Fresh.

“I think maybe I want to go to law school.”

“What if I got my doctorate and became a professor? Wouldn’t I be a cool professor?”

“I’m going to make your church office my study and start writing a book.”

“I could read to kids at the library.”

“I like clothes. I should work at a boutique!”

Welcome to our new daily rundown. Bless Justin’s soul.

He just listens to me deviate my path by the minute and intercedes calmly with silly questions like, “What would you even get your doctorate in?”

Every other day I am texting him with a new course of action. You see, I’ve been presented with this semi-fresh start, and I feel ill-equipped to face it (one more week ya’ll).

I’m like a high school senior on graduation day at times—using buzzwords like “horizon” and “passion.”

Other times, I’m playing grown-up—researching private insurance premiums and contemplating the actual odds of me contracting a critical illness or facing dismemberment (I try to stay away from serial killers).

My mind always circles back to returning to school, but I know it’s only because education is a place of refuge for me; a place where I excelled; a place where I was proud of what I created.

Because I live in a world that seems to value what I do more than who I am, I’m going to have to learn to be still; and to be content in that stillness.

Life is a fancy schmancy cocktail party and I’m going to have to be that girl who doesn’t have a cool answer for a while; and that’s OK. Truth be told, I could tell them I’m a biophysicist and they wouldn’t remember the next day.

We try to convince ourselves that with the right education, the right credentials, the right career, we will reach that level of fulfillment we so desire.

An 18-year-old kid who can’t even remember to do his Trig homework is supposed to answer to us with his post-graduation projection goals. And then make thousands of dollars worth of mistakes in the process.

We meet someone for the first time and immediately ask, “So what do you do?” This is often followed by the oh-so-creative, “What does your spouse do?”

We’ve become a society that expects answers; expects you to find a way to butter-up the description of where you are in life; expects you to place the same values in the same places as they do.

Men love being workaholics. Women love to stay at home. Only feminists find fulfillment in their careers; these misplaced stereotypes that can never describe every familial dynamic out there.

Well, people. This is my time. This is my time to find my dynamic; to find completeness without seeing the complete picture.

At least until I decide to revert back to being a dolphin trainer (shout out to 3rd grade!)

“Happiness is not a goal...it's a by-product of a life well lived.”
― Eleanor Roosevelt

The Curve

I usually skim news headlines to see if anything sticks out to me; preferably something that might trigger a slight reaction. I just saw where a British salon taxes curvier women for a leg wax. This is becoming a topic as other industries (like the airline industry) are bouncing around the idea of charging fees based on weight. You know, because Honey Boo Boo’s family is the root of high airline fuel costs. And my thunder thighs are breaking the wax companies—wherever they reside.

It’s not that I fear a giant scale waiting for me at the end of a metal detector (Ok, that is absolutely terrifying), but it’s more of a reminder that I need to get back on track.

I was doing so well for over a month; I was plugging my food into my calorie counter; I was actually thinking about what I was stuffing into my mouth. I was chewing like a French lady instead of a Rottweiler with a piece of steak.

But then you just wake up one day and all those substitutions that were working just awesome aren’t so cool anymore. You realize this is your life—for the rest of your life—and you become momentarily discouraged. Here’s why:

1. Restaurant light menu options are depressing. Chicken sandwich—400 calories. Fine print: This does not include any condiments, cheese, or the two buns that MAKE IT A SANDWICH. This requires a broccoli substitution for seasoned fries. Also, it helps if you jump up and down while you eat the sandwich.

2. Magazine tips are stupid. I’m sorry, “Shape.” I’m just not going to do three sets of dips at my desk in front of my ENTIRE OFFICE. Nor will my boss appreciate me sounding like an out-of-breath hamster as I Tour-De-France it on my miniature stationary bike.

3. You’re always given a glimpse into your future. You’re sitting there starving—googling what a flax seed is—and someone says, “Oh, wait until you have a baby. You won’t even recognize your own body anymore.” Nothing makes you want to tighten those glutes like the mental image of your figure’s post-breastfeeding demise. And don’t forget the older ladies who radiate in the lives of women post-birth: “Gravity will kick in soon. Those sisters will be at your knees.”

4. Burning calories is so much harder than inhaling them. By the end of the day, I’m counting everything. Dishes- 10 calories. Kissed husband—7 calories. I ate a taco today—kiss him again. Froze my butt off taking the dog to the bathroom—shivering has got to count for SOMETHING.

5. You can only be positive about substitutions for so long. Catch me at the beginning of a lifestyle change and I will tell you that low-fat cool whip with sliced strawberries on top is the perfect filler for ice cream. Talk to me say…now…and I will breathe fire until you lay Bluebell’s Italian Cream Cake at my feet. And the next person that tells me almonds are a great movie snack will be pelted with buttery popcorn until they recant.

I don’t need any fan mail. I’m getting back with it. The holidays are going to get some leeway, but after that—it’s go time.

If you’re feeling discouraged, know that you’re not alone. If you want to hold up a Fiber One 90-calorie pack and scream, “YOU’RE NOT A BROWNIE!”—you’re definitely not alone. If you want to grab an expensive boutique blouse and Hulk-rip it over your body to prove that it’s not a true large, bring some granola and let’s go green.

Faces.

This particular post may get me kicked out of my home state; or worse, I may be introduced to someone’s right to bear arms. But I press on.

This will come as no surprise to most of you; but I don’t own one camo garment. The only hunting I participate in involves looking for a large shirt on a sale rack. I married a man who promised to never make me camp outdoors. I’ll never forget the moment he looked into my eyes and said, “I work too hard to pretend I’m homeless.” It was love.

So naturally, I’m going to watch a little more primetime ABC and a little less “Duck Dynasty.”

But I’ll be darned if that family isn’t on EVERYTHING. I went to Wal-Mart last night and it was like being in the Arkansas Louvre. Everywhere I went, Mona Lisa with unruly facial hair was staring at me. Towels. T-Shirts. Pillows. Blankets.

Recently there has been controversy over their appearance on bottles of wine and cigars. They have actually had speaking engagements canceled due to their new product line.

I’m not going to touch that topic with a shotgun (Shotguns are the long ones, right?)

I like the Robertsons; from all accounts they appear to be a wonderful, Christian family example. But that’s where I think we have gotten a little off course.

They are an example. They are an illustration of a certain kind of family.

Instead, Christians have been so desperate for public representation that we have almost made them synonymous with Southern Christianity. We want people to see them and picture all of us sitting at the family table.

We’re either quoting them; posting videos of them; or passing along the news that the networks want to cut their prayers out. We defend their cause bravely and then drop them the second Wood Duck Chardonnay hits the shelves.

I actually saw a preacher pose this deep theological question on a forum: “As Christians, how are we to respond to the Robertsons’ wine venture?”

What’s next week’s sermon—“Keeping Out the Kardashians”?

What kind of message does this send to the rest of the world? What kind of message does this send to individuals like me who want to find God—but not in a deer stand?

I’m glad they’re on television; I’m glad there is something out there for families to watch.

But anytime you make matters of faith about humans and their corresponding decisions, disappointment will result. Failure will result. Misunderstandings about Jesus will result.

Support them. Watch them. Even buy a few beach towels. But make sure the focus is not on their every move—but on Jesus moving through us.

Christianity comes in many forms and has many faces—some of which don’t even have a beard.

Meet Minnie Ray

I have neglected to introduce you to our newest family member. Poor baby didn’t know she would—by no fault of her own—trigger her new mother’s mental and emotional collapse a day after coming home for the first time.

She will probably go on Oprah as an adult and divulge her puppyhood trauma. Note to self: Don’t buy a dog when you have recently been laid off and your entire world is changing.

But she has been a trouper through it all. She couldn’t be more different than Fiona, but is an often humorous reminder that it takes all kinds to keep the world spinning.

When Justin and I are old and subsequently start to look like our dogs (I’ve heard it happens), I will be Minnie.

Fiona is lean; muscular; an Olympic sprinter. She is slow to anger and rarely barks. Minnie has the same movement patterns as a computer mouse, making wobbling circles that inefficiently hurt her long distance numbers. She is the only dog I have ever seen that eats out of her food bowl while sitting down. Her little belly gets so bloated that she plops down like two kids ready to roll a ball back and forth between them.

I know you’re getting a beautiful mental image of me as a geriatric patient right now.

But really, she is hilarious.

She barks when she isn’t getting her way; she pesters Fiona into playing with her and then immediately flips over to her back in submission mode. It’s like me—I’m usually up for a fight until one is started and I figuratively flop with a “Just kidding. Don’t hurt me.”

The other day, Fiona was racing at lightning speed around the deck, triple-lapping Minnie. Minnie watched closely, eyeing Fiona like she was a double-dutch jump rope she was about to face. Fiona rounded the corner for the millionth time and Minnie—in one brave attempt—darted about three feet and tumbled over, her belly basking in the sunshine.

Oh, I laughed.

What a glorious way to remember God’s love for us.

I can’t tell you how many times I have landed belly-up in my life; how many times I have felt like people were triple-lapping me personally, professionally, and spiritually; how many times I have felt like I was wobbling through life awkwardly without reaching my destination.

But I have a cheering section too; I have a God who is rooting for me just as hard as he is those pesky life marathon runners.

It’s hard to believe such catharsis has come from this little chubby fur ball. I look at her and remember to keep plugging.

At least until it’s time to eat.

The B Word (It's Not Whatcha Think)

I’m about to take a sip of my communion juice several weeks back and this lady leans in and says, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me the big news.”

“That I lost my job?” I whispered.

“No, about the baby.” The inflection of the word “baby” and the peripheral glance toward my belly alerted me that she thought there was something else rolling around in there besides last night’s meat lover’s stuffed crust pizza.

I corrected the misunderstanding—much to her disappointment—and tried to go a little lighter on the communion cracker this time. I sat through the next worship song praying that she wasn’t some Long Island Medium on TLC that knew something I didn’t.

This, my friends, is your life when you are a young woman. You spend the first 5-10 years of adulthood being asked why you’re not married; then you spend the next 5 with inquiries about your uterus, then you get to answer to when your child is going to get a sibling. It’s like the masses are never satisfied. It’s like being born female is an open invitation to the party that is your life.

People mean well—I get that—but the older I get, the more I realize how deeply personal it is to be a woman. You flip out on your dog for peeing on the couch and immediately question the type of mother you’ll be; you watch your friend struggle with infertility and wonder if that will be you; you don’t hold every baby you see and people wonder (often aloud) if you have a natural motherly instinct.

I could turn this into a serious post, but I think yesterday fulfilled the quota on that. Instead, I’m going to picture a world in which the roles are reversed and Justin gets the paparazzi.

· "Hey man, when are you getting a vasectomy?”

· "Dude, great proposal. When do you think you’ll have your first baby?”

· "Here. Hold this baby. You need the practice.”

· "Team Breastfeed or Formula? Please tell me what you think about epidurals.”

· "I gotta tell you. If you wait until you have the money to have a kid, you’ll never have one."

 "Are you going to work or stay at home?”

· "Are ya’ll trying? How’s that trying coming along? Please be as specific as possible.”

· "Bro, everyone at work is having a kid. There must be something in the water. Drink up.”

· "Don’t worry. My friend’s cousin’s daughter had a baby when she was 38. She only had mild complications. Your wife should be fine.”

This is mainly tongue-in-cheek and isn’t meant to step on the toes of people who have dropped the “b” word in my presence. If that were the case, I would be aiming at approximately all of you (you’ve really outdone yourselves, people).

It’s a friendly reminder to keep the sacred things sacred; the personal, personal. And to help young people slow their lives down instead of adding extra horsepower.

And when I find out, I promise you'll be the first to know. Yes, you.

Us.

You’ve probably seen this viral article hanging around on your newsfeed: “Marriage Isn’t For You.”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/seth-adam-smith/marriage-isnt-for-you_b_4209837.html

While I agree with the author’s premise—the notion that marriage reveals a level of selfishness beyond what you could have imagined—part of his advice to young couples didn’t completely settle with me.

Pre-marriage, I spent many years in relationships that centered on the other person’s happiness. I gave without receiving; I practiced thoughtfulness without thanks; I felt paralyzed in mediocre partnerships that were going nowhere fast.

God luckily drew me out of those relationships and led me to marriage. It was then that I regretfully became the spitting image of what I so despised; I unconsciously adopted this attitude: “It’s finally my turn. Make me happy.”

The more he slaved to make me happy, the less content I became. The more I thought I was rocking at the wife thing, the less I absorbed what actually brought him joy.

Had you asked me in our first year of marriage what brought him happiness, I probably would have rattled on about Cardinals games and music equipment.

Because that’s about as far as I got in Superficial Happy Lollipop Land.

If you spend all of your time privately meditating on your spouse’s happiness, you will often miss out on the real thing.

Like the way he smiles when you lean over on Sunday and compliment the worship team he leads; the way he loves to tell you about work even though he knows it is mountain tops above your head; the way he rolls his eyes after you’ve just solved another home improvement disaster without killing each other.

To me, marital happiness is a grueling game of chess, not the end result of two games of Solitaire going on simultaneously.

It is a happiness that comes softly; it often sneaks in while you’re paying bills, burning DiGiorno pizza and wondering if all the Febreeze in the world will make your house smell normal again.

It is something that I received in abundance when I finally stopped focusing on my happiness and his happiness and collectively considered our happiness.

The truth is: Marriage isn’t for you. It isn’t for me either. It’s God’s gift to us. And when you both ensure that your marriage is enjoyable, I promise that individual happiness will follow suit.