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.

Thanks boyfriend, now I really feel like the clock is ticking, (T-minus 3 years!) and I have no clue what my goals even are. And of course when you’re standing next to a guy that owns his own business, gets asked to speak at conferences about technical jargon most people can’t even comprehend, and occasionally gets written up in TechCrunch – sure there’s no reason at all to panic.

Hyperventilations aside, there have been a few things this year that I have really come to know and appreciate. And despite the fact that I used to pray to die, it is nice to acknowledge that I am growing.

Cancer, Lay-Offs, and the Living Situation from Hell

Last month had to potential to have lots of bad events, in fact, the whole month could have been deemed a failure. For those of you who have know me long enough, you’d know that I am no stranger to horrible life altering changes. In fact, they are called my early twenties.

First things first, last month I found a lump. Ladies, you know what I am talking about. I can’t actually tell you that I felt dread when I found it, I actually thought it was a gland. It wasn’t until I was in the Chiropractor’s office that I realized what it was. He was telling me that I had a swollen gland at the base of my neck, and I say, “Oh yea, I have on in my boob too. Maybe I’m fighting a cold!”

Immediately he says, “You don’t have glands in your breasts…here let me feel.” Before I know it, his hands are all over my girls, giving me a good old fashioned rub down. It is there you realize that Chiropractors are doctors, but then again, they aren’t really “doctors”….eek.

Post-accosting, it dawns on me that this might be serious. I make an appointment to get checked out by my Primary Care physician. Mentally though, I keep telling myself that it’s nothing, that I’m going to go in there and they’re going to send me home.

Except she doesn’t just send me home. Instead, she makes a slightly concerned face and says that she needs me to get an ultrasound. She could have just told me that I have 3 days to live, because that was basically what I heard. And you know, it turns out that in that moment I didn’t really mind the idea of having cancer, it was more that I didn’t mentally prepare to have cancer, so it really caught me off guard.

This moment began a pattern with me and my team of doctors over there in the Breast Cancer center. Each appointment I would show up, thinking to myself, “Jenni, this is really nothing, they’re just going to check it out and send you home.” And each and every time, I would get all worked up, anxious and crying from the needles and incisions, and then some doctor would walk in and wrinkle his brow. The nurses would rush out of the room, and come back with another doctor, and within moments they were asking me to put on my shirt so they could tell me what was going on, and proceed to break the news that I needed more tests.

And again, I was completely surprised that I was blind sided every time. I almost wanted to say to the doctors, “No, see you don’t understand. I can handle the fact that I might be dying, but you people need to prepare me a little better. Instead of telling me that it’s nothing, and then making the concerned face, I need to you to tell me that it might be something so I can at least plan for it.”

After several weeks of assuring myself it was nothing, only to be asked to come back for more tests, I was running a bit raw.  I mean, I’d had been accosted by my Chiropractor, had cold jelly poured on my boobies by a little Asian woman, had a doctor right out of med school take pictures of my lumps, sat in the waiting room sobbing, and at one point had one doctor tell me to calm down because, ”We cannot position the incision properly to get samples with your chest heaving like that. I need you to stop crying.” And after all that I had to wait a WEEK to find out my results.

Now, all this equals not fun, but as all things in life this was not the only hurricane in my life as of September. That week was the same week my employer had to lay of 15% of our work force. I’ve never been in a “start up” environment like this before, but I can tell you, it’s a totally different ball game. I’ve been through lay offs before, but lay offs were “just business,” a little rough maybe, but it didn’t feel personal. This time was so much harder.  When you watch the very people who laid the bricks in the foundation of a company pack a box and hit the door – it’s almost like a death in a way. Our whole office felt like we were mourning people who had literally died. It was awuful.

And finally, my home life has been terrible. Anyone whose lived with roommates know living with people can turn really very ugly, and this situation did…really bad. I don’t want to say too much about it; I’m not looking to slander, but just to say that the additional tension of a terrible home life was not the greatest timing for this week.

Now, here is the interesting part: in a week where I had potential for complete chaos: disease, loss of a job, complete destruction at home, I had a thought just come to me while talking to my mom on the freeway. I said, “You know what mom, I. Am. Ok.”

It was as if all of the painful and rough experiences over the past seven years came flooding back – lay offs, loss of relationships, moving around the world, learning other cultures, struggling to even find the corporate ladder – much less climb it, they were all there. And it dawned on me that in every single of of those moments, I had survived them. I had found my way. Yes, maybe with bruised knees and tears on my eyes sometimes, but I found a way to get through it anyway. And not even that, but right now my life is actually really fabulous.

I think I said to my mom, “Mom, I need you not to freak out about all of this. I’ve realized over the last few years that can be tough as nails. And you know what? I can handle cancer, I will be ok if I get laid off, and I know how to handle immature destructive people. What I simply cannot handle is the suspense of not know if any one of those things is actually going to happen or not. It’s not a matter of being brave in the midst of pain, it’s a matter of making through the suspense.”

Now I realize that I could have been having a VERY optimistic moment. I don’t want to pretend to know what it actually feels like to have cancer. But in that moment, it was a realization of how much I have grown in the last few years. It was so nice to have the confidence of knowing that you could look at pain in the face. To say, “You may be tough, but you know, sometimes I can spit nails.”

Where did THAT Jenni come from!?

Needless to say, my results from the lump came back negative. I still have to have surgery, but it’s completely non-threatening. Also, I was one of the few who got to keep my job. Which, I won’t lie – sometimes feels harder than those who had to leave, but man I cannot tell you how grateful I am to still be working for my company. And the roommate situation? Still not good, it’s very tense,  but I’m working it out like an adult, and reminding myself that at one point in the near future, she will actually move out. And that seems pretty good to me.

I almost feel like life made a mistake. Historically, I should have been the person who got the shaft, the triple wammie of bad news: roommate, job and health.  But suddenly I feel like I am that person who walked out of the grocery store only to realize they’d been given WAY too much change.  What are you supposed to do? Go back and say, “Excuse me, you let me have too much. Please take some back.”

Hell no. You get in your car and you drive. And you desperately check your rear view mirror to make sure they don’t come after you.

Maybe that’s what growing up is really all about. It’s not really about having a “scary age,” or accomplishing your goals, getting a new title at work, having people take you seriously, or having a husband. Maybe it’s really about just getting to an age where you realize that you can take life by the balls if you have to. And it might kick you in the guts, but that you won’t actually die from it. That change can actually be a VERY good, exciting thing.

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.

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.

But what if God is more like what the bible depicts, what if he is a Father? What if it played out a bit more like this, “Hey Dad, I thinking about going to college to majoring in film and trying to make it in the movie industry. What are your thoughts? Do you think that’s my strength, or should I try something else?‘”

How many of us got to college and called our dads and asked, “Hey dad, should I go to class today? I just want to do what you think I should, so please tell me what to do today.“

Could it be that if God is more like a father, that it makes sense that he gives us choices? So instead of simply saying, “You will go to this college, take these courses, major in this study and become this professional…” I’m beginning to believe that I’m a bit more involved. Maybe God has given us all kinds of strengths and as long as we say within those, we’re in his will.

So, maybe for someone that means they could be a teacher, or a lawyer, or an architect because all of those professions use part of that person’s strengths. And maybe God didn’t whisper in that person’s ear which one to choose.

The notion that I’m an active, responsible participant in my life turns that “lead me I will follow” methodology on it’s head.  Suddenly life is much more exciting, and yes most definitely a whole new level of scary. Making choices, telling God what I want, going after dreams and not expecting God to miraculously land it on my door with a heavenly bow…that’s a life that is bigger, riskier, and more adventurous than God simply bumper bowling me through the choices. And frankly it sounds more like a life crafted by a God I want to spend time with.

As some of you know, I’m coming up on the midst of some really cool life changes. I have options, which are really fun and make me feel like I’m wearing my big-girl pants. But they’re very different. I almost feel like it’s a Choose Your Own Adventure novel. Or, like I told my own dad, “Dad, I feel like God has taken me down the toy aisle and said, ‘You can have roller skates, barbie dolls or a bike, it’s your choice.”

Uhh. Those are all really killer toys. And they are all very different. And all of them end well. Unless, I ask for the barbies and in the midst of playing wedding with Ken, her head pops off…that could be not so fun.

Part of me really hates that God doesn’t lean down and tell me, “Go with the bike. You can go off really cool jumps with it, and it’s the most fun toy out there.” Instead He is standing back and letting me choose. And if I’m being honest, there’s a part in my stomach that feels like I’m about to throw up. This is an instance where I wish Carrie was right, and I could simply say, “Jesus take the wheel!” But I know it doesn’t work like that.

So what do I do? What do we do when we’re faced with big choices, and there is no God to write the answers on the wall? I’m not quite sure, but if you do, I’d like it if you could tell me please.

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.

In response to the dark night that ensued he wrote these lyrics:

When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot, thou hadst taught me to say,
It is well….It is well….With my Soul

I can tell you right now, that story added some perspective to those words.  But even within the amazing meaning of surrender in the face of adversity, there is another part that has come to be meaningful.

“Thou hadst taught me to say”

Yep. Taught. Meaning that being at peace with your circumstances in life is something to be learned. Continuing to trust God when you are disappointed is something we don’t automatically do. Being in the midst of a dark night and knowing that it is well with your soul is something that comes over years, experiences, heartbreaks and gray hairs.

It doesn’t come right away. It isn’t easy. Or natural.

To me that puts a pictures in my head of God being some sweet and understanding person. Someone who delights in watching us learn and grow, even though its hard and we get it wrong. That he jumps up and down and yells with excitement the same way you would if your kid was learning to ride a two wheeler for the first time. That he smiles and is proud when we say through teary eyes, “Ok God, I’m going to try to be well in my soul. I don’t feel it, but I’m going to give it a shot.”

I suppose it just makes me feel less guilty for thinking that things being “well with my soul” isn’t always a reality. Sometimes it’s not. And yes over time it has gotten easier, but it has been something I guess I’ve learned to do. And I think it makes me feel better that when things go really really wrong, that I actually get angry and mourn. I’m not like this plastic person that can have my life or dreams dashed and then turn and say at bible study, “Praise be to Jesus, He’s in control. He knows what He’s doing and I just don’t understand because His ways are higher than mine.” To me, saying that always had a feeling of synthetic mindlessness that I couldn’t stomach.

So I really like this hymn. It makes me feel human. It makes me feel good about God. I listen to it when no one is watching. Don’t tell anyone, but I have 3 or 4 different versions of it on my ipod. And maybe that makes me a hipster. Someone who loves organic coffee, quirky breakfast nooks, guys who wear plaid shirts, Toms Shoes, and underground indie music.

Now that I’ve given you my confession, what hymns do you listen to behind closed doors? You can comment anonymously if you want to, I know you don’t want to ruin your cool.

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.

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.”

Running along the bay tonight, it was the first time I had recalled this memory in years. And yet, tonight was a night much like the one I had on Air New Zealand almost 3 years ago. The night was black. Purple. Blue. The bay was black, and yet the moon shone it’s warm light down on the water, making little diamonds sparkle down the current. And all of the homes and cars on the other side of the bay all shone like little cafe lights in a far off place.

I had to smile. I can’t help but feel like in life we always come full circle. Here I am again, lost and a mess. This time not in my identity, but rather in my career, passion and profession. I’ve just decided to pursue freelance writing, and I can’t lie; I feel like I have given up safety to chase ghosts. Here I am standing in the midst of the moon light whispering, “God I don’t know where you are, and I am scared sh*tless, but here I am.”

But here is the cool thing: I’m not scared the way I was before. The night can be a very terrifying place if you let it be. The first time in my walk through the dark night, I remember being gut wrentchingly anxious, scared, unsure and looking at all of the long shadows and unknown sounds like they were going to over take me. This time, I feel like I have have come to love the dark night. The air is cooler. The colors are astounding. the lights seem to sparkle in a way that captures my heart. And you know, moon shadows are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. The idea that we can play with our shadows in the darkness of night is a notion beyond my own mind.

This time around I realize I have learned to relax in the darkness, to enjoy the night. I know last time I saw this vision, it marked the beginning of the most adventurous, beautiful, terrible, growing, stretching, rewarding journey I had been on in my life. This time I have slowed the anxiety and I can see the signs for what they are. And I can only hope that I am standing on the brink of something half as great as the story I embarked on en route to New Zealand.

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.”

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.”

I did open the speech with a disclaimer that it was a Christian book, and if you happened to not be interested or disagreed, that was just fine. And then I went ahead and told the group about Miller’s brilliance. I finished. They clapped. I sat down.

Then something interesting happened. One by one, as people went to the front and spoke about books that changed their lives, I noticed that out of the 10 people in the room, 8 of them had brought books that specifically dealt with spiritual substance. I mean, not all of them were what you would call “Christian” books, but they were books like The Shack, The Alchemist and Angles and Demons. Regardless of the specific teachings within the books, it hit me: people crave spirituality.

I suppose it surprised me because most of my Christian life, I’ve felt like I’ve needed to apologize to people. To be sorry that Christians as a whole are broken people, that the church is obnoxious and annoying, that most Christians are people that I myself wouldn’t want to hang out with, that God had rules that they didn’t like, and that the rules offended people. In fact, I think I have gone almost to a hypersensitive place thinking that most people don’t want anything to do with God or spirituality.

I was more than surprised to notice that people may not love Evangelical Christianity as it plays out in our world, but that doesn’t change the fact that people are hungry. I suppose it also made me think that maybe humanity’s souls are still awake to the needs of spirituality, even if their tastes don’t include a modern church.

I’m not suggesting that we all run out and hit people over the head with our bibles and picket at street corners. I don’t think we need to give people any more reasons to not like Christians. I mean, I’m already standing in front of groups, and telling them that their souls are damaged, so I don’t think Christian PR needs any more help.  I suppose I just mention it to remind us that the world does crave spirituality and like  Miller says: The world wants something outside of itself  to give it a name, and tell it who it is.  Whether or not my networking group likes my friend Jesus or not I think it helps to know that we are all craving after the same thing.

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.

Puppy Love.

The first box that my mom left on my porch was a complete time capsule from my first Puppy Love. I had dated a very sweet boy my sophomore year of high school. We met in Language Arts class. He asked me to the Homecoming dance in a poem that he’d put on my desk (which I found in the box). We went to the dance. We had an amazing time. We started dating. We fell in love. It was glorious. He was sweet, and wrote me notes and poems. He would write me pages and pages about how he adored me, and wanted us to be together forever. We dated for almost 9 months, which is just about an eternity at 16 years old. At the end of the school year, I went on a trip to Hawaii with my school’s science program. It felt like the longest trip in the entire world. The distance started to get between us. When I got home, he’d made more friends and begun branching out. We started to grow apart. Painfully, it was time. We decided to go our separate ways. I was crushed. I had my first experience of realizing why they say you’re falling in love. Because when you’re done falling, you smack the ground – HARD.

I was inconsolable. The first day my dad went around my room and collected all of the remnants that were associated with my heart-throb. He placed them one by one in a box: pictures, letters, photos, frames, stuffed animals, anything that would make me think of this boy.  He then put the box in the attic. There it rested for almost TEN years. Until yesterday, when my mom delivered it oh-so-timely to my front door.

I have to admit, as I have long since healed and moved on, it was really cute to dig through the box of treasures. There were letters explaining things I had completely forgotten about, pictures of us as little pip-squeek babies, and pressed flowers. I couldn’t stop smiling. And not because I’m in any way connected or thinking about him. Come on, it’s been ten years. And also I’m pretty sure he’s engaged – or at least that’s what I’ve gathered through Facebook stalking (I mean, if we’re friends on FB it doesn’t really count as stalking…right!?).

I realized that this relationship was a perfect dipiction of Puppy Love because it was entirely evident of how innocent we were; untainted and unjaded. It was simple. He was nuts about me and told me all the time. He just wanted to stay with me for a 16-year-old version of forever. I was nuts about him too. And that was all there was. We had cute kisses, innocent hearts, and were totally unaware of the heartache that would follow in the wake of young love.

If I’m aloud to give a shameless plug to HNB, my current boyfriend-extrodinaire, digging through that box made me think about him quite a bit. Even though I’m 25 and he’s almost 29, somehow we have that same innocent feel. HNB is really simple. He just likes me. I just like him back. It’s easy and fun. And I’m not going to get too mushy on the internet, but it felt good to know even after all of the DBs that are out there, and crap that I’ve sifted through, innocent love is still real and a possibility – like the kind I had at 16.

I think if I was to go back to Jenni the 16 year old, I would tell her to keep dating guys like Puppy Love. Because in between Puppy Love and HNB, there were a couple of rough relationships. Although things turned out ok, I could have saved myself a lot of heartache if I would have taken good notes from Puppy Love, and tried to stick with sweet innocent love like the kind I had at 16.

Perfection and Anorexia.

The other box that my mom left at my house was a filing box that I started keeping when I was a little girl. I think I’ve always been somewhat neurotic, because I started filing at the age of 9 or so. My dad bought me the box, and each year I could collect pieces of artwork, Language Arts writing pieces, or pictures of friends that were important that year. I kept filing all the way through college. So, needless to say that when I found this box on my porch, it was more than a trip down memory lane, it was a complete history of Jenni from a little baby scooting on the carpet, all the way through sorority pictures in college.

The one thing that stood out to me about who I was back them was simply a feeling of being exhausted all the time. That and that I was totally skinny.

See, I was musical and athletic. I was on the band and the swim team. I was taking tons of classes. I got all As. I wanted to be popular, but wasn’t really. But I tried really hard to have lots of friends, and keep the peace with all of my friends (which can be hard when you’re actually a loud mouth dramatic 16 year old). And through all of that, I didn’t really believe that eating was mandatory. So, at the tender age of 17, I barely tipped the scales at 95 lbs. Which, as shown in my filed photos, I looked like I was 13. (NOTE HERE- High school girls: being a 13-year-old-looking pile of bones = SO not cute. Don’t buy the hype. Eat dinner).

Scrolling through the pictures, and through the work I did, I couldn’t help but feel the exhaustion coming back to me. It was like I spent my entire years through high school striving. I’m not sure if that was just the pressures of school, or of my friends, or of my home life, but I know I’m much more relaxed now. Not everything is so black and white. I enjoy life a lot more. I eat dinner a lot more.

I wish I could have gone back and told the high school me that it was ok to be less than everything. To relax. To have fun. I would tell 16-year-old-Jenni to quit trying so hard, because she’d wake up at 25 and still be a hot mess. I’d tell her to get over the hype of being perfect and skinny and just start getting used to choas and not looking like a model.  I’d tell her to quit trying to be so good. Not to say that being good doesn’t get you anywhere – it’s just that I know now that it’s  not a guarantee. Crappy things will still happen, and you still have to live in and grow.

My advice to 16 year old Jenni? Grow hard. Laugh a lot more than you do. Forget about trying to be everything. And I know this sounds cliche, but go after what you love. Who cares if you don’t know what that is right now. But just take a deep breath and let go. The pressure of being perfect isn’t as important as you think.

Message to the kids?

I don’t know if the 16 year old Jenni would have had the mind to understand all of that. I don’t know if just telling a kid, “Don’t worry, relax, life will work out” really means anything to them. Moreover, I don’t know if my memory lane road trip is going to mean anything to these high school kids next weekend. I don’t know if my youth of Brittney Spears and boy band hits even connects to high schoolers who grew up on iPhones and Facebook. I don’t know if they are going to look at me and think that I am outdated and lame. That my stories are unbiblical. That I can’t quote enough scripture or have enough reliability to the bible to be a real speaker.

Although it was good to see how I have grown away from 16 year old Jenni, it would be nice if I had at least a topic or direction for this camp next week. If you have any brilliant ideas, feel free to help a sister out.