Value.

I remember that night like it was yesterday. I was in 9th grade and I was getting ready to go to my first high school dance.

My mom bought me a knee-length, black dress with ruffles on the bottom. I teamed it up with a cashmere sweater (just in case I didn’t foxtrot enough to warm up) and some tall, chunky heels with a strap to hold them on my awkward feet.

Shirley Temple curls lined my face and I borrowed a tube of my mom’s Mary Kay lipstick.

I felt beautiful.

My best friend and I walked into the open gym entrance. We stood there like two deer staring down an oncoming Yukon XL.

My once beautiful dress now felt like one of those giant parkas they stuck on you at Disney World when it rained and my pearl necklace dulled in the muggy darkness.

Oh. Oh no. This is not a dance. They’re not even looking at each other. My feet went numb from the heels, the heat made a streamline for my face, and I suddenly pictured myself in a hot, sweaty, Axe body spray-infused jungle of sin.

Needless to say, I hobbled shoeless outside, called my mom in tears and exclaimed, “Come pick me up. There were disco lights!”

Here’s the point at which you ask: Why are you telling us this lame story about the time you were Amish? Where are you going with this?

When my mom picked me up that night, she didn’t spend all evening constructing letters to clothing companies about the message they were sending to me. She didn’t boycott Nelly and other rappers. She didn’t even sit me down and show me a Powerpoint on my value as a female and human being.

She hugged me. She told me she was sorry that I was embarrassed and felt left out. Looking back, she must have also inwardly pinky-promised God that night to emphatically and consistently tell me “No” for the next 5 plus years.

Many a skirt angrily hit the dressing room floor. I remember one time dramatically requesting that she “just order me a scuba diving suit” so I could just end this bathing suit trip nightmare.

Let me let you in on a sad truth about our society: There are always going to be stores like Victoria’s Secret targeting young girls with lines like, “Bright Young Things.” There are always going to be the Hollister’s of the world that think 8-year-olds need padded bikini tops.

But you know what there won’t always be? Parents who are willing to build value the hard way. The old-fashioned way. The crying, you-don’t-love-me way.

I don’t know many middle-school girls who have the fiscal means to buy lacy underwear with “Wild” written across it. I don’t know many middle-school girls who repeatedly complete loads of laundry enough to hide their innuendo-laden boy shorts.

This isn’t as much of a Victoria’s Secret problem as it is a societal problem. A grown-up problem. A parenting problem.

I am not a parent so I am trying to tread lightly here (otherwise, I will get payback in full and a stolen bag of “Pretty Young Things” in a few decades).

But I have been a teenager. I have been that girl in shoulder pads when everyone else had bellybutton rings. I have (for a limited time only) had a body that would have rocked every miniskirt and bikini in this town.

But my parents didn’t use my youth as an excuse. They didn’t use my cute physique as an excuse. They didn’t use me not fitting in as an excuse.

They didn’t preach to me about my value; they fought ferociously for it until I could see it myself.

And that beats a letter to some CEO in a tall building any day of the week.

Truth.

Over the years, I have heard a few adults express concern over playing up Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and other such pretend holiday characters. What if, when my children find out the truth, they apply this thinking to the unbelievable stories I’ve shared with them from the Bible? This unease isn’t necessarily unwarranted, but I think Christians have focused on the wrong fear.

I can’t say that—in my whopping 26 years of age—that I have ever heard a peer say, “My faith was strong. God was at the center of my life. Noah’s Ark was my favorite story. And then I found out that my parents were the ones filling my Easter basket with Butterfinger eggs and new Spiderman underwear. It was all over after that point.”

It just doesn’t go down like that.

Here’s my question: Why are we more worried about the ability of children to distinguish between holiday fun and truth than we are with their ability to find truth in the menagerie of nonsense in which we surround them?

I read the other day that Facebook is becoming less and less popular with young people. Blame it on new phone apps. Blame it on their ever-changing social media needs. Blame it on whatever you want. But here’s my personal theory:

They are tired of the social noise made by grown-ups.

It’s really hard to form your own thoughts and opinions as a college freshman when your former nursery school teacher is ranting about a healthcare system implanting microchips into every citizen.

It’s easy to question the mindset of church leaders when they have Facebook-certified "proof" that the President is the antichrist.

Instead of being relieved that the gospel is being depicted on public television, we talk to our friends and neighbors about actor Satan's striking resemblance to Obama.

It’s impossible not to wonder why fear and conspiracy have usurped poster child status  for Christianity.

I assert that young people feel as if these people who raised them and educated them are suddenly sharing information without a second thought and seem to have no concern for how that affects their development and spiritual direction.

Damaging forum comments, status updates, and a total disregard for common sense wreak more havoc on a confused young person than the Santa Claus lie ever will.

Be a Republican, be a Democrat, like guns, hate guns—but don’t think for one second that you’re not sending some type of message.

I'm not saying that I haven't been guilty of passionate rhetoric from time to time-- but more than offend, I want to challenge the church.

Make sure that the messages portrayed are edifying, worth sharing and that your followers are being led to the real Jesus, not the poorly illustrated one faded behind an opinionated message.

Love Attack

Usually off-the-wall news stories aren’t local. But yesterday, I read that in my town—at a nature center that I like to visit, a man tried to impress his date by staging an assault. I guess he felt that a damsel in distress scenario was still relevant in 2013. The plans were for Mr. Bad Guy to somehow choose to reside outside of a FREE FAMILY PARK (because nothing says ransom money like people who want to look at a one-eyed owl and check out a 3-D landscape of Crowley’s Ridge) and then pop out and take the girl, only for her to be rescued by Prince Charming.

But his plans went awry when Cinderella booked it out of there and called the police. He soon cracked under the pressure and relayed his scheme. Something tells me this dude may be flying solo for a while. [See link at the bottom for more details.]

Can I just say how glad I am that the dating chapter of my life is over? If marriage is a prison, lock me up. Lock.Me.Up. Because this is the kind of mess we think we have to do. I once had to avoid romantic advances from strangers—not once, but twice—in a cemetery. I was coerced into paying $7 to ship a forgotten harmonica to a band member in a cousin’s wedding in hopes that he would marry me in return ($7 is a pretty cheap dowry, folks).

Here are some other reasons I’m thankful I don’t have to deal with that dating mess anymore:

5. I can now talk to male acquaintances like a normal person. When you have been trained to think that every guy you interact with might be “potential,” it automatically ups the ante. I remember my mom’s horrified look when she introduced me to a friend’s son. I hadn’t said more than, “Nice to meet you” and my face became the Niagara Falls of sweat. My upper lip shined like it had just been waxed and my hands were clammy and shaky. She soon rescued me from my words and prevented me from breaking God’s “I won’t flood the world again” promise.

4. The ring is a powerful thing. “You’re just approachable, Ashton.” If I heard that explanation once, I heard it a million times growing up as to why I got unwanted attention from certain individuals. When you get married and the unwanted attention stops, you tell yourself it just has to be the ring. It has to be. Regardless of the reasoning, you are relieved and can live daily life more normally.

3. You don’t have to pretend anymore. I know, I know. Be yourself, right? The people that say this are usually guilty of uttering, “But you may want to eat slower, contain your voice volume, lose 15 pounds and wear my outfit” in the same breath. I have been a football team’s #1 fan. I have pretended to like fancy seafood. I have pondered a life without indoor plumbing. I have figured out though that I prefer delivery pizza and not using the bathroom on sawdust.

2. You don’t have to bother with rules. Do I wait two days before calling? Do I let him call first? Am I being needy? Is it too soon to say “I love you”? Oh no, I said “we” when referencing the future. When you’re married, you can drop the “L” bomb all you want—and your future can have him/her in it without waiting for the “It’s not you, it’s me” monologue.

1. You no longer have to act like movies are real life. I remember watching a sweet movie where the dude blindfolds the girl and feeds her this sauce he made. He wants her to really savor the flavor and pick out what’s in it. That is so sweet. Fast forward to one of my many bad decisions who asked me to close my eyes at a restaurant, I might add and relish in this crème Brule. Um no. There was no relishing going on, people. I felt like a baby in a Gerber commercial. My parents worked too hard teaching me not to spit out my carrots for me to backtrack.

So when people describe marital life as a ball and chain, I just think of the alternative. When my dog drenches me in milk and cereal (aka yesterday), I just remember the graveyard Casanova.

I could be comfortably married or I could be fake attacked. At the rate I was going, it was only a matter of time.

Actual story: http://www.kait8.com/story/21723236/jpd-attack-victim-was-trying-to-impress-date

Year One.

This weekend we celebrate our first anniversary. How crazy is that? I can honestly utter that age-old cliche, "Where did the time go?" with the utmost sincerity.

There were a lot of great times. There were tough times. There were times when Justin probably said, "What is she going to do next?" There were days when I felt like wife of the year; and days where I felt like he should have married anyone else but me. But ultimately, I feel blessed. I have found the man who sees me for what I truly am: a beautiful mess.

It wouldn't be an Ashton post without some lists, right? So here's some findings I came across on this journey:

1. Everything prior to tying the knot is now historical and sentimental. It’s not like getting married is your old self dying a thousand deaths or anything. It’s just that your singlehood and everything about it has suddenly evaporated into this fog of mothball nostalgia.

One weekend, I kidnapped several of my Madame Alexander dolls and brought them home from my parents’ house. I put them on display at the end of the hall for a good 10 seconds before Justin and I unanimously agreed that it was too “Are You Afraid of the Dark?” (Classic Nickelodeon shout-out).

And I’m sure that Justin has already tired of the “I made 6 points in 6 seconds at the Manila tournament my senior year” story that gets brought up every time I see something that resembles a basketball.

Even the Searcy Sonic gets me rolling down memory lane as I recall the glorious summer they had Mango Limeades for a limited time only.

2. Holidays are now full of calculating and plotting. Remember when you hated that loud, crowded, stinky van ride with all your siblings on the way to your Christmas destination? After you get hitched, you want to just shout, “Just shove me in the van and let’s go. I don’t even care if we eat at that shady Mexican restaurant and hurl the rest of the way. Let's go, Pops.” But instead, it’s this balancing act of time, emotions, traditions and travel. January 1^st rolls around and you swear you will go postal if you see another turkey.

3. Your parents are in fact not alien creatures from another planet. You come to realize this for a number of reasons. Remember when your dad was an unreasonable, non-budging dictator who HAD to watch NCIS at 9 p.m. sharp or else? The man has 7^th graders blasting poorly-played trumpets in his ear all day. Can’t he have one hour and a bowl of popcorn to help solve a murder?

And your mom wasn’t trying out for Community Theater when she tearfully begged you to reconsider dating that one guy. She just knew that when you were actually married, you would thank God and a moment of clarity that you didn’t have to travel down this challenging road with a rusty clunker with mediocre people skills.

4. Marriage is not a competitive sport. Let me let you in on a secret: For every couple that seems to be going on a cruise every 2.5 seconds, there are 17 more that are watching Family Feud in bed with a dog sitting on their face. And for every couple that bought a new sectional, there are 14 that have to say, “Hey, sit on this side. It’s not caving in.”

5. You’re not going to have everything at once…and that’s OK. I guess I thought when you said “I do,” Bob Barker would open up the curtains and show you furniture, televisions, a washer and dryer set that doesn't wake up the whole neighborhood and a memory foam mattress that felt like heaven and marshmallows. Wrong. You’re going to get ottomans out of dumpsters and listen carefully when someone says they got a new dining room table. “What are you doing with the old one?” will become your mantra as you piece together your home one item at a time.

6. Don’t get in a rush. Nine months of marriage is like 25 years in “When are you having a baby?” years. As I told my dad, I’ll start thinking about it when your child support checks start rolling in. Be a little selfish for a while. Eat cookies for dinner sometimes. Don’t wake up every 2-3 hours. Enjoy your nasal hairs not trapping the smell of poop.

7. Create little but significant traditions. Almost every Friday, we go to Fuji’s for lunch and deem it “Fuji Fridays.” We have our nightly shows that we can’t wait to watch together. Next year’s goal: Make traditions that don’t involve eating and possibly involve going outside.

"Success in marriage does not come merely through finding the right mate, but through being the right mate." ~Barnett R. Brickner

Man, I Feel Like a Woman

Being a woman isn’t always fun. I’ll spare you the details, but yeah. Sometimes you just want to jump ship, ditch the stretch marks and burn pantyhose in a bonfire of revenge. I have to say though—for the most part—it hasn’t been all too bad (Get back to me when an 8-pound football child has landed on Earth via me.)

In honor of International Women’s Day, I have compiled a list of 10 reasons why it’s good to be a woman:

• Pretty much any excuse to have dessert is acceptable. I’d like to see a man utter, “I missed that last three-pointer. I think I need a chocolate molten cake from Chili’s ASAP.” But you best believe that sending out an e-mail typo equals a bad day at the office. Hello, Dairy Queen!

• Implying anything about OBGYN matters gives you a Fast Pass. I remember doing line drills one time in basketball practice. I said, “Coach, I need to go to the bathroom.” He acted like I could wait. After slyly throwing in that I also needed some ibuprofen, his eyes got big and he said, “Ash, go. GO!” I’d like to see a male boss’s rebuttal to your announcement that you’re getting a mammogram. They can’t HANDLE the truth (if you didn’t say that in the movie voice, you lose).

• You can let your pajamas do the talking. Oh, so she’s wearing her faded college hoodie and my flannel pants? Hello, night of playing Halo and eating bean dip out of the can.

• You can sink a free throw, get an ace, or hit a homerun without fear that your friend will forcefully hit you on the rear. This probably has to do with the fact that some of our butts wouldn’t stop shaking and quaking until the game was over. Winning hazard.

• If your cruise line sinks, you get off first. Has this rule changed since the Titanic? Maybe it’s a free for all now that we have jobs and dreams and stuff like that.

• A subtle hip sway and slight lip pucker amounts to dancing. If your party date, however, decides to follow this little rule, he looks like a bow-legged Angelina Jolie frog.

• You have at least two spies out there at all times. I mean, who else would tell you that your mean ex-boyfriend is now fat? Or that there are Great Value imitation Girl Scout cookies at Wal-Mart?

• We don’t have to stand next to someone in a public restroom to pee. God probably thought ahead on this one and knew women wouldn’t possess the “This isn’t the time to chit chat” filter that men have.

• Being bloated is considered an actual disease amongst other women. They will even choose the restaurant based on whether or not you want to put on real pants.

• You can obsessively look at pin-ups of a sugar cookie inside a chocolate chip cookie covered in brownie batter and no one tells you to seek therapy. Yeah, until culinography becomes an actual thing, I’m good. 

Stiff.

I'm stiff. If you walk up to hug me, I will most likely tense up and give you a Frankenstein embrace right back. I remember being told prior to my dating years that I hugged like a brick wall (Mom's always shoot it to you straight).

People at church even lovingly poke at me sometimes with an occasional, "I saw you slapping your knee during that third song" or "You moved a little bit."

It goes without saying that crying in church is pretty much a taboo for stiffs like me. It's such surrender. It constitutes a lack of self-control.

Rewind to two Sundays ago. Despite being the worship leader's wife, I often don't get the scoop on the set list. Justin starts singing this Mercy Me song I hadn't heard before.

I've been the one to shake with fear
And wonder if You're even here
I've been the one to doubt Your love
I've told myself You're not enough

That sounds like me. Uh. That really sounds like me.

I've been the one to try and say
I'll overcome by my own strength
I've been the one to fall apart
And to start to question who You are

I start to feel the heat slowly make its way up to my face. This is when I know it's about to go down. Nope. It must be the end of the month or something. You are not touched. Come on. Cue cheesy, repetitive chorus. Please.

You're the one who conquers giants
You're the one who calls out kings
You shut the mouths of lions
You tell the dead to breathe
You're the one who walks through fire
You take the orphan's hand
You are the one Messiah
You are I am.

At this point, my chin has made its way from the ridiculous-looking quibble to the full-fledged spectacle. And you know what? I didn't really care. In that moment, it felt really good.

In that moment I realized:

Satan isn't using alluring, Magic Mike adulterers to deviate my path. He's not a slithering serpent with enticing whispers. He isn't a scary, pitchfork toting Disney character.

He has used beautiful, talented, spiritual women--without their knowledge or consent-- to continually break my spirits down. I have used their strong moments and compared it to my weak ones; their peaks have stood next to my valleys.

I have read the Facebook posts of cancer-stricken mothers and thought, "I wouldn't be able to use this as a ministry. I am so angry for her right now. Why is she not livid?"

I have seen people pack up their stuff and follow God's calling for their life, while enviously accusing God of leaving me out of the calling hat-drawing.

I have watched others angelically sing and pouted because my voice will never bless the ears of those who listen.

I hear people say that they love to read what I write in the same moment that I replay every closed door that has been slammed in my face.

I find it interesting that in 2 Corinthians 11:14, it says: "And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light."

Though this is mostly talking about people who are pretending to be something, I think it could also be stretched to mean that he uses comparisons of perfection to make you beat yourself up. Someone could be truly genuine and be used as Satan's vessel against you if you let it happen.

So be stiff if you're stiff. It doesn't make you any less of a worshipper. Hop around if you want to hop around. You may not be the worship leader's wife archetype (here's looking at me, kid). But in your own way you are exemplifying the change he has made in your life.

If I've done nothing else, I hope that my social faux pas, career disappointments and blatant honesty leave a legacy of realness; one that glorifies his perfectness through my imperfection.

The song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2JI4CPfuLW0