Because I really don’t have much to say and it would be really embarrassing to just stand up there for four days.” Well, inspiration came like a flood.  Sitting there in the midst of a service, my mind began spinning, and I started asking complete strangers for a pen before I drowned in my own thoughts. I scribbled on bulletins – my own and other people’s as I desperately grabbed whatever I could get my hands on.

Flash forward to a few days later where I was flushing out the wire frame of my talk. I seriously looked psychotic. I think my roommate walked in one day to find my computer on, music blaring, books open, papers everywhere, notes scratched all over the place, and me – desperately scribbling on our sliding glass doors with dry erase marker. I’ve learned through this experience that I am a visual person, and I need to be able to see the entire thing…so I quickly moved from computer to small whiteboard, to entire sliding glass doors. Clearly it was like a scene from A Beautiful Mind.

It was only after several hours of this creative flow and filling my entire windows that I had to step back and take a breath. Seeing the writing fill both doors, I just stood there and tears filled my eyes. It hit me that this was not a story and a small talk for one weekend. This was something that God had been writing for years and years and years. Seeing it all there together, the joys, the struggles, the pain,  the anger, the hope…it all made so much sense. God was big. God was really big. And God was in charge.  God had been in charge. And had known of this moment for so much time. And I had blindly struggled through pissed and frustrated, and stumbled into this awe of realization that my story was not random. It had been there the whole time.

Where the Rubber Meets the Road

Getting to camp I was excited. I knew I was equip with a talk that was going to grand slam these kids. I knew because the content that had filled my sliders was well beyond my own brain’s capacity. But here is the funny thing – as I began the talks, it was incredibly harder than I thought it was going to be.  The second talk that I did was on anger and abandonment. I told the kids about parts of my story that contained pain, injustice, and the moments where I had seriously questioned God’s deity and character.

Walking out of that talk, I felt like my words had left my mouth and hit the ground like an anvil. No one had said a word to me upon finishing. I walked right out the back door and into the dark 113 degree night. Tears pressed my eyes.

“What the hell God? You brought me all the way out here to be hot and uncomfortable and vulnerable in front of all these kids – and they stare at me like I’m in idiot. Are you kidding me? Why did you bring me here? To hear the sound of my own voice? Does this even matter?”

Let me flash forward several days. Stories began pouring out about the kids at the camp. Stories of hurt, physical abuse, sexual abuse, drug abuse,  abandonment, anger, and pain. And maybe not all the kids were running up to me to tell me what was going on in their hearts and minds, but their leaders began giving me an idea of where they were at. And as story after story after story of how these kids were just like I had been.  They are  experiencing things that I experienced when I was there age, and grappling with the very same ideas that I was smashing with each talk.

There was no epic conclusion. I didn’t have ever single kid come up at the last alter call and proclaim that they loved my friend “Jesus the Hippie” and wanted to follow God everywhere. But the sound of their stories resounded in my heart. LOUD.  Their stories pounded impact into my mind because they showed me the grandiose nature of God. A few of the leaders told me that they were blown away at the weekend. I agreed with them. I was blown away too. And not at my speaking ability. I was blown away at God’s ability to catch me up in a story that is bigger than myself.

In light of all of this I can just say this, “Thank you God, for letting me play in your symphony even though all I saw was random notes.”

During the course of conversation we started laughing about all of the crazy and untrue things that my parents used to tell us as kids.  They would tell us stories to make us stop crying, to try to avoid tantrums in public, or to give us “explanations” to end the ongoing barrage of questioning (“Why is the sky blue? Why do we have to stand in line? Can’t you make this go any faster? Why can’t I have candy…”). My mom laughed as she recalled all of the made up “truths” that consisted of our childhood, but as the stories piled up one at a time I started to find the whole thing not very comical anymore. Quickly, as the evidence was being laid out, a new truth was becoming very apparent.

My parents were big fat liars.

The thought echoed as it dawned on me. I was not having fun at Taco Sunday anymore – I was getting miffed! I looked at my parents and blurted out, “You guys were LIARS!” My mom looked at my dad. They both burst out laughing. “You try having four screaming brats, and tell me that you wouldn’t lie to them to get them to shut up!”

Now, I have to be honest, I am a little indignant over the little joys of childhood and life that I might have missed out on because I was such a good and gullible child. My mom still holds to the notion that they weren’t lies, they were just “good parenting”. But, considering that my opinion in the matter is not objective, I will discuss the evidence with you, and you can render the verdict on whether my parents were just “creative” or if they were indeed liars.

Exhibit A: The Music Truck

Most kids know that in the summer when it is hot, if you happen to hear music wafting from a big yellow truck it can only mean one thing: the Ice Cream Man. I am imagining that most kids begged their parents for coins so that they could frolic out to the street and wait for him to pull over. Choosily they would pick from the beautiful pictures on the side of the truck and the nice ice cream man would sell them a refreshing summer treat – maybe even one with gum ball eyes!

Yeah, except if you were me and my brother, that isn’t how the story goes. When we were small, and we would hear the music coming out of the truck my parents would exclaim,”Oh listen, the music truck is here! What a nice man! He drives through the streets all day long, playing his music so children can hear how beautiful it is!”

Was there ever a mention of ice cream and sugary goodness? Absolutely not. And like little idiots we would nod our heads and say, “Yeah, that man sure is really nice to spend all day driving around so that we can hear his music!”

Please notice this picture doesn’t include me as a child, standing in line. BECAUSE I NEVER DID.

Right. Thanks mom and dad. That’s years of ice cream that we were jipped out of.

Exhibit B: It’s A Small World…of Demons?

Most children go on It’s a Small World when they are small. Their parents sit in the long line so that their joyful children can sit in the little boats, and see the dolls from all over the world – proclaiming that we are all united and equal even though we are all different. Except, if you were in my family, you didn’t. I was in college before I rode that ride for the first time. Why? Because my parents told us that the dolls were demons.

Seriously. These days my mom adamantly claims that it’s not true and she never would have said such a thing. Both my parents say that they simply discouraged us from going on the ride because between four kids they didn’t want to hear “It’s A Small World After All…” for the rest of their lives.

The funny part is that us kids all remember being told that there were demons in that ride. Thanks mom and dad.

Exhibit C: Evil Grocery Store CEOs

This story is a classic example of my mom’s ability to lie. When we were kids, there were four of us and getting through the grocery store could be quite the trick. So, my mom made up a game. Each time we needed to go to the store, we’d look through the pantry and make a list. My mom would explain:

The CEOs who own the grocery stores are evil men. They put candy and toys at the eye level of little kids to make them behave badly when their parents are trying to shop for food. The evil CEOs want you to be naughty, kick, scream and cry to make your parents buy the candy and toys.  So, in order to win again the evil grocery store CEOs we have to get through the entire store, and ONLY buy what is on our list.

You know what I would do? I would waltz through the toy isle like a little schmuck. I would put my hands over my eyes and announce to my mom, “I am not even LOOKING at the toys mom. I see the candy bars over there, but I am not going to ask for one because then the evil CEOs will win!”

Then when we got to the car, my mom would throw a little “dance party” because we got out of the store without buying candy or toys, no tantrums were thrown, and the evil CEOs had lost the war.

I was jipped. There are years of Barbie Dolls and Candy Bars that I never got. Thanks a lot mom.

Exhibit D: Ace of Base vs. The Beatles

My first music video I ever saw was “I Saw the Sign” by Ace of Base. I remember it still, I was at a sleep over party for a classmate when I was in sixth grade. She was popular and cool, and I was…well… not. At that age my mom still dressed me in matching vest and short outfit sets – it was a particularly horrible and embarrassing part of my life. Fashion aside, I also knew nothing in the way of pop-culture. I didn’t listen to cool radio, I listened to bad Christian radio. In fact, my mom made it a point to tell me that non-Christian radio was demon possessed. Again, this is a claim that she would now fight me on, saying that “I would never say that!” But don’t be fooled, she used to say it.

It was late at night and all of the popular girls wanted to watch this oh-so-popular music video. I knew my mom wouldn’t want me to watch, but I was already wearing a short/vest outfit and couldn’t take too many chances. I was too embarrassed to tell the other girls that not only was I a fashion disaster, but I also couldn’t watch popular demon possessed music videos. So I what any unpopular girl in a vest set would do – I watched it. And I remember Ace of Base had all of their clothes on,  and were playing guitars and drums – arguable totally demonic.  Actually, the ironic part is that the stage was engulfed in flames at some point. I felt so awful while watching this oh-so-cool and “evil” video that I felt sick until I got home the next morning.

Bawling, I confessed everything to my mother – the video, how cool it was, the fully clothed band, the guitars and the flames. I didn’t want to be a “bad girl” that listened to demonic music. You know what my mom said to me!? “Now you know why I told you not to watch those things. Now those images will be burned into your mind for the rest of your life.”

Seriously. I’m not joking.

So, yes I can see every part of that sleepover, and every part of that video. But clearly, not because it was demonic. But because I was traumatically lied to. Thanks mom.

Here’s the kicker though. Growing up, my dad loved The Beatles. Which meant that all of us kids loved The Beatles. My first favorite album was St. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. I loved it because “With a Little Help From My Friends” was also the opening song for “The Wonder Years” and Fred Savage was cuter than cute.

Now for those of you who follow The Beatles music, you know that they did a lot of drugs toward the end of their career. Ever listen The White Album? Right. Acid trip induced music I am sure. Brilliant, and absolutely drug enhanced. BUT, let’s not forget that Ace of Base is demonic.

“Acid music? Yeah, that’s totally cool kids. Just don’t listen to “I Saw the Sign,” cause you’ll go to hell.“

Thanks Mom and Dad.

Exhibit E: Chicken Skin

Ok, this story is one of the more embarrassing stories in today’s line up. I say MORE embarrassing, because it is not THE MOST embarrassing believe it or not.

I grew up on a very healthy diet, thank you mom. There were no Doritos chips, Capri Suns, or Snack Packs to be found in my house. Only Juicy Juice (100% real juice!), fruit, and wheat sandwich bread. So you can imagine that boneless skinless chicken was also a staple food group.

Imagine this scene unfolding: I’m in college. It’s Premium night. Meaning, that every Thursday instead of the normal gruel, the cooking staff would pull out all the stops and make steak, or fried chicken, or some other fancy dish. It was actually pretty amazing. All of my new friends from my dorm had got their food, and twelve of us are sitting at a long table. As I began to eat, I peel away the top layer of crunchy skin, and begin digging into my chicken.

Much to my horror, my friends proceeded to bite straight into the chicken, munching THE SKIN! Now please understand, this act in my mind was on par with eating the intestines, or the eye balls. Never in my life had I seen someone eat the skin. It was part of the bird you simply threw away. As my friend starts chewing it, my mouth falls open. I have to stop her. I tell her, “NO NO NO. You don’t eat that part!!!”

The whole table gets silent. Someone says to me, “Jenni, the skin is the best part. Have you never had fried chicken before?”

Between astonishment and laughter from my dinner pals, I was quickly educated in the ways of fried chicken. I soon discovered that not only can you eat the skin, but IT IS THE BEST PART.

Promptly I finished my amazing dinner and called my mother. “What do you mean you can eat the skin!?” I yelled, “You’ve been holding out on me!!”

“Sorry,” my mom said. “I just always thought it was gross. Oopsies!”

Thanks a lot mom. Jipped again.

Exhibit F: The Prison in Irvine

This one might take the cake in terms of embarrassing parental lies. For those of you who are local, you know that there is a HUGE corporate building off of Jamboree and the 405 freeway. All of my life, when driving by this building, my dad has pointed to it and said, “Look, there’s the prison! See those huge silver towers at the top? That’s where the guards sit. And when people try to break out, they can shoot at them.”

It always looked like a very nice prison, very upscale and classy. But after all, this was Irvine – land of tan and taupe. So, I figured it was where they kept the upscale and classy prisoners.

My first week at UC Irvine, while driving by the prison, I said to a car full of Bio Majors (and every knows that they are some of the smartest kids at UCI), “Isn’t it scary living this close to a prison?”

Crickets. Dead Silence.

“What do you mean Jenni?”

I pointed at the building. “Right there. That’s a prison. With the big silver guard towers. Isn’t that scary?”

More Silence.

“Jenni, are you pointing at the building that says Samsung on the side??”

Now it was my turn to be silent. I had never imagined that it was anything other than a prison. I mean, my dad had been calling it a prison for as long as I could remember. But now that she said it, it was a classic corporate building. And it did say Samsung on the side.

I blushed scarlet. Utterly speechless.

Right there in the car I pulled out my phone, demanding to speak to my father. Hearing the story, he laughed so hard he wept.“I had no idea that you really thought it was a prison! It says Samsung right there on the side of the building!!”

“But I never figured that you would just randomly LIE to me for no reason! I’d never thought about it – I didn’t think I had to!!”

Thanks a lot dad.

The Verdict?

So as you can see, not all of the “stories” my parents told me were simply to keep me quite in the store, or keep me from having too much candy. Sure it started out that way – but obviously somehow they got carried away. Funny how the lines between “story” and “lie” can be so blurry sometimes. And sure, while telling your kids that it’s really just a Music Truck, I can think of no fathomable reason to continually tell your children lies that make them look like an idiot well into their twenties.

So make an assessment for yourself. I vote that my parents are just flat out liars.

Let me start this review by saying that I recommended this book to just about every Christian woman I have met this week. Yep, it’s fair to say that this is one of one of those books. You know, the book that you’ve barely finished Chapter 3 and you are already raving to your friends about, and by the time you finish it (which is most likely only 2 days after you bought it), you’ve managed to work it into every conversation – claiming that the book will change their life – regardless of their current circumstances.

Well, without sounding over zealous, I will venture to say with confidence that this book will change your life. I’ve already mentally gone down to the Christian book store and bought all of their copies for nearly every Christian woman friend that I see on a regular basis.

You see, Isaacs is a comedian.  She is sassy, and punchy, and brazen. And after waking up one day and realizing that she was single and 40, and had been through the crap-hole of life…she was PISSED. She had followed God, loved Him and His rules, and yet she was still jipped out her dreams or desires. She was 40, unmarried, career-less, a recovering alcoholic, and questioning if she even wanted to press on. She was angry because she didn’t understand why a loving God could make her life so dreadful, and if he was really “good” why did it constantly feel like she could never catch a break? Sound familiar? Oh right…maybe that’s just my life.

Isaacs did what any naturally sassy and brazen comedian would do. She reasoned that if she was “the Bride of Christ,” then God was being a dead beat husband – and she took God to marriage counseling. (I know what you are thinking: “Why hadn’t I thought of that yet!?”)

I found Isaacs’ memoir through the dark places of her life honest and …well hysterical. As she described some of the darker and more heart wrenching years of her life, her story resonated with me on many levels. She was passionate about God, yet couldn’t stand some of the “Churchy-ness” of Church. She seemed to grip the idea that there are real, raw, genuine and cool people in the world, and hated that the cross necklace and prarie dress wearers seemed to miss them.

Isaccs struggled with the same issues that I talk about on my blog all the time: trying to find her purpose in life, Christian men, Non Christian men, dating, not dating, career choices, alcoholism, sexuality, Church culture, loving Jesus and faith. And throughout her struggle, she was always refreshingly honest with God.  Sometime she would yell, she would get sarcastic, and candid about the reality that she felt jipped. Heck, she even threatened to divorce Him! (And man, you thought I had gall!)

In the end, despite punchy humor and sassy remarks, Isaacs manages to squarely nail some of the desperate realities of letting God barbeque her life. She not only answers the question of “why do bad things happen to good people,” but manages to encourage the reader to press into their own darkness in their lives. She shows the face of God for who He really is, darkness and all. Isaacs does not shy away from these harder issues of faith – but instead, through her unflinching work, she proves that God was really much much bigger and greater than she ever gave Him credit for. And not in some sappy Christian Book store sort of way. Promise, she doesn’t quote verses at you – yet by the end you really get a sense of passion for God that you would never find through the “3 Points and a Poem” books that fill the shelves at Sonshine Christian Stores.

In conclusion, walk away from your computer screen, get into your car, and drive to the nearest store where you can find this book. Or better yet, click the link below and order it. And then go sit patiently by your front door and wait for the delivery guy to come.

One guy, way in the back, rose to his feet. Everyone peeked through the dark to see if anyone was standing. The man was in his mid fifties or so, and from the looks of it (it was dark mind you) he seemed to be a person who normally isn’t in a church. The pastor stalled the music a bit longer. He kept talking, coaxing others to join and stand up. More music. More tension. Music. Tension.

Finally, the pastor begins talking to the one man who is standing. He asks everyone to give a round of applause for this guy who has decided to give his life to Jesus. The room erupts with cheering, shouting, whistling and applause. I almost lost my lunch.

I have not and cannot explain what rises up inside of me every time I think of this moment – but I get incredibly ANGRY. I can’t help but feel like we are a bunch of those pyramid-scheming-network-marketing people trying to con our friends into buying into this religion business. And when someone wants to pray the prayer, we are supposed to get super excited and clap – saying, “Yeah man, we got one.”

Immediately after admitting that I think this way, I feel incredibly guilty. The reality is that if this man is having a life changing experience (which could totally be the legitimate case), who am I to be angry about it? Shouldn’t I be celebrating the fact that his life is about to change? And even if I wasn’t a church-going-person, shouldn’t I at least be happy that he has decided to commit to a good cause? I should be commending his efforts to live a “nicer” life.

Do We Have to Be Weird?

I am thinking the anger happens because of a disconnection between the scene in church I’d described, and how God plays out for me in my own life. Instead of seeing an accurate picture, I am reminded of a few groups that I’d rather not be associated with.

  Have you ever been talking to someone who believes in a conspiracy theory? Or someone who believes in Aliens? Or someone who believes that we should be living on the Akan 40 Day Calendar to alter our states of consciousness and become more pure beings of energy? Yeah, after talking with them for about five minutes, they lose you. Once they really get into the pithy parts of their beliefs, they start using really impacted words. Words that have HUGE meaning all tucked inside of them, to the point where it is hard to follow even a sentence. It almost seems as if they are speaking of another language. And most of the time, they toss it out there like it is “normal people” language.  “Oh you know, when the aliens return to reclaim the rightful remnants for the 4th universe.” Right, of course, I was just thinking that.

And you might nod your head, but inside you are thinking two things: 1) What the hell are they talking about? 2) They don’t really believe this sh** do they?

On a smaller scale, listening to the way that Christians talk sometimes reminds me of this. I mean, think about the way we talk about God – “I’m really just experiencing the fullness of God right now.” or “God has given me the peace that surpasses all understanding, and I know that He will provide.” or “I am really praying for all of those prodigal sons and daughters out there, that they can just be covered God’s grace, and experience the Blood of the Lamb.”

REALLY GUYS? What the hell does any of that mean?

Since when did having a relationship with God mean that you have to talk like you are from another planet? Can’t we just be real people first? Talk like our friends in regular words? Not speak with a voacbulary that makes sense only you grew up inside of the church (or if you had a “Christian-ese Translational Dictionary”)?

I know there are verses in the bible that talk about being different, being “a city on a hill,” and letting your light shine and all of that – but I don’t know if Jesus meant that you were supposed to form a club that made outsiders want to reach for the tin foil hats – in fear that we don’t start trying to read their thoughts.

Ok, I am having a little fun with this. We aren’t that bad. But there are moments where I start thinking this way – usually when I have friends that don’t normally go to church attend a service. I begin to pick up on all of the little cultural nuances that normally I don’t notice. Maybe it’s seeing it through the eyes of a newcomer that make me question parts of our protocol. Yes, the ribbon dancer in the back of the service is weird. Yes, a person screaming “JESUS!!” at the topic of their lungs in the middle of worship is a bit odd. Yes, the worship leader singing random spiritual words doesn’t make sense. And I am not saying that any one of these things is bad, or that they shouldn’t happen – I just don’t always understand the purpose of them. I think that we do them mostly because it’s just what we have always done.

Jesus Salesmen

It makes me mad because I don’t like feeling like I have to sell Jesus. Like he is a product and we have created a culture around this product. We are trying to get others to buy into our product, and our culture. “See, Jesus is cool. Be like us. Listen to the bad music on the Fish Radio, carry your bible around, and begin talking about the Spirit of Christ like he is real person standing next to you.”  It seems that the more people we can convince to do this, the better Christians we are.

It makes me mad because I’m afraid we lose God in all of that. Or maybe not so much lose Him, because it’s not like we forget  him while we listen to Michael W. Smith or Zoey Girl or SuperChick (yes, I had to go looking for some of those band names, I didn’t know them off the top of my head) – but maybe God is bigger than bad radio. Bigger than inclusive language and eloquent prayers before eating in a restaurant (which good way to show the people at the table next to you that you are believers!)

God Likes Beer, Rap Music and Cusses. Right?

What I am getting at this this – In my mind, God likes beer. Yep, likes a really good beer. And rap music, even the kind with cussing. And God likes art, especially when it includes naked ladies. God likes cooking, and listening to great Indie Artists while dancing in the kitchen over a good pot of Jambalaya. And God likes Dance – even the kind of dancing that some church ladies call provocative. And God likes nightclubs – the kind that are thick and smoky with parties that go on until 2am. And God is really jazzed on science – even the kind that is devoted to proving He doesn’t exist. And God likes literature – even books too racy to be in schools, or the books that are angry at Him, or the ones that don’t belong in the religious section of Barnes and Noble.  God might have a Facebook. God might Twitter. God has emotions – He gets stoked on things, and gets upset with things. I think He get’s angry sometimes. God cusses sometimes. He gets mad and lets a really good one fly.

I like this God better. A God who likes beer is a God who I want to be around. And not only because I like beer, but because after spending most of my life chasing after this deity that we call God, I feel like I know him in the same way that you’d know a really old friend. And my really old friend is big enough to handle a little beer, a little Facebook, and a little honesty.  Maybe this is just me projecting who I want God to be – but in my soul, I know that God is more real than a Sales Manager that wants to improve my monthly quota.

I’m not trying to make God less than he should be, or to be disrespectful in anyway – I just get angry when we have to make God this lifestyle thing – all complicated and surrounded by weird unattractive culture, and then try to convince people that we are right.

Can’t God just be normal? Can’t God be a cool guy who likes Taco Tuesday and Negro Modelos? Can’t God just be plain? Someone who meets you where you are at – and doesn’t care if you cuss? Does he have to make you carry around a bible and convert the guys who change your oil? Because I think my Midas Man is fine. I’ll tell him whatever he wants to know about God and who He is to me, but I don’t know that telling him about the Transcendence of the Spirit is really going to make sense to Midas Man. If anything, I think it would push him the other way.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m disrespectful. Maybe God hates rap, and I’m about to get chastised for trying to think otherwise. Maybe there is this “Holy Buffer” the separates the goodness of God from the bad crap in the world – and it gets me all uncomfortable. Maybe the ribbon dancer in the back of the church is right – I should just grow my hair long, get elastic pants like her and praise God by waving a flag to acoustic worship music. Maybe the culture is right on. I could be angry for all of the wrong reasons. I would just love it if I didn’t have to sell Jesus. Is that ok?

Anyway, I don’t know if this a question that can be solved in one blog post. So, I will have to pray about it. And maybe we can all talk a little bit about it.

But with that, brothers and sisters in Christ, I hope that the eternity past to the eternity future of glory with Jesus resides with you throughout the rest of your day. Thanks for reading with me, and stay in His Grip.

Blessings.

Now I bring this up not merely for the story element, but also because his return is about to signal a change in the relationship thus far. I have been so busy being excited to plant a big ole kiss on him in the airport that I forgot that after that picturesque moment, reality kicks in – we are in the beginning of a relationship.  And while that signals butterflies and floating around on pink clouds, there is another part of new relationships that isn’t quite so pleasant.

New relationships mean that you say to a person, “Yes I think I will decide to let you into who I really am.” I suppose it’s a decision to be discovered.  And from experience, sometimes this means that you feel like you are standing on the front lawn in your underwear holding a sign that says “Please still like me.”  No clothes to slim you or hide things. Just you and your chonies. And your hopes that they don’t walk away.

One of my hobbies is rock climbing. With a background as a gymnist and a swimmer, it is a sport that comes very natural to me. Plus as an outdoor enthusiast, nothing beats a weekend out in nature scrambling around on rocks. When you get to some of the higher climbs outdoors, there is a term that captures this new relationship feeling completely. Exposed. Usually this can happen when it’s really windy, or the route can change so that suddenly you become very aware of how high up you are, and how little you have to hold onto. It is a very indescribable feeling. Your holds can be good, you can have secure feet, but still you become cognizant of how vulnerable you really are.

This is the feeling of new relationships for me. The side of a rock. Front lawn. Clinging by your finger nails. In your undies. Feeling the wind and the height all around you.  And clinging to the sign that reads, “Please still like me.”

Scarlet Letters.

In light of HNB being actually local, I am realizing that as comfortable as I am in my skin and believe that I’m a pretty rad chick to date,  there are stories and events in my life that I with which I am well acquainted. [I am avoiding calling them 'skeletons' in my closet because I don't like that term.] I am really okay with the course my life has taken. However, just because you are okay with your life doesn’t mean that someone else isn’t  going to look it over and say, “Whoa. I didn’t know that was in there. I don’t know about all this.”

I suppose this brings me to my question – at what point do you bring up some of the harder stories of your past? I know there is a delicate balance between what our significant others should be made aware of  and what is information will fuel a fire for no reason. For example, I have a girl friend dating a guy who has been married before.  She should know, first of all that he was married, and secondly, someof the background of their marriage/divorce. However, she needs no gritty details. At some point, stuff like that just burns in your mind.

I have a friend that was engaged last year. Her marriage didn’t happen, and now she is dating again. And I know she asks the same question – at what point does she need to tell guys that she is dating that she was engaged before? She asks, “Why does it feel like such a scarlet letter?” Why does the fact that you nearly married someone else seem like the kiss of death to a new relationship? We all know the obvious answer to part of that – no one wants to think of their mate walking down the aisle with someone else. And because it didn’t work out we all want to immediately know WHY. “Quick, please tell me that you are still normal.” Right? Is this not the game we play?

When thinking about this girl friend, I would never call her “damaged goods” in the wake of the broken engagement. In fact, to me, the fact that she tried so hard to make it work before calling it quits speaks to her level of loyalty and commitment in the face of a struggle. She knew that not everything was perfect, but was willing to stick through to ensure that she had given it her best. I would call that integrity….which is a good thing. Still  – she is destined to sit at coffee tables with new cute guys and try to explain her way through that portion of her life.

Furniture Projects

Obviously we know that these conversation topics aren’t things that you start your first date with. “Hey, thanks for dinner. I had a great time. P.S. I’ve been married before.”  People have to earn the right to know that inner parts of your soul, and the parts of your story that may have left you with chinks in your armor or little scars.  That part takes time.

In some ways, these are like the things that antique us. I have been working on a furniture project for the past few weeks. It is a bed frame from my dad’s childhood. I love it that is is weathered and scratched and has stories to go with the scratches. In fact, on the headboard, there are little teethmarks. When my dad was 2 years old and apparently couldn’t sleep during nap time, he put his little mouth on the headboard and gnawed some divots in the wood. They are still there. My mom told me, “When you’re sanding this thing, leave these scratches. They’re important.” And she is right. I could have gone down to IKEA and bought a bed frame that was perfect, but I didn’t want to. And even with my dad’s bed frame, I could have taken the power sander and blasted out all of the imperfections. But I didn’t want to do that either. It’s a better piece of furniture with nicks and dings. So as people, we’re kinda the same way – we are all walking, talking, dating bed frames.

Ingrid Michaelson Wisdom.

As I sit here typing, I am listening to “The Way I Am” by Ingrid Michaelson. I am realizing that this song resonates with us for a reason. There is something powerful about letting someone in. It grows us. It makes the bond between two people that much more meaningful.  It shifts the basis of acceptance from what we do (are we perfect, we are beautiful, are we funny…) to simply who we are. Give it a listen.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJOzdLwvTHA]

So, I am anticipating making the drive to the airport, these thoughts roll over and over in my mind. A little unsure. A little scared. Determined to be brave. Decided to climb through the route even if it feels exposed. Picking up my sign and headed out to the lawn. Wishing that there was a formula to follow, but knowing that in this life it is never really that simple. Instead, I know I should take things slowly, genuinely, and organically honest.   And then - I will do what the rules say you do - stand in the front lawn in your chonies,  and desperately hold the sign that says, “PLEASE STILL LIKE ME!”