About That Weight Loss

“Mom, do you have any good fat pictures of me?” is a question I remember asking and certainly not one I ever thought I would. Earlier this year my trainer was impressed enough by my weight loss to ask me for before and after pictures to show to prospective clients. I have never been asked to be a before and after model before, so I excitedly began to choose two pictures that I felt would do my weight loss journey justice. Looking through many overweight pictures was a humbling, and embarrassing, process for me.

I’m what you may call “appreciative of the culinary arts.”  I come from a long line of people who feel the same. With German and Irish heritage, I naturally have a somewhat stocky build that went out of style back when cavemen no longer had to chase after and fight over their food. I can look in the mirror and see a large ribcage, a high forehead, and skin so white I once recently looked at my legs while outside at night and mentally commented on how bright they were. These are things that I cannot change.

And then there was something I could change: my weight. And so it happened that earlier this year I had the notion to join a gym. This was not a decision made without some internal deliberation. I thought about how there are people all over the world without enough to eat and I was going to pay a monthly fee to walk on a treadmill. I thought about trying a personal experiment…. could I lose weight spending the amount of money a single person receives in food stamps and utilizing free modes of exercise such as running? (Disclaimer: I was well aware that it wasn’t a precise experiment; I certainly had privileges. For instance, I live in an area where it is safe to go out and run when I want to and I can afford an apartment community with a viable workout room.) My basic evaluation of the situation was no, I would not lose weight entirely on my own.

I think I will always be grateful I decided to hand over the cash and join the gym. I’m even more grateful I got matched with a fantastic personal trainer, which is funny because things like personal trainers were expenses I would have judged a couple years ago. A personal trainer seemed like a lavish luxury for the wealthy and contrary to what some may think, working at homeless shelters and for hospices doesn’t make one monetarily wealthy. 

 Despite my past misgivings, I had a free initial session with a trainer (that’s where they get ya, folks) and soon I was signed up for a 90-Day weight loss challenge. I approached this journey realistically. I knew that I wasn’t going to stop eating sugar; after all I never was one who thought you should eat dessert first because life is short, but that you should eat it first AND last because it tastes good. Except for the two weeks that I did a detox (nothing unhealthy, just organic, non-processed meats and vegetables and an absence of things like white flour, processed ingredients, etc. as well as some additional protein and fiber shakes) I snacked when I wanted to. The big change was I wanted to snack a lot less than I used to want to. Even the way I drank my coffee at Starbucks changed and I still maintain many of these habits.

At the end of the challenge I had lost 30 pounds. Of course, it’s easiest to lose weight initially. Since the end of that challenge I’ve lost almost another 20 and that second phase has taken six months. I realize the weight loss slowed for two reasons: I was past the initial quick weight loss phase and I was building muscle (and I’m friends with the candy bowl at work). Having a personal trainer has been invaluable. On my own I probably would have ran for hours on a treadmill with little to show for it, but I’ve received a lot of education from seminars at the gym and direct education from my trainer. Not only have I lost weight, but I’ve become a lot stronger and am no longer scared of strength training. I’ve had the opportunity to try new things (boxing, anyone?) and overall, it’s been a lot of fun. The accountability and camaraderie I've built with my trainer have been huge blessings.

Now, for the vulnerable part: When I first contemplated losing weight I was conscious of how being thinner could change my self-esteem and I wasn’t sure it would all be for the better. It wasn’t until I faced the prospect of losing this weight that I realized that I’d been wearing it like an uncomfortable security blanket. My concern was that if I lost the weight and was still single, it would validate that there really was something wrong with me. Newsflash: There is stuff wrong with me. There’s stuff wrong with everybody. In fact, there’s stuff wrong with every single married person (oh that’s a great play on words!) that I know because we’re human and flawed and that’s where grace comes in…. but that could be a whole other post.

I decided to kick my concerns to the curb and focus on being healthier. It’s funny the differences I notice now that I’m thinner. I’ve had instances of people I haven’t seen in a long time not recognizing me if I ran into them in public. Once I was waiting outside of a restaurant for my own parents and they couldn’t tell if it was me until they got closer. Other times I do feel noticed. It’s almost funny how when I was larger I almost felt invisible when it came to things like dating and now, it just feels different. A huge part of that is a renewed sense of confidence and that’s been one of the best results of this journey.

So, yes, I have spent money for a gym and a personal trainer and I wouldn’t go back and change that. I’m interested to see how God uses this newfound confidence because it really has been one of the best results of becoming healthier.

Beauty from Ashes

He says, "Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth." ~Psalm 46:10

That, my friends, has been my verse for this year. It's a message has been communicated to me over and over again these past almost twelve months. This year started off really difficult and in the midst of that I had someone tell me, "Just be still." The reminders to be still have steadily continued throughout the year and sometimes you know God is speaking to you.

Back in January I was driving one morning- something I would often do on Sundays before church- and I swung by the airport, which really is only about 15-20 minutes from my apartment and I drove past and looked at the terminals. Steven Curtis Chapman's song, The Glorious Unfolding, had been playing and I decided going to Belize was a good idea. I had been entertaining the idea of a mission trip with my church and I hadn't been back to the country since I last flew back to the US from there in January 2007.

I also decided that month I needed to focus on forming more of a social life in the Raleigh area. I had been living here for a little over a year and I wanted to be intentional about making friends locally. I have a tendency to try new things where I hardly know anyone (I think this started with my trip to New York back in '04) and I started attending a small group from a church I had never visited. For a few months I was pretty quiet and as is my usual fashion, I finally began to open up and I kind of have been talking ever since. These friends don't know what a lifeline they were for me.

This past February I watched my mom recover from another brain surgery. She's a pretty strong woman. She might disagree, but we can agree to disagree because she's been through a lot and she's still standing (although, it is almost 11pm, so I'm thinking she's not standing at this exact moment, but you get the idea...). 

May came around with a fantastic trip to DC to see a friend get married, complete with a night stay in a hotel in my home town and another night stay in a hotel even closer to the city. I met up with a cousin and friend I hadn't seen in a while and also spent the next morning driving around the town I grew up in, seeing my childhood home and favorite spots. I also got to explore some of my favorite museums in the city. Sure I got a speeding ticket during the trip, but that got worked out.

Then in July I realized I just couldn't find my passport. I looked high and low and finally came to terms that a trip to Atlanta was in my future. I worked half a day and then started driving from Chapel Hill to Atlanta. I stayed in a snazzy hotel downtown and ordered chocolate cake from room service off of my swivel flat screen because I could, and took an individual tour of Atlanta attractions after getting things with my passport squared away the next morning. It's a good thing I went too, because going to Belize was a huge God-given blessing.

Very shortly after getting back to North Carolina, I jetted off to Belize and really got to know some great people better. I am so incredibly thankful I went because later this year my pastor announced his retirement and I don't know if I would have received such a blessing of friendship from him and his wife if I hadn't spent those 10 or so days really learning what it's like to go on a mission trip with no agenda and an openness to serve. I shared a smallish room with four other women and loved it.

While waiting to disembark the plane once back from the trip it turned midnight and my birthday began. I turned 33 this year. I used to hear people comment on how they appreciate being in their 30s because they are more comfortable in their own skin. I used to think they said that to feel better about being in their 30s, but now I can see that they were right. I'm settling into this decade of my life and I think something I said to my dog, Chai, one day when I was having a hard time and shed a few tears says a lot. I said, "This isn't want I thought my life would be like, but I'm glad you're a part of it." Family and friends, you better believe that goes for you too.

I rounded out my year by completing my first 5k, obtaining my LCSW, learning I have an exciting and highly anticipated change in my career coming up that I am excited to eventually share, watching my favorite niece grow, grabbing coffees here and there with my mom, making new friends, attending one of my favorite church services- the Christmas Eve service- with my dad, and having a fantastic holiday season with the family.

This year hasn't been perfect. I've continued to struggle with an anxiety disorder, but also have experienced great strides in treatment. I've often felt lonely. I've cried. I've been bored at work sometimes. But I will tell you this: I have grown.

I really struggled at the beginning of this year, but God has made the ride of 2015 much more beautiful than I would have imagined. Many people are going through hard times and I'm not sure what I can say that would help much except this: God has a long history of making beauty from ashes. Let Him have yours and be amazed at what He does.

Check out the song, Glorious Unfolding by Steven Curtis Chapman. I love it and it spoke so much truth to me.

Workplace Worth: My Tendency Toward a Dangerous Trend

One of the first questions we ask a person upon learning his or her name is “What do you do for a living?” Perhaps it’s a simple ice breaker question; something safe, unlike religion or politics. Knowing what a person does for a living gives us a clue into who he or she is, what he or she is skilled at and frankly, it’s an easy and polite question to ask.

In Christian circles we may ask, “What is your calling?” And almost every time the respondent will answer with a vocation. Those answers aren’t wrong; God does call us to certain careers. My curiosity lies in the fact that the answer rarely seems to be anything other than work.

Lest I forget- there are those in the conservative circles who will remind women that their highest calling is to be a wife and mother. I disagree. A person’s highest calling is to be in relationship with God  and frankly, if being a wife and mother is every woman’s highest calling, could we assume Mother Theresa failed to fulfill God’s will for her life? Obviously not.

Regardless of the terminology used, we spend a lot of time talking about what we do to earn a paycheck. This question tends to lead to guilt on my part. I’m not saying it’s logical or correct, but since employment too often seems to be the epitome of a calling, I struggle with whether or not I am getting it right.

For instance, I once saw a Facebook sticker about how Marines never have to wonder if their job makes a difference. Maybe so, but I’m pretty sure if I were a Marine I’d still wonder. I’ve wondered when working with the homeless and I wonder now when working with the dying.

When people hear I work for hospice I get a variety of responses, usually along the lines of “That takes a special person.” What people don’t know is that sometimes I feel guilty about my job.  You read that right: sometimes I feel guilty for being a hospice social worker.

Why? Long story short: the job description included part social work and part chaplaincy and between my education and experience, it seemed a no-brainer to apply. I didn't fully understand the published job description was incorrect until after I took the job. I really struggled when I learned I would only be doing bereavement counseling and social work and then, due to financial issues, the organization didn’t replace a social worker who left and I was needed full-time in that department. So now, I’m a full-fledged social worker.

So why does that make me feel guilty? Because I was ordained and I feel guilty that I am not in vocational ministry right now. Is that a valid reason? Probably not, but part of me feels like I’m failing. Don’t I owe it to the church to be in ministry? I went to divinity school and then grad school for a social work degree to compliment the MDiv, not to replace it. Am I not living up to my calling because of my current job?

That leads me to again ask the question: is my calling more than  my job? My divinity school dean used to say, “A call to ministry is a call to prepare” and that statement supported the importance of theological education. I ask myself, am I still preparing?

When I was ordained I was serving as a chaplain and already planning to go back to school to work in an urban ministry one day. As I’ve already mentioned, my current job didn’t pan out the way I planned, but does that mean it isn’t part of my calling? I have learned so much in this job that I know will benefit me in ministry and I truly believe I will be a better minister because of my current experience. Add to that, my current jobs pays very well. Could it be that this gives me the opportunity to pay down some debt so I can be freer in a lower paying urban ministry job? If I could get rid of some student loans, I would be under a lot less stress with a minimal paycheck. Could it be that this job makes sense for me right now? Maybe my preparation isn’t quite over yet. And maybe, just maybe, my calling is to a life of ministry and it is still valid even if at this very moment I am not in a vocational ministry position; maybe it's that that part of the calling will come later.

I look forward to the day I'm in vocational ministry, but I also realize that my calling isn’t limited to my job; rather, it encompasses my whole life. It’s about my relationship with God, my obedience to Him, and my love and compassion for others. That calling doesn't change based on my job title. 

Regardless of how I feel about my work right now, it’s not the epitome of my calling. My pursuit of God is the epitome. And the cool thing? He pursued me first.

On Having Less

I am my mother’s daughter, after all. This became all the more apparent this past weekend as I combed over my apartment, getting rid of multiple items I no longer- or have never- worn or used. My mom thrives off of decluttering and those who know me best know that organization is not my strong suit.

I’ll say it again: I’m not an organized person. Oh, I do alright in life. I’m not of the variety that can’t pay bills on time or has been written up at work for failure to meet deadlines. It's just that pictures of rigorously organized closets with color coded clothes and little cubbies for each sock stresses me out.

Despite the fact that I'm successful, even though I have a tendency to forego strict organizational rules of thumb , I often feel “less than” for my lack of organization. Many in our culture thrive on it. We proudly proclaim how OCD we are (soapbox moment: you can have OCD, but you cannot be OCD, unless you are calling yourself a mental disorder) because we like to keep a clean desk. And then there are those of us who are lucky to just know what’s in the piles on our desks.

This past weekend I entered one of my decluttering moods. Shoes Chai chewed up, but for some reason still sat in the back of my closet? Gone. Cute dress I bought two years ago that I never wore anywhere? Donated.  Random assortment of 1990s Christian cds I forgot I had? Thrift Store.

Prior to this cathartic cleaning spree, I had perused the website of The Container Store where you can find shelving, drawers, dividers, boxes and bins to suit all your organizational needs. I made a list of the items I could buy that would help me.

And then it hit me: I was planning to buy more things to hold the things I already have and I already have more than enough things. (See that last sentence? Dr. Seuss isn't the only one with skills.)

I don’t consider myself a minimalist, but I appreciate living simply. If I didn’t have so many things, I wouldn’t need to organize them. There are entire companies making money off people having too much stuff. So I decided to downsize.

I realize many people enjoy organization and cherish hours spent in stores with rows upon rows of baskets to hold craft ribbon, and that’s great…. that’s just not me. I’d rather have less than have lots neatly stored away. And I absolutely recognize that you can live simply AND buy organizational supplies… I’m just sharing what works for me.

Maybe it’s my 19^th century loving self, but when it comes to my wardrobe sometimes I feel like I just need two pairs of pants, two shirts, a skirt, and a sturdy washboard. Now when I peer into my closet post-cleaning spree weekend, I realize I don’t have a ton of clothes…. and I’m ok with that. (Don't worry, I still have more clothing articles than the aforementioned list.)

After my experiences in Waco, Chicago, and Belize, I’ve changed how I perceive owning things. I don’t think we need near as much as we think we do and when I compare my apartment to what those in third world countries have, I realize I don’t need a giant house.

I realized that for me, owning less is more valuable than buying organizational tools. And let’s face it: buying boxes and bins is not going to solve my tendency to let clutter accumulate; they would just be more items to declutter.

I am not dismissing the importance of organization or the need to continue to improve in this area. Rather, I am realizing that I'd rather have less to organize. 

When I see something at a store- even the thrift store- I really try to consider whether or not I like it enough to give it space in my home. For me, it doesn't make sense to spend lots of money buying more things to hold the stuff I already have. There’s something freeing about owning less.

Now if only I could apply this love of less is more to my Starbucks trips.

Being Still Even When My Hands are Shaking

“Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” ~Psalm 46:10 (NIV)

2015 has been a somewhat crazy year. It’s just the first day of the third month, but already I’ve had my heart broken, have dealt with a family medical issue, and am experiencing severe burnout at work (compassion fatigue, anyone?). Oh yea, I also am experiencing a side effect of a medication that sometimes makes my hands shake. It’s a very awkward conversation piece.

I have been deeply in need of rest.

Psalm 46:10 seems to be a recurring theme for me this year. In talking with friends and reading books, the idea of being still has been preached to me numerous times. Obviously, it’s time to listen and going on a spirituality retreat with my church in Greenville seemed like a great opportunity to be still. I’d been on this retreat before, but had forgotten about the banner that is displayed at the front of the sanctuary. It reads: “Be still and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10

Got the message.

Throughout the weekend there was ample time for silence and solitude. We read passages from a devotional classic, “The Shepherd Psalm” by F.B. Meyer and then would take significant time to be alone, pray, and reflect on what we read.

I joked with my small group that I live by myself so I already have lots of solitude….. but there’s no spiritual rest in watching the Bachelor on Monday nights. The point was, you can have time alone and still not be restored; restorative solitude must be intentional.

This weekend it was very intentional. Saturday morning I put on my Chicago boots and coat and walked to the prayer chapel. Situated at a camp and conference center in a part of the state where mountains are beginning to dot the landscape, the chapel has glass windows that overlook the forest. Dusted with snow, the scene was beautiful. I took a seat on a rustic wooden bench in the back and when the other person present left, I took a seat at the front. I looked out over the outdoor scene and prayed…. and cried. I said out loud, “God, I’m struggling.” I realize it was supposed to be a time of silence, but I think that cry from my heart was entirely appropriate.  

I didn’t receive a distinct answer to my prayer, but I did experience the communion that comes from pouring out my heart to God, something that comes strongly recommended in one of my favorite verses, Psalm 62:8. Though brief, that time in the wooden chapel brought with it rest and restoration for my soul.

Other quiet times involved curling up on a couch or in a chair and reading over the book excerpt and then praying, letting the tears fall if they came.

I reconnected with friends I had grown to love during my time in Greenville and enjoyed the fellowship that comes from talking in groups while grazing a giant pile of snacks, or resting on a couch and remembering retreats past. The community was simple, and so much more restorative than my normal get togethers with others, which generally consists of dinner out or a movie. No one was rushed….well, maybe the retreat leaders.

The time of solitude, sweet community, and times of worship were greatly needed and I’m back in Apex, feeling a little more restored than I was last week.

This was a weekend of healing in various ways. It was not without its humorous times, such as when I went to light a candle symbolic of my prayer for my broken heart and after trying the wicks on about three different candles, could not get them lighted. Slightly exasperated I practically thought, “I just want to light a candle for my broken heart! Can’t I just do this!?” (That was the first night of the retreat…. not as much rest was had at that point!) I finally did get a candle lit.

This retreat brought the conviction that I need to focus on being more intentional about solitude and seeking God on a regular basis, instead of running myself ragged until the next retreat at the end of February. Maybe this year I’ll follow through on it. I know lately I have had some struggles that have brought me closer to the heart of God and I want to continue that spiritual growth.

I’d love to hear what others do to connect with God and  experience rest and rejuvenation. I know it’s not a method, but a process of just being. Just being still and knowing that He is God.

So, that’s something I want to focus on. I’d say work on, but well, it’s not about doing, but about being. Being still can be hard for my extroverted self and even if my hands shake, at least my soul can be still.

Healing After Trauma: When Forgiveness is More than Just Letting Go

Five years ago this March I went through one of the hardest experiences of my life. I had been in a new town less than a year, living way too close to an ex from a toxic dating relationship, and trying to forge a career path. The last two years had been difficult; filled with working at a Bojangles with a master’s degree, then working two part time jobs while completing a chaplaincy internship that involved 24-hour on calls at the hospital, and figuring out how to move on from the aforementioned ex.

I had finally landed a new job and I could breathe. The job only lasted a year, but that was ok. I could take some time, regroup, and figure out my next step. Little did I know I walked into an environment way more toxic than any dating relationship I'd ever have.

I’m not going to go into details about what happened or where it happened, but I want to share the hardest lesson I’ve ever learned about forgiveness. For some brief back story, I was working at a large organization in a department with a history of dysfunction. False accusations were made, I found myself out of work on leave, and navigating a government system I never thought I’d have to figure out. People I thought I had befriended turned out to be anything but friends, and my heart was broken. It cost me and it cost my family.

I remember the day my supervisor told me what had happened and I wasn’t even sure of the meaning of his explanation. As is custom with me, the news didn’t fully hit me until later. That day I felt somewhat numb, even able to laugh about the situation. Pretty soon my almost constant tears replaced that laughter.

I was out of work for a while and struggling with how people could do this kind of thing. I talked with my pastor, my family, my friends, a counselor….. but the anger and hurt seemed to be a constant in my life at that point. I cried a lot, I had bursts of anger, and I carried around a massive weight of anxiety. I started hanging out with a friend more often and drank more than I ever had in my life. My friend in no way pressured me and he provided an extreme level of support, but if wine was available, I drank on a regular basis and it was my decision. For some people it probably would not have been significant, but since I don’t have a history of drinking, it's clear something was up. I am so thankful I don’t have an addictive personality and when this whole situation started to rectify itself, I stopped trying to act out to deal with my pain.

As things began to clear up and I went back to work, I felt like I was treated like a leper. I had people- even within my work organization- who offered their support and solidarity, but I still felt watched and judged by others for something I didn’t do. Ironically, the hardest part of this ordeal was just getting started.

I spent many therapy hours talking and crying over this situation and like the abstract thinker I can be, continually questioned what forgiveness meant. I remember saying to my counselor, “So they can just ask for God to forgive them and He does, but I still have to deal with all of this?” Even as I asked it, I knew God had forgiven me of my sin, but I still felt indignation that they could so easily “be let off the hook” as I saw it.

So, what did forgiveness mean? Did forgiveness mean getting over it? How could I do that when I occasionally had a dream about the situation, I still walked around under a cloud of anxiety, and I could see certain triggers in public that would put me in a tailspin of anxiety? I became concerned that anybody else could do the same thing and even called 911 once to tell my side of a story involving getting angry at another driver, so he couldn’t call and make up a lie first. I didn’t always think rationally about others because I was afraid. I’m not going to call it PTSD, but I am going to say it was the faintest traces of it.

People say forgive and forget…. surely they can’t mean literally. How can you force yourself to forget a scarring event? So maybe it’s figuratively, as in living your life as if it had never happened…. but considering my stress levels, I didn’t see how that was a possibility either. It’s not that I refused to forgive, but I didn’t exactly know what it meant in the midst of my pain. I could say I forgave, but I would still carry around the emotional scars in a way that controlled my life.

I went back to grad school after that experience, a move that wasn’t popular with my family, but I figured I could make my own decision after what I had gone through and my previous extroverted and talkative self was suddenly an awkward, reserved, non-participatory classmate and I’m pretty sure I may have been eyed as a pretty weird person. That’s ok; grad school was a time to relax. It was my second master’s degree, I knew I could do school well, and so far the working world had been ridiculous. Going back to school for a degree I had wanted anyway seemed like a great movie; and it ended up being so.

Eventually I began to regain some sense of normalcy and reenter the world of extroversion, but the question of forgiveness still hung in my mind. How did I let go of everything that had happened when I was so damaged and afraid?

I was in a Bible study at the time and we had a discussion on forgiveness. One of the people in my small group shared that they had once heard that forgiveness is being willing to live with the consequences of another’s person’s actions. That was probably the best- and most freeing- definition I had heard since this whole thing started. I didn’t have to stop working through my emotional issues, I didn’t have to stop talking about it in therapy, and I didn’t have to try to forget it all in order to forgive. I could still work on me, work on my feelings about all that had happened, and still be in the process of forgiveness. I could forgive AND still focus on it; because the focusing was for my healing.

The healing process took a while….. over the course of the next few years I was able to let go of it a little more at a time. I came to a point when I prayed that I forgave those people, but even after that I dealt with anger and hurt. Maybe forgiveness isn’t about just letting go right away, but being willing to work toward forgiving, even if you aren’t quite there yet. Like grief, the process of forgiving came in waves. Some days I felt further along and the next day I felt like I took some steps backward.

I saw one of those people out in public a couple times since that job. The first time I burst into tears and the second time I didn’t. It was a little bit of progress.

So what is forgiveness? I think only God has the perfect definition, but I can say that I no longer think it means just letting go. If I had tried to just let go of that situation, I wouldn’t have dealt with my emotional baggage. Forgiveness involves a choice. It’s not about refusing to forgive because of your pain, but being willing to work to get to the point where you can forgive, in spite of your pain. Even if I hadn’t reached forgiveness right away, I was willing to get there. And I think that’s a big part of the process.

A while after the incident had happened I remember saying to my counselor that I didn’t feel like I would ever stop being angry. He said to me, “Are your bouts of anger less frequent than they were a few months ago?” I affirmed that they were and he reminded me that was progress.

Life is hard; people will often hurt you. Please never confuse forgiveness with ignoring the healing you need to move on. You can focus on the issue and forgiveness simultaneously. There is no perfect formula for what it means to forgive and heal, but the willingness to get to that point is a prompting of God that reminds you He is good….. and despite who has hurt you, he has also blessed you with so many people in your life to remind you of His goodness. 

Please watch this video for Ten Avenue North's song, Losing, and really listen to the lyrics. It's the best song I have ever heard that could describe my experience through the journey of forgiveness.

Valentine's Day Pretty Much Equals Earth Day

St. Vallie’s Day is coming up and the boxes of chocolate have been rolled out. Regarding this holiday of love, I recently told someone, “Valentine’s Day is kind of like Earth Day. You know it’s happening, but it doesn’t really affect your life.” (Environmentalists: please don’t yell at me!)

I’ve never had much of an issue with February 14. It was always a friendly day; my dad got me chocolates growing up, my middle school friends bought me candy grams, and it’s just not a sad day to me. When I was a senior in high school I didn’t feel like staying at home Valentine’s night, so I took myself out and quickly realized that if all singles did the same thing, we’d find each other!

But my heart goes out to those who feel the sting of rejection, disappointment, envy, or a myriad of other emotions on Valentine’s. Unfortunately, this is one area in which the church does not often provide an alternative to our culture’s view that everyone’s life purpose should be to find “the one” (which is more a cultural term than a factual one, anyway). Singles are often treated as something “to fix” because people want singles to be happy. That’d be great…. if being single meant being unhappy!

Maybe the reason Valentine’s Day isn’t a sore spot for me is that I’ve never had a date on Valentine’s, so I’m not comparing this year to last. There’s a time I may have been embarrassed to admit that, but why? I’ve dated and gone out with different guys, just not on February 14. Some people might wonder if there’s something wrong with me, but then I wonder what’s wrong with them that they judge someone’s worth by whether or not a date was had in mid-February.

In general I’m a pretty content person and that’s not because of- or in spite of- being single. My relationship status doesn’t delegate my level of satisfaction with life. Is it harder sometimes than others? Yes. Are there times I’ve had a really rough day and just want a hug? Of course. Do I sometimes feel that if I talk about how overwhelmed I am that other parents will roll their eyes and say, “Wait till you have kids”? Absolutely.

Yes, I want to get married one day. I want to have children and that’s one of my dreams. I’ve often joked that I have a platonic shield in front of me. I have a lot of guy friends (I’ve even joked that I collect guy friends like some people collect baseball cards) but it doesn’t seem to go further. I’m emotionally aware enough to know that there isn’t any one reason for my singleness. It’s not that guys just don’t like me or I’m so messed up. I realize that I just haven’t met the right guy and that I contribute to my “platonic shield” by my lack of vulnerability with guys and my efforts to deflect attention if someone flirts. One of my fears is being vulnerable with a guy and baring my heart, only to have the guy give me a look of rejection and say “Really? Um, no.”

I’ve learned that if I have unreciprocated feelings for a guy, it doesn’t mean that he’s a step above me and he doesn’t feel the same because I’m not up to his level. That’s a subconscious thought I’ve had for years and it’s unhealthy. What it really means is that guy and I are on the same level, but it’s just not the right match. A rejection doesn’t mean that I am not good enough; it just means that he and I are better for other people.

Why am I so open about such a private matter? Because for too long I felt like my singleness was something to be kept under wraps, something to not draw attention to, and something to work as hard as I could to change. Essentially, it seemed to mean that I was undesirable. I now know that is wrong.

Historically, I’ve been pretty hard on myself and it was only in recent years that I realized that… and it took other people pointing it out for me to see it. As I’m working to accept myself more and more for who I am, I realize that I can be open with some things I used to want to hide. My hope in writing this post is that someone else can begin to let go of inappropriate shame or sadness for where he or she is in life.

Whatever messages you do or do not receive this Valentine’s Day, you are worthy, you are amazing and you are loved.

The Politics of Poverty and My Questions About Modern-Day Social Work

**Disclaimer: This blog post is way too long to be considered very well written. Plus it sort of rambles. If you do get through it, I’d love your comments. I’m extroverted and like to process things with others, so I’m not presenting answers (which is obvious since I hardly have any), but am mulling through personal thoughts and experiences. What I love about engaging others in these topics is that others can help me see things in a way I may not see on my own.**

When I was a teenager I remember walking one of my family’s dogs around our roughly 1,500 house neighborhood and daydreaming. I wasn’t usually the one to daydream about weddings; I tended to daydream about curing cancer. It was usually very specific… I was on the Today Show discussing how I discovered the cure specific to breast cancer, but only if it had been detected within a certain number of months. It was specific, but a breakthrough that could lead to more! (As a creative writer, I had very detailed daydreams.)

As a teenager I also became very interested in politics and thought about going to grad school for a Masters in Political Science. Combined with my Public Relations undergrad, the idea of being a political speech writer intrigued me (one could even say the creative writing skill would come in handy- ok a sad, but somewhat realistic, joke). For my undergrad degree I even interned at the North Carolina headquarters for a particular political party. I loved to write and I loved politics and it seemed like a good path. Yet, God had a different plan and that involved divinity school.

Divinity School is probably where I had the first inklings of giving up my desire to save the world and instead just focus on loving my neighbor. Some of the best parts of my education were spent outside the classroom…. a summer in Waco, Texas that was revolutionary in my life and involved attending church under an interstate overpass, another summer in a bilingual church when I didn’t know Spanish and had a small glimpse into what it feels like to be marginalized, a winter on the West Side of Chicago, and a trip to Belize that opened my eyes to one of my spiritual gifts. By the time I graduated from divinity school in 2008 I had very different views of the world than I previously had. It’s very hard to talk about the poor in an objective sense, essentially viewing an entire segment of America as a statistic, when you’ve played Scrabble at the homeless shelter and realized your tablemates weren’t strangers, but somewhere along the line had become friends.

I eventually pursued a Master of Social Work, but it was always in the pursuit of a biblical view of social justice. I wanted a social work degree to aid my Master of Divinity degree. The combination of theology and social work is dear to my heart and if you read the Bible- really read the Bible- you’ll see the message woven throughout that Jesus commands, as opposed to suggests, that we care for our neighbors, particularly the vulnerable.

I’m now a practicing social worker working toward my full license, but the purpose of social work is something that often rattles around in my brain. I think of Jane Adams and the Hull House of Chicago and consider that most modern-day social work barely resembles its origins. Social work was about challenging unfair systems and being relational neighbors with others. In fact, the origins of social work are very biblical. Now, social work seems to mean being a government employee with all the benefits thereof.

These thoughts came to the forefront of my mind as I listened to a well-accomplished social worker speak recently. She had wonderful advice and had done a lot for people. However, she discussed that the state had received more money and now DSS could hire a good number of intake assessment workers to help people determine eligibility for benefits.

I sat in my seat wondering, “Is this the right response?” Is it reasonable to see a need and solve it by hiring more people to distribute resources as solutions? Are these solutions sustainable? How do we reconcile an economy with a supposed budget with the well-being of our neighbors? But the main question that flooded my mind was, “Why is the solution to hire more people to assess for benefits? Why don’t we look at society and seriously consider why the need is growing? If social work does what it intends to do, we should get to the day when others don’t need to have their incomes assessed to get by. Doesn’t the system often seem to encourage us to see others as objective statistics?”

It would be absolutely awesome if I had answers to these questions. The truth of the matter is, there aren’t enough people who care to address the problem to rid the need of government involvement. And if my faith informs my life, and the Bible is clear about caring for the poor, shouldn’t I vote in a way that focuses on the marginalized? After all, the abolitionists could only do so much without the Emancipation Proclamation.

But then I think about what a classmate in divinity school once said about how Jesus never told us to vote a man into office to give out cloaks, but to give our own cloak. How do I reconcile that statement of blunt truth with the severe need in our nation and the lack of personally invested people to partner in those needs? How do I reconcile my personal views of social justice with what society says it is?

One of the ways my faith involves my social work practice is that I fully believe relationships are the point of life. We were made to be in relationship with God, and then with each other. The Bible is the story of our Creator pursuing us for relationship. Personal change doesn’t happen because someone was accepted into a program with an income assessor; change happens because someone entered a relationship with another person who was a neighbor, and ultimate change happens when someone enters a relationship with the living Christ. So then the question ceases to be so much about how programs are run as much as it is about who I am in relationship with others and what greater Hope I point toward.

One of the reasons everyone seems to have a different view of what is appropriate social justice is that we all see the world through the specific lens of our experience and if that’s all we’ve known, we have to work to consider other experiences. For me, growing up in middle-class America with a military father, I learned what I call “the boot camp mentality.” You have to start at the bottom and you may get treated unfairly and get overloaded with grunt work, but its part of the process of growing in a career. My father is a hard-working man and I learned a lot from him. As I’ve grown into an adult, I’ve seen that my boot camp started at a higher level than many others. My parents worked hard to provide for our family and I got to start at a middle-class boot camp; not everyone starts there.

So is the answer that people just need to work harder? Logic and reason say to work hard and you’ll work your way to the top. I think most of us have lived long enough to realize people are more complicated than logic and reason. Psychology, though it may be a soft science, is one of the most powerful and insightful fields of study. People are a messy combination of reason, emotions, fears, defenses, hopes, confusions, and complexities. Our environment shapes the way we see the world. It’s as if children get a pass until they turn 18 and once that happens, they should know better. We say children didn’t choose to be born and yet, somehow, with poverty and the messages received growing up, we expect them to magically become adults who resemble us; who act and think like we do. It doesn’t work that way.

How do we hold in tension the various factors of poverty: environment, early childhood influences, a history of oppression in our country, and the psychology of what it means to grow up in a neighborhood different than I did? We want to sift through the populous and crown the worthy poor; those who we determine to deserve the aid. And yet, Jesus was all about us- who aren’t worthy at all, but receive his grace.

So, with all the factors of different experiences, legitimate system abuse, and need that doesn’t seem to be shrinking, what is the marriage between the broader scope of the government to handle issues and the private and church population? I’m a proponent of separation of church and state, but that doesn’t mean the approach to poverty can only be one or the other.

In terms of politics I like to think I’m middle of the road (talk about bi-partisan, in 2008 I donated to the Obama campaign and then decided to vote for McCain). I am under no illusion that a man-made political party can remedy all of our nation’s ills. Nor do I think the government is the sole answer. I’ve run HUD programs for the homeless and they are full of ridiculous notions that make it easy for someone to stay in poverty. I’ve actually once said out loud, “HUD breaks my heart.”

Realizing my views of poverty are limited in that I’ve never been in poverty, I’ve come to the conclusion that government involvement has the potential to be a good thing. Programs aren’t either all good or all bad, they help some people, but they’re also dysfunctional. I can’t support some of the ways HUD runs things and frankly, programs like food stamps barely resemble what they were intended to be (check out the history of food stamps being a means to meet the needs of hunger and farmer surplus and that people took ownership in the program by investing in it with their own money and getting a return that they couldn’t have gotten with their original investment alone).

I still haven’t been able to answer my own questions and the more I try to answer them, the more questions I have. There’s valuable experience I have and so much that I don’t know. Perhaps answering the questions isn’t the point. I so easily focus on what I should be doing, what the government should be doing, what the church should be doing, and forget to remember who we are supposed to BE. Regardless of whether government programs exist or not, it doesn’t change my responsibility to live out my faith in a way that cares for the least of these. I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t matter if HUD has policies that are blind to reality or food stamps and social security aren’t currently what they were intended to be. My calling is to love God and love my neighbors. That’s the call. The way in which that call manifests itself is different for each person. Some are called to challenge policy, some are called to address the needs of poverty in other ways. But all of us are called to be relational neighbors.

Maybe it’s time I stop letting myself get distracted with the arguments about politics and social work and into what they have evolved. It’s easy to get distracted by a think tank type of mentality and argue theories, yet I’ve come to realize that my call to love my neighbor  has very little to do with what it means to be a social worker; it’s about being a follower of Christ. I need to stop being distracted by what doesn’t matter. The method, whether it be social work or not, isn’t the point. The relationship is. 

Just So My Friends Know

I've been in the Raleigh area for a little over a year. It's finally starting to feel like home. I often drive back to Greenville for meetings and I realized the last couple times that it no longer feels like home; it no longer feels more familiar than Apex. I find myself having to think a little harder about the fastest way to get across the crowded streets of Greenville when before the traffic-evading routes seemed almost mechanical.

A little over a year.

It was hard to leave that Eastern North Carolina town. I can't say all my reasons for moving there were the best and I can't say the first year wasn't somewhat traumatic, but despite all of that I can see this mosaic in which the pieces God has designed fill out and give meaning to the rugged shards of glass that I sometimes experienced during my early years there.

The day I moved into my Apex apartment, I remember standing on my parents' driveway, getting ready to make the quick trip in my car, with dad in the U-Haul, and something about our plans changed slightly. I don't remember what it was, but it was enough to bring on the tears over emotions that had been building up. There, in the middle of my parents' concrete driveway, I began to cry. Mom asked what was wrong and with words that could have belonged to a five year old I replied, "I like my friends."

Greenville was the first place I really built an adult life post-college. I made some really strong friendships and as much as I love being closer to a city, I have to admit, I'd rather have a mid-size town surrounded by people I love than a city of isolation. Of course, one could argue it IS possible to have friends in the city (let me know if any of you want to rent a place in Chicago!).

I'd like to say there's a profound reason I wrote this post; that I had some grand insight I needed to share with others. But the truth is, I think I just needed to let my friends know how much they mean to me. I've been blessed with wonderful friends in Apex, but there were also times I longed to hang out with many of you in Greenville.

So friends from Greenville and Apex and other places where my life has crossed paths with good friends, I appreciate you. I love you. And I suppose to communicate that is the grand reason for this post.

When Church Made Me Cry

I admit it: I've cried in church.

This time I'm not talking about the soft cry of thankfulness or the more forceful cry of repentance.

I'm talking about the quick tear of loneliness and self-pity.

It doesn't happen often. I think the most recent was Father's Day. On Mother's Day Facebook seems to blow up with comments and articles about how unfair the day is and how the church should recognize it can be painful for childless women, and so I pretty much feel like society has got my back. Father's Day, though? No one seems to comment on the pain of men who desire to be fathers but aren't, and maybe my tears that day were some kind of stance of solidarity with that forgotten group.

Whatever the reason for the occasional teary eyes, church is one of the places that I can feel the most lonely. Take for instance the two words that can instill nervousness in me: Church Directory. When I was a kid I liked to look at all of the pictures of families in the church and found it a little sad when a person was in this family-oriented photo album by his or herself. I can confidently say that if my church came out with a photo directory next week, I would be listed in black ink under the heading "Members Not Pictured."

I'm a pretty extroverted person, so asking to join people in a pew or around a table isn't a problem. Sunday School can be a little tricky though. I go to a church with very few young singles and often find myself listening to conversations about high school activities and dealing with adolescent attitudes.

Then I put up my own barriers.

My intermittent feelings of isolation aren't related to my singleness as much as it is to the messages I've come to believe over the years. In churches we break a lot of things up by stages of life, which can be incredibly appropriate. Singles groups, married with young kids, senior adults.... it's a great opportunity for fellowship and building relationships with others in similar walks of life. But sometimes it's easy to get pigeon-holed into those labels.

I absolutely love the church I've become a part of since moving to Apex, but I haven't been immune to my self-made barriers here either. I stopped going to Sunday School because I didn't know which class I would really fit in with (I went to a single's movie night.... I was the youngest by at least 20 years), I even got a little panicky when I thought about joining the church; walking up front and wondering if people wondered what my deep issue was and then discovering I was joining the church and wondering if those people thought it was a little sad that I had no family with me (like I said: my self-made barriers.... and my imagination).

But this past Sunday, things seemed to click. I came to believe a little more what I already knew: church isn't about me. It doesn't matter if I bring a family or not, I bring myself and that's enough. Church is about believers coming together and worshiping our Creator; that's the main point. It's about having a servant's heart and caring for others, particularly the marginalized in our society. If a church has various Bible study and fellowship options for various age groups and backgrounds, that's wonderful. That's a fantastic addition to the corporate worship of the church, but it does not take the place of the larger unity of a church.

The enemy would love for me to focus negatively on my marital status, my childless state, basically completely on me and my perceived deficits. As long as I'm focused on what I don't have and what I feel I should, I am not focused on the gifts God has given me and the integral part of the body of Christ he has made me. Feelings of isolation are very much a product of my own beliefs about what I should bring with me to church. And I really don't think other people are nearly as focused on my marital status as I sometimes am myself. I'm ready to trade those self-doubting thoughts of seeming isolation for greater community with my brothers and sisters. After all, being married if you're over 30 was never a requisite for following Jesus.

Church has nothing to do with whether or not I have a spouse. It has everything to do with God.

I'm not saying I won't have occasional tears in the future or that it's wrong to feel momentary sadness over dreams waiting to be fulfilled, but I am saying I had a pretty powerful a-ha moment yesterday.

I'm excited about next Sunday.

I'll Take Some Social Justice and a Frappuchino, Please

A few weeks ago I met up with my supervisor from Mission Waco and a good friend. Dining in a restaurant in downtown Raleigh during biker week, we caught up on life and I told stories of the time I got a bunch of my fellow interns to seek out Bush's ranch in Crawford and how much my time as an intern in Waco changed my life.

Shortly after, we were joined by some friends of Kathy (my former supervisor) and Rebecca (other friend from NC) and conversation shifted to church. We talked about Church Under the Bridge in Waco, about more traditional churches, and about struggling churches.

Shortly after, I penned a Facebook status and mentioned that we talked about what it meant to be church. As much as that statement was true,  something about the way I worded it seemed somewhat cliche. Aren't people always talking about what it means to be church? Aren't thoughts and ideas about community and relationships discussed over cups of $4 lattes on a regular basis? Isn't that the millennial thing to do?

What new idea did I have to bring to the conversation?

My story. My perspective. The things God is teaching me.

I have no groundbreaking theological insight about the church, I just know what I've experienced. When I think about Mission Waco, I think about experiencing church.

I think about playing Scrabble with my brothers and sisters living in a shelter and laughing out loud as a resident attempted to persuade the group that "glover" was a word, defining it as "one who gloves."  I think about when I discovered those friends hanging out in the library one summer afternoon and the library not kicking them out "because they were loitering." I think of these people and I remember their faces, and remember our friendship when I see a picture, and feel the love Paul talks about in Philippians 1:3 when he says he thanks God every time he thinks of the church at Philippi.... because I thank God for the church in Waco.

I remember partaking in a poverty simulation, my first weekend in the Texas sun, and finally going back to the intern house and thinking, "The walls are so white." I had spent the weekend living and sleeping outside and when I finally got back to the intern house, I marveled at the color of the walls. Something so simple seemed so luxurious.

I remember the passion and clear God-given gift that summer was and I think of the nine years since then.

I think about my passion for biblical social justice, and my tendency for pride. Tendency for having misplaced pride in not desiring lofty expenses or a large house; not throwing money into each new technology that comes around and patting myself on the back because I appreciate "living simply". I think about the fact that I live in a gated apartment community and how it bothered me, and yet it doesn't bother me to hit that Starbucks drive-thru 4 times a week.

Living simply means so much more than cutting back on spending. Sometimes I wonder if I even know what it means anymore.

I want to get back to the fierce conviction for biblical social justice I had throughout my years in divinity school.... before I found out social justice is a catch phrase often thrown around, back when all it meant to me was a strong calling on my life.

I want to re-experience how biblical social justice, relationships, living simply, and the command to care for others in Matthew 25 are all a part of being church.

I'd appreciate prayers as I continue to learn what this looks like for my life.
...

The Kind of Optimism That'll Get You Slapped

Not long ago I was sitting with a few coworkers, getting ready for a meeting, when a couple colleagues started to lament the negative stories in the news. I piped up, "As a communications professor I once had said, the media focuses on sensationalism; things that are out of the ordinary. Isn't it great that things aren't so bad on a daily basis that the news only reports positive stories because that is out of the ordinary?"

What followed was comments such as, "That's a good point" and blank stares that visually communicated, "What just happened here?"

Another time a coworker was complaining about the cop sitting in a speed trap in town, waiting to catch unsuspecting drivers. At first I felt annoyed, but then I thought, "Isn't it great that there isn't so much crime that the police have time to sit and catch speeders?"

That is the kind of optimism that'll get you slapped.

I've been a gregarious and optimistic person as long as I can remember, and probably about 95% of the time I have a positive outlook. (The other 5% may be spent lamenting about not having a husband or children and possibly shedding a tear that there is no one who needs to list me as an emergency contact. You know, hypothetically.)

When I was a kid I would be excited for days about an upcoming field trip. Those were the days mom let us pick any flavor of Giant brand soda I wanted (for you North Carolina readers, that's a grocery store of the Northeast) and get a package of those Hostess cupcakes with the lowercase cursive e's across the top. I once asked my brother on a pre-field trip day, "Aren't you excited?" To which he responded, "The field trip isn't until tomorrow." I had to think about that one, because it didn't seem a good enough reason to temper the field trip celebration.

The optimism continued as I grew older. Not only did I have the miraculous experience of enjoying middle school, I continued my excitement for life into my teen years. 15 was a very exciting year, if for no other reason than I woke up each morning, thanked God for the day, and thought about the fact that anything could happen that day.... I had a whole day ahead of me! Who knew....I could even get a boyfriend that day! (I never did. Not in high school, anyway.)

As an adult my optimism usually has a more mature theme (usually). I recently plunked down $53 on a flea treatment for my dog that didn't work. At first I was frustrated, then I thought about the fact that the money wasn't wasted, because it allowed me to eliminate one brand of flea prevention in the future, which got me a step closer to finding what works.

When I was 26 I found myself with a masters degree and a job at Bojangles. I'd vacuum sweep that dining room carpet, wondering where my life was headed, but be able to run the drive through the next day, throwing my hands in the air in victory when a coworker and I met another sales goal.

I truly believe optimism is a gift God gave me. For a while I thought I lost it. In 2010 I felt like my world had turned upside down and there was a period of time during which I had almost chronic anxiety. Things worked out and I went back to work at a job I couldn't stand getting out of bed for. I amused myself by setting Eye of the Tiger as my alarm clock ringtone and jumped out of bed with a smile and a will to get through the day.

I realize many others don't easily have the same outlook on life and it isn't always because of pessimism. I am aware that many struggle with depression or other mood disorders that make life feel more difficult than it does for others. I don't think optimism is a gift God is witholding from them anymore than I think depression is something God gave them (to be clear: it isn't). For most of my life I have struggled with an anxiety disorder and maybe one day I'll be brave enough to blog about that. The point is, even in the midst of feelings of anxiety, I have a character trait God gave me that reminds me of the His hand print on my life. We all face challenges that come from a variety of sources: diseases, unhealthy relationships, negative perceptions of self-worth, etc., but we also have incredible marks of grace on our lives. Optimism is one of my marks of grace.

On a lighter note, anytime you feel disgruntled about being underpaid or not having some of the things you want in life, download the Starbucks finder app. As I recently told some friends, "I really can't feel poor when I have a smartphone with a Starbucks finder app on it. I mean, that basically makes me rich! I have a whole app just to find a Starbucks! I'm spoiled!"

Optimism and excitement are some of my favorite traits.

Back to Blogging!

It's hard to believe it's been 4 years (to the day) since my last blog post. Over the years I've thought now and then about picking up the electronic pen, but never got much closer to actually restarting my online musings. A recent Facebook conversation with a friend inspired me to consider giving blogging another try.

As a starting point, I reviewed some old entries and realized there are quite a few life events I had forgotten! One only has to look at my last blog post to see the seemingly random situations I often get myself into, and that one included an unexpected small town karaoke night, followed by a discussion on race and immigration with a tow truck driver.

The thing is, I often easily tire of keeping a journal no one sees. I once lamented, "Why do I need to write my thoughts? I know what I'm thinking!" Without an audience, I didn't consider the effort always worthwhile, which is one reason I'm more apt to blog than hand write my thoughts and tuck them away on a bookshelf. Yet, whether I look back at journals others haven't read or the blogs others have read, I am reminded that regardless of the method, keeping a narrative shows some pretty amazing events, people, and places that are woven into my life story. I am reminded of the faithfulness and provision of God and enjoy seeing events come together to form a rather interesting life story. 

I've often comically thought to myself that I could write a great memoir based on my experiences from ages 25-30. I'd call that book, "Seriously?: My Journey through Functional Dysfunction." Though it would be accurate, I imagine I'd have to change some names, dates, and places to satisfy those who would take up space on its pages. Even though I may not expound upon certain aspects of those years, the point remains that documenting one's journey is a worthwhile and meaningful endeavor.

With my fresh understanding of the value of recording my thoughts, feelings, and experiences, I decided I could take on the task of keeping a journal and still have an audience, hence the revival of this blog. I realize many people will not be interested, but for the ones who are, I'm pretty sure future blog entries are going to cover humor, thoughtfulness, and point to the miraculous power of God to create a beautifully woven together life story. He's quite the benevolent author.

The Charm of Micro on a Friday Evening

I have a knack for turning ordinary events into exceptional ones. That's one of the best ways I can think of to reframe my ability to get into odd situations. For instance, over the past two and half weeks my car has broken down twice. Did I get stranded in a shopping center in Raleigh or even along the side of the road in Cary? Of course not.

The first incident occuring in the tiny township of Pilot, NC, but that one is far less interesting, so I'll direct your attention to last Friday's breakdown.

I was driving home to visit my parents to interview them for a grad school paper when that familiar blinking exclamation point was back on my dashboard in full-force. I thought I had gotten rid of that thing, what with the expensive car repairs from the Pilot episode and all.

So, I pulled off I-95 and made my way to what I would come to find out was the Backdoor Cafe. In a huff I called AAA and attempted to describe my surroundings to the representative. "Um, there's the Backdoor Cafe....it's a town called Micro.....there's a fire department and a BB&T...and a little park across the street." There wasn't much to give her beause there wasn't much there.

I went in to inquire as to the exact physical address and was stunned. If you've ever seen "Sweet Home Alabama" with Reese Witherspoon, you could appreciate the scene. Many older couples and some families sat at various tables, dressed in stereotypical rural fashions. (Hey, I'm not judging, I'm just trying to explain the movie-like scene I walked into.) A hodgepodge of antiques and country-like collectables donned the walls of the loud room. The reason the room was loud? That would have been the girl in the corner singing a Taylor Swift karaoke song.

Feeling a slight wave of culture shock, I was at the front of the cafe where everyone was facing and blurted out to the AAA representative still on the phone, "Wow...there's karaoke" and I hope the music drowned out my comment. Cell phone to my ear, I made my way through the center of the cafe to the back counter and asked the waitress for the physical address. A couple of people later, I found out. In their complete defense, I don't think people generally need a street address to locate things in really small towns like Micro.

I decided to settle in, even though it was clear that I wasn't a local. I began this dialogue with the waitress:

Me: "Do you take debit?"
Kind Waitress: "I don't even have a credit card machine. But there's an ATM right down the road."
Me: "Yea, my car broke down."
Kind waitress: (In a sympathetic tone,) "And you got stuck here?"
Me: "Yea. I don't know about walking to the Cashpoints and having people see me withdrawl money and walking back."
Kind waitress: "I understand."
Me: (thinking about the hour long wait ahead of me) "But maybe I'll risk it." (And going on the notion that you don't know if you don't ask, I proceeded to inquire,) "Do you have wireless internet?"
Kind waitress: "No, we don't."

So I went to the CashPoints machine on the other side of the track. Yes, it was on the other side of a train track and there was only one so I don't really feel like I can say the other side of the tracks. Either way, I got my money and returned. Ordering breakfast for dinner, I began to continue to take in the room.

Someone else was in the karaoke corner singing an old country song I was not at all familiar with and a few kids here and there entertained themselves among the adults. As the karaoke continued, the dancing began. First an older couple, then a single woman; I think she was linedancing.

As I waited for my meal the man in the booth in front of me turned around and showed me a picture of him as a boy. I complimented him and later committed what I now consider a slight social mishap.

This was no ordinary night, it was also a birthday celebration. Peices of the cut cake were being passed out and my newfound aquaintance asked if I would like a peice. Now, the cake did look good but I didn't know these people and it was their celebration so I kindly responded, "I'm alright, but thank you."

I do not think that labeled me as Micro-friendly. I got the feeling that this man considered that an unfriendly outsider response. Don't worry, I later made it up when we laughed about how loud the train was when it passed by and how it rattled the building. Awesome, I was back in the good graces of this friendly older man.

As I dined on an omelet and coffee I received a couple glances and began to think I did have the capability to do that stereotypical up-and-leave your hometown, head to the midwest, and stop in little towns along the way thing.

Around this time my friend was up singing his own karaoke song. He later sat down and asked if I liked Elvis songs. I replied that I did and he told me he did a great renedition of "Now or Never" and maybe he'd sing that later. I really did appreciate his hospitality and friendliness.

After a little more karaoke, the happy birthday chorus, and the fascinated stares of a small child looking at me and me looking and smiling back, the tow truck came. Now, it seemed to me the tow truck was one of the more interesting things to happen in Micro on a Friday night because the men standing around in the parking lot stopped to watch the truck pull up.

Finally I was on my way, with the tow truck driver, back to Greenville. I'm glad I'm outgoing and an extrovert because it was too long of a ride to say nothing. We talked about education, the economy, race, and brushed upon the topic of immigration and the labor force.

So, no, I didn't get home this weekened, but I was able to interview my parents on the phone. And apart from a few more car repairs, I appreciated the experience. I might not be a small town kind of girl, but rural locals definitely have their charm.

A New Season

Roughly every 6-8 months I am determined to begin blogging again. Usually I post one or two times and let my online writing determination drift away again. If nothing else, the semi-annual timing of my literary inspiration coincides with needed trips to the dentist. So, even if I don't keep up with the blogging sphere, I can remember to call to get my teeth checked every time I am inspired to blog.

In more pressing news, I finished my CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) Residency last Friday. As I walked about on my last day working at the hospital, I was reminded of the movie "Ocean's 11." Here's what I mean:

In the movie a group of mostly strangers get together, engage in a crazy, adverterous task, and then individually disperse in front of a fountain show in downtown Las Vegas, returning to their individual lives. Minus the whole casino robbing and waterworks display, that kind of resembled my residency.

A group of women came together, most not knowing each other prior, and engaged in ministry, self-discovery, and a certain kind of bonding that comes through difficulty. Then, over the course of the last two days, we individually left the hospital to continue our lives. Fortunately, we have the ability to stay in touch, but, of course, it will be different. It's an interesting thing that a year ago we didn't know each other and now we leave our chaplain positions as sisters.

Well, some are continuing on in the chaplain journey at the hospital. I, however, am busy at school pursuing my Master of Social Work and am sure there will be plenty of adventerous to come with that.

I feel like God is moving in a great and powerful way. But really, should I be surprised? He's God, he's good, and he's taking care of me. And I'm excited to see what he will do in this new season of my life.