Rangoooooooooooooooooooooooo.

 My Interpersonal Communications teacher asked us to write an essay this week. Normally that induces panic, but not for this class. We watched the movie Rango in class, and then wrote an essay about what character we relate to most, and why. One page.

This is my essay. (Note: this won't be funny if you haven't watched the movie. It's on Netflix. Go watch it.)

It’s hard to pick one character I can relate to in Rango. Obviously I liked Rango himself—he is funny, eccentric, insecure, and ultimately, heroic. If I wrote this paper at the age of thirteen or fourteen, I probably would have related to Rango the most. Thirteen and fourteen mark the beginning stages of insecurity, worries about self-worth, and questions of our identities and who we are. That is when we are stuck between staying the children we are, and the adults we want to be. Rango is definitely at such a position in his life. If I were at such a stage in mine, this paper would be about that. 

However, I have passed that particular stage and aspire to avoid it happening ever again. Being thirteen or fourteen was something that only occurred for about a year or two, and I found it didn’t suit me—thus I moved on, determined to never return.

I would love to write about how much I relate to the determined, passionate, heroic Rango, but honestly, I have never lied about killing seven brothers with one bullet, ridden a chicken past a blazing sunset, or had a showdown with a rattlesnake. I’ve never even owned a cowboy hat. Therefore, I would be ashamed to compare myself with this side of Rango.

After much consideration, prayer, tears, and sleepless nights (even considering the fact that we were assigned this on Tuesday with a Thursday due date…which would equal only two nights between then) I have evaluated the characters, examined their physical and mental qualities, printed out pictures of each character, blindfolded myself, and thrown darts with alarming vigor to make my choice. It’s been a long and arduous task, but I have finally made my decision. 

I relate most to the mariachi birds. No, I don’t wear a sombrero, my Spanish-speaking skills are nonexistent, and my guitar-playing abilities are even more so. But they like narrating stories, and so do I. They are an absolute hoot, and so am I. 

And most importantly, they think it’s really funny when characters die in stories, and so do I.

Vodka Christmas Cake Recipe

Once again this year, I’ve had requests for my Vodka Christmas Cake recipe... so here goes. Please keep in your files as I am beginning to get tired of typing this up every year! (Made mine this morning!)

1 cup sugar, 1 tsp. baking powder, 1 cup water, 1 tsp. salt , 1 cup brown sugar, Lemon juice, 4 large eggs, Nuts, 1 bottle Vodka, 2 cups dried fruit.

Sample a cup of Vodka to check quality. Take a large bowl, check the Vodka again to be sure it is of the highest quality then Repeat. Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add 1 teaspoon of sugar. Beat again. At this point, it is best to make sure the Vodka is still OK. Try another cup just in case. Turn off the mixerer thingy. Break 2 eegs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit. Pick the fruit up off the floor, wash it and put it in the bowl a piece at a time trying to count it. Mix on the turner. If the fried druit getas stuck in the beaterers, just pry it loose with a drewscriver Sample the Vodka to test for tonsisticity. Next, sift 2 cups of salt, or something. Check the Vodka. Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table. Add a spoon of sugar, or somefink. Whatever you can find. Greash the oven. Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over. Don't forget to beat off the turner. Finally, throw the bowl through the window. Finish the Vodka and wipe the counter with the cat.

 

 

Just kidding, guys. I found this on Facebook and thought it would be hilarious to post it on here. It's a nice change from the usual, I feel. :) Happy baking!

What's in a name?

I have a friend named Joe. Actually, his name is Joseph, but we call him Joe. Actually, his name is Joseph but we call him Joe, and he even said he refers to himself as Joe, but now Joe has asked to be called Joseph because Joseph is his true name and Joe isn't, even though Joe has called himself Joe since before we all knew him as a Joe or a Joseph or a Jose or a Joey. (He refuses to acknowledge you if you call him Joey. I checked.)

But Joe or Joseph or Josefina or whoever the heck he is isn't the point. I'm getting there. I promise.

The point is, Joe now wants to be called Joseph because that's the name God had given him in the first place. The name Joe was just kind of there, I guess. Symbolizing someone who didn't use their God-given name, until God asked rather politely for the name back. And so Joseph has regained his name. And honestly, I think it's cool. It's pretty hard to go through life with a name and then suddenly ask people to call you something else. Especially if God is involved. Not a lot people would understand. It's like me asking you to start calling me Ashlee instead of Ashley, insisting that there are different pronunciations and that you're saying my new name wrong, and why are you saying my new name exactly the same way as the old name when there is obviously a change in the spelling?

(Bad example. Only one of these situations is intended to make people mad. But let's just put the past behind us and surge on.)

In my opinion, there are names, and then there are shortcuts. For the name Ashley, there's a bunch of shortcuts in the forms of Ashlee, Ashleigh, Ashlie, Ashlyn, Ashlynn... the list goes on. All these different names, derived from the exact same meaning. And do you know the meaning of said name? "Ash tree clearing." That's so disappointing. Everyone else has a cool name that means something amazing and profound and powerful, and I'm named after a tree. Freakin' huzzah, man.

Not that there's anything wrong with trees. I like trees. Climbed them all the time when I was younger, enjoy watching them turn bright, vivid colors with the turn of the seasons, wish that there were more of them where I live... but still. A tree.

Obviously my name doesn't fit me like a glove (size small... I have tiny hands). Obviously my name doesn't mean too much and somehow became popular in the United States by the time I was born. Whatever.

I have another friend named Hannah. She has a brother named Josh. Last Saturday we were with a few other people, doing work around a house to raise money. We worked our butts off--there was a particularly ominous time where I had to climb onto the roof of the second-story house and butt-scoot up the roof to knock down a coagulated mess of leaves and pine needles and mud that refused to budge from the house. The reason I did all that with a broom is because the leafblower couldn't get that pile off the roof. And the reason I'm telling you all this is because I think it's really funny to let you know that I literally worked my butt off doing that. It was a rough roof.

Anyways. After the mess was knocked down from the roof and promptly disappeared into my and Hannah's hair, we all took a lunch break. We sat around in the shade and ate our sandwiches and chips. That wasn't the interesting part. The interesting part was when Hannah and Josh started arguing about The Hunger Games. They were really into it. They were bickering over the economics, the concept of the Games, the difference between the books and the movie. No one else really interjected. I didn't either. I just sat there grinning through my sandwich, because they were arguing about fiction and because sibling arguments amuse me so much that it's almost a guilty pleasure.

There was one part of the argument that particularly got my attention. Josh was picking apart the author's decision to name the characters the way she had: Katniss, Peeta, Effie... He felt the message could've gotten across just as well without all these strange names. "Why couldn't they just have normal names?" he bellowed across the table.

"It's fiction," I said lazily. "They can name their characters whatever they want."

Hannah was getting steamed. "It's not a normal world, they shouldn't have normal names! And if you look up the names, it fits each of the characters very well! 'Peeta' is a type of bread, 'katniss' is a plant--"

"Oh sure," Josh said scathingly, "name a character after a fictional plant!"

"It's not fictional! Katniss is a real plant!"

A long pause. "It is?"

Hannah was swelling indignantly. I was shaking in my chair from the giggles threatening to escape during this sacred moment of sweet victory for her.

It was interesting, though. See, we're both writers. The biggest difference between us is that I write the truth and throw in exaggerations, and she writes exaggerations and throws in the truth. I rarely write fiction. I write thoughts and ideas and facts. Hannah, on the other hand, writes stories. Damn good ones, too. We make a great team because she's much more imaginative and creative, but I have a more critical eye. That probably sounds mean, but basically I out-Grammar Nazi her Grammar Nazi, circle strange-looking things and write all over her papers with a blue pen because I don't have a red pen, and I ask lots of questions about the work so she knows what to include and what to take out. I critique her. And the wonderful thing about it is that I don't have to offer anymore--she just walks up and asks me to say mean things about her writing. (Not really. Like I said, she's a fantastic author. I'm very much honored to be her editor.)

Anyways, she got real fed up with Josh about his gripe with the character names because of her own experience with writing new characters. Names of characters take a long time to decide, she retorted. It's one of the hardest decisions to make because the name has to sum up who they are. It's not just the look of a name--like a simple name for a simple person, or an evil name for an evil person--it's the meaning of their names as well.

And it got me thinking. An author spends a lot of time carefully considering what to name their characters. They aren't real people, and yet the right name can make them seem that way. Expecting parents take probably even more time pondering the name of their child because usually they plan for them to turn out to be a real person. Not just one name, either--often a middle name involved too.

So what about the ultimate Author? The ultimate Parent? If so much time is spent over a character in a story, what about us... the characters in HIS story? Because if there's something I know to be true, it is this: we are not the hero of the story. It's a difficult pill to swallow. Maybe not for you, but it is for me.

As Donald Miller once said: "The most difficult lie I have ever contended with is this: Life is a story about me."

We are not the main characters. We are supporting characters. Supporting characters do just exactly that... support the main character. The main character is Jesus. Well, maybe not. Maybe Jesus wouldn't want to be the main character. He seems more modest than that to me. So maybe the main character is the Author Himself.

We do what the Author asks us to, because we trust that He's written out the story and that He knows exactly what's going on. He knows all the action scenes, the romances, the deaths, the births, the climax, the denouement. He knows everything because He's written it long ago. Not only that but He doesn't write the way we usually do. God writes the end first, and then He writes backwards from there.

And if He's planned out our roles in His story, than maybe that means He's toiled and thought a lot about our names. About how to sum up who we are. 

So before I sat down to write this post, I researched my name. Yeah yeah, same old thing about an ash tree. Still just as disappointing as ever. 

Well, then. What do ash trees do?

Quite a lot, actually. Pretty useful, these trees. The wood is hard and strong, but also elastic, and it can be used to make bows, baseball bats, office furniture, tool handles, and lots of other things that demand a lot of strength and resilience. It's also used for the bodies of guitars because they are known for a "bright, cutting tone and sustaining quality". (Hannah, if you're reading this, I can hear you laughing.)

Ash wood is used for firewood. And medicine. And food and a habitat for animals. And for sitting around looking pretty on the streets. (I didn't word that very well. Skip that.)

The tree's name comes from Old English, and the generic name before that originated from Latin. And both names meant "spear".

Spear? Machetes?

And, suddenly, I feel my name isn't such a mistake after all.

Not My Plan

We're going to have a guest speaker today!

"Michael Smalley’s passion is in teaching couples the principles of loving well and loving for a lifetime. His popularity as a nationally renowned marriage builder and marriage consultant quickly grew through his signature straightforward, no-nonsense advice. Michael’s message inspires, motivates and challenges people to thrive in their most important relationships." via facebook

No, I'm not married. No, a lot of people reading this probably aren't married. But this man has fantastic advice that can be used not only for married couples, for those thinking about getting married, and those who are resolutely single. This guy's sermon and story definitely deserves to be heard at least once. (SPOILER ALERT: cheerleaders are involved... and not just the female kind either.)

Seriously, it's worth listening to. Take some time to listen if you're bored, are putting off work/schoolwork, or need some background noise while cleaning the house (I've done that--it works). Not only that, but this man is absolutely hysterical, and very dramatic. I laughed SO hard.

I've attached the website to his church's sermons. You'll have to keep clicking the Next button until you reach the video with the title "Michael Smalley: Not My Plan". You can watch the video, or download the podcast or work that out on iTunes. Your pick.

http://www.woodsedge.org/woodlands/edge.pl?page=messages

Happy listening!

New calling, new semester, new problems.

You know what would be nice? If I could write more often.

I love how I'm saying that at the beginning of a school year, when things are getting crazier and more frantic.

This semester I have two classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and one online class. Today is Thursday night, so I have survived two days of a new semester already. I have speech class and then kinesiology, and the online class is government.

My kinesiology teacher is sweet, and I like her. Except for the fact that she hustled us outside in the drenching Texas humidity and made us run/walk a mile and a half.

We didn't like that.

However, I'm now on my way to becoming friends with half the class, due to the mutual complaining.

So far the online class isn't going all that well because when I checked online Tuesday, I found there were multiple assignments due by Friday. And I wasn't able to get the textbook until this morning. And then when I cracked the book open and stared at it with bleary, tired eyes, I discovered it was the wrong book. It was the right course, with a similar title and the correct author, publisher, and year number, but it wasn't the right book. After a full week of working, frantic rushing, being emotionally stretched, and the NEWness of everything, along with the run that proved I'm not quite as in shape as I like to think I am, I'm slightly ready to kill something.

Tomorrow morning I have to go back to campus and exchange the book for a, you know, correct one. And then work on assignments all day before the 5 p.m. deadline. Obviously I'm pretty thrilled about that.

Anyways. Why am I saying all of this? Hell if I know, really. Don't ask me. I just sit down in front of a screen and let my fingers do all the work. I can barely think right now.

As physically, mentally, and emotionally difficult as some of this week has been, the thing that's messing with me the most is having spent the whole summer surrounded by the same people at church and at work, and suddenly diving back into an environment where I DON'T know everybody once again.

Let me explain. This summer has been different in many ways than before (yeah, because LAST summer in Nicaragua wasn't quite different enough). This was the first summer in which I've felt and thought more like an adult. I started to be viewed as an adult, and discovered that I've matured more than I realized and that there's still a long ways to go. This summer, I worked the whole time at a job that is wonderful and hectic and maddening. I learned more about God, and myself, and our relationship.

And then this: I learned that God intends for me to be a wife.

Really, this shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did. (It did.) Women often become wives, and men often become husbands. Happens all the time. That's God's plan for a lot of people.

I'd thought about marriage before, but never so intensely as the past few months. Before then, marriage seemed so grown-up and far away. Now it looms like the clouds, hovering over me in every minute of every day, hiding behind every thought. I think about marriage all the time now. I anticipate it eagerly, and I long for God to write my love story. It's insane.

It's even scarier when I ask God, "Why am I learning so much about marriage NOW? Couldn't you have waited to tell me all this stuff for a few more years? Couldn't you have given me a few years to NOT care about it?"

The answer is a booming "No."

I've mentioned before, back in March/April that I've talked about marriage to countless adults. Yep, that hasn't changed. In fact, it's a little ridiculous how many marriage discussions I initiate. But that in itself isn't how I know God wants me to get married. There are many people who talk about marriage and yet are called to a single life. Honestly, for a while I was kind of hoping I was one of them. Do you know how easy life would be? Do you know how much I would love to just go about my days, not constantly thinking about a future husband? Do you know how simple the world would become?

It would be great. I could live freely and go anywhere I pleased, when I pleased. There would be no ties. I could serve God all over the world without worrying about helping anyone else pack. I could be independent. I could be free. I could focus on God, just God.

And I could become incredibly self-absorbed.

Face it, guys. I'm a selfish person. I've been struggling with it my whole life. It's one of my worst traits: I am a selfish person, and I often have a hard time putting others first. And I have a hard time putting God first.

I'm not saying all single people are selfish. All I'm saying is that I am. And once I realized this, the reasoning God gave me for being a wife was this: I am selfish, but I won't be able to get away with it in marriage because marriage is all about selflessness.

God decided to furthermore drive the point home by speaking to me through other people in these marriage discussions. And I keep hearing the same clarification: "I don't feel you're called to a single life."

Like I said, I was pretty disappointed at first. (Meaning my first thoughts were, of course, about me and how much more pain there's going to be in the future.) But honestly? Now I'm excited. Incredibly excited. Joyful, actually. There have been days where I've woken up and tried to pretend God hasn't made this part of my future very clear. There have been other days where I've woken up with the excitement of seeing what God has in mind. And there have been the more recent days where I've woken up with an overwhelming, gut-wrenching desire and joy for the day when I no longer wake up alone.

I have joy for the man that God wants me to serve, and I have joy for the days to come.

It's just... the days in between now and then that I can't figure out.

I was discussing something similar with a married friend, Shayla, on Monday. She looked at me and said very frankly, "It would be one thing if you had a boyfriend and God told you to marry him. It's completely different to be single and called to be married. It must be painful."

And it is. One of the main reasons why going back to school and being surrounded by new people is so overwhelming, is because this is the first time I've gone back to school and been surrounded by new people with the full knowledge that I'm going to be a wife. And that makes me view guys very, very differently.

Not only that, but I'm starting to realize that they're viewing me pretty differently as well now that we're all approaching appropriate ages for marriage. Approaching the maturity level for it, however, may or may not be another story.

The first class I had, a gargantuan member of the male kind sat down next to me, struck up a conversation, and introduced himself. He's twenty, and nice, and talkative, and also makes me self-conscious of how awkward I am around guys now that I'm a future wife. He's also not the man I want to marry, but now that I'm working on being a little more selfless and kinder, I'll be a friend and that's about it.

Guys--those who still acted like boys and those who were actually men--swarm the campus. It's stifling. With my church studying the book of Ruth together, I keep hearing "it's a man's world" and while I know the context it actually means in Ruth, I keep viewing it in a different way. Yeah, it's a man's world to me all of the sudden. The world's full of 'em. I can't walk down a hallway or to a building without meeting the eye of several of them, and quite frankly, it's starting to get ridiculous. I can't get rid of these people who keep eying me.

It wasn't just at school. Tuesday after classes, my stomach was rumbling with hunger and I had about 45 minutes to wait before the chiropractor's office opened for the afternoon. (I wait around after classes because it would be stupid to drive a half hour home and then a half hour back when the chiropractor's office and the school are maybe a five minute drive away.) So I drive to a cafe. The cashier/host guy at the counter takes my order and hands me a buzzer for when my food is ready. He decides to take FOREVER, asking me repeatedly what buzzer number I have, and neglecting to give me my receipt so that I'm obliged to stand around and wait. Finally he finishes up and hands me a cup of ice so I can get my drink. "My name is Jordan, if you need any help," he says in a deep, manly voice, and smiles. I smile back and leave.

I find a table, and sit. The buzzer soon goes off, and I head back to the counter to get my plate. I give the buzzer back to Deep Manly Voice and cradle my plate. All I can think about is how hungry I am.

I guess he thought all I could think about was how stupid I was for forgetting his name and for God's sake, I must've been too shy to ask. So he repeats it. In the same deep, manly tone. "Again, my name is Jordan if you need any help."

Did it look like I needed help? Um. I smile again, awkwardly, and flee.

Anyways. All this suffices to say that I'm absolutely paranoid now. And the men, or the boys who think they are, keep talking, and eying.

Don't get me wrong. I like being friends with guys, a lot. And I want to be friends with guys I don't know. But now I view them so differently. Or no, maybe that's not quite the right wording. Maybe my view of them changed when I realized that one of them will be my husband, and how much he will stand out from the rest when God shapes him into the man He envisions.

For now, I just want to make friends. How will my husband--whether I'm already friends with him or have yet to make friends with him--ever stand out if I don't know the good and bad of numerous people, if all I see is what they want me to see?

And how will I ever make a selfless wife if I don't learn to care about the men AND women in the world that I'm not obligated to?

Happy new school year, everyone.

Fifty-three years of heaven or hell

I recently bought a book called Blue Like Jazz: Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality. I think the title is rather self-explanatory. It's all essays and reflections on the author's thoughts about different topics, like redemption, and tithing, and community and romance and the connection between faith and penguin sex. (Yes, you read that correctly. Go read it.) It's quite an amazing book, one that I will read over and over again and perhaps include in my musings many times. Only time will tell.

A couple of days ago I read the section about loneliness. I had no idea it would affect me quite the way it did, but it did. The author starts off describing being in love, how he thought about this woman all the time, and how he believes "love is a bit of heaven". I think any kind of love--romantic love, or parental love, or the love between a community--is a bit of paradise in itself. However, I couldn't understand why he started off an essay about loneliness with a description of a small slice of heaven. You don't either, but bear with me.

The author continues by describing how he is "a recluse by nature". He is introverted and prefers being alone, but recognizes that community is an essential and healthy part of life, of being human. He didn't always think that way. He had previously lived alone for six years, and it got to the point where he would leave events or church early because he didn't want to talk to people. People intruded his world and irritated him. He had purposely isolated himself because he was used to taking care of himself.

I can relate. I love people, but they are draining after a while. Whenever there is a large church event that takes up more than a day, like DTS or the church camping trip, I am always exhausted by the end because of all the people, and retreat to my bedroom for a long time after coming home. I love being around my friends and family, I love the noise and the laughter and the new memories being made. But I need downtime too, to recover.

But there's a darker side to this preference to being alone. I have always struggled with telling people what's really going on inside. It's so easy to be artificial and to put on a sunny smile and never cry and pretend everything is alright. It's frightening how easy it is.

I like helping out other people. I love giving advice and talking people through their problems. Yet I have such a hard time talking through mine. I've gotten much better with being open and honest, and I suppose I thought that was the end of the problem. But no, it still looms overhead and dwells in my heart. I have no problems encouraging others to be open and to trust, and yet I find it so difficult to take my own advice.

The problem used to be that I didn't know who to talk to. That's changed. It's almost overwhelming how many people are willing to sit and listen to me rant on and on. That's the good news. The bad news is that they all have lives, and that I am often reluctant to take them up on their offers to call and talk whenever I need. "Whenever I need?" I think to myself. What if I have a problem late at night when everyone is asleep? Then I'll not only have that problem, but will have the added problem of dealing with a potentially irritated friend.

I am always so afraid that I am irritating others with wanting to talk about my problems. There have been so many times where I have asked for help and couldn't receive it because it was a bad time for them, and I can't bear for it to continue.

Often there will be a specific person I'll feel inclined to talk to. A lot of times I'll hunt them down and talk to them. A lot of other times I won't get the chance. Either it's not the day we see each other at an event, or they aren't at the event, or things just happen and leave no time to talk. Or the talk happens all right, but there's either no time or there are constant interruptions from the talk I really crave to have. The talk I yearn for can so easily become hurried and superficial.

So I shut myself in. I swallow the urge to talk, make myself wait until I am around the people I really want to talk to, and then sometimes it never happens. I lose a chance to be vulnerable and to let someone in. And I lose a chance for someone to really get to know me.

There have been rare times when someone has seen through my mask.  Some people don't put up with my crap and chase me down to ask what's really going on. They care so much they don't let me run. They make me stand and confront the real problem. And I absolutely love it.

There's a lot of problems going on at the moment, and I've talked about it and asked others to pray. Everyone that's responded to me has been so sweet. Some have asked on their own how things have been going. And it blesses me.

But at the same time, I'm a little depressed. Yes, people care and have been inquiring as to how things are going... but no one has ever looked at me dead in the face and asked how things are going inside of me. All I've talked about has been informational news, but I've yet to really share everything going on inside. If someone came up to me and asked me "How are you feeling?" instead of  "How are things going?" I would probably collapse on my knees right there and weep. Actually, that would most likely make things pretty uncomfortable for both of us. But still, if you don't feel comfortable going to someone with tears and snot streaming down your face, maybe it's best if you don't speak about uncomfortable things at all.

Anyways. So like I said, I was reading the section about loneliness in Blue Like Jazz. In the middle of the chapter, the author inserted a short little cartoon, which you can view here: http://www.donaldmillerwords.com/images/DonAstronaut.pdf

Seriously, click that link. It's pretty crucial to my little rant here, and it's extremely short. I promise. Go back and click it, fool!

I'm assuming you've read it by now. Okay, so quick review: an astronaut gets in an accident and winds up drifting in space, orbiting the earth fourteen times a day. He's not going to die because he has a special suit that recycles his fluids. That becomes a blessing, and very quickly a curse. He orbits the earth, the earth where all his family and friends live, the earth he has lived in all his life before going to space. He may have had a wife who had anxiously awaited his return, and upon hearing of his supposed demise, had broken down in tears. He might've had young children. Still he orbits around his home planet. He sees it, seemingly within reach but so, so far away. He has all the time in the world to think about all he's missing, and how life could be if things hadn't gone so horribly wrong. He does this everyday for fifty-three years.

Don Miller, the author of Blue Like Jazz, was bothered by this story, which one of his friends had made up and wanted to write about. He says, "I imagined myself looking out my little bubble helmet at blue earth, reaching toward it, closing it between my puffy white space-suit fingers, wondering if my friends were still there. In my imagination I would call to them, yell for them, but the sound would only come back loud within my helmet. Through the years my hair would grow long in my helmet and gather around my forehead and fall across my eyes. Because of my helmet I would not be able to touch my face with my hands to move my hair out of my eyes, so my view of earth, slowly, over the first two years, would dim to only a thin light through a curtain of hair and thatch... Within ten years I was beginning to breathe heavy through my hair and my beard as they were pressing tough against my face and had begun to curl into my mouth and up my nose. In space, I forgot I was human. I did not know whether I was a ghost or an apparition or a demon thing."

This is surely what hell must be like: "...a place where a person is completely alone, without others and without God... And what is sad, what is very sad, is that we are proud people, and because we have sensitive egos and so many of us live our lives in front of our televisions, not having to deal with real people who might hurt or offend us, we float along on our couches like astronauts moving aimlessly through the Milky Way, hardly interacting with other human beings at all."

This story more than bothers me. It terrifies me. Everything I fear is wrapped up in one little story: being completely alone, without people. Without God. Absolutely no rescue. Loved ones thinking you're dead. Everything you love being tauntingly close. Being driven insane from the loneliness. It's a frighteningly accurate description of what it's like to feel disconnected from those that physically surround you. And it's a frighteningly accurate description of how I've been feeling lately. Because even though I don't watch television all that much, I am still that proud person. And I have the terrible thought that something similar might happen to me, if I don't purposely reconnect myself with others who do indeed care.

Lately I've complained to God, "There are people who have stories of getting phone calls or visits from others, out of the blue, that suddenly turned their whole perspectives around. Why isn't anyone doing that with me? My phone is completely silent. There are no personal kind questions in my emails. No one can sense my loneliness. No one has come up to me asking what's wrong."

Interestingly enough, He took the time to answer. "You have a community all around you... it's YOUR job to take the initiative to connect yourself."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa... I'm supposed to tell them about it myself? Instead of them just magically sensing it and chasing me down?"

"Yeah."

"Shut up..."

I think it's a good disciplinary action though. God sure knows what He's doing, and what's best for me. Gone is the time where I had no idea who to talk to. Now I know a bunch of people to talk with, and instead of unintentional loneliness, I have purposely not told anyone what's really going on. Because I'm afraid of being dismissed and pushed to the side as unimportant. It's a lie Satan has been screaming and whispering at me for years.

I know it's a lie. And I hate that I succumb to it so easily, so mercilessly.

"Loneliness is something that happens to us, but I think it is something we can move ourselves out of. I think a person who is lonely should dig into a community, give himself to a community, humble himself before his friends, initiate community, teach people to care for each other, love each other. Jesus does not want us floating through space or sitting in front of our televisions. Jesus wants us interacting, eating together, laughing together, praying together. Loneliness is something that came with the fall.

If loving other people is a bit of heaven then certainly isolation is a bit of hell, and to that degree, here on earth, we decide in what state we would like to live.

...I should be living in community... I should have people around bugging me and getting under my skin because without people I could not grow--I could not grow in God, and I could not grow as a human. We are born into families, and we are needy at first as children because God wants us together, living among one another, not hiding ourselves under logs like fungus. You are not a fungus, you are a human, and you need other people in your life in order to be healthy."

I don't want to be a fungus. I don't want to live fifty-three years of hell. I want to be a human who chooses to love others and, somehow, allowing myself to be listened to and loved even though it can hurt. It often feels so scary that sometimes floating around in space seems like a better plan.

But I know it's not. God has a much better plan for me and for all of us, and while it most certainly involves Him most of all, it also involves other people.

I choose fifty-three years of heaven.

Teacups and puberty and Wikipedia, oh my!

Have you ever heard the story of the teacup speaking about the potter? If you haven't, check it out:

http://www.turnbacktogod.com/story-teacup-speaks-about-its-potter/

Basically the teacup explains the ordeal it has to go through in order to be transformed from a lump of clay into a beautiful teacup. I won't explain much more than that because I went to the trouble of making a link and you should go to the trouble of clicking and reading because after all, you did go to the trouble of reading this blog. (And I imagine there are many troubling things in this blog... for goodness sake, we've discussed rotting cow heads, wall-peeing, and many other topics before.) Anyways, Tammy told me this story last month and it stuck with me. I went home, researched it, and bookmarked it. You know things are serious when I bookmark a webpage.

I love this story. I can relate to it.

And I hate this story. I can relate to it.

Things have been rather painful lately. Actually, that might be a bit untrue... things have been painful for a couple of years now. The past two years--starting two summers ago--hold all kinds of painful memories. I'm not saying they are bad years. I'm just saying they are full of pain. And while it's not pleasant to consider, it's where maturity began to grow. Rapidly. Perhaps too rapidly, I often think.

I feel very much like the woman in John 16: "When a woman gives birth, she has a hard time, there's no getting around it. But when the baby is born, there is joy in the birth. This new life in the world wipes out memory of the pain. The sadness you have right now is similar to that pain, but the coming joy is also similar. When I see you again, you'll be full of joy, and it will be a joy no one can rob from you. You'll no longer be so full of questions."

Alright, so at the moment I'm feeling the childbirth pains of that woman. Friggin' terrific. Here I am, having never been intimate or even close to intimate with another person, and yet I'm already experiencing labor pains. In a way I can sympathize with Mary. You know, young virgin girl who suddenly explodes like a pimple due to the squalling baby Jesus inside of her. She didn't ask for it. God believed that she could handle it, and helped her to.

I didn't ask for labor pains either. I never asked to have a metaphorical baby Jesus inside of me. Well sure, I've asked Jesus to be in my heart and to work inside of me.... but COME ON, I never asked for labor pains.

And you know what else Mary and I didn't ask for? Stretch marks.

Ugh. Stretch marks are awful. They're cowards, you know. They sneak up and spring on you all at once, and no matter how hard you wrestle with them (and no matter how much lotion you may use), they still get on your skin. Literally. And then you bear the battle scars unless you do happen to find a suitable lotion. But Mary didn't have cocoa butter or laser treatments. She just had stretch marks.

The truthful, always reliable Wikipedia says, "Stretch marks are often the result of the rapid stretching of the skin associated with rapid growth or rapid loss of weight. Stretch marks may also be influenced by hormonal changes associated with puberty, pregnancy, muscle building, etc."

Ah, here's the connection you've been trying to make in your head. Stretch marks often occur during pregnancy, right? So those that feel labor pains (now I'm speaking metaphorically--anyone, male or female, can experience these), are also the ones that have exploded like a pimple due to the new life inside of us God has planted. When I say we explode like pimples, it means we grow rapidly.

Growing rapidly has different meanings here. Stretch marks come from "changes associated with puberty, pregnancy, muscle building."

Puberty, meaning the time of growth from child into adult. Pregnancy, the time of a growth inside of us. Muscle building, the time of exercising and becoming stronger.

Are you starting to see something God wants us to realize? Because I am. Just now. And I'm the one writing the dang thing. I sat down to write something entirely different and God has completely turned it around into something way cooler than I had in my head. Let's see where this tangent goes, shall we?

 I believe that as true followers of Christ, we all must go through puberty, pregnancy, and muscle building. Again, "there's no getting around it". It's like an initiation. We must, or we aren't true followers. We all must grow up, mature, and become stronger from there. It's that easy, and that hard.

I'd have to guess that my spiritual puberty lasted from early childhood to about the two years ago I mentioned. That was a time of learning stories from the Bible, then learning what they really meant, learning the basics about God, learning that He loves us and cares for us and thinks we're beautiful and worthy, and learning the slightly more complicated stuff.

Then two years ago began the pregnancy stage. That's when the seed God had planted inside of me started to grow. I learned to live a life as a follower of God, instead of just saying I was. I learned to be kinder, even to people who weren't to me (or at least, I learned to keep my mouth shut, which was probably a kind, if not the kind thing to do). I learned to be bolder about what I believed, instead of shrinking away with embarrassment. I learned to deal with life situations that were becoming increasingly more and more difficult, and to rely on a God that wanted to deal with them for me.

And I guess I can go ahead and knock out part of the muscle building stage because I've truly learned and grown a lot spiritually. I have a long ways to go, but I've come a long ways too. I'm exercising daily the life that God wants me to live and the things He wants me to do. I'm not always thrilled about it... heck, I'm not usually thrilled about exercising anyways... but I'm becoming more willing to strain a little harder and hold weights a little longer. Still, there's a long journey ahead, as the brilliant, revolutionary John Pinette talks about here:

You see any connection between his struggles at the gym and our struggles with muscle building for God? Yes, we are muscle building for God. I like putting it that way. It's like He's our trainer, and He's encouraging us along as we sweat things out. He wants us to be spiritually fit and healthy. He may require us to do some exercises that look absolutely humiliating in front of other people, but come on, He doesn't want us to look like the Kool-Aid man. I don't want to look like the Kool-Aid man. I want to be a dancing member of God's kingdom. And I'm sure no matter how much we complain or how embarrassing we may look while working out at His gym, He won't turn to drugs and alcohol or open a candy store.

At the moment I'm going to focus my attention on the labor pains. I've gotten used to the pregnancy stage. Not comfortable with it, (how is any pregnant person truly comfortable?) but I got used to it.

Now there's labor pains. And I'm thinking the same thing any rational person in labor probably thinks: "OMG IT'S COMING IT'S COMING OWWWWWWW IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS NFFGDGDBREBGQWHTOIESKVBDF,MMVLVKNFGHNMG.,NJHGCNCG"

Here's the thing... and this here will express the sobriety inside of me about this whole situation: it hurts. It hurts. I know there's joy coming, and I know it will not be robbed from me... but it hurts. I never imagined I could feel so much pain and still be able to function and breathe and live. I feel vulnerable, as my feet are up in the air on stirrups and God is looking over at me to see how I'm doing. Waiting to see how I will react, if I will retaliate by trusting He will do everything right... or if I will scream and curse His name for doing this to me.

Because in all honesty, I've not been too happy with God lately. In fact, I've been pretty furious with Him. I know in my heart that He doesn't make things happen, He allows it, but that doesn't stop me from being angry. And while I'm ashamed to be angry, I'm also not. I know He's alright with my anger. I know He's alright with me screaming with pain and senseless rage. He's the parent who loves their child, even when they are rebellious and acting out because they are stuck in that miserable corner of not being a child and yet not being an adult. He's the groom who plants a seed inside of the bride. He's the midwife who is waiting to bring new life--and with it, new joy--into the world. He's the trainer who encourages and builds us up and applauds when we flex our improving muscles.

There have been times I've broken down in bitter tears and I want to say something, I am just longing to tell God exactly how I feel, but I can't speak from weeping so hard, and all I can say is, "It hurts, God, it hurts."

And He says, very gently, "I know, Ashley. But not yet."

Not yet. How I hate those words. And yet how true I know them to be. If we got exactly what we wanted, when we wanted, we would be destroyed and the child would never come out fully developed. I'm so thankful God doesn't jump through hoops and do everything I want. I'm so thankful God has and will continue to mature me, even though it hurts.

Something else on the Wikipedia page for stretch marks caught my eye: "They are caused by tearing of the dermis, which over time may diminish, but will not disappear completely." The stretch marks experienced through puberty, pregnancy, and muscle building will ALWAYS stay with us. We can't undo it. We shouldn't try to undo it. Even the best cocoa butter and the best of Satan's work can't undo it, if it occurs the right way.

I can't help but wonder how long this labor will go on. Honestly, all I want is to see the face of the child. I just want to see the results of the pain, the teacup at the end of the torture, the joy that no one can rob.

"How long, Lord, must I wait?"
"Never mind, child. Trust Me."

If you've stuck with me this far, thank you so much. I appreciate it more than you realize.