tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86044596632048919472024-03-05T09:18:33.642-08:00Ashley Grace EmmertFilterless communication since 1986.Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-91595785384485482742016-08-12T07:08:00.000-07:002016-08-12T10:03:43.088-07:00We Needed the Olympics This Year <div class="MsoNormal">
I freaking love the Olympics. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After the 1996 Summer Olympics, I spent a month's worth of Saturday mornings pushing
furniture up against the living room walls, clearing enough space for my own
tumbling passes. They were mostly cartwheels and round-offs, but I could hear
the crowds cheering in my head, and it was FUN. And that fierce Magnificent
Seven had given me the kinds of role models I’d never had before. I enrolled in
gymnastics for the next year—the only sport I’ve ever voluntarily enrolled in. If
I’d had my way, I would have done it for years.<o:p></o:p><br />
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For those of you who know me, you are either a) surprised,
because I generally care so little about the sport games on TV each and every
day, 365 days a year, or b) whispering “Duh,” to your computer screen because
you’ve seen my Olympic fangirl social media posts, which have altogether taken
over my Facebook and Twitter feeds. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I care not. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I love. The Olympics.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This year, though, it’s different. This year, I <i>needed</i> the Olympics. As a matter of fact, I think we all did.</div>
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We needed a break from the campaigns. We needed to see
something other than horrible, once in a lifetime, massively destructive news
popping up daily on our Facebook feeds. We needed a reminder that the world has
an unbelievable amount of life and goodness in it. WE NEEDED the Olympics. <o:p></o:p><br />
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We all know why people fall in love with the Olympics. It’s
the best of the best, seeing if they still have what it takes—or if they ever
did. They are the athletes making a comeback, returning to the games as changed
individuals, stronger, better, wiser, older. And they are new faces that we all
fall in love with.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But this year. Man. THIS YEAR. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This year, the Olympics are a much needed reminder that
girls, as my friend Lauren put it, are “strong as hell.” Because they are
strong as hell. It’s watching <a href="http://nesn.com/2016/08/aly-raisman-cries-tears-of-joy-the-second-she-wins-olympic-all-around-medal/" target="_blank">Aly Raisman</a> slay her all around floor routine and then break down seconds later
at the emotion of it all. She came back with her sights on a medal this year,
and daaazaamba if she didn’t get two of them already. It’s witnessing <a href="https://www.facebook.com/nytimes/videos/10150868636734999/" target="_blank">Simone Biles</a>
be the kind of gymnast that has literally never existed before, sparking jokes
and rumors that she may actually be a superhero, and knowing that her <a href="http://ijr.com/2016/08/668422-unwanted-child-abandoned-by-father-and-drug-addict-mother-adopted-by-christian-texas-family-becomes-best-athlete-in-the-world/" target="_blank">beginnings</a>
were far from easy. It’s keeping up with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dlK54JnLpqM" target="_blank">Katie Ledecky</a> while she blows
world records out of the water, with the joy that makes you truly believe that
she will keep competing solely for the love of it. She’s changed the definition
of what it means to “<a href="https://www.buzzfeed.com/samstryker/katie-ledecky-tweets?utm_term=.qdAP7lpkX#.mfYN1M5gZ" target="_blank">swim like a girl</a>.” We needed some more Katie Ledecky in our lives, amen?<br />
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It’s weeping
while watching <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PyApiBQAcKU" target="_blank">Simone Manuel</a> become the <a href="http://screengrabber.deadspin.com/heres-simone-manuels-medal-ceremony-since-nbc-didnt-ai-1785186276?utm_campaign=socialflow_deadspin_facebook&utm_source=deadspin_facebook&utm_medium=socialflow" target="_blank">first African American woman</a> to take the gold medal in
any Olympic swimming event, and the look on her face when she realized what she’d
done. Seconds later she told the cameras that all glory belonged to God. I
about exploded with happiness. Refugee swimmer <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/news/refugee-swimmer-yusra-mardini-makes-history-in-rio-olympic-pool/" target="_blank">Usra Mardini</a> won her heat in the 100m butterfly, and <a href="http://www.sbnation.com/2016/8/6/12393220/yusra-mardini-olympic-athlete-swimming-syria-refugee-team-saved-lives-rio" target="_blank">her story</a> became the most important reminder of what women can do—at 18 years
old, they can save the lives of 20. Women are faithful. Women are incredible. <b>Women are HEROES.</b> And women are Strong. As. Hell. This is a great time to be a woman. And knowing
my nieces are at home, watching all of this, is the best. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And then there’s
Michael Phelps. HOOOOBOY if I haven’t read every thought piece on him that’s
taken over the internet in the past few weeks. I literally cannot even decide
what to hyperlink to regarding this guy. I've grown up alongside his story, and so has he. And now, I have watched him, at his fifth Olympics, take home gold in <u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhqu8-LigCw" target="_blank">every single race that he’s competed in</a></u>. The expectations on him have never been higher, and his
emotions have never been more on the surface. He went from wanting to die, to
going to rehab, to <a href="http://www.espn.com/espn/feature/story/_/id/16425548/michael-phelps-prepares-life-2016-rio-olympics" target="_blank">reconciling with his father</a> and reading passages from <i><a href="http://www.christiantoday.com/article/legendary.u.s.swimmer.michael.phelps.reveals.how.purpose.driven.life.by.rick.warren.saved.his.life/92191.htm" target="_blank">A Purpose Driven Life</a> </i>out loud to the others in his rehab facility.
Michael Phelps is proof for my own soul that more often than not, people have
to sink to the bottom before they can be restored. And at 31 years old, he’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhqu8-LigCw" target="_blank">beating everyone</a>,
climbing gingerly out of the pool, tearing up on the top of the medal stand,
and then getting back in the pool to qualify for the next night’s race. Oh, and
kissing his son, Boomer. <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2016/08/11/us/boomer-phelps-style/" target="_blank">BOOMER</a>! Those headphones!<o:p></o:p><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CpgvRWXWIAAdL-8.jpg:small" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Cred: ScoopNest.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>I really don't know how anyone is doing anything besides obsessing over that fat baby. </b></div>
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It has been a victory for African Americans in a time when
our country appears to suck at caring about social justice. It has been a
victory for the downtrodden who needed desperately to finish well. It has been
a victory for women who needed to remind the world why they are freaking
awesome. It’s been <a href="http://ftw.usatoday.com/2016/08/ryan-lochte-im-kind-of-bummed" target="_blank">sort of a bummer</a> for Ryan Lochte. And I have basically been losing my mind over the whole thing for seven straight days--and I LOVE IT.</div>
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I’m staring down the hole at turning 30 in two months. I’ve
been married for two years, and we’re talking kids. I have a new job and a big
commute. My responsibilities feel like they’re at an all-time high, and I know
they will only increase from here. I’m happy, but I’m busy, and most of the time,
I am doing the responsible thing. I am chugging along. Literally. I take the train.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I read the news, I pray for the downtrodden, and I agonize
over the stories that seem to point to a world that’s intent on destroying
itself. So often, I feel heavy. The <i>world
</i>feels heavy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But this week, I remembered the part of myself who watched <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ZRYiOa5lM8" target="_blank">Kerri Strug</a> take home
gold for her country on a sprained ankle. I’m that sparkly ten-year-old, standing
in front of the TV and cheering (read, screaming) on my country, feeling the
insane motivation to push myself in a way I didn’t have before. I’m involved in
the stories of the Olympians. <b>I care, not because I feel like I should, but
because this is still the kind of fun that’s BIG. It’s the kind of fun that
brings story and victory and redemption and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xh9jAD1ofm4" target="_blank">THESE COMMERCIALS</a> and
reminds me, swimming in a sea of millennials, that hard work is the only way to
get the finish line. </b>In fact, something about the Olympics makes my own daily
grind feel more noble. Knowing these people have killed themselves for years,
pushing it to the brink—I needed a reminder of how much joy can come from
giving something your absolute best. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go push some furniture out
to the side of my living room. I have a routine to practice. <u><o:p></o:p></u></div>
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-86244240394734823602015-06-29T08:26:00.001-07:002015-07-18T13:28:23.643-07:00Please Stop Saying "We Lost"<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">This weekend, as we waited to park our
car outside of wedding reception hall in Pittsburgh, a man in his twenties
paraded past us with the Confederate Flag draped over his shoulders. He smiled,
aware of the stares he was receiving, and continued on his way. His statement
was loud and clear. I felt my heart drop into my stomach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">This is not a problem that seems to be
going away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">But for the last three days, much of
what I've seen on Facebook are statements like, "We Lost the
Country," and "Don't Worry, We Know What Real Marriage Is." (And
yes, there have always been gracious, love-filled posts and articles, and for
those I am so proud.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">But just like that, a week and a half
after a racially-charged <i>hate crime</i> killed nine people, we're
back to politics and wins and losses and finger pointing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">What I've been wondering, mostly, is
when our country become a theocracy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">Where, in the Bible, does it instruct
Christians to impose our morals on non-Christians? When did Jesus roll into
town 2000 years ago, saying he was going to take over everything, starting at
the highest levels of government and working his way down to eventually loving
the individuals?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">Is my Bible missing those pages?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">The Bible I read tells us to act justly
and love mercy. We're told to walk humbly. We're told to care for the orphans
and the widows. To love our brothers more than ourselves. To go and share the
good news of the Gospel with the world. And yes, the Bible states that marriage is defined as one man and one woman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">What it doesn't say, is to stand on
street corners and declare what are current score is in the great "God vs.
World" game.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">We're not told to create cultural or
physical wars when we could, instead, be praying, and resting in the God who is
in control of everything. We're not told to use Jesus as a political bargaining
tool. And we're not told to make a whipping boy out of those who are trying to
understand feelings of same sex-attraction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">But somewhere down the line, this has
become our favorite sin. The best issue for stone throwers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">And I think I've finally figured out
why.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">Most issues, we know we might all fall
into. We all lie, we all struggle with idolatry, we all have to work to protect
our marriages from affairs--but because of the nature of homosexuality, unless
you <i>are </i>dealing with it, you probably never will. To
those who don't understand it, it's a very un-relatable struggle. People don't
worry about falling into homosexuality the way they fear falling into
alcoholism. For this reason, it just seems like <i>the worst. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">Lord have mercy on us. We are
hypocrites.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">I sincerely believe it's possible to
hold conservatively Biblical view of marriage without taking on the role of the
thought-police. I hope I'm able to do this well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">I also sincerely believe it's possible
to be hold a more liberal view of marriage and be deeply-loving follower of
Jesus. I have too many incredibly Jesus-loving friends who've proved this to me
to think otherwise. The conversations I have with these people challenge me to
get out of my comfort zone. Their focus is on people, not prescriptions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">And then there are people who are in
between, right now, struggling to figure out exactly where they stand. I hear
that. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">We are all working out our salvation with fear and trembling--and that means also working out the big issues we face each day. May each of us go to God's Word for ourselves, converse with those we trust, and take our time as we learn to love and understand the world we live in. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">The important thing in all of this, is
that the Supreme Court ruling is a<i> federal issue</i>. Unless something
has recently changed in our country, I believe the separation between Church
and State is still a thing. I think it's a good thing, at that. It means
churches are protected by their own bylaws and beliefs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">You know what feels more like a Church
issue? The shooting in Charleston, and the hatred that brought it on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">The teenage girl, trying to figure out
what to do about her pregnancy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">The kids who are dying of starvation
every day, right under our noses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">The women who are caught in a cycle of
abuse with no one to talk to about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">The people who need a voice, who need
the Church to stand up in justice in love against the hate that so often colors
this world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">The gay man who no longer has a family
who's speaking to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">These are people who need the love of
the Church.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">Guys, we don't have a high success rate
in trying to lord over this world. We have a lot of work to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">I can't pretend to know everything about
this issue--I know there are facets I will never comprehend, and hurts and fears
that I cannot address. For now, I just want to remind us all that this world is
a broken place, and that through grace and faith in Christ Jesus, this world is
not the end of the story. God is sovereign. May we never forget that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';"> So please.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic';">Let's stop keeping score.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-56675533539829188992015-06-17T14:41:00.002-07:002015-06-19T09:57:10.617-07:00Gap YearThe morning of my first day of kindergarten, I woke up at 5 a.m. I distinctly remember feeling nervous to the point of feeling nauseous, but more than anything, I was ready to move forward. At five years old, I felt I was<i> finally</i> joining the ranks of those who "go somewhere during the day."<br />
<br />
But even on that exciting day, I was discontent, because I <i>knew</i> it wasn't as amazing as it would be if it were my first day of high school. Growing up with older sisters, the goal was almost always to be doing what they were doing, and my first day of kindergarten was my oldest sister's first day of high school, so the comparison was very real. I remember standing on the side of my sister's vanity, peering with wide eyes as she pulled mascara and blush out of her Caboodle and sprayed her freshly curled bangs with White Rain. Kindergarten would be good, I was sure, but high school looked <i>glorious.</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Kindergarten, junior high, high school, college, summer jobs, teaching, and five years at an online magazine: they all started the same way. Up at dawn, jittery with the possibility of the day, wondering what it may bring, wishing it were something else, but unsure what that "something else" would be. </div>
Whether I was working on a paper late at night or staying late at the office to finish something up, my schedule centered around what was due, and what was next. Someday I'd be a freelance writer, I'd tell myself, but right now it needed to be nose-to-the-grindstone. I mostly said no to people and yes to projects, because that delicious rush of meeting a deadline felt necessary for my happiness.<br />
<br />
But last January, something broke. I felt like I'd been running on a treadmill, and the belt finally snapped. I'd gotten engaged and married in six months' time, and aside from the honeymoon, I'd barely been able to give relaxed time to my husband. Everything from 2014 felt like a blur. My house was a mess, I was always stressed out and sad, and I found myself crying. Like all the time crying.<br />
<br />
After 23 years of being a person who "goes somewhere during the day," I decided it was time to become somewhere that simply...didn't. Stepping into the role of a freelance writer and editor was something I'd always wanted to try, and this felt like the right time. The dream of freedom, of setting my own schedule and living that romantic writer life appealed to me deeply, like I'd be Diane Lane in <i>Under the Tuscan Sun</i>, cooking big bowls of Italian food and talking to crazy ladies about ladybugs. Plus, I loved the idea of finding out what I was made of--whether or not I could hack it.<br />
<br />
Now, I spend my mornings drinking coffee and eating breakfast in my pajamas at 8:30 a.m., determining when, exactly, I should begin the work I have for the day.<br />
<br />
<b>It really does sound heavenly, even when I type it. But honestly, it's been pretty weird.</b><br />
<br />
I go days without showering and sometimes I can't remember whether or not I've brushed my teeth. I get dressed up to go to Target because at least I'm going <i>somewhere. </i>When I pitch an article and it doesn't get accepted, I see my entire career collapse before me. When it does get accepted, I find myself wondering if I actually <i>want </i>to write that article, anyhow. I talk to my dogs <i>a lot</i> because I don't have coworkers, and when my husband walks through the door I practically tackle him because he's ANOTHER HUMAN.<br />
<br />
In the loneliest moments, I start looking at job postings, wondering if I should go to law school or go into PR or communications at a big, corporate company. In my most distracted moments, I forget what I'm doing altogether. In the busiest moments, I work late and hard, writing and editing. And in my most inspired, I make something, simply because I <i>want </i>to. Sometimes I desperately missing the routine of waking up, being tired, walking to my office, and being in one place all day. I miss not having to always think about what I'm doing.<br />
<br />
I was about to call it quits, feeling like a failure and longing for the regularly-scheduled workforce life, when I realized something:<br />
<br />
This is exciting.<br />
<br />
Not "wake up early and feel nauseous" exciting, but like, completely different and totally challenging and life-changing exciting. I am in the <b>thick</b> of a new life, and I didn't even realize it. This is a slow season. This time is rich with discovery and dripping with the unknown. <b>This is my</b> <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gap_year">gap year</a>, and I was about to go and end it because I got freaked out</b>.<br />
<br />
For months, in moments of fear and self-doubt, I've tried to figure out what my next step should be, and what my longterm goals are. But what I'm finally understanding is that this time is simply supposed to be a lesson in enjoying the<b> right now moments--FOR ONCE</b>. A time to be still and let God fight <i>for</i> me. To figure out not what I should do, but who I am. From how I eat, to how I spend my time, to who I want to see, to how I pray, how I want to serve the church, and how I want to love the world around me, I've had to do some real, uninterrupted, uninfluenced thinking. I have options, and I have space. It's terrifying. And it's awesome.<br />
<br />
Even the little things things, like how I choose<i> </i>to dress myself in the morning, have become more meaningful.<br />
<br />
In this quiet, slow season, I'm learning to be grateful for the beautiful life I have. Instead of coming home from work and crumbling on the couch, I go for walks with my husband. Instead of saying no to spending time with friends, I prioritize it. I read books. Whole ones. Not online articles or excerpts, <i>whole books.</i><br />
<br />
And for the first time I can remember, I breathe prayers of thanks to Jesus throughout my day instead of begging him to bring me peace while I fall asleep.<br />
<br />
But in my anxiety and concern over my status and my future, I almost <b>backed out of this beautiful time. </b><br />
<br />
GAP YEAR IS SO GOOD.WHY WHY WHY WOULD I WANT TO RUSH THIS?<br />
<br />
Yes, I work every day, but I have more time and more emotional energy to see people. For months, that's made me feel weird and uncomfortable, like I'm missing something. It turns out I'm just missing the stress.<br />
<br />
I can probably do without that for a year.<br />
<br />
So, y'all, it's gap year. I'm declaring it. This is the year before I begin whatever the next big chapter is. It's a time to stop asking for what's next or wondering where I should be or comparing myself to other people. It's a time where when people ask me how I am, my automatic response isn't, "Tired." It's a time to pick mulberries and drink wine and allow silence and just GAP IT OUT.<br />
<br />
This year, I will be spend more time looking into the faces of the people I love and feel <i>thankful for them, not stressed because I never see them. </i>I will wonder less about what I don't have, and find more wonder in what I do have. Right now, for once, it's not about what's next. It's about this great big gift of a year, where it doesn't matter if I have a platform or a plan or a next step. I'm thankful.<br />
<br />
Have any of you ever taken a year, or just, time, to figure things out?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-71844389958393897822015-05-25T18:34:00.001-07:002015-06-19T09:53:44.132-07:00Why I'm Thankful for My Over-the-Top Adolescent Crush on Leonardo DiCaprio Last night I watched <i>Titanic</i> for the first time in my adult life.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjULg-VGkioi0l9cmv4OxuJxVQm1zjMSnFCwoamoaNJ-snVbQUPfhZROauB1jMdpsJsq9hHaVZ-oUL5-fDVhp2WrZfIbhcKi13sixM_dZz0MnIRpUio6TVswkhX3M5nxtqC_sJ6ConlrwQ/s1600/jackdawson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjULg-VGkioi0l9cmv4OxuJxVQm1zjMSnFCwoamoaNJ-snVbQUPfhZROauB1jMdpsJsq9hHaVZ-oUL5-fDVhp2WrZfIbhcKi13sixM_dZz0MnIRpUio6TVswkhX3M5nxtqC_sJ6ConlrwQ/s320/jackdawson.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He saw that in a Nickelodeon and I COULD QUOTE THE WHOLE THING STILL.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The last time I'd watched it I was somewhere between the ages of 15 and 20.<br />
<br />
The first time I watched it, I was 11. And was in love with<i> </i>Leo. I mean like, I LOOOOVED him. Ask any one of my friends from childhood and they will tell you that I was <i>obsessed. </i>I was in love with him in <i>Romeo and Juliet</i> (obvs), so when <i>Titanic </i>came out and he started speaking in words I didn't need a Shakespeare-to-adolescent translator for, and then he was all dreamy and not murdery and his highlighted bowl cut was so beautiful I JUST ABOUT DIED. Add a newsies-esk outfit and the charm of 10,000 men and his "make each day count" attitude and his selflessness and love and bravery and I was done for. I remember, I left the theater with my sisters and mom, sobbing "Why does he have *sob* have to die *sob* in every movie I see him *sob* in?" I was inconsolable, but mostly, I just remember leaving the theater thinking, <i>I know exactly what I want in the man I marry. All the Leonardo things. Especially the Jack Dawson variety. I WILL hold out for that. My heart will go on for that.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzHZYwrleB_8JI4qdl8s_HFP5hY5wb9bCc-g38QUecMN0yZAISAA2hSHROUoUMnZmUBMcoVdjUQbBxEdm591u0vzdpfL2j2ZDTizDPI900VwDMCjgBqVPjKS7E3rX4z_fLRWMYVojWs94/s1600/leo+love.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzHZYwrleB_8JI4qdl8s_HFP5hY5wb9bCc-g38QUecMN0yZAISAA2hSHROUoUMnZmUBMcoVdjUQbBxEdm591u0vzdpfL2j2ZDTizDPI900VwDMCjgBqVPjKS7E3rX4z_fLRWMYVojWs94/s320/leo+love.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THIS WAS MY DREAM.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I spent years living with this mentality. My only super intense real-life crush in middle school was on a boy I met in my Sunday school class in sixth grade (he was in eighth grade, so, you know, mature) who honest-to-God looked just like Leonardo DiCaprio, but with braces. We made flirty eyes with each other across the classroom and I pretended it was the aquarium in the bathroom of the Capulet's mansion. I could basically hear the Romeo and Juliet theme song playing.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_yoO6TPrx3gkYmTbs4xEyxnABKl-MYgKBTe4yy_G0XbEeYwstujwfD3n-EcAOYDBYK3ST-KDCTdQtMmSjWnuK2GYqvONjbJbHMGVdeALzehoMIaLsZ3-1f9FMeo5KAWAGGy4Q8c1Pg8/s1600/fishtank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_yoO6TPrx3gkYmTbs4xEyxnABKl-MYgKBTe4yy_G0XbEeYwstujwfD3n-EcAOYDBYK3ST-KDCTdQtMmSjWnuK2GYqvONjbJbHMGVdeALzehoMIaLsZ3-1f9FMeo5KAWAGGy4Q8c1Pg8/s320/fishtank.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You don't even know.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He was so mysterious--the only thing I knew about him was that he played hockey and went to private school. Sigh. I saw him in passing three times, total, and that was that, but I spent three years hoping to run into him because he LOOKED LIKE LEO and Facebook hadn't been invented, so I couldn't look him up and feel all my dreams shatter when I realized that he was just another awkward pubescent boy posting vaguely angry statuses about the Cubs and Halo 3.<br />
<br />
Aside from fake Leo, every boy in my middle school, with their fart jokes and their dirty adolescent mouths did absolutely nothing for me. Every boy I met, compared to Leonardo DiCaprio, was <i>not good enough</i>. Leo didn't just set the bar, he was the bar.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv68V6xqJW-RYILuaf5Otqo0QstX4R0z44B_5mPQmJ1ffXdIG6MRe8_hMYvkoSGJFk09gB_kFngVXpYxvpSmId14OcX0gONFvSJBx3Yh7USxN1a_r1XNQJRrIOpHN1FmOvo_7ccyUNDmg/s1600/jack2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv68V6xqJW-RYILuaf5Otqo0QstX4R0z44B_5mPQmJ1ffXdIG6MRe8_hMYvkoSGJFk09gB_kFngVXpYxvpSmId14OcX0gONFvSJBx3Yh7USxN1a_r1XNQJRrIOpHN1FmOvo_7ccyUNDmg/s320/jack2.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This.</td></tr>
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I've always thought that this probably wasn't the healthiest way to get through middle school, and I've been surprised my mom didn't stage an intervention of some "my daughter has flipped her lid" kind. But watching <i>Titanic</i> again last night, I realized that maybe it actually wasn't that bad. Hearting Leo meant that I didn't really spend a lot of time trying to impress the boys I went to school with, and anyone who's ever gone through public middle school knows that this isn't an easy feat. I didn't care what they thought, because they were all <i>sooooo lame</i> compared to Jack Dawson. Jack was brave and kind and fun, and he could Irish dance in the third class social hall and make Rose <i>really</i> think about who she was and what she wanted. I wanted someone like that.<br />
<br />
Their relationship and that movie as a whole spoke to me during a time when I felt powerless--I was old enough to know some of what I wanted, but too young to have much control over anything at all. Middle school is a weird time for all of that, you know. So knowing there was this idea, this, as my friend Laura called it, "Male version of the 'Manic Pixie Dream Girl'" (you know, let's dance in the fields and I totally don't wear makeup but I'm so crazy and fun) out there, who was fun and free and brave and selfless and cute and innocent and charming and endearing--was a game-changer.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEUw_jaRPycRN5jl5VUzzZiyu8zUBxw-i9choxJ_nLHVy3tspv9Ij_lUyy6W27_g3IEkNqyw1TSop6mBvVqLujfjsWCP_tTYg_yf117u5IUIItDh96M0AiMFMf524dycHHVPWSUMNC-Fg/s1600/pixie.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEUw_jaRPycRN5jl5VUzzZiyu8zUBxw-i9choxJ_nLHVy3tspv9Ij_lUyy6W27_g3IEkNqyw1TSop6mBvVqLujfjsWCP_tTYg_yf117u5IUIItDh96M0AiMFMf524dycHHVPWSUMNC-Fg/s320/pixie.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I needed to know that outside of the boys in my school, most of whom were spending their time trying to figure out how to get to third base, there was a possibility of a boy that would be as amazing as Jack Dawson. Someone as thoughtful. Someone as kind. Someone fun. Someone who didn't make boob jokes and showered regularly. Someone who wasn't mean to the kids who weren't "cool." This kept me going. It kept me hopeful. It put my head in the clouds in a time when I desperately needed my head to be in the clouds, because being an awkward middle schooler without a dream of something better is just not an option. Instead of feeling like I needed to impress boys that were immature and rude and mostly just, you know, 13 years old, I'd scoff and say, "Ugh, Jack Dawson would never do that." I felt like it was important to hold out for the real deal.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I think that idea remained in the back of my mind for my entire single life, and I am <i>so thankful for that. </i><br />
<br />
So, I would like to take this moment to thank you, Leo, for being that dreamy guy I needed. I wish you'd gotten on that <a href="http://gawker.com/5950516/mythbusters-sink-james-camerons-claim-that-rose-and-jack-couldnt-have-fit-on-the-same-plank">FREAKING RAFT WITH KATE</a>, but still. You were a champ.<br />
<br />
Last night, watching <i>Titanic </i>with my girlfriends and re-living a bit of our childhood, I felt very close to my sixth-grade self. I felt like I was able to tell her that her life was going to turn out really well, and that she'd end up with someone even better than Jack (although sixth-grade me would <i>not </i>have believed this, because IMPOSSIBLE). And that she'd be happy, but that life would be hard sometimes, but God would be just as faithful as he was when she was a kid.<br />
<br />
And also, I'd want to tell her that Jack Dawson is right--you should make each moment count. That's not something that needs to change when you get older.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheers. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Oh, and I'd tell her to never go get her haircut super short between the summer of sixth and seventh grade. It was just the worst haircut in the world. Two years of bad haircut. Don't do it, little Ashley. Do you trust me? Don't DO IT.<br />
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-48446689049797349042015-04-16T09:17:00.000-07:002015-04-16T11:03:13.693-07:00Celebrating My ENFP...Self.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8604459663204891947" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I would like to take a moment to celebrate my <a href="http://www.myersbriggs.org/my-mbti-personality-type/mbti-basics/" target="_blank">Myers Briggs</a> personality type. I am, proudly, an ENFP. <b>Not to brag or anything, but so is Ron Weasley. So, Wizard's Chess. Let's go.</b><br />
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A few months ago, a few friends and I created a Myers-Briggs "style" (Hi there, nice lawyers of Mr. Myers and Mr. Briggs) chart to describe how people would experience Holy Week at our church. <b>We posted it on our church's website, and on our social media account, and walked away thinking, </b><i><b>People at our church are totally going to laugh at this.</b> </i>We then high-fived each other and went our separate ways, where I suspect we were all in bed by 9:30 because we're a wild and crazy group of lower-middle-class white American Anglicans, most of whom are new parents. Kevin and I have a dog, so we totally get what everyone else is going through.<br />
<br />
As it so happened, our congregation did find it funny. And then they shared it with their friends. As a matter of fact, it did pretty well on the interwebs in general; it even got picked up by <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts-of-faith/wp/2015/03/29/for-holy-week-heres-how-you-can-match-your-myers-briggs-personality-type-to-a-patron-saint/" target="_blank">Washington Post</a>, and a few famousy bloggers featured it.<br />
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For a moment I was sure Greg Daniels or Lorne Michaels (who is Canadian, by the way. Of course he is, all the funniest people are from Canada) were going to dial us all up and ask us to start writing for their new TV shows. I just finished Amy Poehler <i>and </i>Tina Fey's memoirs (biographies? memographies?) so the idea of something like that happening feels very realistic. <b><span style="font-size: large;">Greg, if you're reading, I'm totally interested.</span></b><br />
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I loved what we created, but I also felt a little bit rattled by my own description--not because it felt untrue, but because it made me wonder how I function as a human being in any real, sustainable way.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQEeIhshOp-rGJM6a60Q_w-CKZS2aH4zVzThAWqsqxTHzMqEUHyh20JfgIlNSd2OXVcEbqeB7S6EQqprUqA2oV7JSx3DLHCAiySjmjM2QXygJsgfNgyERoo5RfqX99zV2WTY8EVzb8S4/s1600/ENFP.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQEeIhshOp-rGJM6a60Q_w-CKZS2aH4zVzThAWqsqxTHzMqEUHyh20JfgIlNSd2OXVcEbqeB7S6EQqprUqA2oV7JSx3DLHCAiySjmjM2QXygJsgfNgyERoo5RfqX99zV2WTY8EVzb8S4/s1600/ENFP.png" height="187" width="320" /></a><br />
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(I cut this from the whole chart image, I have no idea if I did so legally. Here's the link: <a href="http://www.churchrez.org/news/holy-week-myers-briggs" target="_blank">Churchrez.org</a>. If I did it wrong, sorry Trevor. By the way, I did, in fact, feel EVERYTHING during Holy Week, and I was depressed for days once it was over and all our lives went back to normal. I hate it went camp ends.)<br />
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Seriously, does that sound like a description of a fully-functioning adult? Does it read like someone who remembers to put on pants and brush her hair in the morning before she gets distracted by second-breakfast snacks and Netflix and ideas and friends?<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8604459663204891947" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><b>NO IT DOES NOT.</b><br />
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I still haven't brushed my teeth this morning, on a whim I asked someone to write a sitcom with me an hour ago, and I've spent an inordinate amount of time in the last twenty minutes expressing to my dog just how much I love him. I also drove my husband to work <i>and drove myself back home, </i>all before 9:52 a.m. <b>I know, I don't know how I do it all, either.</b><br />
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<b>So, there you have it. My ENFP-ness.</b><br />
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Now that I freelance full-time, I've been forced to take a good, honest look at this personality of mine. I've learned that I'm motivated by feelings, worries, people, boredom, new things, excitement, and sometimes hunger. And Target aisle-end purchases. <b>I've also learned that my personality is a bit like having a puppy for a brain, and if I don't train it, it will pee all over everything, chew up your sofa, and blame your cat.</b><br />
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Being alone all day as an ENFP with a puppy brain goes like this:<br />
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<i>I love Grey's Anatomy. I should be a doctor. I could totally be a doctor because Meredith and Christina look like great people to hang out with all day and fast pace seems so fun. Although they're both so skinny, I'd look like a fat gremlin next to them. But I don't mind that I wouldn't sleep as a doctor. That sounds exciting! But I'm bad at science. And that would take way too long. And oh my gosh what if someone died on my watch??? <b>People are always dying on Grey's. </b>I should be a lawyer instead. Olivia Pope. Her suits. Gimme. Huck scares me. DC is pretty. I should really stop watching Shonda Rhimes shows. They make me feel bad about myself. And also they're apparently not "Real Life." </i><i><b>Laura and I should take a tap-dancing class at the park district like a couple of old ladies.</b> I really want to take a dance class, and it would be fun to do with a friend. Or maybe a few friends. We could start tap-dancing. Oh my gosh that would be so fun and a good workout. </i><i>Except you have to buy tap shoes. And I bet my downstairs neighbor wouldn't love my new hobby. J<b>ulianne Hough looks like Ginger Rogers. They should make a dance movie where she plays Ginger Rogers and tap dances. I should copyright that idea. How do you copyright an idea?</b> Who who would play Fred Astaire?</i><br />
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<i>I bet tap classes cost money. </i><br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8604459663204891947" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><i><br /></i>
<i>I should sign up at Second City for improv. That'd be funny. Wait I'm watching videos on YouTube and it all looks super dirty.<b> I can't be super dirty. Ugh. So unfair. </b>I remember that one drama class I took in middle school--it gave me panic attacks. But that was because my teacher was such as weirdy. She had grey hair and was pregnant at the same time. That was confusing for me. I remember I hung out with the cool kids in drama class, but then when we had to partner up I ended up as the odd man out. Ugh no improv classes, <b>I hate "find a partner" activities</b>. I'm breaking out in hives.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Oh middle school. I miss Pamela, I wish she'd move back from DC. But also I'm glad she lives there. I'm proud of her. Sigh. I miss Andrea too. Oh man I need to call my sisters. When is April's birthday? It's this month. Crap, when though? The 20-somethingth. <b>Why do I never write this stuff down. I need coffee. The dishes are dirty. I should write a blog post. But what if people don't like it? I am so lazy with my blog, I should really get on it more.</b> I should write a sitcom. But seriously I don't have the discipline to write a sitcom. I need someone to force me to do it. Oh my gosh I'm Nick Miller. But people are always telling me I'm Schmidt. What is that? I just need to write. I love writing.<b> Or maybe I should go back to my idea about selling art on Etsy.</b> Sometimes people make a lot of money doing that. Oh my gosh I need to get to work today, I have editing to do. And I need to write my book proposal about anxiety. Okay but I'm not diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Yes but I really should be. But sometimes I'm not so maybe they'll think I'm a liar and I'm pretty sure my doctor is already sick of seeing me. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Speaking of, I should be a doctor. I love Grey's Anatomy...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And so forth. I am a toddler, living in a cycle of neurosis and possibilities.<br />
<br />
Today, in light of all this, I've decided to celebrate my ENFP-ness. The "P" in Myers Briggs is often seen as the stupid little sister of the "J." The J, you see, signals to everyone that a person knows how to get crap done. The P, on the other hand, makes it so that people always want you on a project, but work hard to make sure that there's someone else in the group who knows how to wrangle puppy-brain into getting something done.<br />
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But you know what, I bet no J has gone from dreams of stage-acting to the planning out how to be an overseas correspondent who owns a line of high-class whiskey bars on the side within 48 hours. <b>That focus on one thing until it's done thing--it's not me. </b><br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8604459663204891947" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><b>Actually, I like having ALL THE FEELINGS and thinking about ALL THE THINGS and being distracted by ALL THE SHINY because I feel like (of course I do) it allows me to see the world as a place that still has opportunities. </b>I like that right now, in this phase (where I swear, I do actually get real work done, too) of my life, I'm allowed to let my freak flag fly freely. I'm allowed to spend days planning out my dreams of becoming the Iron Chef while I, at the same time, have no desire to go to culinary school. <b>I have an inherent need to let myself dream big.</b><br />
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<b>For years, I've spent a lot of my energy feeling like I need to compensate for this personality of mine. But what I realized yesterday while trying to bribe my dog into going to the bathroom in the middle of the day (it's a whole thing) was that I don't need to. </b><br />
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I don't need to feel guilty for who God made me or how many millions of dreams I have. I'm not hurting anybody by spending a month pondering whether or not I should be a yoga instructor--as long as I'm doing my day job well, I don't think I need to stifle my imagination when it comes to myself, or the life that me and Kevin are building together. I don't need to feel guilty. I AM A GUILTY ALL FEELS PERSON, so this is big news for me. I DON'T NEED TO FEEL GUILTY FOR HOW GOD MADE ME.<br />
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I don't know what your personality type is, but I'm willing to bet that there's something about it that you feel like you need to compensate for. <b>What would it look like for you to just lean into it?</b> As long as it doesn't mean that you're going to pull a Pinky and the Brain and try to take over the world (Kevin) I say go for it. Stop feeling bad for being "too" introverted, or "too" time-oriented, or "too" feely.<br />
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You have an important role to play in your life and in this world. <b>Don't be scared to play it.</b><br />
<br />Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-76287272523743220592015-03-11T13:07:00.002-07:002015-03-11T13:11:13.508-07:00Big Bag of Weird I swear, I will, I promise, at some point, sit down and start writing beautiful, life-changing things in this blog and you'll all cry and laugh and nod and hug your loved ones because it's just that moving.<br />
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Until then, I'm sort of more here-ish:<br />
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I blame springtime. Whatever.<br />
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Also: can someone tell me where to buy that Christmas sweater? Just planning ahead here. And also procrastinating.Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-39967246328194587522015-02-25T07:22:00.003-08:002015-02-25T12:11:35.105-08:00Leaving the Parks Department with Leslie KnopeLast night was the series finale of <i><a href="http://www.nbc.com/parks-and-recreation" target="_blank">Parks and Recreation</a></i>. If you know anything about me, you know that I take series finales very hard, and very personally. I hate it when things end. I get, one may say, <i>emotional</i>. And a finale is never as good as I want it to be, because it still feels like one of your favorite tv shows is breaking up with you.<br />
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The only way I could have truly loved the <i>Parks and Rec </i>finale is if once the credits rolled, Jean Ralphio popped out and yelled, "Psyeeeeeeeech!" And then they just kept doing the show for another hundred years.<br />
<br />
Or something.<br />
<br />
I think this finale hit me a bit harder than others, though, because it was about the end a group of people who work together and love each other.<br />
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Last month, I made the decision to leave my job at Christianity Today. My long-term goal has always been to become a full-time independent writer and editor, and that opportunity finally opened up. I knew it was the right time and the right decision to leave my job.<br />
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But I wasn't just leaving a job. I was leaving some of my very best friends--people I've seen every day for the last five years. These are the people who've known me since I was 23; people who grew me and had the hard conversations with me. They're also the people who I've gone on ice cream runs and Starbies runs (treat yo' self) and lunch runs with weekly for the last five years.<br />
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They helped me leave my college days behind completely and taught me that you can still be yourself when you're a grownup. I moved from early 20's to almost 30 with these people--I went from single to dating to single to dating to single to dating to married with these people, and they saw me through it all. Cory used to send me sassy break-up mixes when I was feeling heartbroken and Laura would come dance around my office with me until I felt better.<br />
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And I watched their lives change, too. I held their babies and their baby showers. I felt heartbroken when they felt heartbroken. We celebrated and we prayed for each other. These are people who I will hold dearly in my heart for the rest of my life--women who are strong and smart and gritty and beautiful, and men who taught me how good-hearted men can actually be.<br />
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I cried last night while watching a bunch of my favorite friends and colleagues (I mean, no, I mean Leslie Knope's friends and colleagues) say goodbye and move forward into the future of their lives because Leslie and I have sort of a kinship in that we're very intense people who feel EVERYTHING FOR EVERYONE VERY DEEPLY. I knew exactly what she was going through, wondering what the future would hold and when all of these people would be in the same room again. I cried because it was too recent for me that I did the same thing. I don't live far from CT, or from any of these friends, and I will see all of them regularly, but when you don't work together, you aren't a team anymore. You don't get each other through the day with stupid YouTubes and dance parties anymore.<br />
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I liked being a team.<br />
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On my last day at work I walked around the building and took it all in. I felt so overwhelmed by the emotions of leaving and who I was leaving that I almost couldn't breathe. I walked past the painting of Billy Graham that I jokingly saluted on the way down the hall to my first job interview (I got caught doing this by the VP and she still hired me. Please recognize how amazing these people are.) I walked by the bathroom I cried in after my first ever work review, the cubicle I started in when I was a coordinator, and all the offices of people who weren't there anymore, who I missed. I walked past the room where a big group of us used to eat lunch together--a room where I laughed so hard that my face would hurt for the rest of the day.<br />
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And then I walked by the coffee station where I bumped into my future husband, Kevin, for the first time.<br />
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I pictured it all like a movie of ghosts before my eyes because let's be honest, I want my life to be a Nora Ephron movie. I remember him cordially shaking my hand and introducing himself, and I remember being horribly awkward and trying not to stare at him because <i>they just don't make men who actually look and talk like that in real life do they?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I remember thinking, <i>This is it. This is the guy. I'm done. </i>I marched into Mary's office afterwards to inform her that I'd just met the man I was going to marry. Two years later, this happened:<br />
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We both had work "colleagues" in our wedding party--people who'd started as acquaintances and became sisters and brothers. The man who married us used to be Kevin's boss at CT.<br />
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I know, it doesn't sound real. It sounds pretend and weird. But Christianity Today is kind of a pretend, weird place, with characters you'd find in books and people you'd cheer for in movies.<br />
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I love my life now. I get to drink coffee in bed in silence for as long as I want before I'm ready to get up, and I get to write and edit for a variety of people who pay me, regardless of whether or not I'm unshowered and wearing sweatpants while I do it. And other highly professional reasons.<br />
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I have more room for more people in my life (and more room for some of the same people, now I just make them come see me on their lunch breaks) and I am certain I made the right choice. God had been asking me to trust him with my finances and my future for a long time, and I finally did. I feel brave and my cheeks feel flushed again. This is an adventure for me.<br />
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But I know where I came from, and who I have, in part, to thank for getting me here. My very, very dear work family.<br />
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I love you guys very much.<br />
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Except for you, Jerry.<br />
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<br />Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-56548479879318210372015-02-21T09:33:00.001-08:002015-02-21T11:58:44.238-08:00A Meditation on Psalm 23: Life in Heaven, Life on Earth, Dumbledore <div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">*Note: I have never, ever written meditations on Scripture before, but this morning, I decided to write something out as I was reading a Psalm because it helped me process it. Then I wondered if it might help other people process it, as well. I wrote this with some trepidation because my husband is a huge theology nerd and so are a lot of my friends and they just know a lot more than I do. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you are any of those people, please ignore anything I've written that appears incorrect. MMKTHANKS.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Psalm 23<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">A psalm of David.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><sup><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><b>1 </b></span></sup><b>The <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> is
my shepherd;<br />
I have all that I need.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">King David was a
shepherd boy before he became king. He calls God a shepherd here, I think
partially, because it’s the thing he can relate to most. When life was simple
and all he needed to do was care for dumb sheep all day, making sure they
didn’t fall in holes or get stuck in bushes, his purpose was clear and his
heart was full.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">God is the one who leads
us and provides for us—he is our relentless Shepherd. He is the reason I have
all that I need, and he is the reason I will always have all that I need.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #666666;">Shepherd: noun</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;">1.A person who herds, tends, and guards sheep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;">2. A person who protects, guides, or watches over a person or group of
people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">(Dictionary.com, because I do deep research.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In a season of some
unknowns and lots of risks, this is what make makes my heart stop palpitating and
my hands stop sweating. If a shepherd is willing to go out of his way for his
sheep, how much more does God guide and provide for us each day?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br />
</b><b><sup><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">2 </span></sup></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He lets me rest in green meadows;<br />
he leads me beside peaceful streams.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s important to God
that we rest in his beauty. Life with God is messy, but it shouldn’t be
“keep-you-up-at-night anxious,” because his peace is stronger and deeper. I can
always tell when I’m moving away from God’s leading because I stop getting
sleep at night. I wake up in the middle of the night and I worry and panic and
bargain with God to let me keep doing whatever it is that I’m doing.
Eventually, this wrestling stops, and he wins. Then I start sleeping again.
It’s the most tangible experience I can point to when it comes to God’s leading
in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">God is leading us so
that we can follow him with peace in our hearts. When he calls you to rest, you
have permission to rest. Rest and trust go hand-in-hand, so this type of rest
means trusting God even when all you want to do is stress and make lists and
feel anxious and wide-eyed. Rest is the trust that God is at work, even when
you aren’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br />
</b><b><sup><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">3 </span></sup></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> He renews my strength.<br />
He guides me along right paths,<br />
bringing honor to his name.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">God is the place where
our strength is renewed. He is where we need to go when we are exhausted.
Sometimes that means a simple prayer and a long nap. Sometimes that means deep
time in the Bible. But he is our constant source of energy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">With God, we don’t have
to doubt that we’re on the right path—God is using our lives to bring glory to
himself. And that’s not a selfish thing. The glory we bring points others to
him—and that faith is what brings others to life in Christ. This is the
greatest gift God offers the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<b><sup><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">4 </span></sup></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Even
when I walk<br />
through the darkest valley,<br />
I will not be afraid,<br />
for you are close beside me.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We will go through
sucky, horrible times. We will. And that’s not sugarcoated here—David writes
“when” because it’s not an “if”—it’s a when. But God is with us. He is close
beside us. When we feel like we’re walking through a haunted house and things
keep popping out to scare us, God is the body in front of us, behind us, and
next to us that lets us know that we’re not alone, and that we have someone to
hide our faces in. When things are getting too hard, and too real, God is still
there to bury our faces into. He wants to feel our tears on his chest. He is
right there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s sort of like how
Dumbledore was there in Harry Potter, and it made the kids feel safe. Except
for when he died. That was rough. But God is like an un-killable Dumbledore
who’s been around since the beginning of time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">THINK ON THAT.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Your rod and your staff<br />
protect and comfort me.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We’re going back to
shepherd mode here. God isn’t a pansy. He teaches us to turn the other cheek,
yes, but for his own children, he has no qualms about becoming a mad mama bear.
Remember the Israelites? Remember the famine and the gross bugs and the dead
kids that took place because Pharaoh wouldn’t let God’s people out of slavery? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">God has a whole army of
angels. Also he’s God so he has other things, like all the power in the world.
And I like to think he has lightning bolts, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What I’m saying is, God
protects his children. We have been promised persecution, but in the end, we
will be in heaven with God and with our Christian brothers and sisters for all
of eternity. But he is also super not cool with earthly persecution—both now
and not yet, God is working for our good. He is not silent. He is here, and he
wants us to know, always, that can both offer us comfort and protect us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I sincerely believe that
when we lose the people most precious to us—dear, amazing, beautiful people
with big eyes and soft hearts, it’s because God can’t wait to be with them in
heaven. Instead of allowing those people to suffer life on earth, I think he
fast-tracks them to heaven so that he can look into their big eyes and tell
them that he loves them. And they can watch him say it to them, and then can
look into his eyes, and they can know eternal peace and joy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think about those men
who were beheaded by ISIS—21 Christian men with families and children and
friends and jobs and purposes here on earth. I think of the terror they must
have felt and the fear they must have lived in. And then I think of the news
getting to their families. One of the men’s brothers said this: <span style="background: white; color: #333333;">"We are proud that they went to the
father in the sky.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">These are now reunited with God in heaven, and he is looking each of
these men in the eyes and telling them that he’s watching over their wives and
their children, and then he loves them deeply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">Oh, to have a faith so unshakable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: white; color: #333333;">I am working, always, on being less afraid of separation from people,
and more afraid of separation from God.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br />
</b><b><sup><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">5 </span></sup></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You prepare a feast for me<br />
in the presence of my enemies.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think this must be about
heaven—God is preparing a place for us. The Bible calls it a wedding feast, and
when I think about this I picture God in heaven, rubbing his hands together
with excitement and thinking about whether or not he’s going to seat C.S. Lewis
and J.R.R. Tolkien together or if he’s going to ask them to mingle with
extroverts. I wonder if he’s going to seat Joan of Arc next to Saint Paul, ask
them a question about the role of women in leadership, and then slowly back
away to watch the debate unfold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfxM1mAul84KmShfCUb890EGFuwk3RHGrL8jZ6TcPPwUsgwQAiud0KQ7OP1SXB9XyyPBwEBE8RSKKMDfmK7GR2hs4lFBtX6k3Nv-GJgXRSTYGA9BMOjOfzgYU3F2c2jsS6aqadvR0VgYM/s1600/lucille-bluth-sideye.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfxM1mAul84KmShfCUb890EGFuwk3RHGrL8jZ6TcPPwUsgwQAiud0KQ7OP1SXB9XyyPBwEBE8RSKKMDfmK7GR2hs4lFBtX6k3Nv-GJgXRSTYGA9BMOjOfzgYU3F2c2jsS6aqadvR0VgYM/s1600/lucille-bluth-sideye.gif" height="180" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I just planned a
wedding, and I can tell you, the joy in the planning comes from thinking about
all of the people who will be there—the people you love the most. And God is
doing all of it while Satan and all his little punks are running around this
earth, still believing they’ll have the last laugh. And God’s like,
“LOLOLOLOLOL.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
You honor me by anointing my head with oil.<br />
My cup overflows with blessings.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In Bible times, this
practice was often done by a host to his guests, as a sign of respect. I’m
trying to imagine how God could respect any one of us, but as his children,
made in his image, I can definitely see how he’d do it as a sign of love. I
feel like this is the “well done, good and faithful servant” moment that we all
want to have in heaven. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And the idea of this
moment, thinking on it now, definitely fills me up. It makes me see the now and
the eternity—and how infinitely blessed I am that God has given me a faith in
his son, Jesus Christ, and placed people in my life who have helped me sustain
and build that faith when I’ve wanted to fall away. This verse is a moment of
thanksgiving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br />
</b><b><sup><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">6 </span></sup></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Surely your goodness and unfailing love will
pursue me<br />
all the days of my life,<br />
and I will live in the house of the <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span><br />
forever.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So here it is—the now on
earth (6a) and the forever in heaven (6b). This is, in all it’s simplicity, a
picture of the Christian life. What an incredible sentence—David really knocked
it out of the park here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">God’s goodness and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">unfailing love</i> will pursue me all the
days of my life. In Christ, God’s goodness and unfailing love will pursue <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you </i>all the days of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your </i>life, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then, one day, most
likely a day we don’t know and we can’t predict, God will bring us home. This
is the hope of heaven. The hope that people don’t just die—they move on, and
they move up. They stop worrying about mortgages and safety and what-ifs, and
they start living the life of praise they were made live on earth. And they
live that life with other people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wonder what it will be
like to live in the house of the Lord forever. I used to dread this idea
because it sounded a little bit boring—like if you’re at a worship service and
it starts getting too long and you start looking at the clock and you’re
thirsty and you’re starving because the communion cracker somehow made you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more </i>hungry…this is what I worried
heaven would be like. One long, hands-off worship service. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But the more I learn
about it, the more excited I get. It’s not an eternity sitting in a pew, it’s
an eternity spent in the presence of God’s love and warmth. It’s looking Jesus
in the eyes and saying thank you for your amazing sacrifice—I cannot imagine
anything better than being able, finally, to thank Jesus for giving his life
for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And, I imagine seeing
old friends and making new ones, and asking Peter what he was thinking and
telling Jonathan that he was always my favorite person in the Bible and meeting
Mother Teresa and just staring at her beauty and shaking Martin Luther King’s
hand and listening to his stories. These are the things I long for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But even more than that,
my anxious heart is excited to be with the people I already know and love. I’m
excited to know that they aren’t going anywhere—they aren’t going to move, or
get cancer, or face racism, or sexism, or lies, or get in a car wreck, or
experience any kind of pain. Sometimes I wonder what kind of unknown weight we
all experience each day because of the reality of pain on this earth. I think
if that knowledge and pain were removed, I’d be so light, I’d be able to float.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve heard this whole
passage a million times—I’ve heard songs written about it, I’ve read it, I
think I’ve even spotted it as a cross-stitch in a few homes. But I’ve never
really sat down and stared at it, and basked in the warmth of each verse. The
hope and the joy and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">faith </i>that
God’s love is unchanging for us resounds with each word. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Surely your goodness and unfailing love will
pursue me all the days of my life, and I will live in the house of the <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> forever.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-76266211152913654222015-01-23T11:33:00.001-08:002015-01-23T11:34:12.372-08:00Opposites<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This week I wrote an article for Christianity Today's <i>Today's Christian Woman </i>about what I'm learning as a brand-spankin'-new newlywed about the importance of keeping my own identity in my marriage. They wanted an expert to write about. I am an expert. Obvs. </div>
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Check it out, <a href="http://www.todayschristianwoman.com/articles/2015/january/your-married-identity.html" target="_blank">here</a>. It's fo' free.</div>
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-35637944746389749252015-01-13T07:40:00.001-08:002015-01-13T07:40:41.949-08:00Yes Please, Yes PleaseYou guys, I can't even. I woke up at 5 a.m. to read this before work. This isn't something Ashleys do.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Yes-Please-Amy-Poehler/dp/0062268341" target="_blank"><img 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" /></a>Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-80670062637914399992015-01-10T12:32:00.000-08:002015-01-10T14:52:51.311-08:00Crap. Crap Everywhere. <div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have too much crap. I started dragging it all around with
me from dorm room to dorm room in college, and for the last seven years, I’ve
dragged it with me from apartment to apartment. A few times a year I weed out a
lot of it, and I’m always proud of myself, thinking, surely, this will make my
life simpler. But I end up collecting more crap, or things I thought were
necessities end up <i>becoming </i>crap, or I
realize I haven’t worn those 25 shirts in my closet at all this year, nor have I
worn the 12 sweaters I was certain I’d finally put to good use. Instead, I wear
the same ten things. And then it’s just crap crap crap everywhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We currently live in a one bedroom on the basement level of our apartment building,
which is equal parts awesome and horrifying. Awesome because we don’t have to
walk far to get to our apartment, and when we take our dog out 75 times a day
the outside is very close, but horrifying because I’m positive any
well-seasoned burglar/serial killer looks at the location of our home and
thinks, <i>This is my next stop</i>. When we
first moved into this apartment, five months ago, I’d just watched a super
scary episode of <i>Castle </i>(yes, <i>Castle. </i>I have a very low threshold for
what makes something “super scary”) and was certain someone was going to climb
in through our bedroom window at night and murder us both. I dealt with this by
making Kevin sleep closest to the window. I am a delicate teacup.
#bestwifeever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Four months ago, I went through all of my clothes and got
rid of probably 40% of them, because for the first time in my life, I was
sharing a closet—with a boy. Adjusting to being married has its ups and its
downs, but the idea of a future lived by constantly shoving Kevin’s collared
shirt collection and fancy pants to the left so I could find my favorite dress
or shirt seemed like an unnecessary evil. So after a night of alone time,
filled with wine and watching <i>The
September Issue, </i>which is about the offices at Vogue and high fashion and Anna
Wintour and Grace Coddington and how everyone besides Anna wears the same black
outfit to work every day because it makes their job so much simpler, I was
wine-spired to downsize. I was relentless, pulling out my clothing and asking
myself, <i>Do I love this?</i> If the answer
was no, or, not anymore, then it went in the ThredUp bag for resale. It felt
like a fire sale in reverse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Moving Again<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This month, because we’re crazy, we’re moving up to a new
apartment unit, upstairs (No more serial killer windows. Praise the Lord). It’s
a two bedroom, and it’s glorious. We’re painting and scrubbing and doing all
sorts of stuff to make this apartment exactly what we’ll need for quite a long
time, and IT’S GOING TO BE BEAUTIFUL. (I need to repeat this to myself because
we painted like banshees five months ago, thinking the same thing about our
current unit, and I am not good at repetitive hard work. Just ask my sisters.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the midst of all the painting and the repainting and the
cabinet painting and the floor cleaning and the baseboards scrubbing and the
broken-window fixing and glory and paint fumes, I’m finding myself once again
overwhelmed by the amount of crap I have. It’s like a bunch of tchotchkes and
clothes and accessories and shoes and books and mugs moved into our apartment
and started mating.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part of my problem is that I am sentimental to the max. I keep
anything and everything that anyone has ever given me, written me, handed me,
or made for me. Even the things people gave me simply because they didn’t want
them anymore, I keep. If they hold a memory, I hold onto them. I’m a memory hoarder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now, I'm at a place where I look at everything I need to hang back up and put away and
find a home for, and all I can think is, <i>I hate everything.</i> This has been wearing on me for quite some time.
I can always tell when I’m reaching my stress threshold (my streshold, if you
will) because my throat starts feeling tighter, my dreams start getting
crazier, and I get all bug-eyed. It’s sexy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So today, after an overly emotional (on my side) conversation
about whether or not to buy one more can of “Dove White” paint in Satin Finish for the trim,
I broke down and started crazy-crying to my husband about how stressed out I am about a whole giant range of things. Basically, ALL THE THINGS. My poor amazing husband had, at this point, told me he'd work on the painting today, and that what I needed to do was to do <i>nothing.</i> I think this was part-sweet offer, and part-I need some time alone away from your crazy and you need to get back to being not crazy, but I took it either way. A few minutes
late, I found myself tucked into bed, laying comatose under a pile of laundry
and comforters, staring at the ceiling while being licked in the face by my dog. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this was when I decided this whole Get Rid of All The Crap thing needs to be
for real this time. <i>I need to simplify</i>.
This has to stop. In more ways than one, this has to stop. I spend too much time
touching or looking at or worrying about things my life that no longer have a
place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, what I realized in that incredibly attractive,
super-together-brilliant state, is that my life has become one big too-much-crap
metaphor. Along with all my mismatched socks and ugly cardigans and weird
candle holders that I keep thinking I’ll paint someday, I am dragging around a
thousand little bits of my past that don’t fit into my life anymore. It’s been
so subconscious, I don’t think I really was able to realize it until just now,
maxing out my potential to be good at life while whimpering incoherent
half-sentences about every single thing in my life, past past and present, to Kevin. As one does. By the way, I believe I began this beauty with, "Everything *sob* in my life *sob* SUCKS!" like a thirteen-year-old girl. I'm sure Kevin was thinking about how he'd like to marry me all over again. Duh. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Idina Menzel, Sing to
Me<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think when you get
married, or even just when you grow up or move on, one of the most intensely
healthy, but sort of new, things you can do is to work on really letting go of things. When I say I think this, I mean
I just realized this. See above.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not talking about friendships. Obviously, you keep those—the
healthy ones, at least. I’m talking about 28 years of dating and depth and
stupidity and mistakes and wondering. I’m talking about bad family history and
past failures and all the heavy stones we drag through life. I’m not sure why I
drag this cross around when Jesus did that for me so many years ago, but I do. Kevin’s
always telling me I need to stop trying to carry the weight of the world on my
shoulders. For me, these are the people I still dream and worry about, or the
failures I remember the most vividly. They mess with my day and my mind
constantly, and they keep me from looking to future, or even enjoying the present. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the thing with the past is, it’s both concrete and malleable—you
know what happened, but you can remember it however you choose to remember it. If
you want to see certain experiences or people as all positive and all perfect,
you probably can. At least I can. Kevin knows this, by the way, because I can’t
keep anything from that man. I overshare, and somehow, he continues to like me.
I have found my lobster. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that’s some of it. Memories that haunt me. I need to let
that go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But some of the things that don’t fit anymore are things
that are still very much a part of my present. They’re those pieces that make
me miserable to be around sometimes. I need to let go of this stuff, too, but
it’s scarier to do, because it means I have to trust that God will fill those
gaps. It’s sort of like those too-tight jeans that make me crabby to wear, but
that I keep hoping I’ll be able to fit into, “eventually.” (God bless us, carb-lovers
everywhere.) These aren’t things that make me crabby and stressed sometimes—if that
were the case, I’d have to cut everything and move to Alaska to live with the
Eskimos—they’re the things that stress me out and make me crabby <i>always.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The crying in the kitchen and the laundry burial and the
painting and the scrubbing and the ambiguous clean/dirty clothing all over our
room has taught me a valuable lesson.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I <i>need </i>to
simplify. I need to minimize. I need to look at my life and see the forest
again, not just million trees. I need to get excited about people and things
and places, instead of living in a constant state of overwhelmed exhaustion. C.S. Lewis once said, "There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind." I need to get on that train. I want to believe that again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>To start, I’ve
decided to make a list. Here is what I know to be true about myself: <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I love to write.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I equal-parts love alone time and time with good
friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I love my husband.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I love my family—my parents, my sisters, my
brothers-in-law, my nieces and nephews, my in-laws.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I love my dog like he’s a furry dog toddler.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have close girlfriends, both near and far, who
are the absolute best women I know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have best friends, and I want more time with
them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I love saying
“yes” to things and people and tasks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Between work and freelance, I’m overdoing it
right now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I want to spend more time with Jesus, learning
more and whining less.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I've always wanted to write a book.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I love to read.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I love to create.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Cooking stresses me out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Here are a few things
I am realizing I need to work on: <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have some control/trust issues.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have a hard time trusting that when my husband
says he’ll take care of it, he’ll actually take care of it—by no fault of his.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I compare myself to the unicorns in my life—you know,
those magic people who can do everything and look great doing it and never fall
apart and fall asleep under a pile of bed laundry because they’re too busy
saving the hungry and pooping out rainbows.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I say yes to too many things, and this causes me
to be super flakey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I’m very into myself.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I’m very into my past, because the future feels
too unknown.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have too much crap.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I have church issues.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I watch too much TV.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I say I want to spend more time with Jesus, but I
never make time for it, partially because there’s always somewhere to be or
something to pick up or clean or put away or watch on TV.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I worry about everything that could possibly go
wrong for everyone I’ve ever met. Ever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I don’t write enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, that’s all I’ve got so far. These lists could be a
mile long, but that really defeats the point of simplifying. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a feeling this is going to be a longer process than I’d
like to think it will be. I have no doubt I’ll end up crying over paint cans at
some point in the near future. But writing this stuff down helps me see it—really
see it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These aren’t really New Year’s Resolutions. I had big dreams
of writing a super awesome NYR post about all the beautiful moments I was going
to have this year, and all the food I’d learn to make, and the races I’d run,
and how I’d smell more roses and pet my dog and write the greatest
weird nonfiction memoir by a not famous funny woman you’ve ever read. I had
dreams. And I’ll have them again. But I think before I start shooting for the moon
(I mean, seriously, cooking) I need to clean up what I already have going on.
I need to declutter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pray for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, not that I’m feeling insecure, but have any of you
ever gone through a season like this? If not…no biggie…I’ll just be over here
in crazyland alone…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<br /></div>
Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-29145397460747769802014-10-08T12:05:00.002-07:002015-01-16T10:35:40.502-08:00I'm a Writer, Dottie.<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been a while since I’ve written a blog post.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose
I’ve had a lot of external reasons for that—good ones, too. I got engaged to a
dreamy, dreamy man, I planned a wedding, I got married, I went on a big amazing
honeymoon with said man, moved, painted my entire apartment (the living room,
twice, because I need a couch and a nice therapist), Gilmore Girls came on
Netflix (priorities), and don’t even get me started on the name changing
process (seriously why is that so hard?).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But mostly, I’ve just felt kind of stuck. The kind of stuck
where when you think about writing, nothing comes to mind. You wonder what
Jesus has been doing in your life, or how things are taking shape, what life has
taught you, and you know there are a million things you <i>could </i>say, but then you go write it down and you end up with
N-O-T-H-I-N-G. It feels like I’m staring at a shoreline. There are a billion
tiny grains of sand I could talk about, but it’s hard to pick one up and look
at it for any length of time without deciding to move onto another. And the
horizon is both in constant flux, and always the same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay yes, I’ve gone through huge changes. The kind that took
me from single to married, the kind that took me from living with my sweet,
sweet roomie to living WITH A BOY, and even the little weird kinds of things
like, I don’t drive myself to work anymore—I ride shotgun in my husband’s car.
While this has made it much easier for me to apply makeup on the way to work
(it was getting bad, you guys), it’s still weird for your daily habits to
totally change, and that kind of stuff can throw a person off her game for a
while.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could say that all of this has presented good reasons for
me to stop writing for a bit. But that would be a big fatty-fat lie.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sorry. I know that was sort of a bait and switch. I’m
tricky.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real reason I haven’t written in months and months is
very adult, and very mature. Because I’m an adult now. I’m married and
everything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real reason is this: <b>I’m scared. Also I think the Internet
is stupid.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep. I have developed a new found fear of writing. Even the
thought of publishing this feels crippling. I know. NEAT.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not too long ago, I
went through the experience of having something I wrote become that week’s
trash—the bloggers picked it up, twisted my words, and made me miserable. It
lasted one week, and then it was (pretty much) over, but it really hit a nerve
for me. The way blogs and websites and social media can be so used for hate and
anger absolutely took my breath away, and suddenly, all I could imagine was more of the same. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I began to see my own name in print as an embarrassment, and
when I was asked if I was planning on changing my pen name with my marriage, I
didn’t hesitate. YES. Yes, I would love to put that ignorant girl behind me. I
would love to detach from that one blog post that made everyone mad. I wanted to
be done with her...but then, I sort of wanted to be done in general. I stopped
seeing how any good could come from writing something down and putting it out
into the world. And then I started wondering what I was supposed to do with
myself, if not write. Something anonymous, preferably. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I looked a careers, I hid behind editing, I complained to
my lucky new husband, I watched a <i>loooot</i>
of Netflix (why are there so many seasons of <i>Grey’s Anatomy</i>? I have to watch them ALL), I decorated my new
apartment, and I sulked about my loss of purpose. Like I said, I’m mature.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This went on for several fruitless months, until the truth
has finally settled back into my bones. I was made to write. I stare slack jaw
into space, I monologue in my head, I’ve been writing in journals religiously
since I was four-years-old, I read other writers and feel horribly jealous and
anxious about how I will never be as good as they are…I’m a writer. I’m not
saying I’m a good writer, I’m just saying, I’m <i>ah</i> <i>writer</i>. I just am. I
can’t help it. And if I can’t do the thing God has called me to do, then I
can’t fully be the woman God has made me to be. Apparently I can’t change
everything about me and become someone else. I know. Lame. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you hit publish, when you send it to your editor, when
you see it “go live,” that’s it. You have to own it. It’s tough—especially when
you’re a people-pleaser, a pride-seeker, a “be-my-friender,” and a bit of a
bleeding heart. It’s tough to stand by something when you realize it might have
offended someone—anyone. But as my
husband recently reminded me, the Gospel is incredibly offensive, so sometimes
we end up being a little bit offensive, too. I think maybe my husband forgets that I’m a
pansy, but still, bless him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>So here I go.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to put one key in front of another. I’m going to
write until it feels like it was what I was made to do again. I’m going to
write until I start hearing myself on the page, until I can stand again on my
wobbly legs—until I can believe again that writing is what God called me to.
I’m going to do it for myself, because I love it. I’m going to do it for God,
because He’s a <i>deeply</i> creative God, and this is how I process His love. And I’m going
to do it for readers, because I want nothing more than for my words to give
people even an ounce of hope, and a knowledge that there is a Jesus who loves
them</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also I’ll probably write dumb stuff here too, like Bachelor
recaps and odes to coffee. Just FYI.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>I still can't believe I let one bad experience completely derail me. But maybe that happens to all of us at some point. Maybe this was just my turn, my time to take a break from myself for a little bit. Whatever it was, I'm glad it's over. I feel like I'm breaking a fast, and my hungry little fingers have SO MUCH TO WRITE ABOUT. That came out weird, but you know what I mean. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Hugs.</o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnfhVr1hzNcbYuEgT8wPgzdxtE_6C_DWcBpmPTtJJ6IZnxARTphIsDbFHYyzKHT0PpfplNmlfjc_VncnCnwV0wYG5_gsf2tCd6w4U8b78t3WAXNnY6EBiP9odeh8h7apmOpnrxF2KKJg/s1600/AMoore_Signature.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnfhVr1hzNcbYuEgT8wPgzdxtE_6C_DWcBpmPTtJJ6IZnxARTphIsDbFHYyzKHT0PpfplNmlfjc_VncnCnwV0wYG5_gsf2tCd6w4U8b78t3WAXNnY6EBiP9odeh8h7apmOpnrxF2KKJg/s1600/AMoore_Signature.jpg" height="130" width="200" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-40467458096511323872014-04-07T20:28:00.002-07:002014-04-09T09:57:14.313-07:00Twenty-five(ish) Things 7.5 Years In My Twenties Taught Me<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't know if you know this about me, but <span style="text-align: justify;">I’m the kind
of person who has spent most of her life expecting a piano to fall on her head
every time she walks outside. Every time I fly, I make sure I say very intense
goodbyes to the people I love. And then I have to take Dramamine so that I don't sit up and feel the nausea that comes with the impending mountain crash I'm positive will happen. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;">At Christmas, I look around the room at my
sisters and nieces and nephews and brother-in-laws and parents and think to myself,
</span><i style="text-align: justify;">Welp, this will probably be the last year
that we’re all in this room together. </i><span style="text-align: justify;">I don’t know what’s wrong with me,
exactly, but it’s the way I’m wired. In college it used to plague me—the anxiety
of loving people, the possibility that the people I loved might die </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">someday. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I remember when
my sister had my first niece, I loved her so much that it almost hurt. She was
so tiny and stupid, and she didn't know her butt from a hole in the ground, and
I feared for her every day for a long time, simply because she was so very
little. She just turned 11, my oldest niece, and she’s doing just fine. I’ve
had to learn that I can’t worry about her—that worrying about her won’t make
her any safer. I learned this in my twenties, because I had to. My sisters have
(separately…wait, what?) made four more babies in the last 8 years. Five doe-eyed, sensitive little weeble wobbles I've fallen in love with. Five. I had
to mellow out. It was that, or lose my mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve learned a
lot in my twenties about how to handle life, I suppose. And when I’m feeling
sentimental, or when I’ve been home sick, and alone, for too long (Me. Today.) I
take the time to look back on them and reflect a little bit. I am wiser than I was
at 19. I’m in better shape than I was at 22. I have better hair than I did at
24 (can I hear an amen from anyone who knew me during my dark period? Yikes. Thank
you, Jennie, for dying it back to blonde for me, for free, over the span of an
entire weekend. You have saved my hair more times than I know. I hereby dedicate
this blog post to you.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, by the way,
it is very, very good to be friends with a beautician. Like, it’s the best. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, I’ve
decided to write some of this newly-discovered knowledge down. I hereby present
what 7.5 years of twenty-something life has taught me. You are welcome. Or I am
sorry. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">First of all,
and most importantly, don’t spend your twenties waiting to find a man (or a
woman). It won't make him show up any sooner, and when he does show up, it will
only make you seem desperate. Just live your life. Even better, <i>love </i>your life, love your neighbor, and
love God. That’s all.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">You aren't tied
down to doing whatever it was that you went to college for. I went to school to
be an English teacher—turned out, I totally sucked at being an English teacher.
I was made to be a writer, and at some point, I had to find the courage to believe
that, trust God, and go for it.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Money will
either serve you, or you will serve it. And you will not have any money in your
twenties unless your life’s passion is to be a financial consultant or
something or something. My friend Heidi’s husband is an actuary (I think), and
he totally makes money and does things like, “flies out to New York,” and all sorts of things I can’t wrap my head around. But she is the least
money-oriented person I know, so I think it’s kind of poetic. I like it.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don't give up on the Church. Find a church
that you can call home, with people you can trust. But know that they'll still, at some point, probably let you down in some way. The Church is the imperfect Bride of Christ. Keeping that in mind will make all the difference.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Call your mom,
even if you’re fighting<i>.</i></span></li>
<li>Love your friends' kids. They have them now, and they're new at this, and loving their kids lets them know that they're doing a good job as parents. And that their having kids and your maybe not being there yet is not something that separates you from each other. Your friendships will only deepen, I promise. <i>Love your friends' kids.</i></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Truly
Jesus-loving, Bible-hugging, Scripture-studying, bleeding-heart individuals can
look at issues and come up with different answers. I am not inherently right. Neither
are you. That’s what grace is for.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Embrace the
weirdness in your weirdest friends. You will have so much fun with them, and
you will have the kinds of conversations that you’ll look back on with so much
fondness when you enter into a period of your life when the most intense
conversations you have are about money or jobs or where you’re going to live. In
those times, you’ll be thankful that you had someone to reflect with. To talk about God’s glory,
or to sit and stare at a fire with for hours and talk about how cool it is to watch stuff burn. Or how weird it is that society forces us to wear
underwear when no one can see if we’re wearing them or not. Liz.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">You might
actually deserve the kind of person who respects you, your body, and your
boundaries—namely because they respects themselves, their bodies, and their
boundaries just as much.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Along with that,
the past mistakes you've made in other relationships do <i>not </i>determine the caliber of your “right” person. Let me know if I ever
need to repeat that.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Make a big deal
out of your friends’ birthdays. We’re all so caught up in our own lives all the
time—take the time to celebrate each other.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don't be too afraid to miss out. If your couch is calling you, it's calling you. You're no spring chicken. Get some rest and promise yourself you'll go out with everyone next time. Your friends will not hate you for this. They get it.</span></li>
<li>For the love of Pete, start a savings account. Even if you have $50 in there to start, it will be something. And that's better than nothing.</li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">At some point,
you will get a phone call you never wanted to get—saying that your dad is in the
hospital, or someone close to you is struggling with drug abuse, or your
grandpa is gone. Those phone calls are imminent, and we waste our time trying
to fool ourselves into believing that they won’t happen. God will never leave
your side. In times of sorrow and trouble, he carries you through.</span></li>
<li>Keep being creative. Don't let adulthood suck that out of you. </li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thirty isn't as
old as I used to think it was. I’m so close. Like, I’m the I-wear-night-cream-to-bed
kind of close. I now find thirty to be the new twenty. It is very, <i>very, very </i>young. Do you understand? It’s
young.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">God is working
to bring his children back to him—but nothing you or I say will ever force
someone back to Christ. Trying to do so has the potential to border on abuse or
manipulation. Jesus loved people where they were. He told them the truth, but
he never clubbed them over the head and dragged them to repentance. And I suppose
that means we can’t, either.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is a fine
line between dressing “maturely” and dressing “like an old lady.” Like, a
super, duper fine line. Yeeesh.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">A guy can buy you drinks and dinner and a ticket to your favorite museum/concert/play/whathaveyou, but at the end of the night, all you owe him is a thank you.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thrift stores
are magical places, full of fun. And also, full of furniture you can spray
paint so that you have matching furniture. Same color = matching. Everybody
wins.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wine is for
celebration. And it is <i>delicious.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">You will probably date a lot of different people before you find the right one. Or maybe you won't date anyone for a really long time, and suddenly you'll find the right one. I've seen both. Patience is the craps, but you have to have it.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">99% of the
time, you can’t really have close, super-deep, </span>platonic<span style="font-family: inherit;"> friendships with
members of the opposite sex. Well, my friend Jenn can, but she’s Canadian. I'</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ve
only experienced heartbreak or breaking hearts in those situations, and when
you find the right person, you suddenly have awkward male friendships that you
need to slowly ease out of. Except for my childhood forever friend, Caleb, but
he doesn't count because he’s like a sibling. Or Cory. Because he's Cory. I'm getting distracted.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, use your
single time to get closer to friends of the same sex. They’ll last longer, they’ll
be richer friendships, and once you have that right person, you’ll feel awfully
lucky when you get to have time with those girls who don’t mind when you need
to talk about your newest hair color or your desperate need of chocolate or how
much that last <i>Bachelor </i>season sucked
or how cute Olivia Pope’s clothes are (I want every single piece in that flawless wardrobe, pride be damned) or commiserate over your deep understanding
of the word “hangry.”</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Or maybe, guys, y’all bond over that stuff, too.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">But seriously.
Hanger is real. I <i>definitely </i>learned
that in my twenties. Keep snacks nearby.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">You will always have stuff you're working on. Always. Ask my closest friends how I am at answering my phone, or returning phone calls, and they will give you an earful about the areas where I need some work. Ask my fiancé how my culinary skills are (thank you Jesus for giving me a man who knows how to cook). Ask my sisters how I am at <i>not </i>spacing out during conversations. Haha...I dare you. The point is, I'm still figuring out many, many things. We all are--I mean, right?</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What’d I miss? What’d
you learn in your twenties?<br /><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-59087896199699164532013-09-24T19:01:00.001-07:002015-01-14T14:25:32.431-08:00The Time I Got Yelled at on TwitterOne Sunday morning, I logged onto Twitter to see what the haps was, and saw that I'd been mentioned by a humanist Twitter account--not just mentioned, but called out as the "a$$hole of the week," because of a blog post I'd written (<a href="http://www.christianitytoday.com/women/2013/september/why-we-dont-need-sexual-healing.html">www.christianitytoday.com/women/2013/september/why-we-dont-need-sexual-healing.html</a>). It was about sex and about Jesus and about my convictions, and an atheist blogger at Patheos had written a <a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/friendlyatheist/2013/09/20/christian-writer-argues-against-disabled-people-having-sexual-surrogates-because-you-know-jesus/" target="_blank">response</a> to it entitled:<br />
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"Christian Writer Argues Against Disabled People Having Sexual Surrogates Because, You Know, Jesus"</h1>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(By the way, in France, where it's most recently been discussed, <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/03/25/france-debate-sex-life-disabled_n_2949684.html?" target="_blank">sexual surrogacy has been banned</a>, because, according to them, ya know, ethics.)</span></div>
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Anyway, said humanist tweeter read the Patheos article (a lot of people read the Patheos article) and then chose me as her weekly @$$hole shout-out. Last week, she chose <a href="http://boingboing.net/2013/09/21/dragoncon-cosplayers-who-dress.html" target="_blank">DragonCon cosplayers</a> (I don't know what that means) <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: adelle, Palatino, serif; line-height: 1.25;">who dressed up as Marriott carpeting and got a cease-and-desist from the carpet designer. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: adelle, Palatino, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.18181800842285px;">What I'm saying is, I'm in good company. </span></span></div>
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This whole shebang came as a bleary-eyed surprise to me. When I found the tweet, and the blog, I was halfway through my first cup of coffee and dear Lord I needed more, but I'd woken up anxious already and I was trying to keep myself from overcaffeinating for the 120000th day in a row. So to discover, one hour into awakesville, that the internet was feeling a bit stabby at me, was a bit of a shock. I'm not going to lie, I hid in my apartment. For the rest of the day. </div>
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I'm not sure if I was waiting for villagers with pitchforks or what, exactly, but I sat quietly on my couch, checking my phone every couple of minutes to make sure no one else <strike>hated</strike> found me. I went to a hot yoga class that afternoon in hopes that it would get some of the anxious out of me, but as I spoke to a few of the women in the locker room beforehand, I thought to myself, <i>If you knew where I stood on certain issues, you would hate me. JUST ASK THE INTERNET. </i></div>
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I'm super sensible in my thoughts. </div>
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It's been two days, and nothing else has happened. No one has shown up at my door to ream me out and no one has threatened me with a sharp object, and, as it would turn out, the internet actually hates a lot of people.</div>
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But as I've been processing everything, what's stuck out to me the most has been the title of the Patheos post. The writer, Hemant, is a smart guy. He's a math teacher, and he's actually nearby. He teaches in a suburb of Chicago. I currently live in a suburb of Chicago, and I've lived in about a million other suburbs of Chicago, and I could have driven past this guy a thousand times and never met him. If we had met, we might even be friends. Honestly, he seems like a nice guy, and I think he's kind of funny.</div>
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So I'm not going to talk about him. I'm not going to argue with him. </div>
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What I will talk about, a little bit, is this phrase: </div>
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"<i>Because, You Know, Jesus</i>"</h1>
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Because that's where everything changes.</div>
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For Hemant, "Because, you know, Jesus," sounds like a cop out. It sounds like a magical loophole that allows me to boss everyone else around and pretend to be super holy and offer up a catch-all that makes everything I say okay. It sounds like a pretend reason for people to think I'm right. </div>
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But because, you know, Jesus died for this world while they hated him, the truth about me is this. </div>
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I'm wrong. A LOT.</div>
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I sin. A LOT.</div>
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I get anxious. Good heavens. A LOT. </div>
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And then I sin some more. </div>
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I'm imperfect. I'm undeserving.</div>
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<b>But <i>because Jesus</i> loves my stupid self, I'm going to be okay. </b></div>
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<b>Because Jesus</b>, I have hope. </div>
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<b>Because Jesus</b>, I'm saved. </div>
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<b>Because Jesus, </b>decades of destructive decisions from my heritage have been broken. </div>
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And <b>because Jesus</b>, I've been protected from millions of decisions that could have easily destroyed me. Decisions that I would have made. I <i>could </i>have made. </div>
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Y'all, on my own, I'm an absolute disaster. But <b>because Jesus</b> has claimed me as his daughter, I'm saved by grace--undeserved, gifted, and free. And I want that for everyone, because that is the sweetest gift we can ever give.</div>
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So, that's where I'm at now. I'm thankful for this experience, because it's made me think more and more about how vastly different my life is because Jesus took a hold of me. It's made me think more about the ways that I will be despised because of my faith, and about how that's okay. Because Jesus suffered on the Cross, because he came to this earth to save the lost and the sinners, because he continues to pull me out of sin and shame, because he loves each of us so deeply and truly--because of Jesus, all else fades. What this world thinks of me doesn't matter, because <b>Jesus will continue to be my reason for everything.</b> </div>
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He came to earth as a radical. He didn't make any sense to this world, and the Pharisees hated him for it. He spoke in love, but he spoke in truth. He loved those twelve morons who followed him around, and when he was arrested and they abandoned him, he kept loving them. </div>
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And I love Jesus because he's impossible to feel medium about. He's either the Savior of the world, or the biggest liar, the most horrible human, that's ever walked this earth. </div>
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I am crazy in love with Jesus, and the more I write about him, the more I realize it. So yeah. Because Jesus, this world is going to look a little different to me sometimes. Sometimes, it's going to look a lot different. </div>
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Because, you know. <b>Jesus. </b></div>
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-61022044617208764412013-07-15T08:50:00.003-07:002014-03-24T12:09:23.068-07:00UpdateI've been the worst blogger in history, but I'm planning on actually writing in this thing more regularly, so stay tuned. I've been super busy, like a really large bee.<br />
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Until then, here are a few guest posts I've written in the last couple months, for your happy perusal. </div>
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<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.christianitytoday.com/women/2013/july/christian-case-against-early-marriage.html" target="_blank">A Christian Case Against Early Marriage</a></li>
<li><a href="http://blog.todayschristianwoman.com/2013/05/this_mothers_day_make_a_list_o.html" target="_blank">Make a List of Things You Resent about Your Mother</a></li>
<li><a href="http://blog.todayschristianwoman.com/2013/03/is_balance_even_possible_1.html" target="_blank">Is Balance Even Possible?</a> </li>
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Best,</div>
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-6938575650423583612012-12-17T10:40:00.000-08:002012-12-17T16:00:40.509-08:00Connecticut <br />
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It‘s been easy for me to separate myself from the events
that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School. I’ve closed my eyes at the
footage, clicked out of online articles, and blankly replied to my grieving
friends, “Yeah, this world is an evil place. It just is.” </div>
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In my heart of
hearts, I could not even <i>process </i>the
evil that was committed, and so I just didn’t.</div>
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But Saturday night I got a text from my sister that changed
all that.</div>
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“Hi family—in light of Friday’s events, there will be a
required sign-in for everyone before Rach’s Christmas concert, so it may take a
few extra minutes.” <br />
<br />
<b>You know. In case there's a shooter.</b></div>
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You see, tomorrow night is Eastview Elementary’s second grade
production of <i>The Nutcracker</i>. My
niece, Rachel, has a speaking part. (She's pumped about it, by the way.)</div>
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This will be the fourth Christmas concert I attend at
Eastview—I have three nieces and one nephew, so it’s a yearly tradition. They’ve
dressed up as barnyard animals, candy canes, olden-timey children, and bees.
For years I’ve sat in the rows of folding chairs and taken pictures of my
littlest relatives, intermittently cheering and waving at my sweet babies from the
audience. It’s such a regular occurrence that I’d thought about skipping this
one—it’s an hour drive out, on a work night, and sometimes it just feels like
too much. <br />
<br /></div>
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But never <i>once</i> have I worried
about my nieces’ and nephew’s safety at this school. In my mind, it’s been
their safe haven, a place where they’ve learned about the world while gaining
the skills they need to successfully interact with their peers. It’s been easy to take it for granted.</div>
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Getting that text
from my sister gave me pause. It made me realize that my nieces and nephew,
with all their bright innocence and trust in the goodness of the world—even <i>they</i> aren’t safe. They live in a
small town in the Midwest during a time of heightened security, of lockdown drills
and SWAT teams. Safety, in its simplest
form, is just an illusion. It’s a feeble attempt to create a feeling of
control in a world that is completely out of control.</div>
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And what it all comes down to is this: even now, even in this day with smart phones and panic buttons and safe rooms and fire drills and backup plans—even now, we are still utterly and completely dependent on our heavenly
father. We are still at his mercy. And in light of recent events, we are still called to treat each day with our loved ones
like it could be our last.</div>
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So today I will return to the Word of God with the
trembling and a sense of urgency that I <i>should</i>
feel each day. I will beg for God’s protection over my loved ones, and pray for
the grieving families in Connecticut who’ve experienced the worst loss
imaginable.<br />
<br />
And tomorrow night, I will sit amongst my family with my
five-year-old nephew, Micah, on my lap. I will hug him tightly and tell him I love
him, and together we’ll cheer for Rachel and her fellow second graders. And I will
refuse to let this commonplace event lose its luster.<br />
<br />
If I’ve learned anything
this week, it’s that every day that I am able to celebrate the lives of my
family members, I’m experiencing nothing less than a miracle. </div>
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Connecticut, my heart and my prayers go out to you.</div>
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-39819737706529116082012-09-23T19:09:00.001-07:002012-11-26T13:23:15.211-08:00Sabbath PrayerI crack open one eye and look at the clock. 12:30 p.m. <i>Welp, there goes church, </i>I think to myself as I half-tumble out of bed. I'm groggy. I pour water into the coffeemaker, eyeball some coffee grounds into the filter, and spend ten minutes staring as the dark liquid drops into the coffee pot.<br />
<br />
I wander around my apartment in a baggy Cubs t-shirt and black pajama pants that are two sizes too big, recounting the events of the evening prior, giving myself ratings on my performance. Dress: B+. Humor A-. Biting Sarcasm to Kindness Ratio: C. I feel a heaviness settle on my heart.<br />
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<i>Someday the kindness will win out, </i>I think. </div>
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Eventually I sit down on my couch with coffee in hand. I've decided that since I didn't manage to get my lazy rear end to church this morning, I owe Jesus some quiet time. I read A.W. Tozer, rereading each paragraph a few times to digest what he's written, and then turn my thoughts over to my journal, flipping through the entries I wrote over the summer before I find a blank page to begin a new chronicle.</div>
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I get halfway through a narcissistic retelling of my last week, begging Jesus for peace and direction, when I get a text from my niece, Maya. This is a big deal--she's texting me on my sister's phone, and at nine-years-old, this is one of the first texts she's ever sent. <i>Lots</i> of smiley faces.<br />
<br />
She and I text funny faces back and forth for a bit and eventually she calls me, her voice sounding <i>way </i>too grown up when she announces that she's just calling to say "hey" and asks me how me and my roommate are doing. <i>Good Lord, </i>I think. <i>Wasn't she just learning to crawl? Whahaaat is happening?</i></div>
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We talk for a solid twenty minutes before she hands the phone over to my sister, we talk for a bit, and then I hang up. Alone again, I finish journaling, ending in some desperate sort of "God help my stupid self navigate this life less idiotically" plea, and snap my notebook shut, wishing the feelings of heaviness would dissipate, but grateful I got to speak to some family this morning.</div>
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I spend the next few hours alone, eyeing the boxes that still need to be filled and stuff that needs to be put in them. I pack nothing. We're moving in five days.<br />
<br />
I don't handle alone time well. I can do it for about...oh, two hours, and then it's all over and I start desperately texting people, asking them what they're up to.<br />
<br />
My roommate is the same way. When one of us is out of town, upon return we compare notes about how pathetic we began to feel as the week waned on with one of us returning to an empty apartment. By day three there's usually crying. I know. Ridiculous.</div>
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Eventually I pull on some leggings, a sweater, and boots--it's only one step up from pajamas, but it's enough to get myself out of the house, and decide to work on freelance at one of the downtown coffee shops. I try Caribou first, but there are no empty tables.<br />
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I curse Wheaton College for being back in session and slowly shake a lowered fist at the college students who've moved into <i>my </i>tables. I walk to Starbucks with no success, and then wander into the only independent coffee shop in town, only to find out that it closes in thirty minutes. </div>
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I don't want to work today. I have no desire--but I have too much to NOT work. I can't seem to shake this feeling of grief, either, which isn't helping fuel my productivity.</div>
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I get back in my car and drive to another Caribou, one a little farther out of town, which is, oddly enough, full of Italian men sitting in large groups at tables, all wearing their coats and playing various dice games. I'm pretty sure I'm surrounded by the mafioso, but I've always wanted to be a part of a good mob fight, so I find a table in the back (where I'm safe from being whacked with a canoli) and open my laptop, searching for a recent interview I <i>need </i>to transcribe tonight.</div>
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I open my email.</div>
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It's not there.</div>
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Nay, it's absolutely nowhere. It's not in my Yahoo account, it's not in my work account, it's not backlogged in my Yousendit account...nada. It's sitting on my work desktop computer, and there is no retrieving it tonight. </div>
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I feel a tinge of relief and smile at the irony that I've just been forced to actually observe this Sabbath, a spiritual discipline I LOVE to ignore. I pull out Jen Hatmaker's book, <i>Seven, </i>which I was supposed to have finished yesterday, when my book club met to discuss it, but like the procrastinator that I am, I rolled into book club with thirty pages still unread.<br />
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The thirty pages left are, as a matter of fact, devoted to observing the Sabbath. OF COURSE THEY ARE. Because this is the nature of my life. God knows I'm dumb, and that if I'm going to be taught something, I need to be smacked over the face with it. It's all very brutal.</div>
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And so I open to this: </div>
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<div>
"During the first week of October, I suffered an inexplicable sadness for our Ethiopian kids, yet unknown to us. I couldn't quit crying. I couldn't stop worrying. I felt heavy and dark without knowing why...I threw my emotions up into the Facebook ring for some backup. From adopting friends a common thread rose up: </div>
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'God is prompting you to pray for your children for some reason. You don't know them yet, but he knows they are yours. Intercede for them this week; then write the dates down.'" </div>
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Jen goes on to write about how during her week of sorrow, in which she got on her knees in prayer for the child she was going to adopt, her future daughter had just been delivered to an orphanage in Ethiopia.<br />
<br />
The child's first week surrounded by people she didn't know, missing her family, getting her head shaved, wide-eyed and fearful in the night in an unfamiliar place, was the same week that Jen felt she needed to pray for kids, even though she still didn't know who they'd be. Her prayers went to her daughter in a time of need before she even knew her.</div>
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Now, I know this all may sound a little bit Chicken Soup for the Soul-y, and if it does, then, gross. But to me, it sounds beautiful. It sounds like God cared enough for this child to have her lifted up in prayer by her mother long before she even knew her.</div>
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I'm reading this chapter on slowing down and taking time to pray and intercede for others when God places them on your heart, and my eyes start watering like crazy. I look up and realize that both (I'm guessing based on their awkward facial hair) seminary students sitting in the leather chairs across from me are watching me cry like an idiot, but seminary guys sort of creep me out, so I don't care. </div>
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I feel again the heaviness in my own soul, and the person who I <i>have to </i>pray for comes to mind. It comes on so strongly that I have to stop mid-chapter to lift him up, silently crying a prayer to the Father who loves His children so desperately.<br />
<br />
I pray for reconciliation, I pray for the Holy Spirit to move, and I pray God would show me the role he wants me to play in this person's life. I pray until I finally feel the heaviness lift. </div>
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And now I find myself wondering how often God grants me with this same heaviness for this same reason. I've often taken this as a mood swing or a good reason to feel sorry for myself (and Lord knows that sometimes it's P.M.S.), but maybe, just maybe, God places these burdens on my heart not as another way to focus on myself, but as a means of lifting up someone specific. Someone in desperate need of intercession. </div>
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I've decided I'll be damned if I miss another opportunity.</div>
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I want so badly to turn my grieving into joy by partnering with the Lord to lift up this world. Every day I meet another broken person, and I wonder at the epidemic of lost and the lonely people. It threatens to overwhelm me, and I'd be lying if I said I haven't at times handled it by hiding.<br />
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But standing in someone's place and praying for them with my whole heart...that's something I want. In John 17, Jesus prays for the world like that. He prays that God would protect His people and unite them in love. He intercedes.</div>
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On its own, it's a wonderful prayer.</div>
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But in context, it's so much more. It's the prayer Jesus prayers the night before He's brutally murdered. He spends the night before his execution using His own heaviness to lift up the sinful, selfish people whom He's grown to love so much. The people He came down to save: me and you.</div>
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Thank God.</div>
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-62524845455899537472012-09-01T21:01:00.001-07:002012-09-01T22:29:33.104-07:00Vacation Manifesto <div style="text-align: center;">
I'm going on vacation. </div>
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Let me say that one more time, in case you didn't catch what I said. </div>
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I'm going on <i>vacation. VAC-YAYYYYY-TION, </i>if you will<i>. </i>(I'm sorry. I had to. I couldn't not.)</div>
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I'm not telling you this to make you jealous. That's just a benefit. I'm telling you this because this is a <i>big deal</i> <i>for me</i>. I haven't left the Midwest and taken a legitimate vacation in almost four years. </div>
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So, in two days, I embark on a trip to a sandy island in North Carolina.</div>
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I will be on vacation for eight days.</div>
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For these eight days, I've made myself a few rules. These are rules that will hopefully untangle me from a bit of the ever-twisted Stockholm Syndrome I've developed over the past few years of constantly being plugged into everything, all the time, everywhere.</div>
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1. I can't check my phone. The world will be fine without me for a week and a half. In fact, it's probably ready for a break. </div>
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2. I don't even have to <b>glance</b> in the general direction of a computer screen, <i>unless I want to.</i></div>
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3. Wearing heels is not an option. Flip flops or gym shoes. That is all. </div>
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4. I'm not allowed to twirl my hair. Hair twirling indicates anxiety which indicates that I'm worrying about things that are out of my control, and I'm taking a vacation from that particular brand of crazy for the next EIGHT DAYS.</div>
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5. I'm not allowed to talk about, think about, or even mention the word <i>work. </i></div>
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Instead, I'm going to lay on a beach and read this: </div>
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<img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNc7CRAhbGrBcyzoe-LTF1cXNcr10pT2PU_jMmnRoGoOWAwQD0wZN2rnjfwAQTRVXPkQMdACjCBwVbTpDNYn2zM5sZpb21Qgtd0a4akhjqe3WoQ1aFlBZNqyzQSGGOik4zj7m867G4eA0/s320/seven.jpg" title="" width="207" /></div>
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I'm going to eat fruits and vegetables.</div>
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I'm going to <i>not </i>set my alarm clock. </div>
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And I'm going to re-learn how to interact with other humans--specifically my best friend, <a href="http://www.girlversusdough.com/" target="_blank">Steph</a>, my sister, her husband, their friends, and their friends' five-month-old baby.</div>
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I'm going to drink tea.</div>
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And coffee.</div>
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And wine. </div>
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I'm going to do yoga. I might even go running. (no. that last part is a lie.)</div>
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I'm going to get a real tan. (also probably a lie.)</div>
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I'm going to read entire books.</div>
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I'm going to eat ice cream.<br />
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I'm going to discover new BBQ dives.</div>
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I'm going to take walks.</div>
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And I'm not going to look at my phone. <b>Ever.</b></div>
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I had a good summer--<i>good</i>, but rougher in some ways than I expected it to be. And sometimes, even though you've healed and moved on as much as you can, it takes going away for a little bit to find the space to fully recover.<br />
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What I'm saying is,<b> this vacation could not have come at a better time.</b></div>
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Over the next eight days, I want to reconnect with God.<br />
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I want to read about Jesus again, get to know him again, study his face again. I want to spend a good amount of time reading the Gospels, not so I can come back with some sort of Holy Glow and tell everyone about how I spent a week reading the Bible while they slaved away at their desks. No...it's just that I <i>desperately need </i>to re-read the life-giving words of Jesus.<br />
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I need to remember what it's s all about. I need to read about dying to myself...I need to read about the kind of love that Jesus has for me. And I want to pour my heart out to God. I want to ask him questions, confess my most recent bouts with stupidity, give him my worries, and plead, face to the ground, for direction.<br />
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...<br />
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I also want to write.<br />
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I will write creatively.<br />
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I will write without an audience.<br />
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I will write because I have to write. Because writing is my own personal catnip. It's the thing that makes everything else quiet down...it's where I can actually <i>use</i> that daydreaming dipstick inside me that I fight on a daily basis, and instead, put her to good use.<br />
<br />
....<br />
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And lastly, I will spend the next eight days filling my words and my actions with gratitude. I have a <strike>good</strike> incredible life. I am more than blessed. But sometimes it's hard to see that, and instead of giving thanks, I complain and I criticize. It's exhausting.<br />
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What's especially stupid about it is that most of the time, I'm criticizing myself.<br />
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You see, when you're me (or maybe when you're you), you're never good enough.<br />
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Every misstep seems like a downfall. Every pound seems like a ton. Every new day becomes a new chance to self-deprecate.<br />
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And what I forget, over and over and over again, is that God didn't make a mistake when he made me. He chose to make me a neurotic dreamer. He looked and me and said that it was good. Not <i>perfect, </i>mind you, but good. Good for <b>his</b> purposes.<br />
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So for the next eight days, I'm going to unabashedly embrace who God made me to be: spacey, creative, sarcastic, direction-ally-challenged, zero sense of time...a little offbeat....I'm going to thank God for all of it. Even the stuff that annoys the crap out of my family and friends.<br />
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...<br />
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I'm going to thank him for my life, and for the people in it.<br />
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I'm going to thank him for the salt in the water, the wind on the waves, and the sun on my face.<br />
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...<br />
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Oh, and for the wine in my glass, too. I will thank him for all of it.<br />
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And I won't look at my phone.<br />
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-75377839378974727792012-08-09T11:19:00.000-07:002012-09-01T20:05:28.803-07:00Bela Karolyi Will be My Life Coach<div style="text-align: center;">
I had one of those months that I'd like to redo, from top to bottom. Best/worst of times. And naturally, through it all,<b> I failed to write a single word in this blog of mine. I'm just<i> that </i>on top of things.</b></div>
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In other news, my roommate and I <b>found ourselves a new apartment last night</b>, which I am exceedingly pumped about. It's fancy, and way cheaper than my current place, and it will hopefully smell a lot less like pot brownies, dead cats, and movie theaters. Here's to hoping.</div>
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<b>A bunch of my co-workers are at the <a href="http://www.willowcreek.com/events/leadership/" target="_blank">Summit </a>at Willow Creek today, listening to Condoleezza Rice</b> <b>tear it up </b>while I sit at my desk and continue to email people W9s and request book permissions from various publishers. At some point soon, I will experience the glee of running to Kinkos. Please stand by. I know you're jealous.</div>
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Sigh.</div>
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<a href="https://ashleygraceemmert.blogspot.com/2012/08/bela-karolyi-will-be-my-life-coach.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-72298926134528467072012-08-01T07:37:00.002-07:002012-08-01T07:42:23.907-07:00Epic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Can we just give it up for this? Repeatedly? Thanks. </div>
<br />Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-85886690909975036672012-06-16T13:58:00.001-07:002012-12-17T15:43:33.551-08:0030 Things I Want to Tell My 18-year-old Self<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Life Lessons...and Things I Wish I'd Known Before College </b><br />
[Things I would say if I could pull my young self aside and tell me what's what.]<br />
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1. <b>First of all, Little Ashley, the reason you started crying at the sight of your empty P.O. box today is because you are very, very tired. </b>You were up until 4 a.m. hanging out with your roommate at a diner, and you are not functioning properly. The truth is, you <i>suck at life </i>when you're tired. Take a nap, kid. You will need more naps in college than you did when you were a toddler, and you will be able to <i>take them. </i>Don't miss this window of napportunity. <b>Ditch Western Civilization, climb into your lofted bed, and pass out until dinner. </b>You will still pass that freshman gen. ed. with flying colors.<br />
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2. <b>Your college experience will not be <i>just like </i>Keri Russell on </b><i><b>Felicity.</b> </i>I mean it. Skip buying the giant sweaters and finding a friend to send your recorded self-obsessed messages to. That's what blogs are for. Give up on this tv show dream; it is fake.</div>
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3. <b>If you go on a date with a guy who tells you he hates reading books, do not go on another date. </b></div>
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Unless he's a really<i> </i>good kisser.</div>
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No not even then. Don't listen to me. </div>
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4. <b>Learn how to drive in the city. Soon.</b> Not knowing how to drive in they city at 18 is precious and endearing, but not knowing how to drive in the city when you are almost 26 years old is sad and pathetic. <i>This <b>cannot</b> be your crazy cat lady quirk.</i><br />
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5. <b>Jump in a lake with your clothes on with that one crazy guy who takes you on that one crazy date your junior year. </b>It will be fun, and it will not get weird. </div>
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6. <b>You also need to get over your fear of old people</b>. They will always be there and you should be nice to them. They are <i>not</i> trying to lure you into their homes in order to eat you, like the witch from Hansel and Gretel, and the odds of them dying of old age, mid-sentence, while talking to you, are very slim. </div>
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7. <b>Sit your butt down and write your uncles two thank you cards for collaboratively buying you that laptop for high school graduation. </b>I know you think the appreciative email you sent them was enough, but it wasn't. I know, I know, we hate thank you cards. But if you do not do this thing, they will vibe you/me for the next <b>seven years. </b>Write them cards. It is <i>not </i>hard, and it will save us from years of awkwardness.</div>
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8. <b>This is selfish, maybe, but switch banks now.</b> If you don't, then I will have to take care of it this week, seven years later, when all my direct deposit and withdrawal stuff is set up. It's super annoying. Please do this thing. Do it for me, your elder self. </div>
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9. <b>Don't cut your hair super short your sophomore year of college.</b> You will hate it, and yes, you will look like a mom. </div>
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10. You're not going to find your husband in college. <b>I don't care what all of those games of M.A.S.H.</b> said. Feel grateful for this, and don't worry about it. You will be tempted to worry because you will surrounded by girls who are worrying about this, but don't get sucked in. Life goes on after college. As a matter of fact, <b><i>it gets better.</i></b></div>
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11.<b> DO NOT. AND I REPEAT, DO NOT try to dye your hair Gwen Stefani blonde by yourself at 2 a.m. in your dorm suite bathroom, with a $5 box of hair bleach you bought at the grocery store</b>. You know the guy who hosts <i>Diners, Drive-ins and Dives</i>? Yeah. You will end up looking like him. Don't go there.<br />
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12. Figure out the difference between a boring guy who is super responsible and a non-boring guy who is completely irresponsible. Find out the character traits of a happy medium between the two. <b>Do it now.</b> <b>They exist, I promise.</b></div>
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13. <b>You are <i>not </i>a failure at life</b> because of whatever currently overly dramatic crisis you are currently facing. Stop telling yourself you are. You're eighteen, for Pete's sake.</div>
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14. <b>Everything you own <i>does not </i>have to be from the Gap. </b>In fact, owning trendier clothes will prevent you from dressing like a<b> teacher or a little boy every livelong day</b>, which, unless you change your ways, you will, until you turn 24.<br />
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15. <b>Take your sister up on her offer to teach you how to cook.</b> Someday (it will come very, very soon) you will have to cook for yourself, and you <i>cannot live off of </i>peanut butter, yogurt and grapes.<br />
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15.b. I know you think your inability to cook is a cute and interesting fact about you, and that it makes you mysterious and independent. Unfortunately this all goes to crap and ends up making you look rather pathetic by around age 23. Learn to cook. Do this thing for me, Young Ashley.<b> I would <i>love</i> to know how to make lasagna, and it all depends on you.</b><br />
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16. <b>You don't have to like Wilco.</b> You can find them boring and pretentious. It's okay.<br />
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17. <b>It is also okay that you like Alfred Hitchcock movies, painting things, reading books, folk music, and going to flea markets with your mom.</b> I know you are a dork now, but in seven more years, this will be super cool. <b>You're basically a trendsetter.</b> Keep dorking it up, sister.<br />
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18. <b>You live in a world where the bank closes at 1 p.m. on Saturdays.</b> Denying this fact will not make it open when you go there at 3 p.m., so please learn this very important, harsh life-truth right now.<br />
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19. <b>People are not always mad at you.</b> Sometimes their mood has absolutely nothing to do with you. I promise. On the same note,<b> Jesus is never mad at you. Stop thinking he is</b>.<br />
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20. <b>Start a savings account right now</b>. You don't pay rent, you don't pay utilities, you don't pay for a car, and your student loans haven't kicked in yet. <b>We could be so rich</b> by the time we are my age. We could buy our own chef and then you wouldn't have to worry about my instructions in number 15. <br />
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21. <b>Call your parents more, especially your mom</b>. I know you don't want to call your her right now, but you need to. <b>Seriously, though.</b><br />
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22. <b>Keep being best friends with <a href="http://www.girlversusdough.com/" target="_blank">Steph</a>. Treat her like a rockstar.</b> She will be your pillar of sanity and loyalty through all of college and your early twenties. Be nice to that guy she starts dating your junior year. He never goes away. As a matter of fact they get married. But you will continue to refer to him as <b>Smelliott</b>, and Steph will continue to find it just as funny as you do. This is why she's your<b> bff4life. </b><br />
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23.<b> When God says he'll provide, he means it.</b>You will re-learn this everyday.<br />
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24.<b> Don't change your major four times.</b> I know you will get super freaked out when you go to your first journalism class, but it's the only thing you've ever wanted to do. Don't let it scare you away. You do <i>not </i>want to be a social worker, a teacher, or a professional communicator. (What <i>do </i>communications majors do, anyway?) Study the Chicago Manual of Style. Study good writers. Write all the time. You love writing--you want to be a writer.<br />
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<b>Do <i>not </i>make a pros and cons list that tells you otherwise.</b><br />
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25. Buy tickets to go see Nickel Creek EVERYTIME they are in town. <b>I hate to tell you this, but shortly after you graduate from college, they will break up</b>. You will continue to stalk Chris Thile and his new band, but it will never be the same. Don't waste this precious time with them.<br />
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26. <b>Hang out with your college roommate, Alyssa, more.</b> She kicks butt and someday soon she will marry a Swiss rocket scientist and move to Boston. <b>No, I'm not kidding</b>. Make sure when you are working on a paper at 3 a.m. in your dorm room, you don't wear headphones. You will accidentally be much louder than you think you are, banging your coffee mug on your desk, etc., and you'll keep her awake, but she will be too sweet to say anything. Do not do this. <b>Preventing one from sleep is a form of torture. Have some social grace.</b><br />
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27. <b>Be ballsier. </b>Just in general.<br />
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28. <b>Don't be such a snob about music, movies, or books</b>. Someday, you will harbor a very intense love for an 18-year-old Canadian popstar who looks strikingly like a woman. And you will think that this fact about you is <b>very awesome</b>.<br />
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29. Your s<b>isters are always right</b>. So is Steph. Get used to this now and you will save yourself a lot of wasted time.<br />
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30. <b>Life will not end after college,</b> just like it didn't end after high school. You will like your early twenties an awful lot<i>. You will, dare I say, have even more fun than you are having right now. </i>I promise.<b> </b><br />
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Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-90956759175181833902012-06-13T08:58:00.001-07:002012-09-01T20:00:20.292-07:00A Little Something on Grace and Honesty<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hi folks. I've been the crappiest blogger on the face of the earth lately, because I've been spending a lot of my time writing for Kyria.com. <a href="http://blog.christianitytoday.com/mt/mt-search.cgi" target="_blank">Here</a> are a few of the posts I've done recently. Please known that for Kyria, I've written twice in the last month about kinky porn in society. I do not have any way to explain myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, this is a post I wrote last year, on my old blog. It's about Jesus. And honesty. And grace. I've been reflecting a lot on the mayhem that recently took place in the life of Brian Presley, including the circulation of <a href="http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2012/aprilweb-only/cleanupordie.html" target="_blank">an interview</a> I did with him two months ago. It's all been very odd for me to watch, but it's made me think a lot about how, simply stated, we are never going to be perfect.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> So...here you go. A little something for you Wednesday.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I read this last night, and it has never read so beautifully before.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"<sup style="bottom: 1ex; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">27</sup> After this, Jesus went out and saw a tax collector by the name of Levi sitting at his tax booth. “Follow me,” Jesus said to him, <sup style="bottom: 1ex; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">28</sup> and Levi got up, left everything and followed him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> <sup style="bottom: 1ex; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">29</sup> Then Levi held a great banquet for Jesus at his house, and a large crowd of tax collectors and others were eating with them. <sup style="bottom: 1ex; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">30</sup> But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law who belonged to their sect complained to his disciples, “Why do you eat and drink with tax collectors and sinners?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Jesus answered them, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. <sup style="bottom: 1ex; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">32</sup> I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> - Luke 5:27-32</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After that, I read this. Jesus said it. I like it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"<sup style="bottom: 1ex; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">37 </sup>Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. <sup style="bottom: 1ex; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">38</sup> Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> <sup style="bottom: 1ex; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">41</sup> “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? <sup style="bottom: 1ex; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">42</sup> How can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when you yourself fail to see the plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Luke 6:37-38; 41-42</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Christ was sinless and perfect, and he told. us not to judge each other. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 1.5;">But we do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 1.5;">We do it in conversation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 1.5;">We do it in our minds and hearts. We do it when we pass people on the street or drive past them in our cars. We do it when we watch the news and hear about the different ways that people are trying to fill the voids in their lives with relationships and substances that continue to hurt them. We shake our heads and say, "How could they do something like that?" when really, what we should be saying, is "How wonderful would it be for that person if they allowed Jesus to fill that void. Thank God for His grace and mercy that allows me to feel whole, even amidst confusion."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> My pastor always says that there is nothing worse than a conversation between a Christian and a non-Christian in which our main goal is to "fix them." It's just gross. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was one of those crazy weeks for me where God kept telling me the same thing so persistently that I would have to chop off both of my ears in order to NOT hear Him. I'm not down with the ear-chopping.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We were not put on this earth to judge one another. We just weren't. At least five times, <strong style="color: black; line-height: 1.5;">just this week,</strong> I have been on one side or the other of the following conversation: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I didn't want to talk to you about this/call you to talk because I was scared I'd be bothering you/I didn't want to disappoint you/I didn't want you to let you down."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Translation? We are terrified of being judged by each other, and so we isolate. And when we isolate, we suffer even more, and that fear continues to build. Two nights ago I talked to my best friend for a good hour, and we both admitted to each other that we'd been scared to talk to each other about some things that we were dealing with. But the fear that we both felt was a lie. Through our conversation a film that had been covering our friendship over the past few months was lifted, and we were able to see clearly that we will receive nothing but love and understanding from one another. And yes, sometimes we tell each other that we are acting like morons. And that is a <strong style="color: black; line-height: 1.5;">good</strong> thing, because it is based on love. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But why does that fear exist in the first place? Why do we get so scared to talk to each other about the truth of our lives? I think that sometimes the lack of grace we are surrounded by in this world becomes a direct correlation to how we perceive our relationships with one another. In the church, we deal with the anomaly of striving to become perfect in Christ while knowing in the deepest part of our hearts that we are nothing but a bunch of sinful bastards. We are given mercy through the faith that we have, not because of our perfection. We don't deserve the Father that we have in Heaven, but He loves us just the same. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We know that we can't hide our sins from Christ, but sometimes we start to believe that everything will be so much easier if we DO hide our sins from one another. The biggest problem with this, of course, is that the more perfect we try to appear, the more hypocritical we become, and also, the less likely it will be that anyone who is actually struggling, who is actually in pain, will be willing to talk to us about it. When we shut out God's grace for ourselves, the grace that allows us to joyfully admit that we are imperfect, we also stop giving that grace to those around us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"<sup style="bottom: 1ex; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">16</sup> Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hebrews 4:16</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am talking to myself more than anyone, today. We have to get it out of our heads that being saved by grace makes us "better" than anyone else. We aren't better, we are just incredibly blessed with the knowledge of a loving Savior. We have to stop freaking out about the minute things that make us think that our society is "going to hell in a handbag," and start freaking out about the incomprehensible amount of suffering that is taking place around us. Jesus spent His time on earth with those who were suffering and confused. The outcasts. The people you'd never trust to babysit your kids or hold your purse or go to for advice. Those were the people He ate dinner with. So I guess what I'm trying to say, and struggling to do so, is that this judgement and fear that we live in is <strong style="color: black; line-height: 1.5;">not</strong> the Gospel. It's not the truth. Jesus loves us sinners, and He <strong style="color: black; line-height: 1.5;">demands</strong> that we love others in the same grace-filled way that He does.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 1.5;">This week I had another conversation, too. This one tore me up, because it gave me, with clarity that I believe must have come from the Holy Spirit, an outsider's view on the graceless, selfish "religion" that Christians today are always in danger of becoming, and often, have become.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm paraphrasing, but in unbelievable truth, a friend of mine said something pretty close to this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Do you want to know the reason that everyone who isn't a Christian looks at the Church and laughs about what a big joke it all is? It's because you people spend so much time judging non-Christian music and movies and listening to your contemporary Christian music and preaching at others about how they need to get "saved," but in reality, your lives don't look any different from ours. Your lives become about what you <strong style="color: black; line-height: 1.5;">don't do</strong>. Where are you being the hands and feet of Christ? Where are you actually being the light that is showing the world that you are different? No one gives a crap about what you have to say if you are living a life that is full of judgement towards us. Show me someone who is living like a light. Who is really trying to spread that love that Jesus gave. I'll listen to that person." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I think that God speaks in a lot of ways. Wednesday, this is how He spoke to me. And now there's no going back to normalcy. Not when you get convicted like that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Happy Wednesday, y'all. </span></div>
Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-7489614741724169892012-04-06T18:54:00.001-07:002012-04-10T14:37:26.251-07:00Good FridayI think I've always had two versions of Jesus in my mind.<br />
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First, there is <i>Jesus</i>:<i> </i>the sweet, life-giving, grace-pushing carpenter who was always telling the losers he loved them. I've always liked him. We're close. I tell him things. And he makes me feel safe.<br />
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And then there is <b>JESUS: </b>the silent, somber B.A. who was always pissing off Pharisees--the one who walked the road to Calvary. Now, <i>this guy,</i> I respect. But I'm not sure if He likes me that much, and he's always freaked me out a little. <br />
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It's always been easiest to have this separation, because what Jesus did on the Cross completely baffles me. I don't understand it. It makes me sad. And it makes me feel a little guilty.Yes. It has been easier for me, for 25 years, to keep the Jesus in the crowds, the one who called me on the beach, saved me from being stoned, broke bread with me...it's easier to keep <i>that</i> Jesus separate from the one who died for me.<br />
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But tonight I attended a Good Friday service that felt a lot more like a funeral--and I've been to my share of funerals of the past few years. The resemblance was purposeful, but it was also incredibly fitting. Tonight was not a memorial of the distant martyr who hung on the Cross. It was the funeral remembrance for the only man who has ever loved me purely. The one who says he's the shepherd for the lost and the hopeless. The one who prays to his Father in John 17, telling him how much he loves the insignificant morons he's spent the last 33 years getting to know. The one who knows me inside and out--who I share everything with.<br />
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Tonight I re-lived the funeral of my best friend.<br />
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It was awful.<br />
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I don't know what it was. Maybe it's because this year, more than ever before, I've experienced more closely what if feels like to lose someone you love. Or maybe this was the year that I finally <i>truly </i>fell in love with Jesus. I don't know, exactly.<br />
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Whatever it was...the life I lived this year has brought me to a place of absolute dependence on the Grace of the Man who died tonight.<br />
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The death of Jesus is not some far off, theological concept.<br />
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It's personal.<br />
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It's heartbreaking.<br />
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It is worthy of mourning.<br />
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But...it's not the end of the story.<br />
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How thankful I become when I arrive, face-to-face with this truth.<br />
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<br />Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-90587236162327383802012-03-28T14:40:00.003-07:002012-03-28T14:41:40.991-07:00New Post for You and You and YouAnd then I wrote <a href="http://blog.kyria.com/2012/03/saving_thomas.html" target="_blank">THIS</a>.<br />
<br />Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604459663204891947.post-91561728783834798622012-03-15T11:08:00.002-07:002012-03-15T11:11:05.072-07:00Cat. Organ. Rainbow. Song.<div style="text-align: center;">
Hello there. How are <i>you</i> doing?</div>
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Me? Well, I <i>was</i> doing great. <i>Was</i>. Until I saw this. Now I'm sort of a mixture of nervous, nauseous, and...and...</div>
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Now it's all just darkness.</div>
</div>Ashley Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07487319413993452352noreply@blogger.com2