Just a Spoonful of Clarity

I've recently become an enormous fan of the bucket list. It's a term used by many, but I didn't seek out its definition until last summer. Someone said to me, "Any other bucket list things in your near future? You're racking up the accomplishments in Olympic record time."

I thought, That sounds like a compliment. So I typed into Google, "bucket list". A website reeled me in where people make a bucket list filled with "things to do before they kick the bucket". My fingers went flying. Out popped desires I never knew I had, such as "be a flashmobber", "visit Hobbiton in New Zealand", and "go to Antarctica". I also sneakily wrote things I'd already done just so I could check them off (and return to browse them later with a big head).

Soon, after letting the selfish desires run-wild onto a list of wishful thinking, I settled into more serious thought. Does God have a bucket list for me? If so, what does that look like? Many people think it looks something like this:

• Burn down [...insert your name's...] house to rid him/her of worldly posessions
• Send [...Nadine...] to a hut in Africa for sixteen years of sweaty, bug-ridden, mission work
• Keep {...Nadine...] away from fun stuff that she may enjoy too much.
• Give [...Nadine...] a job she hates (it's good for building character).

I forced myself to look past the distasteful (and untrue) imagined bucket-list of God. Once I returned my focus to His character (which is not vindictive, over-judgmental, or cruel in any way) He doused me with a spoonful of clarity.

He doesn't focus a lot on the "what" in the bucket list. In fact, I doubt He cares very much if I blow $10,000 on a cruise to population-less Antarctica or visit Hobbiton in New Zealand; instead, He snags His world-renowned scalpel and digs through the bucket list tattooed on our hearts until He reaches the tiny whispering 'why' hiding in the dark corner.

Why do I want to go to Antarctica? Why do I want to visit Hobbiton? Why do I want to be a flashmobber or a published author, or an Olympian?

When we have a why we birth action. When we have a what we're just pregnant with dreams. 

Sometimes we wait too long for a what from God:

"What am I supposed to do with my life?"

"What is my purpose?"

"What job am I supposed to pursue?"

"What am I supposed to do now that I've graduated?"

"What do I do now that the kids have left the house?"

We wait. We wait for a what while God sits beside us scribbling more whys into a letter we call The Bible. When we find a why, the what transforms into a new desire. 

I have a long list of odd talents that some people attribute to blood, lifestyle, and/or ambition. Snowboarding, writing, drumming, playing piano, etc. I just enjoyed them as pleasures until I found some whys.

Why? I want to glorify God.

Suddenly snowboarding turned into race-training, writing turned into a novel about living, and drumming turned into a part-time job in Christian concerts. My "talents" turned into visions, passions, and purpose. I've never felt more alive than when I define my life with whys....God's whys.

Everyone's why looks a little different. Everyone's what looks a little different. For those of us just "waiting" (outside of an obvious command to wait), we need to stop. The bucket list doesn't come to us. Search for the whys. Not the obligated, I'm-a-Christian-so-I-have-to-think-this-way why, but the heartfelt why that God is writing just for you--to stretch You, to fill You with joy, to kindle excitement and life. 

For those of us who have found the why and defeated the stagnant pull of waiting, we need to share. Share through actions, words, stories, writing, whatever. Sharing reveals the life that others are trying to observe. Maybe all it takes is writing out an already completed bucket list and taking a look at why you did them. You may just end up swallowing a spoonful of clarity.

photograph borrowed from The Midnight Orange

One. Hundred. Thousand.

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I've made a breakthrough.

Last year, this same day, my work-in-progress, A Time to Die, was at a measly 39,000 words. Today, I wrote the word that broke the barrier of 100,000 words.

To put this in perspective, an average Christian novel runs around 90,000 words. A "long-ish" novel (according to Marcher Lord Press) ranges around 165,000 words. The estimated length of my novel, A Time to Die, is around 125,000. I'm in the home stretch! 

 

I've realized that most of my novel-explanation comes via word-of-mouth. In celebration of the 100,000 word mark, I will do what I should have done a while ago: post a description. As is every tiny word in my novel, even the descriptions are a work-in-progress. There's no telling what will change once I actually cross the finish line. As for now, here is a short summary of A Time to Die with a little clip from the actual story:

Description

One risk. One death. Two people.

In the year 2147, the United States of the East (USE) lives by the Clocks--an old invention that changed the world's view of life, death, and God. These Clocks tick down each person's days, hours, and minutes in blood-red numbers. Some sit on windowsills, some ride in pockets, and some are intentionally smashed. But death is no longer a surprise.

When one person might spend his or her last day with friends and family, another may pretend it's no different than any other day. Only Radicals are exiled across the Wall--a mile-high stone structure encircling the Earth. No one knows what's on the other side, but the rumors speak of death, insanity, and ruin.

The Clock in Parvin Blackwater's bedroom ticks away a life, but that life may not be hers; it could be her twin brother's. Due to an accident kept secret at birth, she doesn't know which one of them will die in 364 days--and neither does the government. When Parvin is betrayed by the only person outside of her family who knows her secret, she's forced across the Wall. Exiled. 

But the world follows her story as she prays she'll survive where only the dead have walked before. She must fight long enough to return to her family and bid goodbye to her brother as one of their lives reaches the inevitable line of zeroes.

Story Clip

The steel door slides shut like a cigar-cutter, slicing away my last beam of familiar light. I barely maintain my footing. The echo of light fades from my pupils, taking with it the outline of my outstretched hand. My heart pounds so hard it's bound to leave bruises.

I turn back around, gasping. Everything ahead is new--pitch black and unexplored. I swallow hard and a lump of ice hits my stomach. Packed dirt scrapes under my boots as I force my feet to carry me forward. Hands outstretched like Christ on the cross, my fingers run along the crude parallel rock walls. A pink glow appears ahead--symbolic of old sayings portraying death as the "light at the end of the tunnel". With foot over leaden foot, I walk to my death--deep breath, chin high, and a perfected look of defiance.

Drive-By Bricking

It was a cool autumn morning when the mysterious brick made its nest in the middle of the road. It was 100-years-old, tired, and crumbly. Today, the brick felt even more abused and ready for death because a person--a stranger who had no right to touch it--had hurled its poor crumbly form into the back of a car. The brick lay on the cold dry asphalt with a horrid headache. It just wanted to go sleep in a nice bed of wet cement. Little did it know it was the beginning of a mystery.

Someone threw a brick at my car a few weeks ago.

It's not a big deal unless I make it into one...which is easily done when an imagination is let off its leash. The brick severely dented the back gate of my Jeep Liberty--an already abused portion of my car from the rear-ending incident three months ago. Functionally, the door works fine. Cosmetically, it could use some cover-up. I'm not too worried about the car.

The real questions are who and why.

My rampaging imagination thought wildly of the least conspicuous to the obvious town brickers. Maybe it was the mailman taking revenge because I park too close to the mailbox. Maybe it was the neighbors who have a grudge because we don't mow our lawn as often as they do. Maybe it was a college student in drunken humor who thought it'd be funny to abuse an old brick and a stranger's car. Or maybe it was a vandal trying to break the back window to steal the Jeep, but had very poor aim. Maybe it's someone with a vendetta against another person with a white 2007 Jeep Liberty and they just mistook mine in the darkness to be their nemesis's.

We don't know who. We don't know why. We eventually found out it had been happening all week to innocent vehicle-owners. Everyone comes out of it with a dent, a story, and a 100-year-old souvenir brick. Overall, my car has taken a beating, but it's nothing it can't master. It's a Jeep after all.

The Jericho Road

The sun burns your forehead as you walk the Jericho Road, better known as “the bloody way.” You hurry past a cave in the rocky mountainside and wonder, yet again, why you took this way. This road holds as many caves and cracks as stories to fill them—stories of thieves and robbers, muggers and murderers. Every crevice large enough to hold a man is a threat.

Your pace increases. You’re not far from Jericho. Dirt rubs between your sandaled toes with each step, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop, not until you’re safe. You don’t want to add to the reputation of this road.

A shadow moves from behind a boulder ahead. Your heart leaps into double-speed, but before you can run men surround you. 

“No,” you whisper in dread, thinking, How could I have been so foolish? I should have known this would happen.

Chaos hits. 

Jeers and laughter attack your ears like the clubs that suddenly pound your body. You cry out for help and struggle against them, but the thieves throw you to the ground. You scramble for a footing, but hands shove you down and pull your bag from your tight grip. Muscles seem useless against their numbers—your every attempt at defense is met with brutal beating.

They yank your clothing from your body. You don’t have time to curl up for protection before they assail your flesh with kicks and blows. You plead for relief. They increase their attack, stripping you of even your sandals. Blood obscures your vision. You’re shaking. You can’t think straight, you can’t breathe.

They leave.

Eerie silence follows, broken only by your groans and gasps. Time creeps by in agonizing minutes. Your thoughts are too blurred to even pray. Suddenly, hustling footsteps reach your ears. You tense in a mixture of terror and hope.

They’re back, you think with dread, but you dare to crack open your swollen eyes. Squinting against the burning sun, you see a lone man approach, wearing a long white robe.

A priest. A leader of the people who is closer to God than any other. Your aid! Your rescue!

“Help,” you croak as he nears. He doesn’t look over, but you think his footsteps quicken. Maybe he didn’t hear. You lick your lips and try again. “Help me.”

His eyes flicker over you and he hugs the other side of the road, practically running past, leaving you to your pain. You can understand his fear and hurry. After all, he’s a priest and you’re covered in blood. If he touches you, he will become unclean. You can’t expect him to endanger and bring shame upon his duties to the people and to God by helping you.

You close your eyes again, breathing slowly against the throbbing of your wounds. Even breathing hurts. Ants and bugs crawl on your exposed mangled body, drawn to your scent of dwindling life.

I’m going to die out here, you think, drifting in and out of consciousness. Shadows increase as the sun progresses in the sky. What will happen to you at night? Will the thieves return?

Another sound echoes through the walls of the mountainside. Brisk steps carry a second person across your path. A Levite—an assistant to the priests. He, too, is cleansed, but fewer duties rest upon his shoulders. Perhaps he will stop and help you.

“Please,” you rasp. “Help.” The pain to speak is almost too much for you.

The Levite’s eyes narrow as he looks over your bloody form. He then scans the cracks, caves, and boulders around you.

It’s just me, you want to shout as he hurries by, keeping a wary eye on your surroundings. But your strength is nearly gone. You watch him hustle past. His caution doesn’t surprise you. You resemble a common ploy among the robbers—they might station a man to fake injury to cause a passerby to stop. Then the robbers could attack.

But you’re no ploy. You are desperate, cold, and losing hope by the minute. Will no one stop? The priest and Levite, two holy men, left you alone. You are meant to die here, where no one seems bothered by your despair.

Buzzing meets your ears from the blood-hungry bugs. You grow dizzy and can no longer muster energy enough to lick your drying lips. More sounds break the silence of the mountainous road. Footsteps followed by the clop of hooves. You squint enough to see a Samaritan man lead his donkey around the bend toward you.

You suck in a ragged breath, but your voice has failed. You can no longer call out. Your will for survival is fading; instead, you close your eyes again and wait for him to pass. He is a stranger. Perhaps he has a long journey home. Jews and Samaritans don’t associate.

The clops stop. Gentle hands wipe blood from your face. Cool liquid douses your wounds and the smell of wine and oil interrupts your own stench. Tender fingers wrap cloths around your injuries.

Then your body is lifted from the ground. It aches to move, but soon you are on the back of the donkey and the hoof-clops resume. Time passes in a haze and you ride in disoriented awe. This man—this Samaritan who has no reason to help you—is your rescue. As the sun sets, your awareness dwindles. You cling to consciousness long enough to register the softness of a bed welcoming your suffering body. The Samaritan speaks softly to the innkeeper as they bend over you.

“Look after him,” he whispers, followed by the clink of coins. “When I return, I’ll reimburse you for any extra expenses you may have.”

Look after him, you think. The Samaritan’s words echo in your mind until at last, painful, yet hopeful rest overcomes you. Look after him.

Zumba Nugget

Undoubtedly, the most common phrase a Zumba instructor hears is, "I'm not very coordinated."

Even with this knowledge, I felt the need to make the cliche excuse for myself when I entered Maria's Studio Arriba.

My employer and friend, Kathryn Finn--owner of MO Paint & Pottery--invited me to Zumba with her. I imagined entering a woman's basement where shoddy carpet lined the floor of a mirrored room. I pictured old grey-haired ladies in white lace-up shoes and flower patterned cut-off sweats. All these presuppositions set the stage for a jaw-dropping, invigorating surprise when I stepped into Studio Arriba.

A disco ball. Polished wood dance floor. A hip, all-smiles instructor who's attitude coaxed me into everlasting fun. Music so energetic it acted like puppet strings to my muscles.

Suddenly I didn't feel uncoordinated. I felt awakened. I could do anything. I felt like the energy to which my parents said, "Calm down!" as a kid was finally let loose in dance-form. As long as I didn't look in the mirror, I felt cool. As long as I watched Maria, I felt flexible and enthusiastic.

Zumba is not "working out", it's an hour of fun that happens to be a work-out. Those are the ways I love being active--rock climbing, long boarding, playing ultimate frisbee, and now Zumba. I think I've found a golden key to my preparation for snowboarding. Just another little nugget of joy that God hid in an unlikely place just for me.








Has anyone else done Zumba before? What was your experience and/or impression?

Black Sheep Family

I am a black sheep.

The term "black sheep" is often used as a negative insinuation--the child who's rebellious and rejects the family, the co-worker who can't be as responsible as others, the cousin who dresses emo and looks like he'd hide in your closet with a hatchet.

I'm none of those. I'm not a rebel, I adore my family, and I don't even own a hatchet. But I am the middle child. I'm the snowboarder in a family of skiers. I'm the only one who's broken a bone. I got more stitches by age 10 than the rest of my family put together in 20 years. I'm the only one living far away.

But here's the thing:

My brother is a black sheep, too. My older sister is a black sheep. My parents are black sheep. My younger sister is a very black sheep. We're a family of black sheep. Each of us defies the odds of culture in a very unique way. Each of us has an individual breed of confidence woven into our wool.

I used to think my family and my upbringing were normal. Then I went to college and realized the intricately unique life and family in which God placed me. My new glasses made me look closer at who's raised me, who my siblings are. 

Dad

He's the man of 1,000 names: 

Papa, Pilot, Captain, Macho, Pastor, Biker, Father, Missionary, Cool, Musician, Giver, Dad, Carpenter, Fun, Ski-Racer, Coach, Sailor, Daddy... He's been all these things and more. 

My Daddy sacrificed some of his passions to take on a business so he could provide for his family. While being a business-owner, he also performed, organized, and instigated mission work to Russia; he followed God's urge to lead his family in Sunday studies until our porch held 20-or so Sunday friends who then morphed into Calvary Chapel of Teton Valley. My Dad won the "My-Dad-Beat-Your-Dad" competition the moment my oldest sibling, Nathan, took his first breath. 

Dad is skilled in finding people's potential. He knows the perfect addition to complete any atmosphere. He has always implanted the importance of family in my mind and shown his love for family with his smiles and laughs. He can figure out how to do anything (make a giant pond, fly a float plane, rock climb, longboard, bare-foot waterski, build a racing lawnmower, drive a horse & sleigh).

My dad is exceptional.

Mom

Mom has a genuine heart that seeks authenticity. She is always sincere, honest, and willing to be fun. She welcomes others into her house as if they're family. Mom raised us with imagination--showing us how to walk on the ceiling, enter into a novel, build forts, and make up stories.
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She gave birth naturally to five children without a single pain-killer. She roller-blades umpteen miles a day for fun. She's scuba dived in a sunken ship. My Mom is never afraid. I've seen her hold a gun steady-handed when her children were in danger. She's stepped up to lead worship when no one else was available. She saw a need and started a women's Bible study. She became a teacher when there wasn't a good school for her children.

She encouraged her children to seek independence, yet remains a best friend to each of us. She is seen every morning with her Bible and a cup of coffee, often with a verse to share that ends up being exactly what we need to hear that morning. She supports our dreams no matter how drastic or short-lived they are.

My Mom's actions subliminally teach others how to rejoice.

Elisabeth

At fifteen months old, Beth remembers peering over the crib at baby me. Thus began her role as a fierce, devoted leader. She threw rocks at boys who were rude, she taught me to climb trees and crawl out on the roof. She taught me a backflip on the trampoline. She ski-raced in pursuit of her Olympic dream, skiing faster than most of us drive. She always had intense pride in and loyalty to her family. Everyone at school knew she could beat them up if they attacked her siblings.

She jumped horses and won blue ribbons in Western showing. She has gone paragliding, parasailing, scuba-diving, sailing, dirt-bike riding, snowmachining, hunting, hiking, rock-climbing, and driven a Harley Davidson motorcycle. She's been a professional bassist for three different artists who've performed around the world and has no stage-fright. She knows all the bushes in the wilderness that are edible or poisonous. If need be, she could provide for her family off the land.

She is confident in everything she believes, says, and does. She is a loving and patient mother, a wife who builds up her husband, and a sister who toughened me enough to avoid being trampled by life. She has been a poet and painter, yet could shoot the bullseye out of a target on the opposite side of the state.

My sister is an inspiration.

Reuben

My younger brother can see the right and wrong in a situation before anyone else. I can't remember a single time he's lied. He takes steps forward when he's ready and never gives in to pressure. This ability to resist pressure has allowed him to pave his own path and defy expectations. 

He can fix a person's computer within a single click, he can stay in control of a motorcycle even when it's hailing, he can play any song in the world on the piano, he can delve into imagination with a snap of the fingers.

Reuben has always had a genuine and devoted heart. He loves peace and hates dissension. He helps where he sees help is needed. If he's asked to do something, he will do it no matter the inconvenience. He is an example for younger boys and spends time with them to develop a real friendship, even if they're not the same age. His confidence in who he's chosen to be and who God's made him to be  is endless.

Reuben has always avoided the limelight. He wants to give, but doesn't want to be seen. He has very little selfishness. If needed, he would give you his truck for free without a backward glance. He's humble without drawing attention to his humility.

My brother is incomparable.

Melanie

This little sprite of fire has matchless determination. She's only sixteen and yet she's a figure skater, she's completed two years of schooling in one, she has traveled to 9 countries, she's a certified scuba diver, she's hosted and put-on a prom for an entire valley, and she's competed in the national spelling bee.

Melanie loves to surprise others. She takes so much joy in giving others gifts that at Christmas it's  more fun watching her watch us than opening presents. She adores cooking new dishes that may take up to 9 hours to prepare.

She wants to be excited and jubilant with others. She shares joy and welcomes others in to her joy. Where she sees hurt, she wants to fix it. Where she sees darkness, she wants to bring light. She's a born leader who even leads her older siblings sometimes. Where she sees beauty, she wants to capture it, even if that means running across a mud-soaked field in the middle of a storm to catch a rainbow.

She's always the first to say sorry. She loves to enter into a story, whether that means decorating the house to set the scene or creating a tasty hot drink concoction to match the perfect book.

My sister is passionate.

I live in a black sheep family. Each year we only grow bolder in color as we pile on more uniqueness, but this isn't accomplished on our own. God gave us each paint brushes. We affect one another, intentionally or not. Only after sitting down and writing this blog post could I see how much my family has shaped me. Most of all, its our God that's shaped us. I've learned to embrace not fitting in. I learned that from my family. The odd-man-out is a beautiful place to be.

Bucket List Olympian

Have you ever seen something amazing and thought, "I could do that."?

This happened to me when watching the 2010 Vancouver Olympic women's snowboarder cross competition. Unless you're a snowy-mountain-roaming junkie like me, snowboarder cross is synonymous with jibberish.

It's a newer sport that consists of racing snowboards down a mountain with tabletop jumps, banked turns, icy ruts, and knee-popping rollers. Did I mention that this is done with three other snowboarders at the same time?

But so what if I thought, "I could do that."? Thoughts mean nothing unless they turn into actions and, let's face it, no one can just jump up and decide to be an Olympian. Olympians come from years of training, lives of sacrifice and devotion, agonizing work-outs, shouts of viking fury, and chest-pounding growls.

Right?

Six weeks ago, I picked up the book, Love Does, by Bob Goff. The introduction to his book started with a calm urge to take action: Stop deferring your dreams with "I'll go there next time".

The age-old pun, "Tomorrow is never here" holds more truth to it than we tend to grasp.

"Living a life fully engaged and full of whimsy and the kind of things that love does is something most people plan to do, but along the way they just kind of forget." (Love Does, introduction pg. XV) 

 "...for many, there is no "next time" because passing on the chance...is an overall attitude toward life rather than a single decision. They need a change of attitude, not more opportunities." (Love Does, introduction pg. XV)

He backs up his words with stories from his life. These stories inspired me to think crazy thoughts and imagine opportunities when I might actually take action. Little did I know the opportunity would come two weeks later (August 3rd, 2012 at 2am to be exact).

I couldn't sleep. In an exhausted stupor, my mind reeled with "What ifs". What if I actually tried boardercross racing? Every Olympics I think, "I could do that", but could I really? What would that entail?

Usually, my craziest ideas arise on the verge of sleep then leave once I'm fully alert and awake the next morning. This one didn't. It plagued me the following day...and the next. I turned to prayer because, frankly, the obsession over this idea bothered me. What was my motivation? I don't care about a medal. I don't want fame. I don't want recognition. I don't want money. Several days passed before I pinpointed my desire: I want to bring God glory. I want to use the abilities He's given me.

I know there are cooler snowboard pictures out there...but not of me. So here I am. :)

The idea is insane, which is why I've waited a month before posting this. I've waited until the wheels are turning so solidly that people's opinions can't make me turn back. 

Why is this insane?

1. I'm newly married and fresh out of grad school (aka. our financial status is an adventure)

2. I just earned my Master's Degree in speech therapy (the only thing snowboarding has in common with speech therapy is a head injury).

3. I live in Missouri (No mountains. Very little snow.)

4. My life-long passion and dream is to be an author (hence my three blogs). This, too, has nothing to do with snowboarding.

5. I hate working out.

6. The odds of stepping out of my textbook-closet into the world of fierce Olympic racing and actually making it to the Olympics over the course of a very short year and a half are slimmer than melted butter between two sumo wrestlers.

Why is this an awesome, God-centered pursuit?

1. Because God gave me potential. Unless He says, "Don't use it", I will take it as far as I can.

"Potential is God's gift to us; what we do with it is our gift back to God." (Circle Maker, by Mark Batterson)

2. My current novel-in-progress is about taking action in the short time that God has given us. I want my book to spur others to take action. What sort of author would I be if I didn't take action?

3. I love snowboarding (that's a given).

4. It opens a door for God to do a miracle through me. (I'm asking Him to do the impossible! How cool is that?) 

"If your prayers aren't impossible to you, they are insulting to God." (Circle Maker, by Mark Batterson)

5. My only desire is to bring Him glory--it's not for fame, a gold medal, recognition, or money.

Isaiah 25:1 "O Lord, you are my God; I will exalt you; I will praise your name, for You have done wonderful things, plans formed of old, faithful and sure."

1 Chronicles 16:29 "Give unto the Lord the glory due unto His name: bring an offering, and come before him: worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness."

6. I want my future children to see an example of pursuing anything for God, despite the 'impossibles'. There doesn't have to be an "I'll do it next time" with them.

7. Maybe, just maybe, my step of action will inspire someone else to take a chance when all odds say they're being impulsively psycho.

When I think about the costs, I think "impossible". When I think "impossible" I think of The Circle Maker, by Mark Batterson who says that bold prayers honor God.

"You cannot build God's reputation if you're unwilling to risk yours."


"Drawing prayer circles often looks like an exercise in foolishness...Faith is the willingness to look foolish."

With this last quote, the author pointed out Noah building a giant boat, Israel marching around Jericho, David fighting a giant with a slingshot, and wise men following a star...

...so why not a speech therapist/writer going for the winter Olympics?

God can make me an Olympian.

Am I willing to look foolish to my family, friends, colleagues, and medal-winning competitors in order to use the potential God has given me? I admit, it makes me nervous...BUT I want to go after dreams that require divine intervention, not dreams that I can acquire without God's help. God has created His own bucket list for me. "Be an Olympian for His glory" is only one bullet point.
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I'm going to blog about this experience on a separate blog devoted solely to this journey. I want to record the adventure so others can witness the miracles along the way.  I'm not presenting this pursuit to find your approval. I'm sharing this pursuit and asking you to join me.

So where do I start?

I've been on a board four times in the past two years. I have no idea how to start training. I've only ever raced in one boardercross race before (I fell, but still took third). To even make it to the Olympics, I need to jump in with both feet and win pretty much every race this year. I have to earn enough FIS points to go to Nationals and then need to be good enough at Nationals that I earn an invite to the 2013/2014 World Cup. Once at the World Cup, I need to place in the top 30. THEN, I'll be qualified to be chosen for the Olympics.

It's going to be fun.

It's going to be crazy.

It's going to be impossible...which makes it a miracle.

Contradictory Lifestyle

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"Have you found a job yet?"

No.

This question follows me every time someone finds out I've just earned a Master's Degree. It's taken  two months to build enough confidence to risk my reputation with my answer. The answer's not just, "No, I haven't." The answer hangs largely upon the right question: 

"Are you looking for jobs?"

No. I'm not looking. I'm breathing. 

God didn't just nudge me through six years of higher education to come out of it as a speech therapist. That was not the main goal. I always knew this couldn't be the goal because I spent the first three years of schooling hating speech therapy. The only reason I stayed in it was because He sealed every escape hatch with God-glue . 

I learned to trust. Hindsight now reveals that the majority of my learning came from everything surrounding speech therapy.

At Biola University:

• I learned how to define my beliefs so that they're mine and I can stand by them; otherwise, I'll just follow the "social norms" for a Christian and live a half life. 
• I learned how to build, keep, and remedy friendships. 
• I discovered how to be feminine--discarding my baggy T-shirts and camo pants and wearing tank tops and skirts. 
• Biola showed me that even English classes can be based on the Bible. 
• I discovered purpose and passion behind using my imagination and took my first step into serious novel writing.

At University of Central Missouri:

• I learned, over two years, how to show confidence in my God and confidence in my differences. 
• I learned how to enter into a fully vulnerable and honest relationship that brought me a husband who is now my best friend.
• I discovered the beautiful spiritual significance, magic, and beauty behind marriage.
• I learned how to fear for someone's soul.
• I learned that I care desperately for my clients and patients and I'll never choose to "toughen" myself to the hard situations they are in. I will hurt with them and pray for them. This is one reason God put me in the field--for them.
• I discovered true friendship between Godly couples and how that doesn't have to be foofy, over-spiritual, or full of Christianese (like much of our culture thinks it will be).
• I learned to surrender my own plans for God's, even though they don't usually make sense at the time.

My time in college was not a stepping stone to something greater. It was not just another criteria to fill so I could have a well-paying career.

So if I'm not looking for a job, what am I doing?

1. I'm writing. I'm 70% done with a full-length speculative fiction novel called, A Time to Die. Writing has always been my passion far above speech therapy. At last, God has told me to devote my time to it--time without homework or textbooks or exams. I've waited seven years for this.

2. I'm learning to be a Godly wife. I finally have the time to cook for Daylen and to keep the house clean, not as wifely obligations, but because I want to. 

3. I'm entering into an adventure that God has recently placed before me. The details of this venture will be posted on this blog in exactly two weeks (here it is!). It's a new journey and goal that is stretching me even more to forgo my own reputation and build His.

My choices don't make sense. But the biggest lesson God is teaching me right now is to be confident in Him, especially when my choices may doom my reputation. 

How could I allow my parents to pay for endless schooling and then choose not to work afterward?

How could I spend six years studying something I'm currently choosing not to do?

How can I allow myself to send the message that I'm quitting, I'm lazy, or I'm being irresponsible?

I've told people, "I'll probably look for jobs in January", but the truth is I don't know when I'll look for jobs. I don't know because this is God's show and the more I tell people January, the more He says, "That's not going to work."

I'll look for jobs when He says it's time. Internally, I don't want to enter the job hunt. I'm tightrope walking over the border of bitterness. If I push myself to fulfill the expectations of my career, I'll end up hating it. I don't want to be "clinically competent" in something I hate. I need to protect this career so that it doesn't become a burden.

So, my friends, here is the answer to "Have you found a job?"

No. And I'm not looking. Not until there's a green-flag waving me at the start-gate of speech pathology.

Whirlwinded

The sky is still blue. People still walk around town. Oxygen still flows into human lungs. Yet, I feel the world has spun on a completely different axis this past week. So many different thoughts and emotions flowing in my blood like oil and water trying to mix--joy, sorrow, shock, imagination, exhilaration.

Daylen taking me out to surprise dinner after my internship!

Joy

My internship is over. I will never again fill in the "student" bubble when asked my occupation. I'm an official "Master" and yet I still feel like I need three more solid years of apprenticeship. In moments that demand instant exuberant celebration, I usually stand stunned in a surreal stupor. The magnitude of the moment doesn't really hit me. That's how I felt bidding my fellow student intern farewell in 102 degree heat. I still felt like I'd see her at 8am the next Monday. I didn't. I probably will never see her again. We'll both be new graduates job searching in our own corners of Missouri. 

Sorrow

Colorado. 

Need I say more? 

I've never been more emotionally impacted by a national tragedy. Not even by 9/11. No, I didn't know anyone there. No, I've never even been to Aurora, CO. But I know people who live in Colorado. I've driven through Colorado and visited different parts more times than I can count. It's always felt like a portion of home because it's Wyoming's sister state. When things happen in Colorado, it feels like they're happening in my tiny secluded Wyoming valley.

The fires in Colorado Springs were tearing my heart apart, but the final blow came at the news I heard at 6am after the midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises. My dear precious friends. My heart aches for you. My prayers yearn for your comfort and healing from the pain that you must be experiencing--pain far beyond "This was saddening" or "this was shocking news". I know there are no words, so i will not try to write them. I am so deeply sorry.

Shock

I found myself in Wyoming on Saturday--a surprise from my husband for my completing graduate school. Three hours in to our 20hr drive, I figured out he was taking me to my family. They didn't know--it was a surprise for all. My brother ran up and tackled me. My mom screamed and then cried and then screamed a little more. My little sister said something in a decibel I couldn't understand. My older sister and her husband laughed a little and said, "Hey!". Dad was in on it. He got lots of kisses.

Home was glorious, slowing down time like a tired merry-go-round. My valley rarely changes, and when it does it's for the better--new brick sidewalks with umbrella seating, longer coffee-shop hours, growing unity in the churches...

Life picks up where I left it. I felt like it was December again and my wedding was only a day away; everyone was celebrating, but that's just how my valley is. People celebrate because they see the joy in life. The joy in Christ.

Imagination

I've started reading Harry Potter to Daylen--it makes a long drive go a lot faster. I grew up reading the books over and over, unable to get enough of the imagination behind the stories. I was too young to understand the controversial issues that rose about Harry Potter and Christianity. If not for J. K. Rowling's books, my imagination would be a lot younger, shorter, and sadder. She inspired my writing. I have no problem saying I'm a believer in Christ and a fan of the Harry Potter series. 

I read the books to my younger brother. Then to my younger sister. Then to my Mom. Now I get to read them to Daylen and it's like reading them for the first time all over again. He sees all the little details like I did. He remembers characters, laughs at the jokes, and genuinely delights in my joy.

The result? My imagination has exploded into the summer sky.

Photo taken during our drive back to Missouri.

Exhilaration

This is where I stand now. I've been doused in Joy, Sorrow, Shock, and Imagination. This unusual soul-stirring mixture leads to writing inspiration. When I feel, deeply, writing overflows from me in order to process. Today I start a 5-month stint as a full-time writer. At last, with God's blessing, I get to immerse myself in black words on paper, forming scenes and personalities to my heart's content. I know that this time in my life will be one that I look back on with nostalgia. In the future days of children, jobs, traveling, and deeper marriage, full-time writing will be a thing of the past. I'm so very thankful for the time God is giving me now to follow the vision and passion He's poured into me from childhood. 

I want to share this with you. Come with me on this journey. Share with me, too, the emotion mixture that you find swirling inside your veins today.

We All Love Mondays

The first day of my last week of work left me dizzy with a splitting headache and a scheduled doctor's appointment. It left the other person with a crushed car.

Many of us were raised with our parents shouting an optimistic, "Make good decisions!" to us as we ran off to school or work or a get-together. A casually dressed twenty-something pedestrian did not heed his mother's age-old advice this morning as he ran into the street. No crosswalk. No "look left, then right, then left". And no apology after witnessing an accident caused by his own mistake.

I see it in slow-motion. I am coasting along at a safe 25mph, talking (responsibly) on the phone with my mom, when this man sets off my peripheral-vision-alarm. In the matter of a second, I register that, if I keep driving at my rate and he keeps jogging illegally across the street at his rate, we will collide.

I slam on my breaks.

He skids to a halt.

As I lift my hand to wave him on, his eyes look past my car and widen like a startled cartoon-character.

My thoughts of, Why isn't he crossing now that I stopped? are interrupted by a splitting screech of tires. Next thing I know, my cell-phone is flying out of my hand, my head indents the front of my chair, and I come to a harsh stop with my hair whipped across my face.

Collisions in real life don't sound like the car collisions in movies. Instead of high-pitched crunching noises it sounds more like a box of metal at war with a boulder--deep, like a bass at a rock concert mixed with a sledgehammer on your front door.

We pull over. I shout, shaken, to Mom that I got hit and I'll call her back. When I get out of the car, all I see is God's giant hand releasing my vehichle. He nudges me under the chin, and whispers "I'm with you."

My Jeep doesn't have a single dime-sized dent. The other SUV looks like shrink-wrapped metal, spewing automobile liquid like a hundred punctured hoses. A few phone calls, exchanged information, some words with the KCPD, and a tow-truck later, we go our separate ways. I drive to work an hour late--shaken and sore, but very aware of the impenetrable wall my God creates when He's protecting His own.

Irresponsible American

In fifth grade, I was awarded a certificate for being "Optimistic". I beamed with pride as I stood before my class, then I went home and asked Mom what optimistic meant.

Many changes have evolved between fifth grade and my last semester of graduate school--including the character awards. In the past week, I've realized the newest reputation I've been building:

Irresponsibility
  

It's not pretty. 

It's also not true.

If you put me up against the wallpaper of the American culture, I perfectly match the design of irresponsibility: I only keep busy six days of the week instead of seven, I complete school assignments with mere minutes to spare, I lose important things, I fall asleep in class, I'm 10 minutes late to my externship, and I've never seen a 4.0 GPA on my report card in my life.

When the world says busyness, perfection, and work are life's priorities, I fall short like an anvil in the ocean. But I am not of this world. God has spent the gap between Optimistic and Irresponsible transforming me into a new person--He's changed the way I think. I grow more capable each day to discern His good, pleasing, and perfect will. (Romans 12:2).

God purposefully created our bodies to require rest. America shouts at its people to defy this instruction: Work 7 days a week. Don't sleep, just drink coffee. Don't eat, you're prettier that way. Don't rest, you're lazy.

I rest. Rest enables me to perform at 100% for God. Without rest, I'll just be a permanent 65%-70%. I don't want to settle for a 70% life. Yet, God's version of 100% is not America's idea of 100%. My desires lie outside of the nine-to-five job, the money-earning mindset, and the straight-A goal. I'm okay with a part-time job. I'm happy with a limited savings account. I have no problem earning Bs. 

Why?

Because my school/job/to-do list/internship is not my life. In between those things, I write novels, I learn how to enjoy the Bible, I celebrate marriage with my husband, I learn more about God, I create dreams, I cultivate passion, I find purpose....

Who cares if I'm voted, "Most likely to be late to graduation"? The only harm done is that my chair is cold for 5 extra minutes. Maybe I'm late because I wrote a new scene in my novel. Maybe I prayed a little longer. Maybe my husband surprised me with flowers and I wanted to put them in water before leaving. 

I'm not late because I'm lazy. I'm not a B-student because I'm careless. I'm not last-minute with school projects because I procrastinate. 

These things happen because my life is filled to the brim with more than just work, money, and brilliant reputation. My cup overflows, but not with the American Dream.  I don't want to live in a box. So deal with it, America. You call me irresponsible, but I'm living a 100% life and loving it. 

The Return of Rowling

J. K. Rowling is writing a new book.

Reactions around the world range from instant ecstasy to raging fury. I imagine her publishing company toasting sparkly drinks with bookstores, already planning what to do with the explosive income headed their way. I envision Rowling-haters screaming NOOOOO!! and spending five straight days hating on her name and writing via Twitter, blogging, Facebook, and forums. I laugh at the thought of Harry Potter lovers stand on hilltops and yelling, "HARRY POTTER 8!"

But only one juicy piece of information has been released concerning this new book: it's aimed for adults.

What does that mean? Longer? Rougher? Less playful? Will it even be fantasy? Fiction? It could be her autobiography. It could be a murder mystery. It could be a documentary-style book on the history of butterflies. We don't know, yet many are already judging and predicting. One thing is for sure, it's J. K. Rowling stepping out in battered armor, stomping her foot, and shouting, "It's going to be different than Harry Potter." 

Aka. Don't compare.

I am very happy for the reading world, yet my empathy for J. K. Rowling is bittersweet. I'm am overjoyed that she is taking the brave step to continue writing. She is delving back into the passion that inevitably arises when creating worlds and characters; however, the comparison is unavoidable. Many many readers will compare whatever comes from her fingers against Harry Potter. It's impossible for Rowling to start with a blank slate. Writing after fame is, in my opinion, a much harder and braver step than writing a debut novel and offering it to the public with a pleas for acceptance.

I grow a little nervous at the thought of this world of opinionated readers eating up my book if the Lord puts it on the shelves. But I would shake even more if my book was compared to my previous success. What if it doesn't measure up? What if it disappoints the world? What if it's completely different than the first book?

The fickleness of readers could change Rowling's entire reputation. Wow, Joanne Rowling changed my childhood with her Harry Potter books, but she went downhill in her later years of writing. That would be such a shame to hear. She never expected to be great. She only desperately wanted to share her imagination with others. Humans want to share beauty.

If I read J. K. Rowling's new book, I will not compare it in any way to Harry Potter. I admire her stamina and her imagination. She is, hands-down, an extraordinary writer. That's what people love about the Harry Potter books--the newness, the original idea, the fact that J. K. Rowling was a magician herself in order to imagine the wizard world.

So here's to J. K. Rowling, an author who's repeatedly offered her heart in book-form and is doing it once more for the sake of writing-passion and imagination. May she never stop.

Presiding over President's Day

President's day began with a slow morning of sleeping in, reading in John, and a cream-cheese-slathered cinnamon bagel. Kisses and "I love you"s were exchanged between my husband and I as he went to work and I snuggled further under the covers. My externship at the elementary school is canceled for the holiday. 

When I finally did get up, I packed and dressed for writing--warm, comfortable, and ready to carve my name into a different environment: the Student Union Building (aka. SUB). Usually I go to a coffee shop to hunker down and write, but UCM provides free copies of the New York Times and I've grown a new fetish for reading the news (partially caused by creating a fetish in my own book's main character for reading the news). 

During my walk to campus, I met a fancy, black-coated, briefcase-carrying professor climbing out of a tow-truck that dropped him off. I told him it was classy a classy ride. I then ran into multiple people I know (not literally) who exchanged bright smiles and hugs. Once in the SUB, I staked a claim on table two by the fountain. Across the room, two skinny young students (I'm guessing Freshmen, because they look like high-schoolers to me, but they wouldn't be here if they were) ate an entire gigantic pink cake over the course of an hour. Dare? Birthday party? New diet? Who knows? It was delightful to watch.

After I chopped up a NY Times paper and tucked away my favorite articles, I wrote 1,200 brand new words in my novel. I'm polishing off my creation of the future government and wrote up the story of my own President Garraty. Yes, in the year 2308, I predict our nation will still have a president (and his name will be Garraty, for no particular reason other than it sounded like a nice president name).

During bouts of overthinking, I watched the rainstorm come in and debated calling my husband to come pick me up. I got called first, but not by my husband. I chatted on the phone with the local librarian who called to tell me my most recently requested book, Crossed (by Ally Condie), had arrived. It's the newest victim for my book review blog, but it's not the genre I'm currently craving. My novel-hungry mind is , instead, itching to reopen the cover of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. Okay, I know it's not a genre, but it might as well be it's own genre--the genre of strong characters and phenomenal writing. Nothing like a good book on a rainy day. I think I'll go pick up Crossed and then flip a quarter to find out the winner of my attention. 

Certainly the best President's Day I've ever had.

Vowed Valentine

I'm married now and I still forgot about Valentine's Day until I was attacked by blinding pink and red in the grocery store. I've always been told that pink and red clash--never wear pink and red, never advertise with pink and red...

Yet we call it the love colors (or at least commercialism does).

Last year I gave into a rant about remembering love. I still stand by my words --I wish I knew the stories of the three Valentine men. 

I have no increased expectations for my husband today. He shows me love every day in amazing ways that surpass my own overactive imagination. He doesn't need a day to "step up" and show me some extra love because he already gives me his best, daily...hourly...

With my husband by my side today, I can't help but think about our wedding vows. We proclaimed them before family and friends so that all who celebrated our union were also witnesses to keep us accountable to our promises. I realized that it's difficult for someone to keep us accountable if they can't remember what we vowed. So, as a reminder to all who know us, Daylen and I promised the following to each other, and we plan to hold to these words until God takes us from this earth:

Photo by Drew Woolery

Daylen's Vows

Nadine, I love you
God has entrusted you to me
To unify us through the companionship of marriage.
By the strength of His Spirit within me,
I vow to God and to you, to love you as Christ loves the Church
For better or for worse
For richer or for poorer
In sickness and in health
To be our spiritual leader in action and truth;
Seeking faithfulness and righteousness
With God's guidance and instruction.
To grow together in our relationship with Christ
To believe you, trust you, and endure with you
To be your constant pursuer and best friend
To see you as the precious treasure you are
I vow to give you the best of me every day
For the glory and honor of God
Until He takes us from this earth.

My Vows

Daylen, I love you.
God has entrusted you to me,
To unify us through the companionship of marriage.
By the strength of His Spirit within me,
I vow to God and to you, to submit to you as to Christ,
For better or for worse,
For richer or for poorer,
In sickness and in health,
To love you in action and in truth,
Seeking faithfulness and righteousness
To respect and support you as you lead us along God's path
To exhort you in your relationship with Christ
To surrender my independence for your love, protection, and provision
To believe you, trust you, and endure with you,
To pursue you second only to God,
To be your helper and your best friend.
I vow to give you the best of me every day for the glory and honor of God
Until He takes us from this earth.

If I could fit these words into a syringe and liquefy them, I'd insert them into my blood and heart every morning in the hopes that I could hold to the power of each word through every moment. Thankfully, God's already doing that...at His own pace. Daylen's and my best will only grow with each sunrise. We couldn't ask for more.

The Worship Experience

Worship.

Say this word in another culture and it means something completely different.

Say this word in another era and it may not make sense.

Say this word in the church next door to yours and you'll get heated opinions and disagreements.

I can't define it to you--I'm not God's dictionary. Even if I was, He has a different dictionary for each person; hence why we're not all clones. 

Just like everything else in America, we're becoming numb to worship. Pastor's and straight-shooting worship leaders anxiously remind the Americanized church  that worship is supposed to be from us to God--it's not about how a song makes us feel or "enjoying our worship experience" as one church announces every Sunday morning. 

"Even when my eyes are dry, even when my soul is tired, even when my hands are heavy, I will lift them up to You."

--Seven Places ("Even When" from the album Hear Us Say Jesus)

 

Good words, true words, but are we losing the capability to apply them to our actions? Are our souls so heavy that we just hum this tune and think, "What a shame it's not like that anymore."? I think back to the early church--though I wasn't there, I read in books about Christians singing when there are no instruments, when they don't know the words, when Roman soldiers are hunting for the secret meetings, seeking fresh prey for the coliseum lions.  Worship came from the heart, not from the band, CD, or the three Christian radio stations we flip through like a stick-figure comic book every morning on our way to work. 

We've become sleepy sheep who need a "worship leader" to stuff handfuls of stale, over-chewed grass into our mouths because we've forgotten how to reach for it ourselves. I'm the guiltiest of lazy worshipers. I played in a worship band half my life. I formed my opinions of how it "should" be done. I wrote a magazine article about it (unpublished, of course, probably because my ignorance coated the paper thicker than my ink). There were hundreds of positives in my worship upbringing, but I've outgrown them.

I am not against organized worship. I love grooving to specific songs more than others. Nine times out of 10, I don't "feel it" during worship. I don't have answers or opinions of how worship "should be". All I know is how I want my heart to be. Right now, It's not very close to where I want it. America feels like a damp blanket straight from the hot dryer and over the mouth of my soul. I'm trying to breathe in God, but only a tiny gasp of true worship is reaching my lungs. I mustn't wait until I get to Heaven to breathe freely. I will not settle for half the oxygen God intended my soul to have on earth.  I will find my answer to how it's supposed to be. I'll share it with you, but it won't be your answer. You have to seek, too, because our souls are different. You can bring God a completely different form and depth of worship than I can.

Let's seek to bring Him the enjoyable worship experience...with every zealous gasp of air. Only then do I believe we'll really start feeling it ourselves.