Ryan Hates Cats Too.

Sigh. 

For those of you that work in publishing and have had a crush on Ryan Gosling since the day he grew and beard, lost his mind, and built a house....

http://ryangoslingpublishing.tumblr.com/

Some of it is semi-inappropriate. But I can see past that if you can.

You're welcome. 

A Story of Hope

Tonight I walked back up to my apartment after having coffee with my sweet friend Emily, stuck my key in the lock, flipped my wrist to the left, and pushed on my door.

 Unfortunately, nothing happened. 

I tried again.

And again.

And again and again and again.

On the fifth round  I discovered I could actually swivel my key in a complete 360 circle, the lock spinning as I turned the key. I pushed on the door, I manipulated the key, I maneuvered, prayed, I waited fifteen seconds, and then I tried again.

And again I was met with nothing but failure. 

Sheer and utter failure.  

The End 

Goodnight.

Anxious Wreck--My Story

This week, I had the privilege of writing for Kyria.com, a branch of Christianity Today, where I work.

Check it out. You'll get to read all about how I became an anxious disaster, and how God is changing that part of me in big ways.

http://blog.kyria.com/2012/01/giving_up_worry.html

Also, how amazing is this?

Compliments of iwastesomuchtime.com

It's Sunday and I Have So Many Words.

Well, I'm at Starbucks. Surprise, surprise. I could probably retire off of the money that I spend here instead.

Anyway...

This week began with a resounding Bachelor-watching fest with the sisters and friends.

Poor Ben F, or Benff, as I like to call him. He should really run away from all of these women screaming as loudly as he can. Look at him in his vest. He's so innocent. So, so innocent. And bad things keep happening to him.

For example: 

Run Ben. Run away. COURTNEY WILL EAT YOUR SOUL and then spit it back up because she doesn't want your mangled-up soul calories. 

Also: 

Shawntel, I give you props for trying. Good luck next time you try to confess your love to someone who doesn't know you. 

And...

Ben, if you don't choose Nicki at the end of all of this, mark my words, she will set fire to your  vineyards and murder your dog.

So many happy, smiling faces. I can't wait to see what kind of insanity it will hold this Monday evening.

Tuesday night I had small group. We're reading this book:

I've read the introduction and the first chapter. So far, it has been...how do I say...a challenge for me. And for my temper. It's written by many different women, so I'm hoping that the next chapter is better, but the first chapter made my feel physically enraged. I understand the whole, women need act feminine, bla bla bla, mentality, but this book actually encouraged the women who were reading it to learn to love cleaning, cooking, and homemaking before you get married, so that you will be ready to fulfill your marital honors once you do find yourself a man. It also said that as women, we should basically always and only look to the men in our lives for advice.

*shudders*


I'm giving it one more week, and if the second chapters sucks as much as the first one does, I am going to run it over with my Civic or, more possibly, force-feed it to the nearest innocent male bystander.


I'm so kind. 

I feel zero guilt about this book hate. Jesus didn't write the dang thing, Nancy Leigh DeMoss did.

So there you have it. 

Wednesday night I went to a young adults group (Read: Adult Youth Group) at a church I do not attend.

 As far as churches go, this one is the MOST RELEVANT CHURCH EVER. Hipsters frolicking freely. A pastor who says "dude" and "bro" while explaining Old Testament kings. Wristbands. Ambient music. Floppy hats. Worship music you could barely sing to because it was so very experimental. BEARDS GALORE. And the prettiest art of all the arts.

Relevant. 

So relevant.

I left that place feeling incredibly grateful for my own church, and for the fact that we actually open our Bibles at our 20somethings ministry. I also felt insanely grateful for the incredible people I have met there over the last year, and for worship leaders and pastors who care more about bringing people to the throne of God than they do about making Jesus look sexy.

Loobadeeboolabeedoo.

Thursday night I went to my aforementioned winning 20somethings church. It was a lovely evening with lovely people who I don't see nearly enough. It was especially lovely when my friend Jennie and I decided to wear our ridiculously wonderful matching furry scarfy things as hats. 

We're breathtaking. Now ship us off to Moscow.

Friday I was supposed to lead worship with my friend Peter, but we ended up getting a blizzaster that closed us down for the evening, so instead, I spent the evening watching Gilmore Girls with Lana, Peter's wife (who happens to be one of my absolute bestiest besties). 

Look at us. Watching TV together.

It was a happy evening until Peter and Lana's walls started spitting out water because of a burst pipe, and Peter, Peter's dad, and Peter's uncle ended up doing this to their kitchen (while speaking a LOT of Russian at each other) while Lana and I hid in the living room: 

So at the end of the evening, my friends were less happy. They looked like this:

In other news, I hate my bank. I ordered checks from them two weeks ago and SOMEHOW they haven't been mailed to me yet. The're going to call me back "tomorrow" to determine whether or not they were ever actually properly ordered. Thanks guys. I'll just pay my bills with monopoly money until you straighten things out. I will say that the teller who helped me out was extremely nice, and he did indeed stutter the whole time, so he's okay in my book. But his manager...yeach. What a douchy hat. 

Saturday was a festival of fun that began with me, Jennie, and her daughter, who is literally the coolest four-year-old ever, trying to make a snowman. Unfortunately the snow was not pack-able, so we ended up making a snow "volcano." A snowcano, if you will.

Snowcano

Eva jumping and then falling off the snowcano.

Snowcanos are great. We are so freaking cold.

We hate snow. 

We eventually gave up at on any kind of snow buildery and went inside for: 

1. Eye Spy Memory Games with Lana

2. Harry Potter with Anna

Wine and babies. So classy.

I just want a hippogriff. 

Good Lord my head hurts.  I blame Jillian Michaels. I did her "Yoga Meltdown" DVD yesterday and today everything hurts. She is a demon.

Happy Sunday, everyone.

Updates on Beth soon to come.

Also, have ya'll seen this? Seriously how did this happen? 

I Am Completely Stupid in This Area of Life

So today I'm kicking my own rear end on the Stairmaster, when what to my wondering eyes do appear through the doors of the gym, but a 40-year-old man and his 5-year-old son, both carrying fake swords. They quickly look around and then book it into the empty yoga studio, where they proceed to fence for at least a half hour. 

During this time I feel disturbed by the following visuals:  

1. a grown man in elastic-band sweatpants, wielding a fake sword

2. the fact that he is owning it like a samurai

3. the intensity with which the small child boy and his dad are fighting. At several points they battle each other until one is laying on the ground with a sword pointed at his neck. I feel like I'm watching Lord of the Rings.

As I continue to master the art of stair-climbing, my eyes go back and forth between the ecstatic look on the boy's face, and the intense, there-will-be-blood look on his father's face. I can't decide if he is the coolest dad ever, or a potential sword-flailing child abuser.

When I finished my workout, all sweaty and disgusting, I head back to my own apartment building, where I see Tony Soprano's twin, and his son, silently stalking back to their apartment door. After twenty seconds of silence, Tony mutters, "C'mon," and thumps his awkward adolescent son on the back. Then he heads into the apartment. His son, Smalls Soprano, looks awkwardly at me, and then kicks off his snow boots and heads inside after him. I get in the elevator and ride it up the the second floor, because I am extremely, extremely lazy outside of actual "exercise time." 

As the bell rings and the doors close, my mind comes to this ugly realization: 

I do not understand men AT ALL.

If my mom had said to me when I was five, "let's fight with swords," I would have run away crying. She scared me enough with the angry face she used to make while she was vacuuming. 

And there is no back-thumping in girl world. We are gentle. We don't whack each other on the shoulder blade. That form of non-verbal communication doesn't even exist for us. 

I have so much to learn and understand. Ugh.

More on this later. 

A Story for New Years

I walk through the dingy doors of the motel. My heart is beating more quickly than I'd like, giving away my nervousness more than my facial expressions already have. I see her then, and she greets me in the lobby with that kind smile of hers. I feel slightly more at ease. I haven't seen Beth* in over three months. She looks even thinner than she did in August, and I notice that she has a large sore forming on her right eyelid. Her velvety chocolate skin looks worn.

"It's so good to see you," I say, hugging her awkwardly with the bags in my hands. They are meager provisions compared to what she needs, and I feel lame giving them to her, but it was all I had in my house that morning. After all, it was short notice. I'd ransacked my bathroom cabinets, tossing old Clinique samples, glycerin soaps, travel-sized shampoos and conditioners, and half-used bottles of lotion into a big, yellow bag. I rummaged through my kitchen cabinets, trying to make an educated guess as to whether or not they had a microwave in their room. 

The two men working at the front desk watch me carefully as I set the bags down. I take in the whole scene--the Christmas lights around the banister, the old dark green carpeting, the poorly lit hallways, and the aged wallpaper that encases the entire lobby.

"It's good to see you too," she replies, smiling. "I've missed you."

I smile back then, recalling what a sweet spirit Beth has about her. "I want to hear everything, but before I forget--" I reach in my pocket and pull out a meager twenty dollar bill. I figure I'll get the most awkward portion of this visit out of the way immediately. "Crap. I have more. hold on." I hastily shuffle through my purse and my back pockets, dropping my wallet on the floor in the process. Finally, I find the last third of her money. I push the cash into her hands, looking around the lobby again. "I'm sorry it's not more."

Beth spends ten minutes catching me up. She explains why she texted me this morning, and why she and her mother are living in a motel.

Looking down at the floor, she informs me that at her last place of employment, they were looking for more "managerial experience." So they let her go. "I knew it would probably be a temporary position. I don't know...The church is paying for this first month here. Right now I'm trying to raise enough money for us to be able to stay another month. We need $800. With what you brought me, I have $350. I just went down the list of friends I have in the area..."

My brain snaps into problem-solving mode.

"So you're looking for work?"

"Oh yes. It's hard though. Disheartening. I'm spending my time right now divided between filling out job applications, and praying."

I wonder to myself how hard it must be to find work when your phone number is always changing, you're car-less, you have no permanent address, and under your highest level of education, you have to write, "home-schooled through high school." 

I try not to think about it.

"Can I meet your mom? Is she here?" I ask.

"Oh...she's..." Beth looks unsure of how to answer. "She's still a little sheepish about her appearance. You know. I mean, she's glad to be off the streets for the winter...and I couldn't stand being in that apartment without her for those few months, knowing that she was sleeping in shelters every night without me. It was just awkward. I hated it. But she doesn't really have any good clothes, and she's been through so much over the past three years...she just feels like she can't meet people yet. She's uncomfortable. I'm just glad I got her a place to stay for a while." 

I nod, and my mind travels to my own mom. She's a teacher. Right now she's on Christmas vacation with my dad in Washington, D.C. 

I think back on how I, in my "self-sufficient" state have had to ask my parents for help over the last two years, when I couldn't make ends meet. I suddenly become curious about where I would be without their help. 

Asking a few questions, I write down her mom's clothing measurements, as well as both of their shoe sizes, and the various phone numbers at which I can reach them. None of this feels real. I silently wonder if Beth and her mom are going to be back on the streets in another month. I look down at her feet. She's wearing flip-flops. It's thirty-four degrees outside.

"Well, it was really good to see you," Beth says, eyeing me carefully. She's watching me take this all in, I can tell. 

We make plans to get together the next day so I can drive her to a few places and let her fill out job applications. I give her a quick hug and tell her I'll see her tomorrow.

I drive home silently. All I can do is pray. Earlier in the week I had asked God for an opportunity to help someone--to really be like Jesus. An opportunity to step outside of my life and quit being such a self-involved, narcissistic bastard. In the car, now, I think about how he loves to answer those prayers. I figure he has probably been watching me closely, just waiting for me to utter that prayer, so he could step in and rescue me from my selfish routine and instead make me an instrument with which he could help another one of his children.

We'll see what happens.

For now, please pray for Beth and her mom. Pray that God would open doors for Beth to get a job. Pray that they would find a real home. And pray that God will bless me by allowing me to be a instrumental part of their lives in this season of need.

Cookies and Kevin McCallister

This Saturday was the annual Christmas Cookie Baking Extravaganza my sisters, my mama, and I put together every year. Okay, that's a lie. They put it together and I show up. Smiling.

I am spacey and dopey and all kinds of air-headed when it comes to very simple tasks like following a cookie recipe, so while everyone else had to pre-bake several cookies to bring and exchange, I was given the task of baking the two cookies that needed to be made while we were all together (aka, while I could be closely monitored.). Both of my sisters AND my mom walked by me at various times during the festivities and gave me the kind of encouragement one might give to a five-year-old who  has finally managed to go three or more feet on a two-wheeler before crashing into a giant tree.

Heh heh.