December 18, 2007 - Tuesday
Current mood: electric
As Christmas is fast approaching, the presents are slowly piling themselves up under my tree.....and at the office.....and in my car. After coming to the realization that these gifts were beginning to take over my most frequented spots, I surmised it was most probably time to attend to the problem.
And I invited my lovely and beautiful friend Amanda over for a wrapping party.
Little did we know the hilarity and wonderment that would soon envelop our little soiree.
Upon Amanda's arrival, we promptly phoned in an order for pizza from our local gourmet (albeit overpriced) pizzeria, Monicals. We were told our pizza would be $538.60, and that it would arrive in 45 minutes to half an hour.
And so we proceeded to wrap. We wrapped our little hearts out. From sweaters to books to DVDs to shoes, we wrapped with every force inside of ourselves. We wrapped to our fullest potential.
And then our pizza came. As we jaunted down to the basement, the fragrance of melted cheese, green peppers and sausage permeated the air. I knew we were in for a treat. As I found my seat and prepared our food for the partaking, I helped myself to a breadstick. Yummy.
When I had devoured the breadstick, I decided that it was time to enjoy some of that fine pizza we had anticipated for such a long time. And as I removed the foil from the top of the pizza (you see, Monicals pizza does not come in the traditional cardboard box used by most other pizza outlets, but rather they delicately place their pizzas on a cardboard flat, strategically put a couple of the Barbie tables into the pizza, and then wrap the entire pie in foil. Once this is accomplished, they place the foiled pizza into a paper sleeve), I noticed that something looked strange on the pizza, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it.
Until I tried to grab my first slice. Someone had cut our pizza into diamond shapes, rendering the act of actually choosing one slice at a time a virtual impossibility. It looked like an argyle sweater.
Now, you may be wondering what could have possibly been so difficult about selecting a slice of pizza if it was cut diagonally. All I can say to you is: You try it. You're expecting to choose a square slice and everything is all melted together. When consuming any ordinary pizza, we don't typically assess where the slices have been made each time we reach for a piece. We normally just assume we will grasp somewhere close and that the pizza is sliced well enough to go with the flow.
Argyle pizza is very challenging to eat, but it tastes the same as any other pizza.
Incidentally, if anyone can tell me why thick crust pizza is sliced into triangular shapes while thin crust is normally cut into squares, they will receive 1,057 bonus points.
After we had done what we could with the argyle pizza, we adjourned to the couch to watch the season finale of NBC's The Biggest Loser. Amanda had not been particularly into this show, but I had watched it nearly every week this season, and I was eagerly anticipating seeing the final results.
I am certain that my readers all know the premise of The Biggest Loser. You try to lose the most weight and not get eliminated so you will win $250,000.00. For most, watching this show would inspire them to begin exercising more and eating less. When I watch this show, I am inspired to eat cookies.
But regardless, I love the show. I have a normal routine as I partake of this program every week. My mother and I guess the weights of the contestants on the show as they step onto the giant scale. Since my mother was not with me tonight, Amanda and I decided to continue the tradition. And as I began guessing, I shocked and amazed my dear friend by estimating the weight of the contestants within one pound....three times in a row!
I think I have discovered my true calling. I will become one of those carnies who guesses people's weight at the fair.
Granted, I was pretty far off base for the rest of the contestants I was guessing, but for that brief span of five minutes or so, I was in a zone.
Currently listening : Biggest Loser By Biggest Loser Release date: 20 March, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Questions
October 13, 2007 - Saturday
Current mood: contemplative
I have been living in discontentment lately. I look at my friends who are married with children or in serious relationships and I wonder, "When is my turn?" And I see more friends who are established in their careers and I think, "Why can't I have that?" And then I see people around me involved in successful ministries and I say, "Where's mine?" My life has become focused on the things I see as missing. And so I have been trying to figure out exactly who I am. I feel like I am missing my own identity. How would I introduce myself to someone? "Hello. My name is Nicole and I.....don't have a husband, work as a secretary for my dad, and I'm not really doing much in the way of living out my faith. I am unsure of where I actually belong....or even feel at home in the world, and I have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life. It's nice to meet you."
I have pondered. I have analyzed. I have sought answers.
And then I realized my problem. I was spending so much time self-reflecting, self-searching, self-helping...when I should have asked the one who knows the answers.
Will God always provide me with answers when I ask? Not necessarily. I have learned that sometimes God chooses to answer with more questions. His thought are higher than mine.
And when I ask "Where is mine?" He says, "Am I not enough?"And when I ask "When is my turn?" He responds, "Do you trust my timing?"And when I ask "Why can't I have that?" He replies, "Do you remember 2 Corinthians 12:9?"
When I am searching for who I am, He tells me, "You know I AM."And when I am contemplating where I belong, He says, "You are in Your Father's arms. Where else would you want to be?"
I can ask where I should go to church, and His response is, "What's more important, going to a certain church or being the church?
I've been listening to a CD I bought the other day (see below), and in the opening song of the album Todd Agnew sings,
As a person who always has to have the answers...or even make answers up if I don't know...that is a peaceful realization to come to. And as true as that statement is, I have found that God has even better questions than I do.
Currently listening : Better Questions By Todd Agnew Release date: 17 July, 2007
Current mood: contemplative
I have been living in discontentment lately. I look at my friends who are married with children or in serious relationships and I wonder, "When is my turn?" And I see more friends who are established in their careers and I think, "Why can't I have that?" And then I see people around me involved in successful ministries and I say, "Where's mine?" My life has become focused on the things I see as missing. And so I have been trying to figure out exactly who I am. I feel like I am missing my own identity. How would I introduce myself to someone? "Hello. My name is Nicole and I.....don't have a husband, work as a secretary for my dad, and I'm not really doing much in the way of living out my faith. I am unsure of where I actually belong....or even feel at home in the world, and I have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life. It's nice to meet you."
I have pondered. I have analyzed. I have sought answers.
And then I realized my problem. I was spending so much time self-reflecting, self-searching, self-helping...when I should have asked the one who knows the answers.
Will God always provide me with answers when I ask? Not necessarily. I have learned that sometimes God chooses to answer with more questions. His thought are higher than mine.
And when I ask "Where is mine?" He says, "Am I not enough?"And when I ask "When is my turn?" He responds, "Do you trust my timing?"And when I ask "Why can't I have that?" He replies, "Do you remember 2 Corinthians 12:9?"
When I am searching for who I am, He tells me, "You know I AM."And when I am contemplating where I belong, He says, "You are in Your Father's arms. Where else would you want to be?"
I can ask where I should go to church, and His response is, "What's more important, going to a certain church or being the church?
I've been listening to a CD I bought the other day (see below), and in the opening song of the album Todd Agnew sings,
I have better questions than I have answers
As a person who always has to have the answers...or even make answers up if I don't know...that is a peaceful realization to come to. And as true as that statement is, I have found that God has even better questions than I do.
Currently listening : Better Questions By Todd Agnew Release date: 17 July, 2007
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Of Mice and Women
May 31, 2007 - Thursday
Current mood: exhausted
I have come to be known by my friends and family as somewhat of a "take charge" person. Regardless of whether I'm asked to, I will most likely begin ordering people around in any given circumstance. I've told my friends that I'm not bossy, just……directive. I'm not afraid to assert myself when someone crosses me the wrong way. And I can handle virtually anyone with a perfect combination of sass and nerve.
Despite the façade of valor I emanate, there is one thing that sets me on edge. One fierce and terrible force in the world that, when confronted with it, causes me to turn semi-schizophrenic. One tumultuous and loathsome antagonist in my life that always drives me to my knees….in prayer, not surrender.
Mice.
I don't. Like. Mice.
I'm not particularly afraid of them, as in running and jumping onto the nearest table in an effort to get away from them. No, I'm more nervous around them. I don't enjoy the sight of a little mouse scurrying across the floor and then disappearing for approximately 11 minutes until it, once again, scurries across the floor from behind the couch on which I am sitting.
I'm used to mice. My parents live across from a wildlife conservation area, and one fateful autumn (I affectionately refer to it as "The Year of the Mouse") we caught 17 of these furry monsters, including one that had to be drowned in a sink full of water…that was a rough one.
So it's not like these pests are a foreign entity to me. It's just that...my dad has always been the one to handle the mouse occurrences that arose in the past.
About 6 weeks ago, on a hot and muggy April day, my roommates and I decided to turn on our air conditioner. And that's when we saw the first one. My cousin Tom and I were sitting in my living room, watching TV when he spotted it running behind my television, behind my DVDs, and directly behind the couch where I was sitting. I kept my cool….just walked downstairs and asked my roommate Jen for her mousetrap, so we could take care of the little guy. My brave and valiant cousin handled the problem by setting the trap and ingeniously shaking a paper bag near where the mouse was sitting, scaring the mouse and forcing it directly into the trap he had set. Talk about Mac Giver. I was so grateful to have ridded our house of the pesky problem.
The weather hit another cold spell and about a month passed without any vermin. And then we turned the air on again.
The first day we turned the air on, I was sitting on my couch watching television and I saw one make its way across the floor. Katie was out of town for the weekend and Jen was not home, so it was just me and the mouse in our immense townhome that evening. I set the trap and placed it in the precise location by which we had caught the other one. And I waited.
When Jen got home, I was still waiting. I had seen it scurry across the floor several times, but apparently this particular mouse wasn't interested in peanut butter. So I explained the situation to Jen and prepared her so she wouldn't be frightened at the sight of the nasty little creature that had taken up residence in our dwelling place.
That night was a tough one. Jen lives on the bottom floor of our townhouse, and I on the top. Both of us would swear we heard the rodent rummaging around in our respective rooms that night. In my case, I heard papers rattling under the nightstand beside my bed. Now, you must understand that I sleep on a huge King-size bed, but I only use one corner of the bed for actual sleeping purposes. The remainder of the bed is normally used for temporarily housing items such as clothing and books, until I decide it's time to clean. When I heard the papers rattling, they were (of course) directly underneath the corner of the bed where I sleep. I shot up from my slumber, tentatively reached over and turned on my lamp to see if I could find the evil intruder, and when I couldn't find anything, I decided that desperate times call for desperate measures. I did an army roll to the other side of my bed, jumped over to the floor lamp by the door, and turned it on. Then an untamed thought process ran rampant through my mind.
If I don't see the mouse now, then where did he go?
He's probably paralyzed by the fear of me wrestling around and turning on the light.
Do mice have claws?
If they have claws, then he probably grabbed on to the blanket on my bed and climbed up it.
THAT MOUSE IS PROBABLY TRAPPED UNDER MY COVERS RIGHT NOW!
I'm not getting under the covers…I know there's a mouse in there.
I have to make my bed and sleep on top of the covers.
Yeah, that way if the mouse is in there, he'll be trapped because I'll be on top of him.
He'll suffocate and die.
But then I'll have a dead mouse in my bed.
That's gross.
I'll make the bed and sleep lightly on top of the covers.
Hopefully then it will have enough room to wiggle out if it wants to.
Yeah. And I'll keep the light on so I can see it if it gets on me.
And I'll turn the TV on so I can't hear it rattling around anymore.
And I'll turn the fan on, too…just to be doubly safe.
Needless to say, that was a sleepless night for me. And the next day I left (still no mouse in the trap) for a weekend in Decatur.
I returned on Sunday night to an empty house, as Katie was still out of town, and Jen had gone home for the weekend, too. I promptly set my luggage down, turned the air back on (we had turned it off for the weekend, since no one would be home) and found a stiff mouse in our trap.
This was no ordinary mouse trap. It was black plastic and had a cover over the top of it, so you couldn't see the dead mouse….all that was showing was a stiff little tail hanging out the back. I was so delighted to have caught the disgusting house guest that I didn't even have time to get squeamish about picking up the trap. But then it hit me
I am holding a dead mouse, and I don't know how to open this elaborate trap.
So I shrugged my shoulders and threw the entire thing in the trash can. I had every intention of purchasing a new trap for Jen, since I had thrown hers away, but I had no interest in holding the trap with the dead mouse in it and trying to figure out how to open it. I scooped up the trash bag, and carried it outside to throw it in our trash bin out back. Carrying a huge sense of accomplishment, I threw the bag away, closed the lid and smacked my hands together.
Now I can live in peace.
Approximately seven minutes later, I was sitting on the couch watching television when I saw something scurry from downstairs and into my living room.
You have got to be kidding me.
Yes, we had yet another mouse…only now I had thrown away our only trap. I promptly put my shoes on, grabbed my purse and headed to Wal-Mart to purchase some traps.
Wal-Mart did not have the fancy, "you don't have to see them once you smash their little heads with a big heavy bar" traps. I had my choice between sticky traps and wooden. I chose the wooden. I also purchased a bag of rubber gloves, because I knew I didn't want to pick up the traps with my bare hands.
As I stated earlier, my dad was the one who had always taken care of the mice in our house when I was growing up, so I didn't know how to set a mouse trap. I called him and he talked me through it. 15 minutes, two snapped fingers, some tears, a lot of sniffles, and a good deal of frustration later…I had finally figured out how to set the stupid things.
As I was baiting a few of the traps (I believe I set three or four of them that night), something caught my eye. That little mouse was climbing out of our air conditioning vent.
So I placed several traps next to our vents to no avail. I sat back on the couch for a few minutes and then decided I would go check the trap I had placed behind the trash can. I opened the pantry door and realized I had forgotten to change the trash can liner from the previous mouse…and then I saw it.
Sitting in our trash can, staring up at me….begging for mercy was a live tiny brown mouse.
Now, what am I supposed to do? I knew I couldn't kill the thing. And I wasn't about to "set it free outside" just for it to come back in again. I knew there was only one thing to do. I was going to have to carry the entire trash can down two flights of stairs and out the back door and then out the gate and dump this little guy into our trash bin and close the lid.
Mice can't jump well. They can climb, but with this plastic trash can there was nothing for him to grab on to. I knew he would attempt to jump out, but he wouldn't be successful. I grabbed my keys (I guess they made me feel safer), picked up the trash can with one hand and thought, "Nicole. You know this mouse is going to try to jump out…and you're going to freak and drop the trash can and then he will still be in your house." So I firmly held the trash can with both hands.
As I made my way to the bottom floor of the house, the little guy started his escape attempt. I was determined not to drop the trash can, but I was majorly freaking out, and I needed to do something. So while this little mouse was jumping up and down in this small trash can I was holding, I also was hopping from one foot to the other and emitting a low, whispery scream. A few seconds of the hopping and I regained my composure. I quickly opened the back door and walked to the gate. I am certain I had a disgusted/petrified/nervous look on my face because as I opened the gate a neighbor happened to be walking by,
"Those gates are weird, huh?" She said…apparently she assumed the look on my face was due to the gate.
"Uhh. Yeah. They're. Really……Uhhh……Loud." And then I made my way to the trash bin, dumped junior in and slammed the lid.
After all of this mouse business, I was tired and decided it was time for bed. As I went upstairs the thought struck me,
"I bet these mice are coming from our air conditioner. They have only ever come out when we've had the air on."
Oh no. I have an air conditioning vent right above my bed. I clamored up the stairs and bolted to the vent to close it before a mouse could fall out onto my bed. I closed all the vents in my room, stuffed a thick blanket against the bottom of my door, slept (once again) with the light, television and fan on…on top of the covers..and awoke the next morning still a little nervous about finding other mice.
Seven mice and two weeks later, after catching them on sticky traps, wooden traps, coming out of vents, and even one in a crouton box, we determined it was time to call an exterminator.
This exterminator assured us that we would not have any more mouse troubles. He placed a special chemical called "Mouse Bait" in various locations of the house and told us that the mice would crawl into our walls and die. He said that this special mouse bait would dry up all the fluids in the mouse's body and so we would not smell the mice once they died. He said we would never know how many mice we had caught and then had consequently crawled into our walls and died.
Now, I'm not sure I entirely buy into the idea that a rotting rodent trapped in our wall won't emit some kind of aroma…but we haven't seen a mouse for at least two weeks…..so we have peace of mind. And today I will reopen the air conditioning vents in my room.
Currently listening : Elliott Yamin By Elliott Yamin Release date: 20 March, 2007
Current mood: exhausted
I have come to be known by my friends and family as somewhat of a "take charge" person. Regardless of whether I'm asked to, I will most likely begin ordering people around in any given circumstance. I've told my friends that I'm not bossy, just……directive. I'm not afraid to assert myself when someone crosses me the wrong way. And I can handle virtually anyone with a perfect combination of sass and nerve.
Despite the façade of valor I emanate, there is one thing that sets me on edge. One fierce and terrible force in the world that, when confronted with it, causes me to turn semi-schizophrenic. One tumultuous and loathsome antagonist in my life that always drives me to my knees….in prayer, not surrender.
Mice.
I don't. Like. Mice.
I'm not particularly afraid of them, as in running and jumping onto the nearest table in an effort to get away from them. No, I'm more nervous around them. I don't enjoy the sight of a little mouse scurrying across the floor and then disappearing for approximately 11 minutes until it, once again, scurries across the floor from behind the couch on which I am sitting.
I'm used to mice. My parents live across from a wildlife conservation area, and one fateful autumn (I affectionately refer to it as "The Year of the Mouse") we caught 17 of these furry monsters, including one that had to be drowned in a sink full of water…that was a rough one.
So it's not like these pests are a foreign entity to me. It's just that...my dad has always been the one to handle the mouse occurrences that arose in the past.
About 6 weeks ago, on a hot and muggy April day, my roommates and I decided to turn on our air conditioner. And that's when we saw the first one. My cousin Tom and I were sitting in my living room, watching TV when he spotted it running behind my television, behind my DVDs, and directly behind the couch where I was sitting. I kept my cool….just walked downstairs and asked my roommate Jen for her mousetrap, so we could take care of the little guy. My brave and valiant cousin handled the problem by setting the trap and ingeniously shaking a paper bag near where the mouse was sitting, scaring the mouse and forcing it directly into the trap he had set. Talk about Mac Giver. I was so grateful to have ridded our house of the pesky problem.
The weather hit another cold spell and about a month passed without any vermin. And then we turned the air on again.
The first day we turned the air on, I was sitting on my couch watching television and I saw one make its way across the floor. Katie was out of town for the weekend and Jen was not home, so it was just me and the mouse in our immense townhome that evening. I set the trap and placed it in the precise location by which we had caught the other one. And I waited.
When Jen got home, I was still waiting. I had seen it scurry across the floor several times, but apparently this particular mouse wasn't interested in peanut butter. So I explained the situation to Jen and prepared her so she wouldn't be frightened at the sight of the nasty little creature that had taken up residence in our dwelling place.
That night was a tough one. Jen lives on the bottom floor of our townhouse, and I on the top. Both of us would swear we heard the rodent rummaging around in our respective rooms that night. In my case, I heard papers rattling under the nightstand beside my bed. Now, you must understand that I sleep on a huge King-size bed, but I only use one corner of the bed for actual sleeping purposes. The remainder of the bed is normally used for temporarily housing items such as clothing and books, until I decide it's time to clean. When I heard the papers rattling, they were (of course) directly underneath the corner of the bed where I sleep. I shot up from my slumber, tentatively reached over and turned on my lamp to see if I could find the evil intruder, and when I couldn't find anything, I decided that desperate times call for desperate measures. I did an army roll to the other side of my bed, jumped over to the floor lamp by the door, and turned it on. Then an untamed thought process ran rampant through my mind.
If I don't see the mouse now, then where did he go?
He's probably paralyzed by the fear of me wrestling around and turning on the light.
Do mice have claws?
If they have claws, then he probably grabbed on to the blanket on my bed and climbed up it.
THAT MOUSE IS PROBABLY TRAPPED UNDER MY COVERS RIGHT NOW!
I'm not getting under the covers…I know there's a mouse in there.
I have to make my bed and sleep on top of the covers.
Yeah, that way if the mouse is in there, he'll be trapped because I'll be on top of him.
He'll suffocate and die.
But then I'll have a dead mouse in my bed.
That's gross.
I'll make the bed and sleep lightly on top of the covers.
Hopefully then it will have enough room to wiggle out if it wants to.
Yeah. And I'll keep the light on so I can see it if it gets on me.
And I'll turn the TV on so I can't hear it rattling around anymore.
And I'll turn the fan on, too…just to be doubly safe.
Needless to say, that was a sleepless night for me. And the next day I left (still no mouse in the trap) for a weekend in Decatur.
I returned on Sunday night to an empty house, as Katie was still out of town, and Jen had gone home for the weekend, too. I promptly set my luggage down, turned the air back on (we had turned it off for the weekend, since no one would be home) and found a stiff mouse in our trap.
This was no ordinary mouse trap. It was black plastic and had a cover over the top of it, so you couldn't see the dead mouse….all that was showing was a stiff little tail hanging out the back. I was so delighted to have caught the disgusting house guest that I didn't even have time to get squeamish about picking up the trap. But then it hit me
I am holding a dead mouse, and I don't know how to open this elaborate trap.
So I shrugged my shoulders and threw the entire thing in the trash can. I had every intention of purchasing a new trap for Jen, since I had thrown hers away, but I had no interest in holding the trap with the dead mouse in it and trying to figure out how to open it. I scooped up the trash bag, and carried it outside to throw it in our trash bin out back. Carrying a huge sense of accomplishment, I threw the bag away, closed the lid and smacked my hands together.
Now I can live in peace.
Approximately seven minutes later, I was sitting on the couch watching television when I saw something scurry from downstairs and into my living room.
You have got to be kidding me.
Yes, we had yet another mouse…only now I had thrown away our only trap. I promptly put my shoes on, grabbed my purse and headed to Wal-Mart to purchase some traps.
Wal-Mart did not have the fancy, "you don't have to see them once you smash their little heads with a big heavy bar" traps. I had my choice between sticky traps and wooden. I chose the wooden. I also purchased a bag of rubber gloves, because I knew I didn't want to pick up the traps with my bare hands.
As I stated earlier, my dad was the one who had always taken care of the mice in our house when I was growing up, so I didn't know how to set a mouse trap. I called him and he talked me through it. 15 minutes, two snapped fingers, some tears, a lot of sniffles, and a good deal of frustration later…I had finally figured out how to set the stupid things.
As I was baiting a few of the traps (I believe I set three or four of them that night), something caught my eye. That little mouse was climbing out of our air conditioning vent.
So I placed several traps next to our vents to no avail. I sat back on the couch for a few minutes and then decided I would go check the trap I had placed behind the trash can. I opened the pantry door and realized I had forgotten to change the trash can liner from the previous mouse…and then I saw it.
Sitting in our trash can, staring up at me….begging for mercy was a live tiny brown mouse.
Now, what am I supposed to do? I knew I couldn't kill the thing. And I wasn't about to "set it free outside" just for it to come back in again. I knew there was only one thing to do. I was going to have to carry the entire trash can down two flights of stairs and out the back door and then out the gate and dump this little guy into our trash bin and close the lid.
Mice can't jump well. They can climb, but with this plastic trash can there was nothing for him to grab on to. I knew he would attempt to jump out, but he wouldn't be successful. I grabbed my keys (I guess they made me feel safer), picked up the trash can with one hand and thought, "Nicole. You know this mouse is going to try to jump out…and you're going to freak and drop the trash can and then he will still be in your house." So I firmly held the trash can with both hands.
As I made my way to the bottom floor of the house, the little guy started his escape attempt. I was determined not to drop the trash can, but I was majorly freaking out, and I needed to do something. So while this little mouse was jumping up and down in this small trash can I was holding, I also was hopping from one foot to the other and emitting a low, whispery scream. A few seconds of the hopping and I regained my composure. I quickly opened the back door and walked to the gate. I am certain I had a disgusted/petrified/nervous look on my face because as I opened the gate a neighbor happened to be walking by,
"Those gates are weird, huh?" She said…apparently she assumed the look on my face was due to the gate.
"Uhh. Yeah. They're. Really……Uhhh……Loud." And then I made my way to the trash bin, dumped junior in and slammed the lid.
After all of this mouse business, I was tired and decided it was time for bed. As I went upstairs the thought struck me,
"I bet these mice are coming from our air conditioner. They have only ever come out when we've had the air on."
Oh no. I have an air conditioning vent right above my bed. I clamored up the stairs and bolted to the vent to close it before a mouse could fall out onto my bed. I closed all the vents in my room, stuffed a thick blanket against the bottom of my door, slept (once again) with the light, television and fan on…on top of the covers..and awoke the next morning still a little nervous about finding other mice.
Seven mice and two weeks later, after catching them on sticky traps, wooden traps, coming out of vents, and even one in a crouton box, we determined it was time to call an exterminator.
This exterminator assured us that we would not have any more mouse troubles. He placed a special chemical called "Mouse Bait" in various locations of the house and told us that the mice would crawl into our walls and die. He said that this special mouse bait would dry up all the fluids in the mouse's body and so we would not smell the mice once they died. He said we would never know how many mice we had caught and then had consequently crawled into our walls and died.
Now, I'm not sure I entirely buy into the idea that a rotting rodent trapped in our wall won't emit some kind of aroma…but we haven't seen a mouse for at least two weeks…..so we have peace of mind. And today I will reopen the air conditioning vents in my room.
Currently listening : Elliott Yamin By Elliott Yamin Release date: 20 March, 2007
Friday, May 4, 2007
The Dove Awards...Or, I'm Glad My Butt's Good for Something.
May 4, 2007 - Friday
Current mood: pleased
I'm glad my butt is good for something...
GMA Music Week, or Gospel Music Association Music Week (its ridiculously absurd formal name) is a convention of sorts held in downtown Nashville during mid-April. The week is a gathering of all the names in Gospel music: artists, radio personalities, producers, Christian retailers, managers, record label executives and groupies come together to learn, to celebrate, to get attention, to "network" (whatever that means), and to commemorate the common bond that brings them all together: music. The week culminates with the Christian music equivalent of the Grammy's. The GMA Dove Awards.
I had heard of this wondrous event in my previous career as a Christian music buyer in Illinois, but I had only ever dreamed of being able to partake in the glory of it all. Until one fateful day in February, I logged onto the Gospel Music Association's website to find that they were looking for volunteers for GMA Week 2007 and also for the GMA Dove Awards. I filled out my volunteer applications for both events, faxed them in to their respective overseers, and eagerly waited by my computer for their response. Phew, fortunately I made both cuts and registered as a volunteer for both GMA Music Week (again Gospel Music Association Music Week) and the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards.
I'll bypass the GMA Music Week stuff because it was rather boring and mundane compared to the rest of this story.
As a seat-filler, a person is actually required to stand at the back of the auditorium along the wall in a line, similar to the water fountain line in grade school. You wait in this line, until someone from the production team comes and asks you to follow them. The production person then points you to a seat and you literally fill the seat, until the person comes back. The person you are filling a seat for may be accepting an award, presenting an award, performing, or they may simply be visiting the ladies' room or the concession stand. When the person returns to his or her seat you get up and walk back to the back of the line to begin the whole process again. Not as glamorous or fun as I had anticipated.
The seat-fillers were told to arrive no later than 4:00 pm for the Dove Awards. We were instructed to wear dark, solid colors and clothing ranging in formality from "church" to "prom". That's a pretty big gap, if you ask me. I chose a lovely little black number which I purchased for only $24.99 from the fabulous discount boutique known as Target. I paired it with a bright red camisole (only slightly bending the rules), black heels, a huge gaudy red plastic bracelet , red earrings, a black necklace, the dramatic makeup of a showgirl or Tammy Faye Bakker, and my hair loosely up in some sort of twisted pattern, affixed just so with a conglomeration of bobby pins and hair spray. If you, my reader, will kindly indulge me for a brief moment of vanity…I looked p.d. good*. I approached the front doors of the Opry House at the Opryland convention center and showed my ID, just as we were instructed. Now, I know I have lived in Tennessee for over eight months now, but I still have not made my way to the Tennessee Department of Motor Vehicles to obtain a new Driver's License and/or tags for my car. But as I handed my driver's license over to the kid who was checking ID's, he said, in his best valley girl voice, "Oh. I am like so glad to finally see someone from Illinois. Decatur is so………(long pause)………isolated." What? What is that supposed to mean? Decatur happens to have many surrounding towns and even a couple major cities within a two-hour radius. It is my estimation that the ID kid did not understand the meaning of the word "isolated". But I didn't have time for a grammar lesson, I had an important role to fill at the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards…so I shrugged him off and walked inside.
The seat-fillers were all told to fill a section of the upper balcony of the auditorium and to await further instruction. After sitting there for approximately one hour and fifteen minutes, we were told to leave our seats in the upper balcony and head down to the lobby for snacks or whatever we needed, to take our purses, jackets, etc. back to our cars so we didn't have to fight with them all evening, and to reconvene in the lobby at 6:45. At 6:45, I promptly reunited with my group (after having met a very creepy young man who was freely giving out high fives for no apparent reason and preferred lingering, piercing stares to the more traditional, and more widely accepted occasional break from eye contact in conversation). My group consisted of a friend from church, my roommate, three of her friends from college and myself. So there were six of us in all. We continued to stand in the lobby for the better part of an hour until we were finally told to reclaim our seats in the upper balcony until someone from production would come and collect us, small groups at a time, to perform our duties of filling seats. The Awards show began taping at 8:00, and immediately four members of my group were whisked away to fill the seats of the greatest heroes of Christian music the world has ever known. My friend Jennifer and I were still stuck in the balcony, watching the performance on a screen.
Probably half an hour had passed when a production team member (who happened to be the ID kid from earlier who told me my home town was "isolated") asked us to follow him. We were instructed to walk over and stand outside of the huge double doors and to wait for someone to retrieve us.
Twenty minutes passed and nobody came, so my friend Jennifer and I, in our rebellious spirits, decided to head back up to the balcony where we could at least see the show, rather than standing outside the doors.
As we sustained our former positions in the balcony, we were rejoined by my roommate Katie and her friend Claire. Just when we had all gotten settled, the ID kid came back and, once again, asked us to go to the lobby and await further instruction. We walked inside and stood along the wall with all of the other seat-fillers. One by one, each seat filler was escorted to a seat in need of filling, and finally, after about 25 minutes of waiting (standing in stilettos), it was finally our turn. Claire was taken away to fill a seat, and Katie would be next, followed by myself and then Jennifer. Jennifer and I had resolved that if we hadn't been placed in seats by the next commercial break, we were going to sneak back up to the upper balcony, but sit in a different location so the ID kid couldn't find us.
Just as we had made our decision, the producer came up to us and said she needed three people. Katie, Myself and Jennifer followed her, like baby ducklings following their mother across a busy street. We were walking through the auditorium, with all the bright lights, cameras rolling, the show in progress. Katie was placed in a seat near the back on the aisle, and Jennifer was taken by another producer to the opposite side of the auditorium. I was still following the original producer….through the middle of the auditorium…..in the midst of filming the show, when she turned and said to me, "I'm sorry. We don't have a spot for you after all. I'm really sorry." She then instructed me to remain right where I was and not to move, that she would be right back. So there I was, standing in the middle of the aisle, I felt like all the lights in the room were shining on me as I waited for an eternity for her to come back. I was blocking people behind me. I stood there, rocked back and forth on my heels a little, pursed my lips, looked to my left, looked to my right, continued holding my purse in front of me (once again feeling rebellious, I had refused to return it to my car…it was only a little clutch. It wasn't going to ruin the Dove Awards).
Finally, my agony came to an end when the producer returned and said, "Ok. We had a seat open up in the front row. So can you just go down there and sit for a minute?" She must have understood my "Woman, you have GOT to be crazy if you think I'm about to walk down to the front row of this thing all by myself and start looking for a vacant seat when I have no idea where it is" look because then she grabbed my arm and said, "Come on. I'll show you where it is."
As I took my seat, I noticed to my left, a VERY handsome young man. I recognized him, but I couldn't quite figure out who he was. He gently leaned over and quietly said, "Hey. How are you?" "I'm fine," I coolly and eloquently replied, "How are you?"
And before he had the chance to respond, a tall, beautiful Brazilian woman was standing in front of me and the handsome man said, "Oh. Here she is."
"Great," I thought to myself, "My seat-filling experience lasted a grand total of three seconds." And as I began to stand up and walk away, the Brazilian woman said to me, "Oh. That's okay. We make room for you."
Now, I know that my responsibility as a seat-filler was to fill the empty seats as their normal fillers vacated them. I understand that was the premise of my receiving complimentary admittance to the Awards ceremony.
BUT I WAS SITTING ON THE STINKING FRONT ROW AND THEY HAD PLENTY OF ROOM FOR ME AND SHE OFFERED!
So I thought about it for a second, and sat back down in my spot. I figured the Brazilian woman was with the couple sitting to my right, and perhaps I could continue my conversation with Mr. Incredible to my left.
A couple minutes passed, and the Brazilian woman retrieved a half-eaten Milky Way Candy Bar from her purse. She reached over me and tapped the gorgeous man on his arm, "Here. Are you hungry?" She said.
"Yeah. Thanks. I was wondering if you went out there and got something to eat." He reached over me and grabbed the candy bar from her.
"Well, they didn't have much out there. So I went to the ladies' room and then bought this." She said.
"Yeah. They never have very much good food at these things," was his reply.
It was then that I determined I had just invaded this happy couple's date. Had I been on top of my game that night, I would have turned to him and said, "Excuse me, why don't we switch spots?" thus enabling him to sit next to his beautiful Brazilian date, while also allowing me to continue in our deep and meaningful conversation which had so far consisted of "How are you?"
But instead, I turned to the Brazilian girl and told her that we should switch spots. ARGH. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. And I knew I would still enjoy my front-row seat at the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards. I looked around to take in the whole experience.
Sitting on the same bench with me was Watermark, also known as the dynamic duo of Nathan and Christy Nockels, who recently announced that they are leaving the music business in order to focus more on raising their family. Ahead of me and to my left were Steven Curtis Chapman and his wife. Directly behind them were Jeremy Camp and his wife Adie, followed by Aaron Shust and his wife and Mark Schultz and his wife. Behind them was Third Day in its entirety and a little further back were David Crowder and his wife. Surprisingly, his wife does not have hair that stands straight up, nor does she sport a long goatee. Directly behind me was Natalie Grant's entourage, followed by Nichole Nordeman. And behind me to my right was the band Leeland. I had faired pretty well at my first venture as a seat-filler at the Doves.
There was about an hour and a half left of taping, so I got comfortable and proceeded to listen in on the conversation of the couple sitting next to me. Please allow me to give you a mental picture of what was unfolding before my eyes. The man I had been talking to earlier was wearing faded jeans, brown shoes, a patterned button-down shirt and a vintage semi-fitted jacket. He had an unshaven face and blonde, spiky hair, and he was probably about 5'10 or 5'11…average height…not that I really noticed him or anything. The Brazilian woman was approximately 6 feet tall. She was beautiful. She looked as if she could have hailed from an Asian country, although she had very light blue eyes. She was wearing the latest trend in lipstick…bright red (I'm not planning to fall into that trend anytime soon). She was wearing a raisin colored ball gown (not prom dress, mind you….but a full-on ball gown), with a gold shawl. She had on leopard print lacy shoes and a small tiara. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a faded black scrunchie…I suppose she didn't want to go overboard with the hair as she was wearing such a fancy dress. And I'm not blaming her for overdressing. She probably had no idea what to wear…..and I am convinced that she was a mail-order date.
We've all heard of a mail-order bride. A middle-aged man becomes tired of the single life, but can't seem to find someone he loves in his own culture, so he calls the Philippines or Nicaragua and orders up a woman who will be subservient, quiet, demure, beautiful, and desiring of him. She won't talk back because she won't be able to speak his language, and she will treat him like a king because she is so grateful to have come out of poverty in her home country and to live in the land of opportunity in the United States. It is a truly barbaric and racist process, if you ask me…but that soapbox is for a different time and place.
I am being slightly facetious here. I don't really believe this Brazilian woman was a mail-order date…but I do believe that this handsome young man, who had previously engaged me in such a meaningful and deep conversation (remember, "hey. How are you?"), I believe that he had not ever met this woman prior to the Dove Awards. Perhaps a mutual friend set them up. Perhaps he called an escort service. Perhaps he found her at the mall working at the Gap and asked her to join him. Whatever the case….I'm certain he had never spent time with her before that fateful night.
Now I have already explained to you her attire for the evening….a little much. And her look, paired with her behavior was enough to make me sympathize for this kind, gentle young Casanova to my left. This woman repeatedly pulled her tiny pink Sony Cybershot camera from her little purse (I'm surprised she was not carrying a Hello Kitty or Bratz purse). She took pictures of everything. She snapped people in the audience, performers, presenters, award winners…there is no possible way she knew who most of these people were…but still, she snapped pictures of them. The Dove Awards are a big event in Christian music.
As with any Awards show, audience members are asked not to use cameras or cell phones of any kind. Particularly if you are sitting in the front row of the freaking auditorium.
As if the pink camera were not enough, the woman also uttered phrases such as, "Oh. That's so cool." Or "Awesome" to everything that took place.
And then Bob and Larry came out. You know, the tomato and the cucumber (respectively) from Big Idea's VeggieTales. This woman went nuts. There was clapping, jumping in her seat, incessant laughter, pink cameras lighting flashes into the atmosphere and exclamations of awe and wonder. I was surprised every eye in the auditorium didn't turn to watch the outburst that was occurring next to me. I guess she must be a huge VeggieTale fan.
I was severely annoyed, and I was certain that my handsome friend on the other side of her was grateful during that brief moment I had sat down next to him. He probably enjoyed conversing with someone who was a little more…how shall I say….down to earth.
The remainder of the evening included more picture taking, more amazement, more "that's so cool," and even the periodical checking of the email via her sidekick phone.
I was entertained by her, and very grateful that she had provided me with a place to sit for the rest of the evening….but I'm positive this handsome man could have found someone else to go with.
Incidentally, you may see me on TV when the show is televised. I know the camera was pointing in my direction when Aaron Shust accepted his award for song of the year, and also when Chris Tomlin accepted his award for Artist of the Year.
Check here for when the Doves will be showing in your area:
http://www.gmamusicawards.com/pdf/38th_DoveAwards_SyndList.pdf
Despite the distraction sitting to my immediate left, I still managed to ascertain a few important lessons from the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards:
Chris Tomlin is the new Steven Curtis Chapman in that he will win in EVERY category for which he is nominated.
Aaron Shust is the new Chris Tomlin in that he will win in every category for which he is nominated except when he's up against the real Chris Tomlin.
The Gospel Music Association uses the term "Of the Year" very loosely:
Aaron Shust won for New Artist of the Year…his album was released in August of 2005.
Natalie Grant won for Female Vocalist of the Year…her album came out in early 2005.
Chris Tomlin's "Holy is the Lord" took home a Dove for Worship Song of the Year…this song was released on Tomlin's Arriving project, which streeted in 2004! Chris has since released a plethora of singles and a new full-length album.
The Gospel Music Association members who select the winners are rather stale. They are not wiling or able to expand their horizons and select winners who are making ripples in the industry. There is no room for innovation (i.e. Leeland and Mat Kearney).
Regardless of my discrepancies with the Gospel Music Association, I still had an amazing time. Hopefully one year I'll be able to attend as an artist manager or something equally as involved.
*p.d. good – Pretty Darn Good, for those who are not up to speed with the teenage slang language of our day.
Currently listening : Sound of Melodies By Leeland Release date: 15 August, 2006
Current mood: pleased
I'm glad my butt is good for something...
GMA Music Week, or Gospel Music Association Music Week (its ridiculously absurd formal name) is a convention of sorts held in downtown Nashville during mid-April. The week is a gathering of all the names in Gospel music: artists, radio personalities, producers, Christian retailers, managers, record label executives and groupies come together to learn, to celebrate, to get attention, to "network" (whatever that means), and to commemorate the common bond that brings them all together: music. The week culminates with the Christian music equivalent of the Grammy's. The GMA Dove Awards.
I had heard of this wondrous event in my previous career as a Christian music buyer in Illinois, but I had only ever dreamed of being able to partake in the glory of it all. Until one fateful day in February, I logged onto the Gospel Music Association's website to find that they were looking for volunteers for GMA Week 2007 and also for the GMA Dove Awards. I filled out my volunteer applications for both events, faxed them in to their respective overseers, and eagerly waited by my computer for their response. Phew, fortunately I made both cuts and registered as a volunteer for both GMA Music Week (again Gospel Music Association Music Week) and the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards.
I'll bypass the GMA Music Week stuff because it was rather boring and mundane compared to the rest of this story.
As a seat-filler, a person is actually required to stand at the back of the auditorium along the wall in a line, similar to the water fountain line in grade school. You wait in this line, until someone from the production team comes and asks you to follow them. The production person then points you to a seat and you literally fill the seat, until the person comes back. The person you are filling a seat for may be accepting an award, presenting an award, performing, or they may simply be visiting the ladies' room or the concession stand. When the person returns to his or her seat you get up and walk back to the back of the line to begin the whole process again. Not as glamorous or fun as I had anticipated.
The seat-fillers were told to arrive no later than 4:00 pm for the Dove Awards. We were instructed to wear dark, solid colors and clothing ranging in formality from "church" to "prom". That's a pretty big gap, if you ask me. I chose a lovely little black number which I purchased for only $24.99 from the fabulous discount boutique known as Target. I paired it with a bright red camisole (only slightly bending the rules), black heels, a huge gaudy red plastic bracelet , red earrings, a black necklace, the dramatic makeup of a showgirl or Tammy Faye Bakker, and my hair loosely up in some sort of twisted pattern, affixed just so with a conglomeration of bobby pins and hair spray. If you, my reader, will kindly indulge me for a brief moment of vanity…I looked p.d. good*. I approached the front doors of the Opry House at the Opryland convention center and showed my ID, just as we were instructed. Now, I know I have lived in Tennessee for over eight months now, but I still have not made my way to the Tennessee Department of Motor Vehicles to obtain a new Driver's License and/or tags for my car. But as I handed my driver's license over to the kid who was checking ID's, he said, in his best valley girl voice, "Oh. I am like so glad to finally see someone from Illinois. Decatur is so………(long pause)………isolated." What? What is that supposed to mean? Decatur happens to have many surrounding towns and even a couple major cities within a two-hour radius. It is my estimation that the ID kid did not understand the meaning of the word "isolated". But I didn't have time for a grammar lesson, I had an important role to fill at the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards…so I shrugged him off and walked inside.
The seat-fillers were all told to fill a section of the upper balcony of the auditorium and to await further instruction. After sitting there for approximately one hour and fifteen minutes, we were told to leave our seats in the upper balcony and head down to the lobby for snacks or whatever we needed, to take our purses, jackets, etc. back to our cars so we didn't have to fight with them all evening, and to reconvene in the lobby at 6:45. At 6:45, I promptly reunited with my group (after having met a very creepy young man who was freely giving out high fives for no apparent reason and preferred lingering, piercing stares to the more traditional, and more widely accepted occasional break from eye contact in conversation). My group consisted of a friend from church, my roommate, three of her friends from college and myself. So there were six of us in all. We continued to stand in the lobby for the better part of an hour until we were finally told to reclaim our seats in the upper balcony until someone from production would come and collect us, small groups at a time, to perform our duties of filling seats. The Awards show began taping at 8:00, and immediately four members of my group were whisked away to fill the seats of the greatest heroes of Christian music the world has ever known. My friend Jennifer and I were still stuck in the balcony, watching the performance on a screen.
Probably half an hour had passed when a production team member (who happened to be the ID kid from earlier who told me my home town was "isolated") asked us to follow him. We were instructed to walk over and stand outside of the huge double doors and to wait for someone to retrieve us.
Twenty minutes passed and nobody came, so my friend Jennifer and I, in our rebellious spirits, decided to head back up to the balcony where we could at least see the show, rather than standing outside the doors.
As we sustained our former positions in the balcony, we were rejoined by my roommate Katie and her friend Claire. Just when we had all gotten settled, the ID kid came back and, once again, asked us to go to the lobby and await further instruction. We walked inside and stood along the wall with all of the other seat-fillers. One by one, each seat filler was escorted to a seat in need of filling, and finally, after about 25 minutes of waiting (standing in stilettos), it was finally our turn. Claire was taken away to fill a seat, and Katie would be next, followed by myself and then Jennifer. Jennifer and I had resolved that if we hadn't been placed in seats by the next commercial break, we were going to sneak back up to the upper balcony, but sit in a different location so the ID kid couldn't find us.
Just as we had made our decision, the producer came up to us and said she needed three people. Katie, Myself and Jennifer followed her, like baby ducklings following their mother across a busy street. We were walking through the auditorium, with all the bright lights, cameras rolling, the show in progress. Katie was placed in a seat near the back on the aisle, and Jennifer was taken by another producer to the opposite side of the auditorium. I was still following the original producer….through the middle of the auditorium…..in the midst of filming the show, when she turned and said to me, "I'm sorry. We don't have a spot for you after all. I'm really sorry." She then instructed me to remain right where I was and not to move, that she would be right back. So there I was, standing in the middle of the aisle, I felt like all the lights in the room were shining on me as I waited for an eternity for her to come back. I was blocking people behind me. I stood there, rocked back and forth on my heels a little, pursed my lips, looked to my left, looked to my right, continued holding my purse in front of me (once again feeling rebellious, I had refused to return it to my car…it was only a little clutch. It wasn't going to ruin the Dove Awards).
Finally, my agony came to an end when the producer returned and said, "Ok. We had a seat open up in the front row. So can you just go down there and sit for a minute?" She must have understood my "Woman, you have GOT to be crazy if you think I'm about to walk down to the front row of this thing all by myself and start looking for a vacant seat when I have no idea where it is" look because then she grabbed my arm and said, "Come on. I'll show you where it is."
As I took my seat, I noticed to my left, a VERY handsome young man. I recognized him, but I couldn't quite figure out who he was. He gently leaned over and quietly said, "Hey. How are you?" "I'm fine," I coolly and eloquently replied, "How are you?"
And before he had the chance to respond, a tall, beautiful Brazilian woman was standing in front of me and the handsome man said, "Oh. Here she is."
"Great," I thought to myself, "My seat-filling experience lasted a grand total of three seconds." And as I began to stand up and walk away, the Brazilian woman said to me, "Oh. That's okay. We make room for you."
Now, I know that my responsibility as a seat-filler was to fill the empty seats as their normal fillers vacated them. I understand that was the premise of my receiving complimentary admittance to the Awards ceremony.
BUT I WAS SITTING ON THE STINKING FRONT ROW AND THEY HAD PLENTY OF ROOM FOR ME AND SHE OFFERED!
So I thought about it for a second, and sat back down in my spot. I figured the Brazilian woman was with the couple sitting to my right, and perhaps I could continue my conversation with Mr. Incredible to my left.
A couple minutes passed, and the Brazilian woman retrieved a half-eaten Milky Way Candy Bar from her purse. She reached over me and tapped the gorgeous man on his arm, "Here. Are you hungry?" She said.
"Yeah. Thanks. I was wondering if you went out there and got something to eat." He reached over me and grabbed the candy bar from her.
"Well, they didn't have much out there. So I went to the ladies' room and then bought this." She said.
"Yeah. They never have very much good food at these things," was his reply.
It was then that I determined I had just invaded this happy couple's date. Had I been on top of my game that night, I would have turned to him and said, "Excuse me, why don't we switch spots?" thus enabling him to sit next to his beautiful Brazilian date, while also allowing me to continue in our deep and meaningful conversation which had so far consisted of "How are you?"
But instead, I turned to the Brazilian girl and told her that we should switch spots. ARGH. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. And I knew I would still enjoy my front-row seat at the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards. I looked around to take in the whole experience.
Sitting on the same bench with me was Watermark, also known as the dynamic duo of Nathan and Christy Nockels, who recently announced that they are leaving the music business in order to focus more on raising their family. Ahead of me and to my left were Steven Curtis Chapman and his wife. Directly behind them were Jeremy Camp and his wife Adie, followed by Aaron Shust and his wife and Mark Schultz and his wife. Behind them was Third Day in its entirety and a little further back were David Crowder and his wife. Surprisingly, his wife does not have hair that stands straight up, nor does she sport a long goatee. Directly behind me was Natalie Grant's entourage, followed by Nichole Nordeman. And behind me to my right was the band Leeland. I had faired pretty well at my first venture as a seat-filler at the Doves.
There was about an hour and a half left of taping, so I got comfortable and proceeded to listen in on the conversation of the couple sitting next to me. Please allow me to give you a mental picture of what was unfolding before my eyes. The man I had been talking to earlier was wearing faded jeans, brown shoes, a patterned button-down shirt and a vintage semi-fitted jacket. He had an unshaven face and blonde, spiky hair, and he was probably about 5'10 or 5'11…average height…not that I really noticed him or anything. The Brazilian woman was approximately 6 feet tall. She was beautiful. She looked as if she could have hailed from an Asian country, although she had very light blue eyes. She was wearing the latest trend in lipstick…bright red (I'm not planning to fall into that trend anytime soon). She was wearing a raisin colored ball gown (not prom dress, mind you….but a full-on ball gown), with a gold shawl. She had on leopard print lacy shoes and a small tiara. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a faded black scrunchie…I suppose she didn't want to go overboard with the hair as she was wearing such a fancy dress. And I'm not blaming her for overdressing. She probably had no idea what to wear…..and I am convinced that she was a mail-order date.
We've all heard of a mail-order bride. A middle-aged man becomes tired of the single life, but can't seem to find someone he loves in his own culture, so he calls the Philippines or Nicaragua and orders up a woman who will be subservient, quiet, demure, beautiful, and desiring of him. She won't talk back because she won't be able to speak his language, and she will treat him like a king because she is so grateful to have come out of poverty in her home country and to live in the land of opportunity in the United States. It is a truly barbaric and racist process, if you ask me…but that soapbox is for a different time and place.
I am being slightly facetious here. I don't really believe this Brazilian woman was a mail-order date…but I do believe that this handsome young man, who had previously engaged me in such a meaningful and deep conversation (remember, "hey. How are you?"), I believe that he had not ever met this woman prior to the Dove Awards. Perhaps a mutual friend set them up. Perhaps he called an escort service. Perhaps he found her at the mall working at the Gap and asked her to join him. Whatever the case….I'm certain he had never spent time with her before that fateful night.
Now I have already explained to you her attire for the evening….a little much. And her look, paired with her behavior was enough to make me sympathize for this kind, gentle young Casanova to my left. This woman repeatedly pulled her tiny pink Sony Cybershot camera from her little purse (I'm surprised she was not carrying a Hello Kitty or Bratz purse). She took pictures of everything. She snapped people in the audience, performers, presenters, award winners…there is no possible way she knew who most of these people were…but still, she snapped pictures of them. The Dove Awards are a big event in Christian music.
As with any Awards show, audience members are asked not to use cameras or cell phones of any kind. Particularly if you are sitting in the front row of the freaking auditorium.
As if the pink camera were not enough, the woman also uttered phrases such as, "Oh. That's so cool." Or "Awesome" to everything that took place.
And then Bob and Larry came out. You know, the tomato and the cucumber (respectively) from Big Idea's VeggieTales. This woman went nuts. There was clapping, jumping in her seat, incessant laughter, pink cameras lighting flashes into the atmosphere and exclamations of awe and wonder. I was surprised every eye in the auditorium didn't turn to watch the outburst that was occurring next to me. I guess she must be a huge VeggieTale fan.
I was severely annoyed, and I was certain that my handsome friend on the other side of her was grateful during that brief moment I had sat down next to him. He probably enjoyed conversing with someone who was a little more…how shall I say….down to earth.
The remainder of the evening included more picture taking, more amazement, more "that's so cool," and even the periodical checking of the email via her sidekick phone.
I was entertained by her, and very grateful that she had provided me with a place to sit for the rest of the evening….but I'm positive this handsome man could have found someone else to go with.
Incidentally, you may see me on TV when the show is televised. I know the camera was pointing in my direction when Aaron Shust accepted his award for song of the year, and also when Chris Tomlin accepted his award for Artist of the Year.
Check here for when the Doves will be showing in your area:
http://www.gmamusicawards.com/pdf/38th_DoveAwards_SyndList.pdf
Despite the distraction sitting to my immediate left, I still managed to ascertain a few important lessons from the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards:
Chris Tomlin is the new Steven Curtis Chapman in that he will win in EVERY category for which he is nominated.
Aaron Shust is the new Chris Tomlin in that he will win in every category for which he is nominated except when he's up against the real Chris Tomlin.
The Gospel Music Association uses the term "Of the Year" very loosely:
Aaron Shust won for New Artist of the Year…his album was released in August of 2005.
Natalie Grant won for Female Vocalist of the Year…her album came out in early 2005.
Chris Tomlin's "Holy is the Lord" took home a Dove for Worship Song of the Year…this song was released on Tomlin's Arriving project, which streeted in 2004! Chris has since released a plethora of singles and a new full-length album.
The Gospel Music Association members who select the winners are rather stale. They are not wiling or able to expand their horizons and select winners who are making ripples in the industry. There is no room for innovation (i.e. Leeland and Mat Kearney).
Regardless of my discrepancies with the Gospel Music Association, I still had an amazing time. Hopefully one year I'll be able to attend as an artist manager or something equally as involved.
*p.d. good – Pretty Darn Good, for those who are not up to speed with the teenage slang language of our day.
Currently listening : Sound of Melodies By Leeland Release date: 15 August, 2006
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
A Sad Day in Sandwiches
April 17, 2007 - Tuesday
Current mood: melancholy
About a month ago I purchased a variety of Healthy Choice meals in a (vain) attempt to begin eating healthier and consequently, losing the "i-don't-want-to-tell-you-how-much-weight-i've-gained-since-college" pounds. I thought I had consumed all of these gourmet delicacies, but much to my surprise (or chagrin, depending on how you look at it), I found one last Healthy Choice meal in the freezer the other day, as I was attempting to scoop the remainder of the ice from our ice bucket. Fiesta Chicken: Tender grilled chicken pieces drizzled with tangy Fiesta sauce, and zesty Mexican vegetables, with creamy, warm apple crisp for dessert. The picture actually looked like frozen chicken segments covered in brown gravy with corn and black beans and a bite of freezer burnt apple crisp to wash it all down.
Not wanting to be a waster, I brought this scrumptious meal with me to work yesterday. 12:00 rolled around and I decided I was hungry for real Mexican food. I opted to go downstairs to the Mexican restaurant and to eat my Healthy Choice meal Tuesday (today) instead. Well, today at noon, I decided that since I had Mexican food yesterday, I really didn't want that Fiesta chicken. I wouldn't want to have Mexican food two days in a row. I was going to go downstairs to the gourmet sandwich shop on the bottom floor of my building, but as I stepped outside into the perfect, sunny, crisp spring air, I decided I would rather walk a block and a half to Quiznos.
Before moving to Nashville, I had never eaten at Quiznos before. I don't believe there were any Quiznos readily available to me in Decatur and besides that, I considered myself more of a Subway girl. I preferred the autonomy of creating one's own sandwich out of the smorgasboard of toppings directly on the other side of that plexiglass.
But then I moved to Nashville and one nervous trip to Quiznos with my cousin forever changed my life. I fell in love with the Cabo Chicken Sandwich.
Tender and juicy slices of grilled chicken smothered in a zesty, but not too spicy chipotle mayonnaise, topped with lettuce, onion, bacon pieces, melted cheese and a schmearing of guacamole on your choice of white or wheat (wheat is better). Somehow in a cosmic, molecular miracle, the parts that needed to be warm remained warm, while the parts that were cold stayed cool. Oh, this sandwich was to die for.
I believe I have probably consumed approximately one Cabo Chicken sandwich per week since that fateful September evening. Never have I even considered sampling a different Quiznos concoction. I'm a faithful lover...in sandwiches and in life.
But today, as I approached the counter (I have also become an expert orderer at Quiznos. I know precisely which items need to be mentioned and in what order they need to be spoken...but that is neither here nor there.), as I proudly uttered my statement, beautifully, eloquently and perfectly executed, "I would like a Regular Cabo Chicken on Wheat, please." the lady behind the counter coyly grinned, and said, "I'm sorry ma'am. We don't serve the cabo chicken anymore."
The entire restaurant silenced and watched to see what I would do. How would I handle this tragedy? I had watched my world come crashing down at my feet in an instant.
I had one remaining hope for my Cabo Chicken that day. One shred of possiblity that I might still be able to get the sandwich I wanted....perhaps she was joking. I smiled back in my disbelief and said in a low, serious tone, "Oh no (pause) Are you serious?"
"Yes," she replied as she pointed at the overhead menu board, "whole new menu."
I didn't care about that new menu board. I hadn't so much as glanced at it since last September.
I just stared at it, buggy-eyed, in shock and uncertain of my next move as the line was progressively becoming longer and more impatient with every passing moment of indecision.
"Well, I guess I'll try....ummmm....uhhhhh.....I don't know......the mesquite chicken then." All I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry.
The nice sandwich lady reassured me that the mesquite chicken was a very good sandwich and I would not be disappointed. She could even put some of their special Batch 51 sauce (or whatever it's called) on my sandwich and add some guacamole to make it seem more like a Cabo.
"Well, okay," I begrudgingly replied. I didn't know what else to do. What else could I do? My perfect sandwich had been discontinued.
Sensing my despair, the lady yelled to the sandwich creator at the opposite end of the line, "We're going to make this into a Cabo chicken, Ron...okay?"
And so I proceeded in the line, looking down at the floor, just shaking my head. How could Quiznos have done this to me?
The man who operates the cash register knows me and he knows that I come in there once every week and order my regular Cabo Chicken on wheat. He looked at the sullen expression on my face and said, "What are you having today?" I could tell by his tone he was trying to lighten my spirits....but how could he expect to lift my spirits with a casual conversation when his company had just robbed me of the one thing in life I truly loved? I looked at him, tears gathering in my eyes, and said, "Oh. I don't know. I guess it's the Mesquite chicken or something like that." He apologetically consoled me, "I'm sorry. You can't have your Cabo Chicken anymore, can you?"
I tried to remain chipper, but I'm sure he could see the gloom in my demeanor. "Yeah. I guess not. They changed the menu on me."
"Well. We've had a lot of people disappointed that they can't get that sandwich anymore." His last comment gave me a faint glimmer of hope. Something to hold on to for the future. Perhaps if enough people voiced their disapproval and subsequent outrage over the death of this edible masterpiece...perhaps then Quiznos would bring back the Cabo Chicken.
And so my friends, companions, fellow travelers on this journey called life...I am requesting one act on behalf of the Cabo Chicken.....I beseech you, please follow this link and fill out a form requesting the return of the Cabo Chicken. Let them know that what they have done to the Cabo is unacceptable and that they should bring it back forthwith.
CLICK HERE TO BRING BACK THE CABO CHICKEN
Currently listening : Blues to the Bone By Etta James Release date: 08 June, 2004
Current mood: melancholy
About a month ago I purchased a variety of Healthy Choice meals in a (vain) attempt to begin eating healthier and consequently, losing the "i-don't-want-to-tell-you-how-much-weight-i've-gained-since-college" pounds. I thought I had consumed all of these gourmet delicacies, but much to my surprise (or chagrin, depending on how you look at it), I found one last Healthy Choice meal in the freezer the other day, as I was attempting to scoop the remainder of the ice from our ice bucket. Fiesta Chicken: Tender grilled chicken pieces drizzled with tangy Fiesta sauce, and zesty Mexican vegetables, with creamy, warm apple crisp for dessert. The picture actually looked like frozen chicken segments covered in brown gravy with corn and black beans and a bite of freezer burnt apple crisp to wash it all down.
Not wanting to be a waster, I brought this scrumptious meal with me to work yesterday. 12:00 rolled around and I decided I was hungry for real Mexican food. I opted to go downstairs to the Mexican restaurant and to eat my Healthy Choice meal Tuesday (today) instead. Well, today at noon, I decided that since I had Mexican food yesterday, I really didn't want that Fiesta chicken. I wouldn't want to have Mexican food two days in a row. I was going to go downstairs to the gourmet sandwich shop on the bottom floor of my building, but as I stepped outside into the perfect, sunny, crisp spring air, I decided I would rather walk a block and a half to Quiznos.
Before moving to Nashville, I had never eaten at Quiznos before. I don't believe there were any Quiznos readily available to me in Decatur and besides that, I considered myself more of a Subway girl. I preferred the autonomy of creating one's own sandwich out of the smorgasboard of toppings directly on the other side of that plexiglass.
But then I moved to Nashville and one nervous trip to Quiznos with my cousin forever changed my life. I fell in love with the Cabo Chicken Sandwich.
Tender and juicy slices of grilled chicken smothered in a zesty, but not too spicy chipotle mayonnaise, topped with lettuce, onion, bacon pieces, melted cheese and a schmearing of guacamole on your choice of white or wheat (wheat is better). Somehow in a cosmic, molecular miracle, the parts that needed to be warm remained warm, while the parts that were cold stayed cool. Oh, this sandwich was to die for.
I believe I have probably consumed approximately one Cabo Chicken sandwich per week since that fateful September evening. Never have I even considered sampling a different Quiznos concoction. I'm a faithful lover...in sandwiches and in life.
But today, as I approached the counter (I have also become an expert orderer at Quiznos. I know precisely which items need to be mentioned and in what order they need to be spoken...but that is neither here nor there.), as I proudly uttered my statement, beautifully, eloquently and perfectly executed, "I would like a Regular Cabo Chicken on Wheat, please." the lady behind the counter coyly grinned, and said, "I'm sorry ma'am. We don't serve the cabo chicken anymore."
The entire restaurant silenced and watched to see what I would do. How would I handle this tragedy? I had watched my world come crashing down at my feet in an instant.
I had one remaining hope for my Cabo Chicken that day. One shred of possiblity that I might still be able to get the sandwich I wanted....perhaps she was joking. I smiled back in my disbelief and said in a low, serious tone, "Oh no (pause) Are you serious?"
"Yes," she replied as she pointed at the overhead menu board, "whole new menu."
I didn't care about that new menu board. I hadn't so much as glanced at it since last September.
I just stared at it, buggy-eyed, in shock and uncertain of my next move as the line was progressively becoming longer and more impatient with every passing moment of indecision.
"Well, I guess I'll try....ummmm....uhhhhh.....I don't know......the mesquite chicken then." All I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry.
The nice sandwich lady reassured me that the mesquite chicken was a very good sandwich and I would not be disappointed. She could even put some of their special Batch 51 sauce (or whatever it's called) on my sandwich and add some guacamole to make it seem more like a Cabo.
"Well, okay," I begrudgingly replied. I didn't know what else to do. What else could I do? My perfect sandwich had been discontinued.
Sensing my despair, the lady yelled to the sandwich creator at the opposite end of the line, "We're going to make this into a Cabo chicken, Ron...okay?"
And so I proceeded in the line, looking down at the floor, just shaking my head. How could Quiznos have done this to me?
The man who operates the cash register knows me and he knows that I come in there once every week and order my regular Cabo Chicken on wheat. He looked at the sullen expression on my face and said, "What are you having today?" I could tell by his tone he was trying to lighten my spirits....but how could he expect to lift my spirits with a casual conversation when his company had just robbed me of the one thing in life I truly loved? I looked at him, tears gathering in my eyes, and said, "Oh. I don't know. I guess it's the Mesquite chicken or something like that." He apologetically consoled me, "I'm sorry. You can't have your Cabo Chicken anymore, can you?"
I tried to remain chipper, but I'm sure he could see the gloom in my demeanor. "Yeah. I guess not. They changed the menu on me."
"Well. We've had a lot of people disappointed that they can't get that sandwich anymore." His last comment gave me a faint glimmer of hope. Something to hold on to for the future. Perhaps if enough people voiced their disapproval and subsequent outrage over the death of this edible masterpiece...perhaps then Quiznos would bring back the Cabo Chicken.
And so my friends, companions, fellow travelers on this journey called life...I am requesting one act on behalf of the Cabo Chicken.....I beseech you, please follow this link and fill out a form requesting the return of the Cabo Chicken. Let them know that what they have done to the Cabo is unacceptable and that they should bring it back forthwith.
CLICK HERE TO BRING BACK THE CABO CHICKEN
Currently listening : Blues to the Bone By Etta James Release date: 08 June, 2004
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Doggy Digestion and Hearing God's Voice
April 4, 2007 - Wednesday
Current mood: amused
I've been reading through Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz (for the second time) over the past couple months. It is a phenomenal and eye-opening portrait of our lives as Christians....a little hazy in some spots.....some patchy theology over there....a few scattered revelations in various locations, but littered with the clear, abundant love of God for His people throughout. And while I find myself enamored by this masterpiece, there are some points on which Donald and I do not see eye to eye.
One such occurrence is in his chapter entitled "Worship". I believe it's chapter seventeen, and I am very sorry that I do not currently have the book with me while I am writing. In this chapter, Don (I can call him Don since I'm reading the book for the second time....that makes us friends) is discussing God's mystery, which I contend he must be confusing with God's majesty. In one paragraph in particular, Don alludes to the fact that God is so much bigger than we are, so much more, so much higher...and there is no way we could ever figure him out with our limited, earthly, fallen and sinful minds. He contends that God is a mystery. He cannot be known to us. And that we should find comfort in the fact that we worship a God who is so beyond us that we cannot possibly comprehend Him. That if we worshiped a God who we knew, that would put us on the same level as this god, and would render him un-sovereign. I understand the point Don is making here. He is illustrating that there would be little benefit or significance to worship a God we had completely figured out. We may as well worship Pauly Shore. Our God is beyond the grasp of our ideas. He is indecipherable. He is unpredictable. He is…a mystery.
And I agree that God is indeed much bigger than our minds can fathom. He is beyond us. To use Bible college terminology…he is sovereign and Transcendent.
Dictionary.com defines the word Mystery as "anything that is kept secret or remains unexplained or unknown."
Now, hold on to that while I pause to share with you a brief narrative. I read a book once by a comedian/writer named Mark Steele. It's called Flashbang: How I Got Over Myself. It is the most hysterical book I have ever read. I would read a chapter, laugh out loud, read it again, laugh harder, read it again, etc. It took me a very long time to finish the book in its entirety. Anyway, in the middle of his chapters, Mark would insert what he called "A Brief Pause for Important Autobiographical Information." In this break in the chapter, Mark would share a story about his life that would later tie into the topic he was writing about.
That's what this is.
In church on Sunday my Preacher was talking about serving others. He used the illustration of a family that was out to dinner. One of the sons was about five years old and he was asked to bless the meal before the family ate. The little boy thanked God for his family, thanked Him for the food they were about to eat, and then prayed that they would all get ice cream at the end of their meal.
A woman sitting in a nearby booth overheard the little boy's prayer and said, loudly enough for the family to overhear her, "Oh. Can you believe that? Asking God for ice cream – this is what is wrong with children these days!" Tears instantly welled in the little boy's eyes as he asked his mother what he had done wrong. He was afraid he might have made God mad.
An older gentleman with a kind face walked over to the table after witnessing what had just occurred. He leaned over and whispered to the boy, "I happen to know that God loved your prayer. A little ice cream is good for the soul sometimes. Ice cream would probably do some good for her."
The family finished their meals and of course, the parents ordered ice cream for their children. When the little boy received his, he didn't say a word. He stood, picked up his ice cream and walked over to the woman. "A little ice cream is good for the soul," he said, "My soul is already full enough. Here, you can have my ice cream."
Our preacher explained that God wants us to serve others. He will reveal those opportunities to us if we just ask. So we took a few minutes to pray for God to show us some opportunities to serve others that day.
After church I went out to lunch, ran a couple of errands and then went home. When I returned home I walked in and set my things down. I noticed that something in the house smelled very strange, but I couldn't quite peg what the odor was or where it was coming from.
**Please be warned that this is the point in the story where things get a little gruesome. The following few paragraphs are not for pansies.**
I walked into the kitchen and noticed, there on my roommate's living room carpet, the hugest, most disgusting pile of dog poo I had ever seen.
Now you have to know, my roommate Katie has this sweet elderly dog named Speck. To my knowledge, Speck has never gone #2 in the house. He has rarely done #1 and then only in mocking defiance toward Katie when she was doing something he didn't like…such as leaving. And you also must understand the layout of our house. Katie's (carpeted) living room is right next to our hardwood floor kitchen. Speck missed the hardwood by approximately 1 ½ inches and decided to relieve himself on the carpet instead. I suppose it was cushier on his paws or something.
Upon seeing the pile of poo, I thought to myself, "OH. Wow it sucks to be Katie. I wonder when she'll get home from church so she can clean that up."
No sooner had I turned to walk out of the room, when I heard a little voice, "Nicole. Remember what you heard in church this morning?"
"umm. No."
"Really? Do you remember what you prayed about?"
"sorry. I got nothing."
"Jamie talked about serving others and you prayed for God to give you the opportunity to serve someone today."
"What's that? I can't hear you. You're mumbling a little bit."
And with that I chose to ignore the prompting I was receiving and go to check my email. As I was sitting on my couch, realizing that I had no email, the Holy Spirit's sudden silence was loud enough for me to realize what I needed to do. God will never force us to do something we don't want to do. But He will most assuredly let us know what He wants us to do.
I walked into the kitchen…looked at the pile of poo….looked at Speck who was lying nonchalantly on the floor, pretending he didn't know how it had gotten there….looked back at the pile of poo….looked at the ceiling, and decided to go upstairs to look for some carpet cleaner. I didn't find any. I walked back to the kitchen and again looked at Speck's masterpiece, then I said to God, "Are you sure? There's not something else I could do to serve someone today?"
"Go look in the basement for the carpet cleaner" was the only response I got. As I re-entered the kitchen, carpet cleaner in hand, I again looked at the poo.
Now, you need to understand exactly why this was so difficult for me. And in order for you to really grasp this image in your mind, I'm going to have to get a little graphic. So strap yourself in. Here we go.
This was not just your run-of-the-mill, piece of dog poo you see on the sidewalk sometimes. This was a pile of runny, gooey, sloppy dense doggie diarrhea with subsequent diarrhea droplets making a trail almost to the kitchen but falling just short. It smelled of hot dogs…or maybe that was someone grilling outside. I'm not sure and I didn't really try to find out the answer to that question, for fear of making myself vomit or forever turning myself off to hotdogs…I like hot dogs. I would swear there was steam coming off of the pile if I didn't know that kind of thing only happened in the cartoons.
Again, I glanced at the ceiling, smirked and said, "That's funny, God." Then I hunkered down and began cleaning…Speck watching me the whole time…trying to give the appearance of innocence, as if I didn't know he was the culprit.
***Now, back to what I was saying earlier. Donald Miller contends that God is a mystery. He cannot be fully known by humans who have such finite minds. And while I agree that God is so much beyond our normal comprehension (insert those big Bible college words here again)…I disagree that God is a mystery.
A mystery is something that is unknown or unexplained. Something that can't be figured out.
I would say that God is mysterious, but he is not a mystery.
By this I mean that there are some mysterious aspects to God. We cannot always predict what He will do next, or how he will lead us in a certain situation.
But God, in His Sovereignty, allows us to know Him. He is bigger than our minds. He is transcendent over all of creation. But he is also imminent (deeply and passionately involved in the world, in our lives, in our hearts). There's another Bible college term for you. God is so powerful, so all-knowing, so beyond us…that He allows our finite, fallen minds to know Him personally. To walk with Him daily. To talk to Him whenever we want to. We often use the phrase, "I don't know. It's a mystery to me," when we're describing something that we can't explain. But I don't think this applies to God at all. I think God intervenes in our lives and moves so that He grabs our attention and we take hold of Him and allow Him to reveal Himself to us.
No, we cannot completely figure God out. We don't know how He will move, or where He will lead us. But we do know Him, as a person and as our Savior. He is not a mystery. He is someone I know intimately.God works in mysterious ways. I don't know why he wanted me to clean up dog crap rather than help an old woman to the car with her groceries that day. But it was no mystery to me that cleaning up the poo was exactly how He wanted me to serve in that moment.
May you find yourself surrounded with opportunities to serve others today…and may you constantly be perplexed by the mysterious things God does in your life every day. But may you always know that He loves you intimately and deeply, and that He will not keep Himself a mystery to those who seek after Him.
Currently listening : Queen - Greatest Hits, Vols. 1 &2 By Queen Release date: 14 November, 1995
Current mood: amused
I've been reading through Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz (for the second time) over the past couple months. It is a phenomenal and eye-opening portrait of our lives as Christians....a little hazy in some spots.....some patchy theology over there....a few scattered revelations in various locations, but littered with the clear, abundant love of God for His people throughout. And while I find myself enamored by this masterpiece, there are some points on which Donald and I do not see eye to eye.
One such occurrence is in his chapter entitled "Worship". I believe it's chapter seventeen, and I am very sorry that I do not currently have the book with me while I am writing. In this chapter, Don (I can call him Don since I'm reading the book for the second time....that makes us friends) is discussing God's mystery, which I contend he must be confusing with God's majesty. In one paragraph in particular, Don alludes to the fact that God is so much bigger than we are, so much more, so much higher...and there is no way we could ever figure him out with our limited, earthly, fallen and sinful minds. He contends that God is a mystery. He cannot be known to us. And that we should find comfort in the fact that we worship a God who is so beyond us that we cannot possibly comprehend Him. That if we worshiped a God who we knew, that would put us on the same level as this god, and would render him un-sovereign. I understand the point Don is making here. He is illustrating that there would be little benefit or significance to worship a God we had completely figured out. We may as well worship Pauly Shore. Our God is beyond the grasp of our ideas. He is indecipherable. He is unpredictable. He is…a mystery.
And I agree that God is indeed much bigger than our minds can fathom. He is beyond us. To use Bible college terminology…he is sovereign and Transcendent.
Dictionary.com defines the word Mystery as "anything that is kept secret or remains unexplained or unknown."
Now, hold on to that while I pause to share with you a brief narrative. I read a book once by a comedian/writer named Mark Steele. It's called Flashbang: How I Got Over Myself. It is the most hysterical book I have ever read. I would read a chapter, laugh out loud, read it again, laugh harder, read it again, etc. It took me a very long time to finish the book in its entirety. Anyway, in the middle of his chapters, Mark would insert what he called "A Brief Pause for Important Autobiographical Information." In this break in the chapter, Mark would share a story about his life that would later tie into the topic he was writing about.
That's what this is.
In church on Sunday my Preacher was talking about serving others. He used the illustration of a family that was out to dinner. One of the sons was about five years old and he was asked to bless the meal before the family ate. The little boy thanked God for his family, thanked Him for the food they were about to eat, and then prayed that they would all get ice cream at the end of their meal.
A woman sitting in a nearby booth overheard the little boy's prayer and said, loudly enough for the family to overhear her, "Oh. Can you believe that? Asking God for ice cream – this is what is wrong with children these days!" Tears instantly welled in the little boy's eyes as he asked his mother what he had done wrong. He was afraid he might have made God mad.
An older gentleman with a kind face walked over to the table after witnessing what had just occurred. He leaned over and whispered to the boy, "I happen to know that God loved your prayer. A little ice cream is good for the soul sometimes. Ice cream would probably do some good for her."
The family finished their meals and of course, the parents ordered ice cream for their children. When the little boy received his, he didn't say a word. He stood, picked up his ice cream and walked over to the woman. "A little ice cream is good for the soul," he said, "My soul is already full enough. Here, you can have my ice cream."
Our preacher explained that God wants us to serve others. He will reveal those opportunities to us if we just ask. So we took a few minutes to pray for God to show us some opportunities to serve others that day.
After church I went out to lunch, ran a couple of errands and then went home. When I returned home I walked in and set my things down. I noticed that something in the house smelled very strange, but I couldn't quite peg what the odor was or where it was coming from.
**Please be warned that this is the point in the story where things get a little gruesome. The following few paragraphs are not for pansies.**
I walked into the kitchen and noticed, there on my roommate's living room carpet, the hugest, most disgusting pile of dog poo I had ever seen.
Now you have to know, my roommate Katie has this sweet elderly dog named Speck. To my knowledge, Speck has never gone #2 in the house. He has rarely done #1 and then only in mocking defiance toward Katie when she was doing something he didn't like…such as leaving. And you also must understand the layout of our house. Katie's (carpeted) living room is right next to our hardwood floor kitchen. Speck missed the hardwood by approximately 1 ½ inches and decided to relieve himself on the carpet instead. I suppose it was cushier on his paws or something.
Upon seeing the pile of poo, I thought to myself, "OH. Wow it sucks to be Katie. I wonder when she'll get home from church so she can clean that up."
No sooner had I turned to walk out of the room, when I heard a little voice, "Nicole. Remember what you heard in church this morning?"
"umm. No."
"Really? Do you remember what you prayed about?"
"sorry. I got nothing."
"Jamie talked about serving others and you prayed for God to give you the opportunity to serve someone today."
"What's that? I can't hear you. You're mumbling a little bit."
And with that I chose to ignore the prompting I was receiving and go to check my email. As I was sitting on my couch, realizing that I had no email, the Holy Spirit's sudden silence was loud enough for me to realize what I needed to do. God will never force us to do something we don't want to do. But He will most assuredly let us know what He wants us to do.
I walked into the kitchen…looked at the pile of poo….looked at Speck who was lying nonchalantly on the floor, pretending he didn't know how it had gotten there….looked back at the pile of poo….looked at the ceiling, and decided to go upstairs to look for some carpet cleaner. I didn't find any. I walked back to the kitchen and again looked at Speck's masterpiece, then I said to God, "Are you sure? There's not something else I could do to serve someone today?"
"Go look in the basement for the carpet cleaner" was the only response I got. As I re-entered the kitchen, carpet cleaner in hand, I again looked at the poo.
Now, you need to understand exactly why this was so difficult for me. And in order for you to really grasp this image in your mind, I'm going to have to get a little graphic. So strap yourself in. Here we go.
This was not just your run-of-the-mill, piece of dog poo you see on the sidewalk sometimes. This was a pile of runny, gooey, sloppy dense doggie diarrhea with subsequent diarrhea droplets making a trail almost to the kitchen but falling just short. It smelled of hot dogs…or maybe that was someone grilling outside. I'm not sure and I didn't really try to find out the answer to that question, for fear of making myself vomit or forever turning myself off to hotdogs…I like hot dogs. I would swear there was steam coming off of the pile if I didn't know that kind of thing only happened in the cartoons.
Again, I glanced at the ceiling, smirked and said, "That's funny, God." Then I hunkered down and began cleaning…Speck watching me the whole time…trying to give the appearance of innocence, as if I didn't know he was the culprit.
***Now, back to what I was saying earlier. Donald Miller contends that God is a mystery. He cannot be fully known by humans who have such finite minds. And while I agree that God is so much beyond our normal comprehension (insert those big Bible college words here again)…I disagree that God is a mystery.
A mystery is something that is unknown or unexplained. Something that can't be figured out.
I would say that God is mysterious, but he is not a mystery.
By this I mean that there are some mysterious aspects to God. We cannot always predict what He will do next, or how he will lead us in a certain situation.
But God, in His Sovereignty, allows us to know Him. He is bigger than our minds. He is transcendent over all of creation. But he is also imminent (deeply and passionately involved in the world, in our lives, in our hearts). There's another Bible college term for you. God is so powerful, so all-knowing, so beyond us…that He allows our finite, fallen minds to know Him personally. To walk with Him daily. To talk to Him whenever we want to. We often use the phrase, "I don't know. It's a mystery to me," when we're describing something that we can't explain. But I don't think this applies to God at all. I think God intervenes in our lives and moves so that He grabs our attention and we take hold of Him and allow Him to reveal Himself to us.
No, we cannot completely figure God out. We don't know how He will move, or where He will lead us. But we do know Him, as a person and as our Savior. He is not a mystery. He is someone I know intimately.God works in mysterious ways. I don't know why he wanted me to clean up dog crap rather than help an old woman to the car with her groceries that day. But it was no mystery to me that cleaning up the poo was exactly how He wanted me to serve in that moment.
May you find yourself surrounded with opportunities to serve others today…and may you constantly be perplexed by the mysterious things God does in your life every day. But may you always know that He loves you intimately and deeply, and that He will not keep Himself a mystery to those who seek after Him.
Currently listening : Queen - Greatest Hits, Vols. 1 &2 By Queen Release date: 14 November, 1995
Monday, January 8, 2007
Pride & Prejudice...and Passion
January 8, 2007 - Monday
Current mood: impressed
She walks out into a foggy meadow at daybreak after a sleepless, troublesome night. As she is left alone with her thoughts, she gazes into the distance to see a mysterious, shadowy figure slowly and confidently approaching. The music swells as he comes into view. He walks straight for her, carrying the sunrise on his shoulders, his soft brown hair bouncing with each step.She peers into the fog wondering if this is a dream.
He is wearing the type of shirt one might expect from Fabio or some other man on the cover of a romance novel. It is made from white cotton with a V-neck, showing just enough chest hair to keep you interested. As he finally reaches her, the sun begins to bounce off of her wavy brown locks and he says, "You must know. Surely, you must know it was all for you. You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my aunt last night and it has taught me to hope...as I had scarcely allowed myself before.
If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever. If, however, your feelings have changed, I would have to tell you, you have bewitched me, body and soul. And I love, I love...I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on."
She tenderly steps toward him and grasps his hand in both of hers."Well then," she softly kisses his hand. It is the kind of kiss in which the lips barely graze the skin, yet the deepest, truest love is conveyed through the brief contact they make with his knuckles."Your hands are cold," she says.
The music swells even more and the sound of birds chirping in the morning sky fills the air. As they continue to stare into one another's eyes, the blazing orange sun can now be seen between their two faces. Rather than sharing in a long, passionate kiss, they simply place their foreheads together, close their eyes and enjoy this moment, for it is all they need to know they will be together forever.
On any ordinary day, cheesey, obnoxiously romantic dialog and a horrendously cliche setting such as this would cause my body to go into involuntary and violent convulsions followed by a severe and painful round of dry heaves.
But last night Pride & Prejudice revealed something to me that I had never seen before...or maybe I had seen it, but chosen to ignore it. Either way, I feel as though I have been awakened to a new thought.
Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett did not have a storybook romance. They struggled. They hated one another. They were terribly embarrassed around each other. They misunderstood. They were stubborn.
Prior to this scene, every encounter between the two of them had been filled with an awkward interaction. They stumbled over their words. They yelled at one another. They were disgusted with each other, yet they were alike in every way.
If I hadn't known the story before watching this film, I never would have thought the two of them would end up together. They (okay, bear with me because this is going to sound overly simplified and probably rather corny) were too prideful and too prejudiced to be able to see the potential for what would come.
Even in their rocky beginning one thing can be said about the tumultuous relationship between these two: they were passionate.
Every encounter between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth throughout the story is filled with passion, whether it is passionate fury, passionate disgust, passionate humor, passionate embarrasment, and eventually, passionate affection...passion was not something either of them was lacking for in terms of personality. Even their awkward encounters were filled with a strange sort of fervor and longing.
Watching this movie, yet again, has opened my eyes. Love is meant to be passionate.
Passionately patient, passionately kind, passionately humble, passionately selfless, passionately pleasant, passionately forgiving, passionately truthful, passionately protecting, passionately trusting, passionately hopeful, and passionately persevering.Love is not something to be taken lightly.
Love is an expression, an emotion, an action God provided us to express, emote, and act out with fervor. There is no room in love for half-heartedness. The proverbial "old college try" simply won't do. Love is something that requires all of our energy, all of our attention, all of our dilligence. Why do we throw the word "love" around so carlessly? I love hot dogs? I love Starbucks? I am the guiltiest one of all. I have oft been caught telling friends that I am madly in love with whomever happens to be my flavor of the week on television or in music or...whatever.
No wonder we go about love with lax and whimsical attitudes...we have over-used it, over-hyped it, over glamourized it, even over-romanticized it.
True, honest, passionate love requires the lover to be completely willing to dive into the grit and grime of human relationships. It begs for compassion and mercy when betrayal wins the battle over virtue. Passionate love demands a passionate forgiveness when we can't see ourselves as our lover does, and we lack the confidence to fully engage ourselves in that love relationship. Passionate love asks us to passionately confront our lover with the problems that need to be addressed, for passionate love knows that the passive-aggressive way of dealing with things leads to nothing but bitterness and resentment.
Passionate love makes us commit to strongly and deeply loving that person, even when we don't feel like it. It causes us to want to work through the dirt and the filth and the pain we bring each other and resurface stronger and more in love than ever before.
Does this longing for passion in any way negate my previous anti-romance rants-disguised-as-blogs? Not at all. I still don't want to fall whimsically, hopelessly, desperately and helplessly in love. I still don't want a man to come in and fix all of my problems and make me a whole person. I still don't think it's unbiblilcal for me to be a single woman who is waiting for God to bring someone to me. But when love does happen, I want it to be a passionate, real, authentic, gritty love.
I've never been married before. I don't have a boyfriend. I don't even have a date...so I could be all wrong about this whole love thing. Please, correct me and instruct me in the ways of love if you want to...I've got a lot to learn.And, okay, if I'm going to be terribly honest, that final scene in Pride & Prejudice, as much as I love that film, does leave me feeling a bit nauseated...just a little.
Current mood: impressed
She walks out into a foggy meadow at daybreak after a sleepless, troublesome night. As she is left alone with her thoughts, she gazes into the distance to see a mysterious, shadowy figure slowly and confidently approaching. The music swells as he comes into view. He walks straight for her, carrying the sunrise on his shoulders, his soft brown hair bouncing with each step.She peers into the fog wondering if this is a dream.
He is wearing the type of shirt one might expect from Fabio or some other man on the cover of a romance novel. It is made from white cotton with a V-neck, showing just enough chest hair to keep you interested. As he finally reaches her, the sun begins to bounce off of her wavy brown locks and he says, "You must know. Surely, you must know it was all for you. You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my aunt last night and it has taught me to hope...as I had scarcely allowed myself before.
If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever. If, however, your feelings have changed, I would have to tell you, you have bewitched me, body and soul. And I love, I love...I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on."
She tenderly steps toward him and grasps his hand in both of hers."Well then," she softly kisses his hand. It is the kind of kiss in which the lips barely graze the skin, yet the deepest, truest love is conveyed through the brief contact they make with his knuckles."Your hands are cold," she says.
The music swells even more and the sound of birds chirping in the morning sky fills the air. As they continue to stare into one another's eyes, the blazing orange sun can now be seen between their two faces. Rather than sharing in a long, passionate kiss, they simply place their foreheads together, close their eyes and enjoy this moment, for it is all they need to know they will be together forever.
On any ordinary day, cheesey, obnoxiously romantic dialog and a horrendously cliche setting such as this would cause my body to go into involuntary and violent convulsions followed by a severe and painful round of dry heaves.
But last night Pride & Prejudice revealed something to me that I had never seen before...or maybe I had seen it, but chosen to ignore it. Either way, I feel as though I have been awakened to a new thought.
Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett did not have a storybook romance. They struggled. They hated one another. They were terribly embarrassed around each other. They misunderstood. They were stubborn.
Prior to this scene, every encounter between the two of them had been filled with an awkward interaction. They stumbled over their words. They yelled at one another. They were disgusted with each other, yet they were alike in every way.
If I hadn't known the story before watching this film, I never would have thought the two of them would end up together. They (okay, bear with me because this is going to sound overly simplified and probably rather corny) were too prideful and too prejudiced to be able to see the potential for what would come.
Even in their rocky beginning one thing can be said about the tumultuous relationship between these two: they were passionate.
Every encounter between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth throughout the story is filled with passion, whether it is passionate fury, passionate disgust, passionate humor, passionate embarrasment, and eventually, passionate affection...passion was not something either of them was lacking for in terms of personality. Even their awkward encounters were filled with a strange sort of fervor and longing.
Watching this movie, yet again, has opened my eyes. Love is meant to be passionate.
Passionately patient, passionately kind, passionately humble, passionately selfless, passionately pleasant, passionately forgiving, passionately truthful, passionately protecting, passionately trusting, passionately hopeful, and passionately persevering.Love is not something to be taken lightly.
Love is an expression, an emotion, an action God provided us to express, emote, and act out with fervor. There is no room in love for half-heartedness. The proverbial "old college try" simply won't do. Love is something that requires all of our energy, all of our attention, all of our dilligence. Why do we throw the word "love" around so carlessly? I love hot dogs? I love Starbucks? I am the guiltiest one of all. I have oft been caught telling friends that I am madly in love with whomever happens to be my flavor of the week on television or in music or...whatever.
No wonder we go about love with lax and whimsical attitudes...we have over-used it, over-hyped it, over glamourized it, even over-romanticized it.
True, honest, passionate love requires the lover to be completely willing to dive into the grit and grime of human relationships. It begs for compassion and mercy when betrayal wins the battle over virtue. Passionate love demands a passionate forgiveness when we can't see ourselves as our lover does, and we lack the confidence to fully engage ourselves in that love relationship. Passionate love asks us to passionately confront our lover with the problems that need to be addressed, for passionate love knows that the passive-aggressive way of dealing with things leads to nothing but bitterness and resentment.
Passionate love makes us commit to strongly and deeply loving that person, even when we don't feel like it. It causes us to want to work through the dirt and the filth and the pain we bring each other and resurface stronger and more in love than ever before.
Does this longing for passion in any way negate my previous anti-romance rants-disguised-as-blogs? Not at all. I still don't want to fall whimsically, hopelessly, desperately and helplessly in love. I still don't want a man to come in and fix all of my problems and make me a whole person. I still don't think it's unbiblilcal for me to be a single woman who is waiting for God to bring someone to me. But when love does happen, I want it to be a passionate, real, authentic, gritty love.
I've never been married before. I don't have a boyfriend. I don't even have a date...so I could be all wrong about this whole love thing. Please, correct me and instruct me in the ways of love if you want to...I've got a lot to learn.And, okay, if I'm going to be terribly honest, that final scene in Pride & Prejudice, as much as I love that film, does leave me feeling a bit nauseated...just a little.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Archives: Falling Into Love
November 29, 2006 - Wednesday
Current mood: satisfied
How many times a day to you hear the phrase "fall in love"?
I'm guessing at least 47; add another 32 on top of that if you watch anything on Oxygen or Lifetime.
Being the logically-minded, cynical, occasionally bitter person I am, I have always hated the phrase "fall in love". It implies weakness. I picture a woman and a man whimsically and absent-mindedly flailing about until they haphazardly stumble into each other's arms, too caught up in the feeling of it all to pay attention to anything else that might be happening around them. They just can't stop smiling and gazing into each other's eyes. They can't keep from touching one another. The world is spinning around them, but they are standing still, lost in the love they have just fallen into.
Puke.
I always said I would never fall in love. I would logically make a decision to step into love with someone, knowing full-well the risks and rewards associated with forming such a relationship.
I have been talking to a close friend about some guy problems she has been dealing with lately..I don't have any men problems of my own right now (no men = no men problems). And since I am problem-free, I figured I would give some sage advice to my friend, who has had a recent surge in the male-problem department. I don't know what it is. Apparently they published an article in the Testosterone Tribune (the bi-weekly newsletter published by males, for males, and about females) alerting everyone that she is single, beautiful, available, and has a lot to offer. Why it took so long for them to take notice, I'll never know. I'm just waiting for that article about me to circulate...even a mass email would be fine.
As I was talking with my friend, though, I started to notice how completely dubious I sound about love and romantic things. Maybe I've been burned too much in the past. Maybe I don't want to set myself up for disappointment. Maybe I'm just too much of a realist for my own good.
Because I am avoiding falling in love, but rather trying to "logically step into it," I am afraid I have formed a bad habit. I try to read the circumstances. I try to make things happen. I try to see how the relationship is unfolding before it even begins. I am so conscientious about stepping into love, that I try to see the potential for nearly every man I meet. "Hmm. He plays guitar and goes to my church..maybe he's my future husband." "I wonder what would happen if I married this guy..he has a great family and a good job." "Mrs. Nicole Humperdink*. Hmm. It has a nice ring to it." "Wow. That guy is really cute. I wonder what our children would look like."Well, as ludicrous as those thoughts may seem, they are true. Ladies, if you don't admit that you have those kinds of thoughts sometimes, then you're lying. If men knew what we really thought, they would turn around and RUN the other way. Well, as I was talking to my friend, I realized that in my pursuit of logical love, I have tried to learn my future prematurely.
It's better to read a book the way the Author intended, rather than skipping ahead to try to figure out the end. You miss the most important parts. You sacrifice the story for the sake of finding out what happens.
Does that analogy make sense?If I keep speculating about each man I meet, if I keep trying to figure it all out, I'm going to miss the good part of my story. I'm going to miss out on the romance and the wooing. I'm going to miss out on the relationship that needs to be built in order for love to happen. I need to stop skipping ahead and just let things happen naturally. Allow myself to be pursued. Allow myself to be won over. Allow myself to...fall into love. I don't have to be whimsical and airy about it, but I can at least enjoy the ride. So, ladies, I motion that we stop imaging every man we meet in a tuxedo. Let's just start meeting people as people...not as potential future husbands or fathers of our finest children. Let's just meet people. You can think a man is attractive. You can shoot those flirty glances and smiles his way. But let him do the chasing. And that's not primitive or anti-fem or anything. It's just nice to be pursued. It makes us feel beautiful and lovely and desirable.Take things one day at a time. Don't rush ahead. Don't try to skip to the end and miss out on the best part of the story.
*Humperdink is a ficticious name used for illustrative purposes only and in no way reflects my feelings or ambitions toward any real person who may bear this particular surname.
Currently listening : Phil Wickham By Phil Wickham Release date: 25 April, 2006
Current mood: satisfied
How many times a day to you hear the phrase "fall in love"?
I'm guessing at least 47; add another 32 on top of that if you watch anything on Oxygen or Lifetime.
Being the logically-minded, cynical, occasionally bitter person I am, I have always hated the phrase "fall in love". It implies weakness. I picture a woman and a man whimsically and absent-mindedly flailing about until they haphazardly stumble into each other's arms, too caught up in the feeling of it all to pay attention to anything else that might be happening around them. They just can't stop smiling and gazing into each other's eyes. They can't keep from touching one another. The world is spinning around them, but they are standing still, lost in the love they have just fallen into.
Puke.
I always said I would never fall in love. I would logically make a decision to step into love with someone, knowing full-well the risks and rewards associated with forming such a relationship.
I have been talking to a close friend about some guy problems she has been dealing with lately..I don't have any men problems of my own right now (no men = no men problems). And since I am problem-free, I figured I would give some sage advice to my friend, who has had a recent surge in the male-problem department. I don't know what it is. Apparently they published an article in the Testosterone Tribune (the bi-weekly newsletter published by males, for males, and about females) alerting everyone that she is single, beautiful, available, and has a lot to offer. Why it took so long for them to take notice, I'll never know. I'm just waiting for that article about me to circulate...even a mass email would be fine.
As I was talking with my friend, though, I started to notice how completely dubious I sound about love and romantic things. Maybe I've been burned too much in the past. Maybe I don't want to set myself up for disappointment. Maybe I'm just too much of a realist for my own good.
Because I am avoiding falling in love, but rather trying to "logically step into it," I am afraid I have formed a bad habit. I try to read the circumstances. I try to make things happen. I try to see how the relationship is unfolding before it even begins. I am so conscientious about stepping into love, that I try to see the potential for nearly every man I meet. "Hmm. He plays guitar and goes to my church..maybe he's my future husband." "I wonder what would happen if I married this guy..he has a great family and a good job." "Mrs. Nicole Humperdink*. Hmm. It has a nice ring to it." "Wow. That guy is really cute. I wonder what our children would look like."Well, as ludicrous as those thoughts may seem, they are true. Ladies, if you don't admit that you have those kinds of thoughts sometimes, then you're lying. If men knew what we really thought, they would turn around and RUN the other way. Well, as I was talking to my friend, I realized that in my pursuit of logical love, I have tried to learn my future prematurely.
It's better to read a book the way the Author intended, rather than skipping ahead to try to figure out the end. You miss the most important parts. You sacrifice the story for the sake of finding out what happens.
Does that analogy make sense?If I keep speculating about each man I meet, if I keep trying to figure it all out, I'm going to miss the good part of my story. I'm going to miss out on the romance and the wooing. I'm going to miss out on the relationship that needs to be built in order for love to happen. I need to stop skipping ahead and just let things happen naturally. Allow myself to be pursued. Allow myself to be won over. Allow myself to...fall into love. I don't have to be whimsical and airy about it, but I can at least enjoy the ride. So, ladies, I motion that we stop imaging every man we meet in a tuxedo. Let's just start meeting people as people...not as potential future husbands or fathers of our finest children. Let's just meet people. You can think a man is attractive. You can shoot those flirty glances and smiles his way. But let him do the chasing. And that's not primitive or anti-fem or anything. It's just nice to be pursued. It makes us feel beautiful and lovely and desirable.Take things one day at a time. Don't rush ahead. Don't try to skip to the end and miss out on the best part of the story.
*Humperdink is a ficticious name used for illustrative purposes only and in no way reflects my feelings or ambitions toward any real person who may bear this particular surname.
Currently listening : Phil Wickham By Phil Wickham Release date: 25 April, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Archives: The Blessed Curse
November 14, 2006 - Tuesday
Current mood: rejuvenated
Singleness.
Have you ever browsed the "singles" section of your local bookstore? Have you?
Why is it that all books on the topic speak of singleness as if it were some kind of plague or trial to overcome?
There is even a book called Getting Serious About Getting Married: Rethinking the Gift of Singleness. It's by Debbie Maken. Don't read it unless you enjoy becoming angry and throwing books at walls. I read an article by this lady based on the book. Ms. Maken seems to think that once you reach a certain age, it is your biblical responsibility to be married. Apparently she hasn't heard of Paul or...well, Jesus or anyone else in history who did amazing things without a spouse.
I wrote a blog about this article a while back.
Why are all of our Christian resources on singleness focused on fixing us? I don't get it. Authors are writing all their books about what we DON'T have, rather than encouraging us in the opportunities we do have.
You don't see these titles in the bookstores:
Paul wrote:1 Corinthians 7:8-9
So there, married people! It looks like us singles are the stronger ones...Okay, so I'm kidding a little. But we need a shift in perspective.
Why does "single" automatically equal "not married"? Why can't "single" mean "one person", living life independently and growing in the Lord....not necessarily "waiting" on anything because my life is happening right now. Maybe "trusting" would be a better term.
I'm not crying out in desperation for a husband. I'd love to be married one day...but it's not right now. And that's fine. I'm a happy, single girl who is just trying to live her life for Jesus...see? We do exist.
Currently listening : Mutemath By Mute Math Release date: 26 September, 2006
Current mood: rejuvenated
Singleness.
Have you ever browsed the "singles" section of your local bookstore? Have you?
Why is it that all books on the topic speak of singleness as if it were some kind of plague or trial to overcome?
What To Do Until Love Finds You
Every Single Woman's Battle
Sex and the Single Guy
8 Great Ways to Find Your Mate
If Men Are Like Buses How Do I Catch One
How to Find A Man Worth Keeping
Lord Help Me...I'm Single
Every SINGLE Day
I Kissed Dating Goodbye
I Gave Dating a Chance
Lady in Waiting
There is even a book called Getting Serious About Getting Married: Rethinking the Gift of Singleness. It's by Debbie Maken. Don't read it unless you enjoy becoming angry and throwing books at walls. I read an article by this lady based on the book. Ms. Maken seems to think that once you reach a certain age, it is your biblical responsibility to be married. Apparently she hasn't heard of Paul or...well, Jesus or anyone else in history who did amazing things without a spouse.
I wrote a blog about this article a while back.
Why are all of our Christian resources on singleness focused on fixing us? I don't get it. Authors are writing all their books about what we DON'T have, rather than encouraging us in the opportunities we do have.
You don't see these titles in the bookstores:
You're Single: Enjoy It While It Lasts
It's Not a Race to the Altar
8 Great Ways Not to Date
Paul wrote:1 Corinthians 7:8-9
Now to the UNMARRIED and the widows I say: It is good for them to stay unmarried, as I am. But if they cannot control themselves, they should marry, for it is better to marry than to burn with passion.
So there, married people! It looks like us singles are the stronger ones...Okay, so I'm kidding a little. But we need a shift in perspective.
Why does "single" automatically equal "not married"? Why can't "single" mean "one person", living life independently and growing in the Lord....not necessarily "waiting" on anything because my life is happening right now. Maybe "trusting" would be a better term.
I'm not crying out in desperation for a husband. I'd love to be married one day...but it's not right now. And that's fine. I'm a happy, single girl who is just trying to live her life for Jesus...see? We do exist.
Currently listening : Mutemath By Mute Math Release date: 26 September, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Archives: Confessions and Revelations
October 16, 2006 - Monday
Current mood: curious
Confession breeds Revelation.Or is it the other way around?
Confession: Although I am morally opposed to whiny punk bands (see my profile page), I like...nay...love the new Hawk Nelson single. It's called The Show, and it's a really good song. I first confessed this when I caught myself reaching for the volume button as this song came on and, instead of turning it down to a sub-audible level, I cranked it up and sang along. I was horrified.
Revelation: Perhaps punk music does have something to offer those of us who have reached our post-pubescent years.
Confession: I have pre-judged punk and punk-kind.
Confession: Despite my jesting toward certain friends and family members who watched the show last season, I have begun watching Deal or No Deal...regularly.
Revelation: While I still refer to the Deal or No Deal Girls as "The Hussies", the show has actually proved a fun and entertaining way to fill an hour.
Confession: I must now admit that Howie Mandel is not the creepy, old bald man I once presumed him to be. I will NOT, however, adhere to the idea of someone close to me that Howie is sexy (KIM).
Confession: Nashville hasn't been the amazing land of opportunity I thought it would be. I can't seem to meet the people I need to meet in order to get the job I want to get.
Revelation: There isn't a Road to Perfect in this life. Whether I am in Decatur or Nashville or Canada, life will always ben far from perfect. I will not be satisfied until I am finally where I was created to be...in the eternal presence of the Father.
Confession: I need to stop searching for fulfillment and happiness and continue pursuing God. He has promised that if I do seek Him, everything else will fall into place.
Confession: I have just committed the ultimate follicle sin: I chopped my own hair.
Revelation: I won't know until tomorrow morning for sure, but I think I did alright. I first received this revelation when I got a haircut from a spiky mullet-wearing man at Wal-Mart (see my blog about Rod Stewart), but needed a friendly reminder.
Confession: I am not the kind of woman who requires a $75 haircut every 4-6 weeks...even though I am going for punk-glam, right Keeks?
Confession: I have been holding a grudge with an authority figure ever since I got to Nashville. I labeled this person as distracted, arrogant, lazy and inconsiderate.
Revelation: I just found out last week that this person is battling cancer, and is dealing with all of the emotional issues brought on by a sudden and unexpected illness.
Confession: Maybe I need to take a better look at myself before I begin pointing the finger at someone else.
Confession: I miss my friends and family more than I ever thought possible.
Revelation: Did I bring myself to Nashville only to discover that matters of career and ambition bare little significance in the absence of loved ones? Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Maybe my job is unimportant as long as I can be surrounded by loved ones.
Confession: The relationships I thought had grown stale and old are the ones I have clung to the most when everything else around me is foreign.
Confession: I love McDonald's Monopoly!
Revelation: I know the food is horrible for me, and I know that my chances of winning anything other than more food are slim, but I have some kind of strange addiction.
Confession: I think it's just an issue of collecting those little game pieces and attaching them to that little board. But then in January, you look at your board and count......73 times I have eaten McDonald's since October??!!!?!?! That's disgusting!
Currently listening : Stereo: The Evolution of Hiprocksoul By 4th Avenue Jones Release date: 29 March, 2005
Current mood: curious
Confession breeds Revelation.Or is it the other way around?
Confession: Although I am morally opposed to whiny punk bands (see my profile page), I like...nay...love the new Hawk Nelson single. It's called The Show, and it's a really good song. I first confessed this when I caught myself reaching for the volume button as this song came on and, instead of turning it down to a sub-audible level, I cranked it up and sang along. I was horrified.
Revelation: Perhaps punk music does have something to offer those of us who have reached our post-pubescent years.
Confession: I have pre-judged punk and punk-kind.
Confession: Despite my jesting toward certain friends and family members who watched the show last season, I have begun watching Deal or No Deal...regularly.
Revelation: While I still refer to the Deal or No Deal Girls as "The Hussies", the show has actually proved a fun and entertaining way to fill an hour.
Confession: I must now admit that Howie Mandel is not the creepy, old bald man I once presumed him to be. I will NOT, however, adhere to the idea of someone close to me that Howie is sexy (KIM).
Confession: Nashville hasn't been the amazing land of opportunity I thought it would be. I can't seem to meet the people I need to meet in order to get the job I want to get.
Revelation: There isn't a Road to Perfect in this life. Whether I am in Decatur or Nashville or Canada, life will always ben far from perfect. I will not be satisfied until I am finally where I was created to be...in the eternal presence of the Father.
Confession: I need to stop searching for fulfillment and happiness and continue pursuing God. He has promised that if I do seek Him, everything else will fall into place.
Confession: I have just committed the ultimate follicle sin: I chopped my own hair.
Revelation: I won't know until tomorrow morning for sure, but I think I did alright. I first received this revelation when I got a haircut from a spiky mullet-wearing man at Wal-Mart (see my blog about Rod Stewart), but needed a friendly reminder.
Confession: I am not the kind of woman who requires a $75 haircut every 4-6 weeks...even though I am going for punk-glam, right Keeks?
Confession: I have been holding a grudge with an authority figure ever since I got to Nashville. I labeled this person as distracted, arrogant, lazy and inconsiderate.
Revelation: I just found out last week that this person is battling cancer, and is dealing with all of the emotional issues brought on by a sudden and unexpected illness.
Confession: Maybe I need to take a better look at myself before I begin pointing the finger at someone else.
Confession: I miss my friends and family more than I ever thought possible.
Revelation: Did I bring myself to Nashville only to discover that matters of career and ambition bare little significance in the absence of loved ones? Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Maybe my job is unimportant as long as I can be surrounded by loved ones.
Confession: The relationships I thought had grown stale and old are the ones I have clung to the most when everything else around me is foreign.
Confession: I love McDonald's Monopoly!
Revelation: I know the food is horrible for me, and I know that my chances of winning anything other than more food are slim, but I have some kind of strange addiction.
Confession: I think it's just an issue of collecting those little game pieces and attaching them to that little board. But then in January, you look at your board and count......73 times I have eaten McDonald's since October??!!!?!?! That's disgusting!
Currently listening : Stereo: The Evolution of Hiprocksoul By 4th Avenue Jones Release date: 29 March, 2005
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Archives: An Interesting Hygiene Experience
September 26, 2006 - Tuesday
Current mood: numb
Last night I stayed at my friend Misti's house. No big deal. I had all my stuff (except I forgot my pillow, but she had an extra), I made sure I set my alarm with plenty of time for me to get up and get ready in the morning. I ate dinner before I went...I was just looking forward to spending a relaxing evening in front of the television with one of my best friends...just like college (and virutally every other evening of my life right now).
Around 9:30, I decided I wanted to go take a shower...Again, no big deal. I brought all the necessities to the bathroom with me, paying careful attention not to forget anything.
I have a horribly wasteful habit of running the water for a few minutes before actually getting in the shower...I like the water to be nice and hot before I jump in. So I started the shower and proceeded to do whatever it is that one does while waiting for the water to warm up.
All of a sudden, I noticed that the atmosphere in the bathroom felt very heavy. I looked up and I was engulfed in a cloud of steam. It was so oppressive that I found it difficult to breathe...strange, I know. The mirrors were long gone, covered with that opaque white fog. And even the shower curtains were completely clouded.
At this point, I decided that the water was probably too hot for a normal human's skin. And although I do enjoy being slightly scalded when stepping into a steaming shower, I figured second degree burns and a trip to emergency would present more of an inconvenience than anything.
I approached the shower, pulled the curtain back, and extended my arm toward the faucet in an attempt to turn the water cooler, but just as my fingers reached the knob, I was sprayed in the face with searing water...this shower was not turning out like I had anticipated...and I wasn't even in it yet.
As I continued to struggle with the faucet, I had moved out of the line of the spraying shower head, and while I was saving my face (literally), water was still spraying all over the bathroom, soaking the toilet seat, toilet cover, and the floor next to the tub. I continued trying to turn the knob, straining to keep my face out of the stray water stream. Were my hands really so wet that I couldn't grip the stupid faucet and turn the water down? After a couple more minutes of struggling, I determined that the problem must not be with my hands, but instead, with the faucet itself.
I turned the water completely off in order to assess the situation. After much careful observation, I realized that while the faucet looked like a normal everyday, turn-in-a-clockwise-fashion-to-make-it-hotter spicket, but instead, you were to push the entire knob to the right or left, depending on your desired temperature...weird, I know.
Three minutes later, the water was at an appropriate degree, much of the steam had cleared, and the shower was as satisfactory as any other shower. And then I noticed something intriguing. Hanging from the shower head was a large plastic container filled with a silverish-clear liquid. Its large blue button was right at eye level, staring me in the face, commanding my attention. "Hmm," I thought, "that must be one of those cool soap dispensers like they have in those junk mail catalogs." After about 15 seconds of deliberating, my curiosity got the better of me and I pushed the button. I placed my hand under what I thought was the nozzle of the soap dispenser.
Nothing happened.
The thought occurred to me that this may in fact not be the soap dispenser I thought it was, and I looked at the back of the container.
"Automatic Shower Cleaner"
Oh great.
And not five seconds after I read the label on the back, I was sprayed, in the mouth, on the face, and all over with shower cleanser.
So after the shower from hell, I proceeded to do my normal post-shower routine, and then mopped up the floor and toilet seat that were still soaked from the afore-mentioned stray stream of water spraying from the shower head.
The moral of the story: Even if you enjoy regular showers, and consider yourself rather an expert at the task, it's probably a good idea to ask the host the essential workings of the shower in a foreign-bathroom situation.
Currently listening : Good Monsters By Jars of Clay Release date: 05 September, 2006
Current mood: numb
Last night I stayed at my friend Misti's house. No big deal. I had all my stuff (except I forgot my pillow, but she had an extra), I made sure I set my alarm with plenty of time for me to get up and get ready in the morning. I ate dinner before I went...I was just looking forward to spending a relaxing evening in front of the television with one of my best friends...just like college (and virutally every other evening of my life right now).
Around 9:30, I decided I wanted to go take a shower...Again, no big deal. I brought all the necessities to the bathroom with me, paying careful attention not to forget anything.
I have a horribly wasteful habit of running the water for a few minutes before actually getting in the shower...I like the water to be nice and hot before I jump in. So I started the shower and proceeded to do whatever it is that one does while waiting for the water to warm up.
All of a sudden, I noticed that the atmosphere in the bathroom felt very heavy. I looked up and I was engulfed in a cloud of steam. It was so oppressive that I found it difficult to breathe...strange, I know. The mirrors were long gone, covered with that opaque white fog. And even the shower curtains were completely clouded.
At this point, I decided that the water was probably too hot for a normal human's skin. And although I do enjoy being slightly scalded when stepping into a steaming shower, I figured second degree burns and a trip to emergency would present more of an inconvenience than anything.
I approached the shower, pulled the curtain back, and extended my arm toward the faucet in an attempt to turn the water cooler, but just as my fingers reached the knob, I was sprayed in the face with searing water...this shower was not turning out like I had anticipated...and I wasn't even in it yet.
As I continued to struggle with the faucet, I had moved out of the line of the spraying shower head, and while I was saving my face (literally), water was still spraying all over the bathroom, soaking the toilet seat, toilet cover, and the floor next to the tub. I continued trying to turn the knob, straining to keep my face out of the stray water stream. Were my hands really so wet that I couldn't grip the stupid faucet and turn the water down? After a couple more minutes of struggling, I determined that the problem must not be with my hands, but instead, with the faucet itself.
I turned the water completely off in order to assess the situation. After much careful observation, I realized that while the faucet looked like a normal everyday, turn-in-a-clockwise-fashion-to-make-it-hotter spicket, but instead, you were to push the entire knob to the right or left, depending on your desired temperature...weird, I know.
Three minutes later, the water was at an appropriate degree, much of the steam had cleared, and the shower was as satisfactory as any other shower. And then I noticed something intriguing. Hanging from the shower head was a large plastic container filled with a silverish-clear liquid. Its large blue button was right at eye level, staring me in the face, commanding my attention. "Hmm," I thought, "that must be one of those cool soap dispensers like they have in those junk mail catalogs." After about 15 seconds of deliberating, my curiosity got the better of me and I pushed the button. I placed my hand under what I thought was the nozzle of the soap dispenser.
Nothing happened.
The thought occurred to me that this may in fact not be the soap dispenser I thought it was, and I looked at the back of the container.
"Automatic Shower Cleaner"
Oh great.
And not five seconds after I read the label on the back, I was sprayed, in the mouth, on the face, and all over with shower cleanser.
So after the shower from hell, I proceeded to do my normal post-shower routine, and then mopped up the floor and toilet seat that were still soaked from the afore-mentioned stray stream of water spraying from the shower head.
The moral of the story: Even if you enjoy regular showers, and consider yourself rather an expert at the task, it's probably a good idea to ask the host the essential workings of the shower in a foreign-bathroom situation.
Currently listening : Good Monsters By Jars of Clay Release date: 05 September, 2006
Friday, September 15, 2006
Archives: And to the Emo Boys in Girl Pants
September 15, 2006 - Friday
Current mood: amused
Dear Emo Boy:
Please allow me to begin by saying that I love you and your kind. Emo boys bring a new sense of pride in male emotion. Where other men are rugged and tough, emo boys are not afraid to display their feelings through music, eyeliner, clothing, etc.
You are a group of trend-setters. You create the pace for other men. They are just slightly behind you in terms of fashion and appearance. You have brought back the comb-over. Where once this hair style was thought of as a method for the elderly to hide (or attempt to hide) their bald spots, you have now turned this follicle masterpiece into a staple of Emo pride. I love how you begin approximately 4 inches above the left ear, create a part, and then swoop the hair across your head. The rest of male-kind is slowly following suit. But nobody can execute the comb-over quite like you.
As much as I adore you, Emo boys, I must take a moment to share one critique. A piece of advice regarding one very minute and insignificant detail of your appearance...
Why must you wear girl jeans?
I have yet to find a boy who actually appears more attractive while wearing pants designed for the female body. Why do you do this? You have to understand, your body is not created like a woman's body. Women have curves. Women have hips and extra padding in the gluteal area. Boys...especially you skinny emo boys...your lower halves are basically straight. Although you may be thin enough to fit into a women's jean size 0 or 2, you lack the curves for which they were designed. What ever happened to the days of wearing baggy carpenter jeans? Those would look great with your black T-shirts.
I'm just afraid that boys' bodies are not the type to be showcased by tight jeans. And it is particularly tragic when you choose stretch girl jeans as a piece of your ensemble. These jeans don't even look good on women...why would you think that hugging every curve (or lack thereof) of your body would be a good thing?
Emo boys, let the ladies love you for your sensitive hearts and your mysterious souls. Let us love you for your brilliant hair and amazing eyeliner technique. Allow us to delight in your music and your troubled minds. But please, don't try to make us love you for your tushies! Boy butts just aren't that great. I'm sorry to have to tell you like this. I wish there were some other way...but please, I implore you....please stop shopping in the women's section. I am begging.
Just find some 28 x 31 pants at American Eagle and let that be enough.
Any woman who would love you for your butt in tight girl jeans is no woman who needs to have you.
Sit on that for awhile...It's for your own good.
Remember I love you, Nicole
Currently listening : Albatross By The Classic Crime Release date: 23 May, 2006
Current mood: amused
Dear Emo Boy:
Please allow me to begin by saying that I love you and your kind. Emo boys bring a new sense of pride in male emotion. Where other men are rugged and tough, emo boys are not afraid to display their feelings through music, eyeliner, clothing, etc.
You are a group of trend-setters. You create the pace for other men. They are just slightly behind you in terms of fashion and appearance. You have brought back the comb-over. Where once this hair style was thought of as a method for the elderly to hide (or attempt to hide) their bald spots, you have now turned this follicle masterpiece into a staple of Emo pride. I love how you begin approximately 4 inches above the left ear, create a part, and then swoop the hair across your head. The rest of male-kind is slowly following suit. But nobody can execute the comb-over quite like you.
As much as I adore you, Emo boys, I must take a moment to share one critique. A piece of advice regarding one very minute and insignificant detail of your appearance...
Why must you wear girl jeans?
I have yet to find a boy who actually appears more attractive while wearing pants designed for the female body. Why do you do this? You have to understand, your body is not created like a woman's body. Women have curves. Women have hips and extra padding in the gluteal area. Boys...especially you skinny emo boys...your lower halves are basically straight. Although you may be thin enough to fit into a women's jean size 0 or 2, you lack the curves for which they were designed. What ever happened to the days of wearing baggy carpenter jeans? Those would look great with your black T-shirts.
I'm just afraid that boys' bodies are not the type to be showcased by tight jeans. And it is particularly tragic when you choose stretch girl jeans as a piece of your ensemble. These jeans don't even look good on women...why would you think that hugging every curve (or lack thereof) of your body would be a good thing?
Emo boys, let the ladies love you for your sensitive hearts and your mysterious souls. Let us love you for your brilliant hair and amazing eyeliner technique. Allow us to delight in your music and your troubled minds. But please, don't try to make us love you for your tushies! Boy butts just aren't that great. I'm sorry to have to tell you like this. I wish there were some other way...but please, I implore you....please stop shopping in the women's section. I am begging.
Just find some 28 x 31 pants at American Eagle and let that be enough.
Any woman who would love you for your butt in tight girl jeans is no woman who needs to have you.
Sit on that for awhile...It's for your own good.
Remember I love you, Nicole
Currently listening : Albatross By The Classic Crime Release date: 23 May, 2006
Friday, September 8, 2006
Archives: Ah...Home Crap Home (Literally)
September 8, 2006 - Friday
Current mood: contemplative
Tonight was my first trip home from Nashville. It has been four weeks since my presence has graced the town of my birth, my childhood, my teenage years, and my early twenties…the town I have affectionately coined "Dequator".
As I entered Illinois, I was instantly hit with a pleasant aroma. A combination of freshly cut farm grass, mixed with manure from a range of various livestock creatures. Where normally these smells would implicate a severe bought of sneezing and wheezing relieved only by taking a couple of puffs of the ever-sustaining life force known as a nebulizer, tonight I welcomed them with open arms. The smell of grass is the smell of life for me…and the smell of manure is the smell of home (well, not my house…but definitely home). This is probably a concept only those of us born and bred in the Midwest could possibly comprehend.
Where once I was simultaneously bored and utterly disgusted at the sight of farms and crops and silos and combines, I now welcomed these features. I gazed to my right: corn about two feet taller than me...and to my left: soybeans. And I thought, "Wow. This isn't so boring afterall. Thanks be to God for crop rotation, for only a quarter mile up the road, each crop had switched sides...the corn was now on the LEFT and the soybeans were on the RIGHT. How....exhilarating!
My drive home was filled with…what else but music. And as I drove the music lifted my emotions in a vast array of directions. I went from misty-eyed conviction to righteous indignation, to self-reflection, to outright laughter. The playlist went as follows:
-Kendall Payne – Grown
-Adam Watts – The Noise Inside
-Michael Olson – Long Arm of Love
-Hyperstatic Union - Lifegiver
- Jimmy Needham – Speak
- Disciple – Special Dual Disc featuring 4 new (incredible) songs
-Ginny Owens – Without Condition
-Day of Fire – Cut & Move
I am pleased to inform you all that I am now suffering from an extremely hoarse and cracky voice as a direct result of singing at the top of my lungs for 6 ½ hours straight.
The low point of my drive home tonight occurred around mile 224. I was under the impression during my trip and up to this point, that the trip from Nashville to the afore-mentioned Dequator, was approximately 300 miles. Much to my dismay, around mile 224, I remembered that the trip is actually about 397 miles…adding another hour and a half to my ETA. I was pretty bummed.
But not for long, because the high point of my trip occurred around mile 300 when I discovered a Starbucks in Effingham. Who knew a grande Chai Tea Latte could once again make everything okay.
As I finally approached Decatur, I was hit with that ever-memorable scent of our fine town. It is the reason for the town slogan, "Decatur, we like it here." It is our daily sustenance and the way we identify ourselves. The very corn and soybeans I had seen only a few miles before, were now being processed in the thriving community I had left only weeks before. I was shocked to find that everything was exactly the same as I had left it. I suppose I was expecting some sort of ghost town because the city could not possibly thrive without my presence here. But, alas, nobody waved or honked at me as I passed through Mt. Zion and onto Eldorado street. And they have even started some much-needed roadwork near my house. It's good they're still concerned with making this town a better place, even though I'm not here to keep everything rolling.
One final thought: During my six hour drive tonight, I had a lot of time to ponder life…and I came to this conclusion:
Courage = Skinny Jeans
And I'm sorry to say, my friends, that is one trend I am not brave enough to try. This fashion fad is one that is not flattering to anyone above 110 lbs. And for those under this weight, legs wind up looking like bird legs or stilts or twigs or…you get the point. Ladies, what ever happened to wearing loose clothing that ever-so-seductively brushed your curves as you passed by a non-suspecting, but soon to become slack-jawed man? What ever happened to leaving something to the imagination? There is NO, I repeat NO benefit to showing the world every bump and lump you have to offer…and yes, thin girls have bumps and lumps, too….and they're not cute. And for those of us who….how shall I say….are not lacking in the calf and cankle department….these jeans are a virtual impossibility. Ladies, I implore you, please stand with me, and rise against this trend. I WILL NOT SUCCOMB TO SOCIETY'S PRESSURE TO SQUEEZE MYSELF INTO A PAIR OF TAPER-LEG, HIGH WAISTED JEANS…I REFUSE TO ADOPT FASHION IDEAS THAT COULD EASILY BE TAKEN FROM MY AUNT LOIS'S GARAGE SALE. What's next? Front pleats? Ankle length? Tight rolling?
**And don't worry, gentleman, an editorial on "boys who wear girl jeans" is coming your way soon.
Current mood: contemplative
Tonight was my first trip home from Nashville. It has been four weeks since my presence has graced the town of my birth, my childhood, my teenage years, and my early twenties…the town I have affectionately coined "Dequator".
As I entered Illinois, I was instantly hit with a pleasant aroma. A combination of freshly cut farm grass, mixed with manure from a range of various livestock creatures. Where normally these smells would implicate a severe bought of sneezing and wheezing relieved only by taking a couple of puffs of the ever-sustaining life force known as a nebulizer, tonight I welcomed them with open arms. The smell of grass is the smell of life for me…and the smell of manure is the smell of home (well, not my house…but definitely home). This is probably a concept only those of us born and bred in the Midwest could possibly comprehend.
Where once I was simultaneously bored and utterly disgusted at the sight of farms and crops and silos and combines, I now welcomed these features. I gazed to my right: corn about two feet taller than me...and to my left: soybeans. And I thought, "Wow. This isn't so boring afterall. Thanks be to God for crop rotation, for only a quarter mile up the road, each crop had switched sides...the corn was now on the LEFT and the soybeans were on the RIGHT. How....exhilarating!
My drive home was filled with…what else but music. And as I drove the music lifted my emotions in a vast array of directions. I went from misty-eyed conviction to righteous indignation, to self-reflection, to outright laughter. The playlist went as follows:
-Kendall Payne – Grown
-Adam Watts – The Noise Inside
-Michael Olson – Long Arm of Love
-Hyperstatic Union - Lifegiver
- Jimmy Needham – Speak
- Disciple – Special Dual Disc featuring 4 new (incredible) songs
-Ginny Owens – Without Condition
-Day of Fire – Cut & Move
I am pleased to inform you all that I am now suffering from an extremely hoarse and cracky voice as a direct result of singing at the top of my lungs for 6 ½ hours straight.
The low point of my drive home tonight occurred around mile 224. I was under the impression during my trip and up to this point, that the trip from Nashville to the afore-mentioned Dequator, was approximately 300 miles. Much to my dismay, around mile 224, I remembered that the trip is actually about 397 miles…adding another hour and a half to my ETA. I was pretty bummed.
But not for long, because the high point of my trip occurred around mile 300 when I discovered a Starbucks in Effingham. Who knew a grande Chai Tea Latte could once again make everything okay.
As I finally approached Decatur, I was hit with that ever-memorable scent of our fine town. It is the reason for the town slogan, "Decatur, we like it here." It is our daily sustenance and the way we identify ourselves. The very corn and soybeans I had seen only a few miles before, were now being processed in the thriving community I had left only weeks before. I was shocked to find that everything was exactly the same as I had left it. I suppose I was expecting some sort of ghost town because the city could not possibly thrive without my presence here. But, alas, nobody waved or honked at me as I passed through Mt. Zion and onto Eldorado street. And they have even started some much-needed roadwork near my house. It's good they're still concerned with making this town a better place, even though I'm not here to keep everything rolling.
One final thought: During my six hour drive tonight, I had a lot of time to ponder life…and I came to this conclusion:
Courage = Skinny Jeans
And I'm sorry to say, my friends, that is one trend I am not brave enough to try. This fashion fad is one that is not flattering to anyone above 110 lbs. And for those under this weight, legs wind up looking like bird legs or stilts or twigs or…you get the point. Ladies, what ever happened to wearing loose clothing that ever-so-seductively brushed your curves as you passed by a non-suspecting, but soon to become slack-jawed man? What ever happened to leaving something to the imagination? There is NO, I repeat NO benefit to showing the world every bump and lump you have to offer…and yes, thin girls have bumps and lumps, too….and they're not cute. And for those of us who….how shall I say….are not lacking in the calf and cankle department….these jeans are a virtual impossibility. Ladies, I implore you, please stand with me, and rise against this trend. I WILL NOT SUCCOMB TO SOCIETY'S PRESSURE TO SQUEEZE MYSELF INTO A PAIR OF TAPER-LEG, HIGH WAISTED JEANS…I REFUSE TO ADOPT FASHION IDEAS THAT COULD EASILY BE TAKEN FROM MY AUNT LOIS'S GARAGE SALE. What's next? Front pleats? Ankle length? Tight rolling?
**And don't worry, gentleman, an editorial on "boys who wear girl jeans" is coming your way soon.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Archives: In Loving Memory of the Celestial Body Formerly Known as the Planet Pluto
August 25, 2006 - Friday
My day began exceptionally cheerfully. I awoke with a smile on my face...a rarity to say the least. I arrived at work with no major problems thus far in my day, and I signed on to my homepage at work, as is the norm for me. I always check the headlines and see what has been happening in the world. I have trouble with newspapers...they are too big and i always get them all mangled. There's no way for me to mess up a news website, though...so that is my source of choice.
As I scrolled through the top headlines covering various issues from the morning after pill, to crisis in the middle east, to terrorism, to vengeance for a young girls' alleged killer, one particular headline caught my eye:
"Hmm," I thought. "I wonder if that has something to do with Disney. So I clicked and that's when my day started to grow sour.
The opening line of the story was all I needed to read. Pluto, the ninth planet in our solar system, has been downgraded to a dwarf planet.
My chest began to feel tight, and my breathing was becoming increasingly sporatic and uncontrolled. I felt a heaviness on my shoulders as I began to think about that poor, lonely planet, hanging out there on the edge of our solar system...too cold to support life, too dark to reveal its beauty...and I began to weep on the inside.
How could they do this? They can't just "decide" something is not a planet anymore! Are they just going to throw out everything I ever learned in grade school? Who defines what a "planet" is anyway? It's just not fair. I've grown up knowing Pluto, loving it...Dreaming about the day when our technology could one day take us there. How can they just throw everything away like that?
Well, Pluto, you will always be a planet in my heart. Some scientists at Nasa can't determine your worth...and I, for one, am going to take a stand against this injustice! Let's stand up for Pluto and Pluto-kind.
...and that feeling lasted for about 5 minutes...until I recalled that the last time the planet Pluto had crossed my mind must have been back in grade school...
Oh well...no harm, no gain. I'm over it.
My day began exceptionally cheerfully. I awoke with a smile on my face...a rarity to say the least. I arrived at work with no major problems thus far in my day, and I signed on to my homepage at work, as is the norm for me. I always check the headlines and see what has been happening in the world. I have trouble with newspapers...they are too big and i always get them all mangled. There's no way for me to mess up a news website, though...so that is my source of choice.
As I scrolled through the top headlines covering various issues from the morning after pill, to crisis in the middle east, to terrorism, to vengeance for a young girls' alleged killer, one particular headline caught my eye:
Pluto Demoted
"Hmm," I thought. "I wonder if that has something to do with Disney. So I clicked and that's when my day started to grow sour.
The opening line of the story was all I needed to read. Pluto, the ninth planet in our solar system, has been downgraded to a dwarf planet.
My chest began to feel tight, and my breathing was becoming increasingly sporatic and uncontrolled. I felt a heaviness on my shoulders as I began to think about that poor, lonely planet, hanging out there on the edge of our solar system...too cold to support life, too dark to reveal its beauty...and I began to weep on the inside.
How could they do this? They can't just "decide" something is not a planet anymore! Are they just going to throw out everything I ever learned in grade school? Who defines what a "planet" is anyway? It's just not fair. I've grown up knowing Pluto, loving it...Dreaming about the day when our technology could one day take us there. How can they just throw everything away like that?
Well, Pluto, you will always be a planet in my heart. Some scientists at Nasa can't determine your worth...and I, for one, am going to take a stand against this injustice! Let's stand up for Pluto and Pluto-kind.
...and that feeling lasted for about 5 minutes...until I recalled that the last time the planet Pluto had crossed my mind must have been back in grade school...
Oh well...no harm, no gain. I'm over it.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Archives: What Did Rod Stewart Ever Do to Anyone?
August 24, 2006 - Thursday
Current mood: grateful
I have a bad habit...it could get me into a lot of trouble, actually. It is one that, when this particular thought enters my mind, it sets up camp and vows not to leave until I give it full attention. It eats at the fiber of my very existence, begging me, screaming at me, pleading, groveling...doing whatever is necessary to make me take note....It's getting my hair cut. What did you think?
Life can be fine one minute, and then a sideways glance in the mirror sets this world of follicle obsession into motion. It starts out innocently enough, "Wow. It's been a long time since I got my hair cut." Just a fleeting thought for the first few hours, until I see myself in the mirror again and think, "Wow. My hair looks really bad today." And then I begin sort of combing through it with my fingers (I know that when I begin the finger-comb, I've been had). My eyes suddenly begin to focus on everyone else's hair. From co-workers, to celbrities, to people I pass in the hallway...I think, "I like her hair." "Wow. That guy has a cool style." "Maybe I should try that." And then my trips to the mirror become more frequent. I begin imagining what my hair might look like short and spiky, or punky, or black or red...And the climactic culmination of the story, the defining moment that calls me into action. I return to the mirror for one more glance, "Oh my gosh, I think I have a mullet!"
For me this process began last Friday. I assumed no salons would be open Friday, so I resolved to hold myself off until Saturday. And Saturday morning, when I began calling places in the area, I forgot that I am in a large, metropolitan city, and Saturday hair appointments must be made weeks in advance. My friends tell me to go to Supercuts...I decided to wait a little longer.
And then Monday came...after realizing that Mondays are Sundays for salons...because Sundays are like Saturdays...because Saturdays are like Fridays and so on, I was still determined to achieve my makeover.
I remembered going to Wal-Mart to pick up a few necessities the previous weekend. I happened to glance in to the salon there, and took note that all the women working seemed to have very trendy, up to date, cute hair cuts. --Now, I know what you're thinking--but, bear with me. It was in the desperation of the moment, and I had been waiting an entire weekend wearing a mullet on my head.
So I walked into Wal-Mart around 8:00 Monday evening. The stylists I had seen Saturday were nowhere to be found. There were two people working that fateful night: a young girl in her early twenties, with very cute hair; and a large, forty-something man with a black, spiky pseudo-mullet (think, Rod Stewart minus the highlights). I calculated my options. The female stylist was blow-drying a woman's hair...that could take awhile. The male was almost done, and there was one person waiting ahead of me. Good. If everything went according to plan, I would be able to have the female stylist.
As I walked in to the salon, I stood in the lobby...I didn't know what to do and no one acknowledged me, so I just figured it must be because of my mullet. Then the man finished with his customer. And while I was still standing there, two little Latino boys approached the counter. The male stylist looked right past me and told the first little boy to come over to his chair. I then asked the Rod Stewart look-alike whether I should just go sit in the waiting area or what.
Rod kindly apologized and explained he didn't know I was waiting. He instructed me to sign in and they would be with me shortly. Little did he know that I was secretly vying for the female stylist...so I wasn't upset in the least. I told him, "Oh, that's okay. I know it won't take long to give those little boys their haircuts. I don't mind."
After the boys were finished, the Rod kindly approached me again and explained that he was scheduled to leave at 8:30. There was still one more gentleman waiting. Rod asked me if it was okay for the guy waiting to go ahead of me, since he just needed his hair buzzed, and then the female stylist would be with me as soon as possible. I was thinking this evening was all working in my favor...until the gentleman waiting smirked (and I would almost swear he kind of scoffed, too) and said, "Oh. I'm waiting for her," and motioned to the female stylist. My mind immediately began to race. "Come on, Nicole...Think of a quick solution. You don't want this mullet-man Rod Stewart guy cutting your hair...think...think...THINK."
"Oh...It's alright. I don't want to keep you. Why don't you just go, and I'll wait...really I don't mind," I said.
Rod responded by saying, "No. Come on. I'll stay late. Let me cut your hair. What style are you thinking about?"
"Well. I really don't want to keep you. I'm sure you have other things you could be doing, and I would hate to have to stay late to cut someone's hair."
"Is that the style you were thinking about?" he said as he pointed to the Snips 'N Styles 2002 book I had sitting in my lap.
"Uh...well...yeah...either that one or this one here. But, really, I don't mind waiting. I would hate to keep you from your plans tonight." I thought I would give it one last shot.
"Well, I would go with this one here (Rod pointed to one of the two hairstyles I had shown him.)...because your hair is kind of like mine (at this point, Rod began pointing to his hair and demonstrating how it was kind of wild and sticking every which way."
"Thanks." I thought. "Great...Now I already have a mullet...and I'm going to get my hair styled by another mullet-wearer...and he's going to give me an even bigger mullet than I already have because he thinks mullets are cool!" I politely smiled and looked at the female stylist...begging her to rescue me from my impending doom under the shears of Rod Stewart!
"Come on over. I'll stay late. You've been so patient with letting those kids go before you and everything. It's the least I could do. You deserve it."
"Are you sure?" This was my last ditch effort to save myself from another season of mulletdom.
"Yeah, yeah....Come on. Have a seat and keep that book open."
Well, as it turns out, Rod (whose actual name I will not disclose for protection purposes) is actually a decent stylist. There are a few problem areas I may have touched up somewhere, but I think the overall haircut is very cute. It's versatile. I can go curly for an "I just rolled out of bed, but still look cute because curly-haired people always look cute." look...or I can straighten it by either curling it under, for a sleek, sophisticated look (by far the most elegant, yet most difficult to execute), or I can go a little rocker-chick and flip up the back and wear it kind of messy (which is the easiest and cutest of all three options).
So, the lessons I learned were these:
1. A $12.50 haircut is just as good as a $45.00 one.
2. The mystery stylist who looks like Rod Stewart may have questionable taste in his own hair, but he is a fine stylist for others.
3. I need to stop trying to get out of potentially pride-crushing situations, and start rolling with the punches....it produces humility.
So the next time you're in Wal-Mart, think about stopping on in to the Smart Styles Salon. Don't knock it til you've tried it...and tell them i sent you.
Current mood: grateful
I have a bad habit...it could get me into a lot of trouble, actually. It is one that, when this particular thought enters my mind, it sets up camp and vows not to leave until I give it full attention. It eats at the fiber of my very existence, begging me, screaming at me, pleading, groveling...doing whatever is necessary to make me take note....It's getting my hair cut. What did you think?
Life can be fine one minute, and then a sideways glance in the mirror sets this world of follicle obsession into motion. It starts out innocently enough, "Wow. It's been a long time since I got my hair cut." Just a fleeting thought for the first few hours, until I see myself in the mirror again and think, "Wow. My hair looks really bad today." And then I begin sort of combing through it with my fingers (I know that when I begin the finger-comb, I've been had). My eyes suddenly begin to focus on everyone else's hair. From co-workers, to celbrities, to people I pass in the hallway...I think, "I like her hair." "Wow. That guy has a cool style." "Maybe I should try that." And then my trips to the mirror become more frequent. I begin imagining what my hair might look like short and spiky, or punky, or black or red...And the climactic culmination of the story, the defining moment that calls me into action. I return to the mirror for one more glance, "Oh my gosh, I think I have a mullet!"
For me this process began last Friday. I assumed no salons would be open Friday, so I resolved to hold myself off until Saturday. And Saturday morning, when I began calling places in the area, I forgot that I am in a large, metropolitan city, and Saturday hair appointments must be made weeks in advance. My friends tell me to go to Supercuts...I decided to wait a little longer.
And then Monday came...after realizing that Mondays are Sundays for salons...because Sundays are like Saturdays...because Saturdays are like Fridays and so on, I was still determined to achieve my makeover.
I remembered going to Wal-Mart to pick up a few necessities the previous weekend. I happened to glance in to the salon there, and took note that all the women working seemed to have very trendy, up to date, cute hair cuts. --Now, I know what you're thinking--but, bear with me. It was in the desperation of the moment, and I had been waiting an entire weekend wearing a mullet on my head.
So I walked into Wal-Mart around 8:00 Monday evening. The stylists I had seen Saturday were nowhere to be found. There were two people working that fateful night: a young girl in her early twenties, with very cute hair; and a large, forty-something man with a black, spiky pseudo-mullet (think, Rod Stewart minus the highlights). I calculated my options. The female stylist was blow-drying a woman's hair...that could take awhile. The male was almost done, and there was one person waiting ahead of me. Good. If everything went according to plan, I would be able to have the female stylist.
As I walked in to the salon, I stood in the lobby...I didn't know what to do and no one acknowledged me, so I just figured it must be because of my mullet. Then the man finished with his customer. And while I was still standing there, two little Latino boys approached the counter. The male stylist looked right past me and told the first little boy to come over to his chair. I then asked the Rod Stewart look-alike whether I should just go sit in the waiting area or what.
Rod kindly apologized and explained he didn't know I was waiting. He instructed me to sign in and they would be with me shortly. Little did he know that I was secretly vying for the female stylist...so I wasn't upset in the least. I told him, "Oh, that's okay. I know it won't take long to give those little boys their haircuts. I don't mind."
After the boys were finished, the Rod kindly approached me again and explained that he was scheduled to leave at 8:30. There was still one more gentleman waiting. Rod asked me if it was okay for the guy waiting to go ahead of me, since he just needed his hair buzzed, and then the female stylist would be with me as soon as possible. I was thinking this evening was all working in my favor...until the gentleman waiting smirked (and I would almost swear he kind of scoffed, too) and said, "Oh. I'm waiting for her," and motioned to the female stylist. My mind immediately began to race. "Come on, Nicole...Think of a quick solution. You don't want this mullet-man Rod Stewart guy cutting your hair...think...think...THINK."
"Oh...It's alright. I don't want to keep you. Why don't you just go, and I'll wait...really I don't mind," I said.
Rod responded by saying, "No. Come on. I'll stay late. Let me cut your hair. What style are you thinking about?"
"Well. I really don't want to keep you. I'm sure you have other things you could be doing, and I would hate to have to stay late to cut someone's hair."
"Is that the style you were thinking about?" he said as he pointed to the Snips 'N Styles 2002 book I had sitting in my lap.
"Uh...well...yeah...either that one or this one here. But, really, I don't mind waiting. I would hate to keep you from your plans tonight." I thought I would give it one last shot.
"Well, I would go with this one here (Rod pointed to one of the two hairstyles I had shown him.)...because your hair is kind of like mine (at this point, Rod began pointing to his hair and demonstrating how it was kind of wild and sticking every which way."
"Thanks." I thought. "Great...Now I already have a mullet...and I'm going to get my hair styled by another mullet-wearer...and he's going to give me an even bigger mullet than I already have because he thinks mullets are cool!" I politely smiled and looked at the female stylist...begging her to rescue me from my impending doom under the shears of Rod Stewart!
"Come on over. I'll stay late. You've been so patient with letting those kids go before you and everything. It's the least I could do. You deserve it."
"Are you sure?" This was my last ditch effort to save myself from another season of mulletdom.
"Yeah, yeah....Come on. Have a seat and keep that book open."
Well, as it turns out, Rod (whose actual name I will not disclose for protection purposes) is actually a decent stylist. There are a few problem areas I may have touched up somewhere, but I think the overall haircut is very cute. It's versatile. I can go curly for an "I just rolled out of bed, but still look cute because curly-haired people always look cute." look...or I can straighten it by either curling it under, for a sleek, sophisticated look (by far the most elegant, yet most difficult to execute), or I can go a little rocker-chick and flip up the back and wear it kind of messy (which is the easiest and cutest of all three options).
So, the lessons I learned were these:
1. A $12.50 haircut is just as good as a $45.00 one.
2. The mystery stylist who looks like Rod Stewart may have questionable taste in his own hair, but he is a fine stylist for others.
3. I need to stop trying to get out of potentially pride-crushing situations, and start rolling with the punches....it produces humility.
So the next time you're in Wal-Mart, think about stopping on in to the Smart Styles Salon. Don't knock it til you've tried it...and tell them i sent you.
Wednesday, August 2, 2006
Archives: True Beauty Comes From Without
August 2, 2006 - Wednesday
Current mood: enthralled
I just finished re-reading The Martyr's Song by Ted Dekker. It always serves as an important reminder of where my eyes are and where they need to be.
I have always struggled with issues of self image. Sometimes I get cocky...I start to compare myself to other women, "my eyes are prettier than hers." "she has a really bad complexion." "that girl has a better body, but I have a better face."
Other times I drill myself into the ground. "wow, i'm the fattest girl in this room" "don't even bother looking for any clothes in this store, they won't fit you" "i really look ugly today"
More recently, I have found myself with very poor self-esteem. My weight gain since college has left me feeling like I have been swallowed by a large, fleshly blob, and that nobody could ever possibly consider me attractive. I have gone back and forth with my self image for years now. Sometimes I am too in love with myself, and other times I despise myself. I have dieted before, but have never become overtly obsessed with it. But obsession has set in over the past couple of months. Being in Florida in the height of bikini season hasn't helped much, either. Questions keep pounding in my head. -how could i have gained so much? -why do i keep eating? -why is it so hard for me to stay disciplined? -would it hurt that much to skip one or two meals? Those girls in bikinis over there must think I am a disgusting pig. I wonder what the waiter will think if I order that. And every time I look in the mirror, I see Ugly staring back at me screaming, "How could you let yourself get like this? No man will ever find you attractive when you look like this! What's the point of even putting on make up or fixing your hair? It won't help that much"
So I avoid mirrors as much as possible. And I try to tell myself it doesn't matter. Society keeps telling me that outward beauty isn't important...only what's inside matters. But if that's the case, why are there so many highway billboards plastered with perfect looking blondes with their hair blowing in the wind just so? And why are there no heavy people on television...and if there are, they are always the butt of everyone's jokes (no pun intended)? And why does the chubby girl never get the guy at the end of the story? They're sending me a mixed message. I chalk it up to them wanting to get more ratings, so they put the prettier ones in the lead roles. And I begin my serach for inner beauty.
As I start to reflect on my own "inner", I am surprised by all of the dirt I must uncover before I find the true beauty. I am a person who is filled with anger, jealousy, comparison, judgment, condemnation, hatred, competitiveness. And I realize I'm ugly on the inside, too. My whole life I have been told to look inside myself to find true beauty, but beauty doesn't live there, either.
So I have decided (thanks to the help of Mr. Dekker's book) that to find my true beauty, I will have to look beyond myself. Nothing about me, in and of myself, is beautiful. I am a dirty, broken, groveling being in need of redemption. So I must look to the Creator of beauty itself, who, incidentally is also the Creator of me. If I can somehow manage to see myself in light of heaven, my true home, the way my Maker sees me, then and only then will I be able to embrace my own beauty.
--by the way, when I refer to heaven, I don't mean a place I'll be after I die...I mean living in God's presence. In the constant and eternal presence of His love and His glory. If I was created to be beautiful in that place, surely I can be beautiful in a place filled with sin and condemnation.
But how do I do that? How can I possibly see myself as God sees me?
I believe the answer lies in the way I see others. If I stop looking at others as pretty, ugly, skinny, fat, mean, nice, stupid, smart...and start seeing them as fellow Creations by God...If I stop labeling and start loving, then I wil begin seeing people through God's eyes of love. If I stop focusing on bikini girls and longing to be as thin as them, and start setting my eyes on their hearts. And as I begin to pour out my own love for others, maybe I will start to look a little different, too.
The source of any beauty I possess is God. And I'm not going to find it through extreme dieting and obsessive calorie counting, nor will I find it by gorging myself on apathy and fast food. I will see it if I become a reflection of God's beauty and love shining through me.
I would like to urge everyone to read this book. It is such a quick read, but so impactful.
So now when I look in the mirror, I still struggle a little. But I am slowly retraining my mind to wrap itself around the idea that my true beauty is held in the eyes of my Creator, who made that powerful and majestic ocean I can hear right now, and the firey and captivating sunset I watched earlier. And I'm not just beautiful on the inside, I'm breath taking to Him...physically. He loves to gaze upon my beauty. And I love to gaze upon His.
The next time you start to wonder about this societal dichotomy of inner and outward beauty...how we are fed such inconsistencies and watered-down messages by everything from tv, to advertisements, to people walking down the street...remind yourself that beauty is something that is beyond this world. God isn't limited to perfect hair and perfect curves. God isn't limited to an hour long drama. God isn't limited to porcelain skin and designer clothing. God is the Creator of beauty. Look to Him to find yours. Don't settle for anything less.
Current mood: enthralled
I just finished re-reading The Martyr's Song by Ted Dekker. It always serves as an important reminder of where my eyes are and where they need to be.
I have always struggled with issues of self image. Sometimes I get cocky...I start to compare myself to other women, "my eyes are prettier than hers." "she has a really bad complexion." "that girl has a better body, but I have a better face."
Other times I drill myself into the ground. "wow, i'm the fattest girl in this room" "don't even bother looking for any clothes in this store, they won't fit you" "i really look ugly today"
More recently, I have found myself with very poor self-esteem. My weight gain since college has left me feeling like I have been swallowed by a large, fleshly blob, and that nobody could ever possibly consider me attractive. I have gone back and forth with my self image for years now. Sometimes I am too in love with myself, and other times I despise myself. I have dieted before, but have never become overtly obsessed with it. But obsession has set in over the past couple of months. Being in Florida in the height of bikini season hasn't helped much, either. Questions keep pounding in my head. -how could i have gained so much? -why do i keep eating? -why is it so hard for me to stay disciplined? -would it hurt that much to skip one or two meals? Those girls in bikinis over there must think I am a disgusting pig. I wonder what the waiter will think if I order that. And every time I look in the mirror, I see Ugly staring back at me screaming, "How could you let yourself get like this? No man will ever find you attractive when you look like this! What's the point of even putting on make up or fixing your hair? It won't help that much"
So I avoid mirrors as much as possible. And I try to tell myself it doesn't matter. Society keeps telling me that outward beauty isn't important...only what's inside matters. But if that's the case, why are there so many highway billboards plastered with perfect looking blondes with their hair blowing in the wind just so? And why are there no heavy people on television...and if there are, they are always the butt of everyone's jokes (no pun intended)? And why does the chubby girl never get the guy at the end of the story? They're sending me a mixed message. I chalk it up to them wanting to get more ratings, so they put the prettier ones in the lead roles. And I begin my serach for inner beauty.
As I start to reflect on my own "inner", I am surprised by all of the dirt I must uncover before I find the true beauty. I am a person who is filled with anger, jealousy, comparison, judgment, condemnation, hatred, competitiveness. And I realize I'm ugly on the inside, too. My whole life I have been told to look inside myself to find true beauty, but beauty doesn't live there, either.
So I have decided (thanks to the help of Mr. Dekker's book) that to find my true beauty, I will have to look beyond myself. Nothing about me, in and of myself, is beautiful. I am a dirty, broken, groveling being in need of redemption. So I must look to the Creator of beauty itself, who, incidentally is also the Creator of me. If I can somehow manage to see myself in light of heaven, my true home, the way my Maker sees me, then and only then will I be able to embrace my own beauty.
--by the way, when I refer to heaven, I don't mean a place I'll be after I die...I mean living in God's presence. In the constant and eternal presence of His love and His glory. If I was created to be beautiful in that place, surely I can be beautiful in a place filled with sin and condemnation.
But how do I do that? How can I possibly see myself as God sees me?
I believe the answer lies in the way I see others. If I stop looking at others as pretty, ugly, skinny, fat, mean, nice, stupid, smart...and start seeing them as fellow Creations by God...If I stop labeling and start loving, then I wil begin seeing people through God's eyes of love. If I stop focusing on bikini girls and longing to be as thin as them, and start setting my eyes on their hearts. And as I begin to pour out my own love for others, maybe I will start to look a little different, too.
The source of any beauty I possess is God. And I'm not going to find it through extreme dieting and obsessive calorie counting, nor will I find it by gorging myself on apathy and fast food. I will see it if I become a reflection of God's beauty and love shining through me.
I would like to urge everyone to read this book. It is such a quick read, but so impactful.
So now when I look in the mirror, I still struggle a little. But I am slowly retraining my mind to wrap itself around the idea that my true beauty is held in the eyes of my Creator, who made that powerful and majestic ocean I can hear right now, and the firey and captivating sunset I watched earlier. And I'm not just beautiful on the inside, I'm breath taking to Him...physically. He loves to gaze upon my beauty. And I love to gaze upon His.
The next time you start to wonder about this societal dichotomy of inner and outward beauty...how we are fed such inconsistencies and watered-down messages by everything from tv, to advertisements, to people walking down the street...remind yourself that beauty is something that is beyond this world. God isn't limited to perfect hair and perfect curves. God isn't limited to an hour long drama. God isn't limited to porcelain skin and designer clothing. God is the Creator of beauty. Look to Him to find yours. Don't settle for anything less.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Archives: What's the Deal with "Random"? Can Someone Please Enlighten Me?
July 20, 2006 - Thursday
Current mood: annoyed
Has anyone else noticed lately the increase among the younger generation (meaning ages 12-21) of the frequency of use for the word "random"? It really annoys me.
When discussing a surprise birthday party, a young man told me "it was just really random. it was cool."
I often hear my young co-workers bantering about the events of their day, referring to certain occurrences as "it was so random."
They even use the word as an adjective to describe a person. "You're so random."
I have heard a girl as young as 10 call someone random, and admittedly wondered if she even knew the meaning of the word.
My own brother, when questioned about the sudden rise in popularity of the term said, "I don't know. I don't really say 'random' a lot. I just am random."
Here is how Webster's Dictionary defines the word:
Well, someone please tell me...why is it cool to be random? What is the determining factor for something being 'random'. Does it have to be completely unplanned, as in definition #1? And if so, then how can a person be 'random'...when we call a person 'random' are we making reference to the fact that they may have been the result of an unplanned pregnancy?
Since when is 'randomness' to be praised? What ever happened to planning and preparing for something and then executing it successfully. I am terrified that the popularity of this word among teenagers could be reflective of their outlook on life. What if, in 20 years, when these kids are running the world, they are still glorifying 'randomness'...and what if they, because of their love of the random, begin living their lives like the definition of the word? What if they go about their daily lives 'having no specific pattern, purpose, or objective?' What will happen to society at large?
It is time for the 'pre-random' generations to take a stand against the adoption of this term into teenage slang. I will single-handedly fight the battle against the random if I have to. My first combat move is to begin praising the planned, organized and structured elements of life. Instead of saying someone is 'random'...I will exclaim, "You are so structured!" Or when describing a particular occurrence, I will state, "It was so organized and predictible." I am calling us all to action. All of us who are 22 and above. There are more of us than there are of them. Let's unite and stand against what is about to happen to our youth!
I may have been slightly facetious for dramatic effect, but it really does get on my nerves.
Currently Listening To: Pretend You're Alive By Lovedrug
Current mood: annoyed
Has anyone else noticed lately the increase among the younger generation (meaning ages 12-21) of the frequency of use for the word "random"? It really annoys me.
When discussing a surprise birthday party, a young man told me "it was just really random. it was cool."
I often hear my young co-workers bantering about the events of their day, referring to certain occurrences as "it was so random."
They even use the word as an adjective to describe a person. "You're so random."
I have heard a girl as young as 10 call someone random, and admittedly wondered if she even knew the meaning of the word.
My own brother, when questioned about the sudden rise in popularity of the term said, "I don't know. I don't really say 'random' a lot. I just am random."
Here is how Webster's Dictionary defines the word:
random ( P ) Pronunciation Key (rndm)adj.
Having no specific pattern, purpose, or objective: random movements. See Synonyms at chance.
Mathematics & Statistics. Of or relating to a type of circumstance or event that is described by a probability distribution.
Of or relating to an event in which all outcomes are equally likely, as in the testing of a blood sample for the presence of a substance.
Well, someone please tell me...why is it cool to be random? What is the determining factor for something being 'random'. Does it have to be completely unplanned, as in definition #1? And if so, then how can a person be 'random'...when we call a person 'random' are we making reference to the fact that they may have been the result of an unplanned pregnancy?
Since when is 'randomness' to be praised? What ever happened to planning and preparing for something and then executing it successfully. I am terrified that the popularity of this word among teenagers could be reflective of their outlook on life. What if, in 20 years, when these kids are running the world, they are still glorifying 'randomness'...and what if they, because of their love of the random, begin living their lives like the definition of the word? What if they go about their daily lives 'having no specific pattern, purpose, or objective?' What will happen to society at large?
It is time for the 'pre-random' generations to take a stand against the adoption of this term into teenage slang. I will single-handedly fight the battle against the random if I have to. My first combat move is to begin praising the planned, organized and structured elements of life. Instead of saying someone is 'random'...I will exclaim, "You are so structured!" Or when describing a particular occurrence, I will state, "It was so organized and predictible." I am calling us all to action. All of us who are 22 and above. There are more of us than there are of them. Let's unite and stand against what is about to happen to our youth!
I may have been slightly facetious for dramatic effect, but it really does get on my nerves.
Currently Listening To: Pretend You're Alive By Lovedrug
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