Revenge Body 2017: A follow up for the girls who dared to ask if I stuffed my bra in the sixth grade, the middle school boy who called me the fat cheerleader, the cheer coach who gave me a tshirt that could have fit a small elephant and told me it fit me, the evil stepmother who said I looked like an ugly duckling on my prom night, and every man who treated me like I was special in private but refused to hold my hand in public

Alternate title: I wish my life were not a Demi Lovato song, but it is (on the bright side: thank goodness it is not a new Taylor Swift song, am I right?)

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Depression has looked good on me.  I’m serious.  I’m 27 and I’ve never looked better-- not at 18 or 22 or 25.  I look good.  People have noticed, and I have, too.  

A few months ago when I was borderline but not quite depressed (before I became actually depressed) and trying to proactively kick depression’s butt, I kept a daily journal of things that still made me happy (or, at the very least, I was still able to appreciate).  Many times this journaling occurred at my favorite coffee shop and many times my pal, Jeff, was there.  

It usually went something like this:

*Jessica opens cute little happiness journal*

*Jessica, reading aloud as she writes*: “#1 I look good today.”

*Jeff: lolz and alternates between calling Jessica narcissistic and sincerely saying he appreciates her confidence, the two very responses all best friends should alternate between*

*End of reading journal entries aloud*

Trying to intentionally acknowledge happiness when I feel like it is in short supply and choosing to appreciate and love the body God gave me are not exactly innate thought-behavior combos for me, but they are behaviors I am trying to grow into.  It has been difficult.  Growing is difficult.

I was talking to my friend, Meredith, on facetime the other day about how we are each God’s investments and he expects us to grow (ala the parable of the talents) and thus we sometimes have to make ourselves do things like go to school and eat salads and such, even though we are pretty cool as is.  

This year I have been trying to grow.  I’ve been more vulnerable, taken more relational risks, read a lot, listened a lot, spent hours and hours talking to mentors and therapists, and have tried to practice previously novel concepts like self-discipline.  This year I’ve put in a lot of hard work to be a better me, because I desperately want to be something better than “fine” and a lot more like “well.”  

This spring I felt like my life lacked evidence of self-discipline and I wanted to grow those muscles, so I decided to try making myself do things I didn’t want to do and eating well and exercising seemed like a good place to start.  I did a month of hot yoga classes (at least 5 classes per week) and two months of the Whole 30 eating plan, and I lost 20 pounds in the first two weeks and it stayed off.  Then, the best way I know how to explain it is all the growing I did caused a lot of growing pains; I was pretty depressed for awhile this year and lost another 10 pounds, and it has stayed off, too.   

The last time I weighed this much was when I was in middle school.  It was the year after girls asked me if I stuffed my bra during truth or dare, and the year before a boy in one of the classes I aided for called me “the fat cheerleader.” I specifically remember standing in my 7th grade gym class, dreading stepping on the scale in front of anyone and definitely, maybe (but not absolutely) crying afterward because I thought I weighed “SO MUCH.”  Short, curvy but muscular 7th grade me just didn’t even know what was coming.

"The Fat Cheerleader"

Unlike 7th grade me, high school me was actually chubby.  I did hot yoga and took kickboxing classes like a boss, I did cheerleading (which, might I add, was no joke) and had practices most nights year round, and yet I weighed literally 50 pounds more than I do now.  In some ways, it was a mercy, because it meant I was never the flyer (aka the girl they picked up for pyramids) in cheerleading and therefore can live to tell this tale-- but in every other single way, it pretty much sucked.

In high school my Dad married a lady who was pretty disturbed.  She had disordered eating herself, and quickly became obsessed with my weight, too.  She frequently compared our weights and tried to incentivize me dropping down to 125 pounds, specifically, which was how much she claimed to weigh.  It took me until I was 23ish (several years after she and my Dad had divorced) and hit that weight for the first time to realize there was no way she had actually weighed what she said she did, and it made me sad for her-- sad she had felt the need to lie, the need to starve herself to weigh 125 pounds and the need to compare herself to teenagers.  My empathetic heart still finds it all very sad.

I will probably never forget how on my prom night, when I was dressed up and with my hair and makeup done for the first time and feeling like a 10,  she said, “you remind me of the ugly duckling.”  What she meant was: “you look like a lovely swan.”  But that is not what she said.  What she said was, “you remind me of the ugly duckling.”  It was not surprising, but it was still really hurtful (which I let her know).  

 "The Ugly Duckling"

I did not stay chubby forever, or really for very much longer after the whole ugly duckling incident.     

I dropped about 30 pounds my first year of college, even though I ate unhealthy foods all the time (and a lot of it) and did not work out.  My secret?  I was probably anxious and depressed freshman year, I stopped being 16, and my thyroid levels magically leveled out.  

When I was 22 I got a boyfriend for the first time and gradually lost 10 more pounds.

Then three years later he broke up with me and I lost 5 pounds in the few months that followed, but then gradually gained 25 over the next 2 years.

Then my recent hot yoga/Whole 30 stint, down 20 pounds.

Then growing pains (aka depression), down 10 pounds.

Now ‘revenge body.’  Heartbreak accidentally looks good on me.   

It’s been a journey.  

Even after I first began losing a lot of weight and started to look and feel more “swan-like,” I kept feeling like an ugly duckling.  I have learned it is entirely possible to feel like both at the same time.  

As my therapist frequently tells me, I am incredibly introspective and brutally honest with myself.  So here is the real truth: even when I started to feel like I looked better and presented all kinds of confidence, below the surface I still secretly felt like an ugly duckling-- which showed in my relationships.  Starting in college, this whole ugly duckling complex created what I refer to as “fugly friend syndrome."  

For those who do not speak angsty teenager, this is what I mean by "fugly friend syndrome:" Pretty much every time I liked a guy he would be super super nice to me when we hung out by ourselves, text me all the time, and act like I was something special, but then not treat me the same in public as in private.  There would also be behaviors not within the scope of “normal things a heterosexual male who just wants to be your friend” would do, such as playing with my hair (I know, scandalous)-- intimate, but not sexual behaviors.  Lots of guys did this kind of stuff, and every time it happened I assumed it was because they liked my personality but saw me as a “fugly best friend;” they wanted to share all of their secrets with me and were nice and even mildly affectionate towards me, but they did not think I was cute enough to be affectionate towards in public.  I must have allowed those behaviors because, at some level of consciousness, I felt like I did not deserve and therefore should not have expected better.

Since college I have only really cared about two men, and even though they were each really affectionate towards me in private and told me I was beautiful and such, neither of them treated me the same publicly as they did privately.   Though I weighed the magic number, 125 pounds, and acted super confident (which they would likely both attest to), and even though they each said it was because they despised even mild PDA, I still think I always felt it really had more to do with them being embarrassed of me because I was not cute enough.  It is entirely possible there was some truth to my hunches about them feeling that way (in addition to genuinely hating PDA), and it is also entirely possible it was something I completely made up as a projection of existing insecurities.  It is also entirely possible the truth was somewhere in the middle of both possibilities.  Regardless, through recent introspection I can acknowledge I did not deserve to feel that way and admit in each of those relationships I really believed I did deserve it.

Now revenge body.

FYI, doing the bow pose pretty much makes you feel like a warrior princess

On one hand, in my current state of ‘revenge body’ I could just assume my body issues are solved since I can acknowledge I look good.  Unfortunately (at least it feels unfortunate) I still care about growing, which as I have said before sometimes means doing hard work you do not feel like doing.  Lately I have been taking some time to think back on all of the former versions of me and decide I love them enough-- as chubby or thin as they were--  to make sure future me gets treated better, both by myself and others.  I am exploring the hurtful conscious and unconscious thoughts I had about myself and the hurtful words and actions of others, and you know what, it sucks.  It really sucks.  But because I am working through it now, it won’t keep sucking forever.  

God made this little body to grow, and I am growing (and have never looked better).  My hope is sooner or later I will have both revenge body and the biggest smile I have ever had, and will be able to write “#1 I look good and feel good” in my happy journal.  Again, not at all how I feel now, but I am working on it, so it is coming.  Look out world (and innocent Chocolate Holler patrons): when I get to that level I am going to stand on a chair and tell everyone.  

It’s coming.

I’ll keep ya posted. 

   

The Crying Tree

Note: this story is about me crying and my friends being awesome and reminding me of Jesus with words and actions.  If you are not one of those friends, you probably won’t think this is a cool story; however, this is the internet and you can read if you want.  But I’ve warned you.  

For the last few months I have been in a co-ed Bible study group comprised of a real hodgepodge of people.  We are random, we know we’re random, we discuss it openly, and we own it.  Here is what I love about them: everything.  More concretely, they show up every week, they love Jesus a lot, and they process information differently than I do-- and in a way I find interesting, not just “interesting.”  I think you know the distinction.  

(Here’s the other reason they are my people: we basically all happen to be free to spontaneously hang out on the exact same friday nights.  Always.  It really is magical).

Also worth mentioning: their ability keep up with my many quirks better than most, as evidenced by learning where my magic places are and popping up at those locations periodically. Most importantly, they know about the grassy area under my favorite trees at the arboretum where I go to pray and read and think and sometimes cry, which I have titled “the crying tree” despite that being its least used function.  Many people have looked for my semi-famous “crying tree,” but they are in the tiny group who actually know where to find it.  So, basically, they are “in.”  (And basically, yes, I am really weird).  

While we sometimes meet in the wild, this week we just met in my living room.  We were talking through the first and second chapters of John when we hit on a story I probably have read several times before, but didn’t remember.  In John 1 there is an account of a skeptical guy named Nathanael who doubted Jesus’ goodness before he met him; however, when they finally did meet, Jesus instantly spoke to the goodness he recognized  in Nathanael.  Nathanael asked Jesus how Jesus even knew him; Jesus told him he had seen Nathanael sitting under a fig tree before Nathanael had known Jesus was coming.  

Nathanael’s reaction: belief.  

Jesus’ reaction (paraphrased): “that caused you to believe (?!) but you haven’t really seen anything yet.”

Here is what you should know about me: the first round of our hodgepodge Bible study I made handmade booklets for everyone and they were cute (you can make anything cute with a gold marker) and detailed and completely unnecessary. Here is what you should also know about me: I’m learning no one expects things like gilded handmade Bible study workbooks from me, so now I just write down like three discussion questions literally 10 minutes before our Bible study meets and call it a day.  They still show up!  Magic.  We still have good conversations! Magic.

Anyhow, this week one of the few discussion questions I posed questioned why Jesus seeing Nathanael under the fig tree had been enough to change Nathanael’s guarded, skeptical heart.  I felt like their responses were kind of pointed at setting perspective for me (whether they were or not) instead of teasing apart an idea as a group and I didn’t know I needed that, but I needed that.

More or less, my friend, Jeff, said something like: “I guess you can try imagining what it would feel like if Jesus saw  you under your crying tree when you didn’t know he was paying attention.” And suddenly we’re all talking about my crying tree and not Nathanael’s fig tree, and while the conversation continued over my head, this idea was taking root in my heart: Jesus does see me under my crying tree, even when I’m not looking for him.

The Bible tells another story of Jesus spotting someone in proximity to a tree, a tiny little someone named Zacchaeus, who was curious enough about Jesus to climb a tree to get a glimpse of him.  A lot of the time I’m brave and climb metaphorical trees and tiptoe out to the end of metaphorical limbs to see a glimpse of Jesus, like Zaccheus did, and Jesus always meets me when I do.  A lot of the time, most of the time, I’m strong enough and brave enough to climb up and look out but very recently, like Nathanael, I haven’t been able to make it past feeling skeptical and doubting the existence of goodness at the base of the tree.    

Last week did more than kick my butt, it kicked my tender recently unguarded Jessica heart which, while a resilient and strong little muscle, doesn’t tend to receive kicks as well as butts usually do.  It was enough to bring me to tears at the crying tree (and perhaps a few other public places, too).  I needed to be reminded Jesus has been paying attention, and is on his way to meet me where I am-- even if I haven’t had the energy to look up and out to seek his face through my hurt.  

Random Bible study group shows me Jesus is not the only one paying attention-- they are, too.  When my group suspects I might be upset they take turns meeting me under my favorite trees or at my favorite coffee shop, often without me asking them to or disclosing where I am.  I am really am that predictable of a human and they really are that calibre of friends.  

(Now I am beginning to question if they actually all have a secret group text to coordinate whose turn it is to deal with me….?!).

While we all ended up together pretty randomly, random Bible study group feels less random every time we intentionally show up for each other.   There is something especially beautiful about when friends find you when you are feeling skeptical and not looking for them-- when you want friends the least, but probably need them the most.  Jordan and Jeff and Natalie and Kim just kind of seem to get it.

So, I suppose if I were to humor Jeff and imagine what it would feel like for a new friend or friends to meet me where I was, and tell me they think I am good enough on days when I don’t feel it, I suppose it might be enough to make me a little less jaded, too.  And it’s really not a big of a stretch of the imagination-- that is my real, actual life and I am grateful.

Shhhhh You Say in Yoga

Periodically I become acutely aware that I have very little self-control or discipline in most areas of my life.  I eat what I want, spend what I want, am not infrequently 5 minutes late, never stay up as late as I intend to when studying, and I never ever ever exercise.  Of all of the fruits of the spirit (Galatians 5), self-discipline is the one my little life yields the least.  With this in mind, I decided to build up my self-discipline muscles (and actual muscles) and have been doing the Whole 30 eating plan (on day 11, thanks for asking) and have been taking hot yoga classes like 5 days a week for the last couple of weeks.

Now that I’m practicing self-discipline I’m realizing I’m not all that bad at it, and I’m learning a lot of other useful knowledge about my little self, too.  

Before we get to the “let me pour out my soul” part, we must first establish that I am a straight up yoga diva.  I like one instructor, Laura, and if I cannot make it to her classes each day, I go to other instructors’ classes but I’m never happy about it.  But self-discipline anyway!

The reason Laura is the best is because she remembers me, and also because I like her voice.  All of the instructors say the EXACT same phrases in the EXACT same sequence, but Laura remembers me and goes at a speed I like and therefore I trust Laura’s voice.

Because she remembers me, she corrects me (and encourages me… but let’s be real, I don’t even care if I’m doing a good job, I’m just proud of me for going and being on time).  She always always always has the same correction for me, no matter what pose it is:

    “Chest up, Jessica.  Chest up.”

Now every time I catch my sweaty little self slipping out of a yoga pose, I know what to tell myself.  “Chest up, Jess, chest up.” And in my little head, it sounds a lot like Laura’s voice.  

And then I leave the yoga studio.  And life is hard, and I feel like I’m slipping.  “Chest up, Jess, chest up,” goes a long way in those cases, too.  I’m learning not standing defeated, even when you feel it, makes a world of difference.  It’s all about the posture.

The only other significant difference I’ve noticed about Laura in comparison to the other instructors is that she says this phrase a whole lot more:

    “And that’s enough.”

Between most poses, she inserts that little gem of a phrase and it feels like freedom… like you accomplished something.  Like you “passed yoga.”  Like you aren’t the worst one in the whole yoga studio.  Like you’re hovering above the thing you just did to stretch your little body and soul, victorious.  

I can’t really put words together to tell you what it means for me to hear “that’s enough”  while looking in the mirror at my sweaty wobbly self about 26 times per class, 5 days per week.  That’s like 130 “and that’s enough”s per week. [My calculator just told me that].

Most days I don’t feel like enough.  Instead, what I feel like is two long dueling lists of “too much” and “not enough.”

I’m literally making those two lists (you know me, and you know I did) to bring to a counselor and bring to Jesus.  When I look at the lists, I realize how silly the line items really are.  I knowwwww the things I’m afraid are “too much,” the things that people have made me feel shame about in the past (whether intentionally or unintentionally) are likely God’s favorite things about me.  He loves that I remember things well, and that I encourage people, and that I prepare for things.  The guy made me with intention, a recipe written in perfect proportions.  Enough.  I am no small thing to limit.  

The things I’m afraid I’m not enough of… fun or self-disciplined or cute or carefree or generally ‘likeable’… I’m working on feeling like I’m enough of those things, too, at least for God and for me.  Not too much, but enough.  

The things that make both lists, depending on the situation and people I’m interacting with-- brave and vulnerable and intelligent and loving-- are the things I care the most about getting just right, the things I care the most about being.  I only need to be brave and vulnerable and smart about the right things, and not waste them on the small things that don’t deserve it.  I think if I used all the bravery and vulnerability and intelligence I have when I need to, it would be enough.  

When I look down at my two lists and think about giving them to Jesus, I realize I’m kind of broken.  And I realize that coming to Jesus broken, that really takes self-discipline (and trust and bravery and vulnerability and smarts) and I can hear Laura’s voice say, “and that’s enough.”  

And I wouldn’t be surprised if Laura’s voice and Jesus’s voice aren’t all that different, because his voice hides itself inside every truth.  When we start tuning our ears to his voice, we find there’s more than enough of it to fill us up with just enough peace and balance and love to make it through each day.  

So, here’s to practicing self-discipline, yoga and being enough with Jesus.

Stages and Changes

Of my 7 little ones I mentor, the one I hold onto the tightest is Jastain, my sixth grader, because I am completely aware he will soon wake up and become “too cool” for me.  I know because it happened with his older brother, Boaz, and I know because Jastain tells me so himself.  

Last June as I was planning his sister’s high school graduation party, he asked me when the party for his fifth grade graduation would be.  I told him I wasn’t sure 5th grade graduation merited a party.  That smart boy told me, “but Jessica… it is a big deal.  I’ll be too cool for you soon.”

I literally cried.  So, after seeing the light made by his rational point, I picked him up and took him on a date to eat chicken ‘n waffles and enjoyed the final season before he outgrows me.  Next year he’ll probably end our 3 year long trick-or-treating streak and will probably stop squealing when I show up at their house and probably won’t want to go to Disney on Ice or musicals with me.

I did not even cut up his chicken and waffles for him. He's grown.

For Jastain, walking across his fifth grade stage was a big deal.  And it took me some convincing to realize it, but it was.  

Jastain actually shows me that every new thing he does is a big deal.

When he was in the fourth grade I had plans to pick him up to hang out and he had one of his sisters call me and say that he had something going on at his school and he wanted me to go there for his thing instead.  I had no idea what this thing was, but when you get invited to a kid’s thing at school you just go, okay.

You should know that as soon as I walked into the school there was a group of teachers at a check-in table who asked me what I was there for, and I told them I was meeting my fourth grade friend, Jastain, for what I did not know.  With (rightfully) sassy looks they asked me Jastain’s last name and I drew a blank… each of the 7 kids has a different African last name (they have the same parents) and they are all difficult for me to pronounce and/or remember.  (The kids give me grace for it, so stop judging me).  Eventually they let me through and to my surprise, the event I showed up for was a school production of the musical “Annie.”

I sat through the whole production, which lasted a couple of hours, and somewhere in the middle of one of the dramatic songs, my little man Jastain silently walked onto the stage sideways with one hand extended to his side, and one behind his back. When he got to the middle of the stage he switched hands and walked offstage the same direction he walked on.  Basically, he walked on to que the other tiny performers to walk offstage.  He showed up to make sure other people knew it was time to do what they needed to do.  

My little friend’s role wasn’t the most glamorous, but he was so proud of himself and excitedly asked me how I thought he did on the ride home.  

The thing is, he did something great.  He took his small role and he played it well, with pride.  I’m not sure that people who don’t have kids (or, in my case, borrowed kids) would understand what it’s like to watch your little one do something they love or try something new, however big or small, however well or poorly executed, but it’s the best.  

Whenever I feel like I’ve failed at something I care about or barely stumbled through something new, I consider how God must feel a lot like I felt spectating Jastain walk on and offstage at his play, just proud that he gets to watch me do something new.  I know a lot of people give participation trophies some heat, but what I know about God’s character tells me that he is likely a big fan, and we should be, too.  We should celebrate doing new things, whether they are big and grand or the small behind the scenes roles that help others get to where they need to be.  

Since I met my friend, Katie Adams, a year and some change ago, we managed to master taking turns playing Jastain’s role in each other’s lives… walking onstage to remind our friend where they need to be, which direction they are headed in.

On Friday I got to watch Katie walk across a big important stage (a semester EARLY) and get her placeholder diploma from the University of Kentucky.  Little Katie Adams, who hates attention, is so often the foundation that holds up people and projects when they need it most… I’m proud of her for graduating from college, but I’m more proud of her for the character she has developed by following Jesus daily, which will take her so much farther than the things she learned in classroom ever will.  

We happy cry more than anyone we know.

As my friend prepares to do a new thing and apply for big girl jobs, I’ll be one of the people cheering the loudest, no matter where she ends up because I am more proud of who she is and whom she has chosen to follow than I am of what she does.  

Where is Katie going?  Well, Jesus knows that.  Just standing in the middle of the stage to remind her. <3

Doesn't she look like a genuine angel?!

We Weren't Made to be Chicken Little.

I used to be like Chicken Little.  I did.  If one tiny small setback or hard thing happened, I would act like everything was awful and the sky was literally (but figuratively) falling.  Every time I look at Facebook’s “On This Day” thing-a-ma-jig, I am reminded I played the role of Chicken Little for the majority of my facebook having years.   All of the complaints and all of the “I try so hard and have no fun and nothing ever works out for me” and other equally gross stuff.

It took me a lot of years to realize God did not make little ole me to be Chicken Little.  After I figured it out, it took me no time at all to realize God actually didn’t make anyone in the world to act like Chicken Little.   Not Chicken Little, not chickens with our heads cut off.  Not chickens, period.

I focus grouped this self-evaluation today and my long-term best friends confirmed that they, too, have noticed I am becoming increasingly less dramatic and Chicken Little-esque. If I were to vouch for anything in the world, it would be the validity and integrity of my focus group.  If they say it’s a real thing, it is.  So it is.  If I can become less like Chicken Little, I think other people can, too.

I can’t remember the exact time frame when I stopped acting like Chicken Little, but if I were to guess it probably aligned pretty closely with feeling like my little tiny world was actually falling a part, in a dramatically exaggerated but sincere way.  After months of crying all the time I realized it was no way to live and there must be something better to the world.  From there, I metamorphasized into a little butterfly who just loves everyone always and is the most optimistic little human you’ll ever even meet because I learned that even when everything feels like the weight of everything should be paralyzing, goodness you can still actually MAKE.  SOME.  MOVES.

[[My people tell me I give spot-on self-analyses.  Are you going to tell me I’m not a little butterfly who loves everyone always and is the most optimistic little human you’ll ever meet?!]]

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In a practical way, this is what that reframing process looked like for me yesterday:

The election did not turn out how I hoped or expected it too, and I was really upset about it.  From there, my feelings started to do the former Chicken Little snowballing thing and I started to imagine that all of the other good opportunities that have presented in my life recently would also fizzle out and go nowhere.  Because black-and-white, Chicken-Little thinking says if one thing goes wrong everything will go wrong:  Trump won the election, and I’ll never get the job I want.  Great logic, right?

So I kicked myself, and laughed at myself a little, and decided to not backslide into my old ways and created a backup plan instead.  My new backup plan, in the event my awesome plan A does not work out, is to start taking classes in the Spring for a doctoral degree in Education so I can one day help improve education systems in lower income neighborhoods in the United States and abroad, and then continue to apply for new jobs, too.  

Coming up with a backup plan and taking the steps to meet someone in the doctoral program not only made me feel more hopeful and capable, but it also added to the beautiful goodness of my plan A (instead of just getting the job I want, GET THE JOB I WANT AND GET THE DOCTORAL DEGREE AND GET STUFF DONE).  My plan A is the best plan, and I am so excited about it, but my backup plan is pretty extraordinary, too.  

Instead of feeling like failure was inevitable, I made a plan so celebration is inevitable.  It’s a better, braver way to live.

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We weren’t made to kick rocks and pout.  When bad days and bad news come, instead of being Chicken Little let’s all be brave instead, questioning what we can do in response.  And there is always something to do.  Always.  

I think we were all made to be brave.  On days when everything is going wrong, and even on days when everything is going just fine, we were made to say hard things and do hard things and try things we have never done before but know we have to do.  

I think brave is the best thing to be.  Lately my friends have called me brave and fancier synonyms for brave (like brazen or bold or audacious) a lot and every single time it makes my little soul sing and typically shed little happy, disbelief tears.  Disbelief because I spent most of my life being Chicken Little and very little of it being brave.

AND YOU KNOW WHAT?  Telling people they are brave has become my favorite thing to do.  I have noticed they happy cry 100% of the time.  I am not exaggerating.  People always cry when I tell them they are brave.  People I know, people I have just met, all of the people cry when told they are brave.  

Do you know what else happens when people, including me, are told they are brave?  They suddenly believe they have the capacity and the permission to actually go out and be the thing you just said they are.  They stop feeling like Chicken Little and like their own little section of the sky is falling in on them and suddenly they have the courage to take autonomy of their little life and do something wonderful.  

We did not hike this weekend to climb the tall jaggedy cliff, but we did come to tell other people they were brave and strong enough to climb the tall jaggedy cliff. :)

Then it starts snowballing from there folks!  Instead of feeling like everything is awful and the worst, one starts feeling like everything is awesome and God is moving in every way and suddenly your little life doesn’t feel so little or inconsequential anymore, and the world doesn’t seem so big and threatening and scary.  

Even though we live in a country where our President-Elect is less than beloved, and even if the sky does end up falling and the world is actually ending, the same God who made it is still in control and we are to be brave and unafraid.  He made us to be brave, and that is what we are.  SO LET’S BE BRAVE AND GET STUFF DONE.

On Commitment

The other day I was in a conversation with a guy who abruptly launched into a well-merited existential rant about cultural norms regarding modern relationships.  Preach.  Preach preach preach, preach preach preach.  He talked about how people are too willing to break off relationships-- dating relationships, marriages, and even friendships--because our culture sees commitment as temporary.

I agree with all of that frustration.  All of it.  So what do I do instead of breaking off commitments?  I don’t “break-into” them.  

I am starting to realize commitment scares me tremendously.  I love to whisper. That’s my version of whispering.  

Why is commitment scary?  Because vulnerability is scary and relationships are hard work.

I just wish it felt as easy as it was when I was seven.    

When I was seven I picked a best friend and I kept her around for the rest of my life, because when you are seven you don’t see relationships as temporary or scary or work.  Your “best friend” is your “best friend for life.”   

In the second grade I picked Katie, the new girl from Connecticut in our second grade class-- with her intentionally miss-matched socks and disdain for practicing cheerleading at recess-- to be my best friend, against her explicit wishes.  I remember giving second grade Katie notes to deliver to her Mom, requesting that her Mother force her to spend the night at my house.  Second grade me-- precious!  Second grade her-- not a note passer.  Twenty years later, the joke is on her... I live with her Mom.  I can put notes on the fridge, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

To summarize the rest of elementary school, I kept giving her lice and told our third grade teacher that Katie thought her son was cute, even though I did, too… the whole world did.

To summarize middle school, I convinced her to join the cheerleading team with me (I still don’t know how I managed to do it) and told this one girl that the reason Katie missed a couple of days of school was “because she’s in the hospital… she overdosed… on viagra.”  The girl’s parents made the two of them look it up.  You’re welcome.  At least I stopped giving her lice.

In high school I called her everyday to give her a daily report on what I ate that day and always had the lightsabers ready whenever she talked her high school boyfriend into leaving all proms early to hang out with me and my sisters instead.  Oh, and I forgot to give out invites to her pirate themed 16th birthday party that I had planned, for which she will forever hold me in contempt.

In college I refused to wash my pile of dishes in our tiny dorm room to the point that I challenged her to throw them away if it bothered her that much-- she did.  To get even, three years later, I threw up in her car.  Then a few months after that little incident, I threw up in her now husband’s car.  But only a little bit the second time.

Front bangs and mirror pics, FTW!

Last year, I lived with her, her husband and two kiddos for like a month and a half while the house I was moving into underwent renovations.  We survived it.  We survived it all.

We even like each other sometimes.

Recently her perfectly sweet, perfectly sassy soon-to-be five years-old, slash almost as old as we were when we met, baby asked me, “Bubby, when you were a little girl, did you know you wanted to be a Bubby when you grew up?”

I’m still not sure what she thinks “Bubby” means,

but this is what it looks like.

Little does that sweet babe know that becoming a Bubby was the whole reason I grew up.  When we were both 20-ish years old standing outside of the student center, my decaf coffee sporting best friend told me she was pregnant; I just looked at my scared crying person and told her that loving that baby would be the best thing we would ever do (which has proven to be the truth).  Suddenly growing up got real for two small girls… she grew up because she was a Mommy, and I grew up because I wanted to be a Bubby for my Bubby’s little ones. 

11ish pound newborns. <3

When Baby 2 was born, I delivered sushi to her hospital room. #pushgift

Life can be scary, but commitments don’t have to be.   Sometimes our gut leads us to people and we pick them for a reason as random as their socks miss-matching on purpose, and then boom… we have a person we can share all of the scary and cool and so-cool-they-are-scary moments with.  Sometimes vomit and lice and neglected birthday invitations must be endured to get to that point though… that’s just part of it.

Now my best friend for life and her hubby and kiddos are likely moving to Dubai for two years.  My. People. Are. Leaving.  Angstttttttttt.

On days when I am scared and overwhelmed about the prospect of having to make new friends while they are living on the other side of the world (and, you know, maybe even like falling in love one day or something), I just remember that I have a shining example of making a commitment work for 20 years.  Even though I’m not perfect (i.e., I vomit in cars sometimes) God has shown me there will be people who see me as I am-- my constantly vulnerable, over thinks everything, always says what she thinks, self-- and still love me perfectly, regardless, with no expiration date.

Aren’t those commitments worth celebrating in advance?