My birthday is in a little more than two weeks, and I’m turning 27.  For those of you who are like me and were (or still are) obsessed with Sex and the City, you’d know that everyone has a “scary age”.  Scary ages are a certain year that has  signals you’ve reached the “unknown,” or you realize your mortality, or you simply acknowledge that you are no where near where you “should be.”

Twenty-seven is my scary age.

I have been dreading 27 since I was in Junior High. In fact, when I was 13 I used to pray that I would get cancer at 27 so that way I would die young, and fabulous, engrained in people’s minds as beautiful, vibrant, full of life and promise. I stopped praying that at 15 because I realized that it was a very selfish prayer. My brilliant and handsome husband would most likely be devastated by my tragic death.  So I stopped praying for early cancer.

The really ironic thing is, a) I totally don’t have a husband (which, at 13,  I never would have seen that one coming) and 2) I just had a cancer scare last month.

I haven’t actually been able to pin point what about turning 27 scares me so badly. I’m sure part of it is the ceaseless reminder that I don’t have as much figured out as I thought I would. My boyfriend turned 30 in August. Right before his actual day, I’d asked him if he was scared. He very coolly responded with, “Well, I would be, but I’ve already accomplished all of the goals I set out to accomplish…so not really.”

F-word.

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Last night I was out with some friends, chatting about new things that are going on in each of our lives. Within the last six months, one of my friends left her design firm and opened her own business. Another friend of mine started a new job at an Interactive Agency five months ago, and just found out last night that she is getting promoted. And of course, I just started a new role a few days ago where I am finding that trial by fire is going to be my course in learning.

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.”

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I recently read Rob Bell’s newest book Drops Like Stars for an interview that I’m doing. It is undescribebale. It’s actually a coffee table book, with bold pictures and artistic placement of words, and very real stories from interesting people.

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. Read the rest of this entry »

As I have grown in my relationship with God, I have become very aware of a mistake that most of us make as Christians. I owe this though in most of its entirety to Patrick Dodson, because I’m pretty sure that he thought of it first and then told it to me.

Most of us view God like He’s our personal drill sergeant. Now, initially you might think that sounds a bit too harsh or not quite right, but how often do you hear your friends or yourself saying things like, “God please just tell me where I should go, what is your will in this situation? I’ll follow you wherever you lead me.”

Sounds like a good christian prayer right?  I’ve heard people say things like this more times than I can count. But when you think about what is really being asked we are saying, “God just give me orders, and I will do exactly what you say.“  I.E., we want to be passive participants in our lives, (”Jesus take the wheel”  …thank you Carrie Underwood) and let God do the ordering and thinking. I can’t help but think that methodology is bit off. Or if it was the right approach, I would understand why so many people think religion is a crutch. Read the rest of this entry »

I think most cool Christians go through a phase where they really love hymns. You know, the old stuff that they used to sing in churches that had wooden pews. Maybe your church still has wooden pews, but mine has cushy red chairs. There is no wooden shelf in the row ahead to hold a bible and a Hymnal. There is no leader at the front telling us to “turn to page 117” and we can find prayers that were probably written by monks in caves. We assume they’re English because we can understand about half of the words, but the other half we have to guess at, or we can just add -eth to the end to make it fit the vernacular (panteth, shareth, understandeth…see?)

Even still, I think most cool Christians go through a phase where they really love hymns. And I have hesitated writing on it because I think the classic branding of a “Hipster Christian” is if you are wearing dark skinny jeans and telling your friends that God really “touched me to press into him…because you know, I want my soul to pant-eth after him like the deer…”

I don’t wear skinny jeans, and I match my clothes too much to be considered a hipster, so I’ve avoided the topic. But I can’t deny it anymore. I’m sorry if this means you have to re-categorize me in you mind from “real edgy writer” to quintessential  hipster Christians who find deep meaning and beauty in hymns…but I’m joining their team. I’ve had hymns running through my mind for literally 3 weeks on end. Morning, noon and night. I play them on YouTube when I think that no one is watching. Maybe I feel better indulging myself when I think that no one knows that I rock out to music that’s written in New King James-ian speak.

It is Well With My Soul

Ok, as long as we are in confession time, I have to tell you…I’ve loved this song for a long time. A really really long time. You see, a few years ago I’d heard the story with this song. Apparently the man who wrote the song had his entire family tragically killed in a boating accident or something to that effect (it was much more complicated, but did involve a boat and death). One minute he was a happy man, 3 hours later his wife, kids, everything…gone. Read the rest of this entry »

I don’t know if you felt it, but something shifted this past week. I think I even felt the change before it happened, because I remember turning to HNB and asking, “Do you feel that? Change is coming, I can feel it in the air.”

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.

Tonight while on a jog  around the bay, the night was so clear that the moon made mirror images on the water. Seeing that it’s a full moon at the moment, it was bright and the night was purple and blue and black – some of my favorite tones.

And while I pumped out all of my energy from the day, a memory resounded through my mind. A few years ago I was in the midst of another dark night lit by only the moon. I remember this moment very vividly – not only for the emotional significance, but for the astonishingly sharp visual that seemed to pair with it. It was the middle of the night when I was en route to New Zealand. In leaving LA, I was leaving behind a host of problems, my life was essentially in wreckage, and I was holding it all together with McGiver-style bubble gum and tape. Little did I know that when I landed in New Zealand I would promptly be deconstructed and begin the process of slowly piecing my life back  together. That moment on the plane was probably one of the darkest, more anxiety ridden nights of my life.

As I flew through the dark night, thousands of feet in the air, the darkness was piercing black. But the moon was soft white, illuminating the ocean as a blanket of sparking diamonds. The night was so clear that even from my height, I could make out the tiniest islands down there in the in the massive blue, and I could see the white caps of waves washing over beaches. It was honestly one of the most beautiful sites I have seen in my life. I remember specifically with tears in my eyes I whispered under my breath, “God I don’t know where you are, and I am scared sh*tless, but here I am.” Read the rest of this entry »

I have had lots of friends asking, “So how did the talks go?” since I have been back from speaking at Summer Camp this weekend. I have two words to describe this weekend:

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. Read the rest of this entry »

Yesterday I was attending one of my networking groups that focuses on public speaking.  No one signed up to give a speech that day, so I sent an email out to the group indicating that we were each going to do “Mini Speeches.” The assignment to the group was to bring in their favorite book and we would take 3-5 minutes to speak about why you liked it, what touched you, and maybe read a small excerpt out of the book. The point of the exercise would be preparing content and delivering the speech in a clear concise way.

When I started looking through my books, I knew right away what I wanted to talk on. Don Miller happens to be my favorite author and celebrity crush. I have all of his books and love his unorthodox version of pursuing Jesus with a tender and open mind.  One of my favorite of Don’s books is Searching For God Knows What.  One of my favorite chapters in this book is called “Children on Chernobyl.” This particular chapter was really impacting because it describes a picture Miller keeps on his desk of a small five year old boy whose body was grossly mutilated by the horrors of the nuclear leak in the Soviet Union in 1986.

Miller explains it may seem drastic to compare this boy’s pain to humanity’s pain, but there are parallels that are somewhat striking. This boy’s body was the result of a terrible tragedy. And yet, our soul are terribly disfigured by tragedy. That we are all distorted by the war between God and evil, and even though we appear to be fine on the outside, our souls have really become very damaged and pained.

As I was researching what to say in my mini-speech, it hit me how spiritual this book really was. I imagined myself standing in front of my club, telling them that their souls were damaged because of an unseen spiritual war. Which is just perfect because it happens to be the fastest and easiest way to be classified as the Crazy-Christian lady who you shouldn’t be friends with. Being confused, I did what I always do when I can’t decide something: I called my mom. I loved this book, but really didn’t want to preach or offend my friends that don’t believe in God…or Miller. My mom said a quick prayer, and I decided “what the heck – I’ll give it a try. I mean the worse thing that can happen is that they’ll all think I’m nuts..and I’m pretty good at convincing people of that on my own anyway.” Read the rest of this entry »

Just today, one of my good friends asked me to speak at the Summer Camp for her youth group. My knee jerk reaction was to say yes. So, I said yes. Then the questions came. I found myself realizing that I don’t know if I have much to say to 16 year old kids. “Drink beer kids, it’s great!” or “Have sex, just wear a condom!” Right. Maybe not the best place to start. (And for the record, I wouldn’t actually say that. I know after the Sex Post, some of you think I stand outside the school yard gate and hand out condoms to Jr. Highers. Haha.)  But after telling my friend that I would speak, I legitimately sat down and freaked out thinking, “WHAT IN THE WORLD AM I GOING TO TALK ABOUT?”

Ironically, just yesterday my mom swung by my house. She and my dad have been cleaning out their house and attic, sorting through old things, and throwing away old junk. Buried deep in the attic, my mom came across a few boxes from my high school era. Being my wonderful mom, she figured that past memories could inspire some good creativity, so she promptly left the boxes on my front porch. Nothing beats coming home to find a box inscribed with your 16-year-old boyfriend’s name, and the contents of high school youth spilling down the porch stairs.

So, as I grapple with what Jesus and God want me to tell these kids, I have been doing my homework by walking through memory lane of my own high school experiences. Read the rest of this entry »