My Book of Life

I would hypothesize that at least 67% of our adult lives is spent waiting on some sort of repairman. For the second time in a row, the Terminix guy didn't show up during his three-hour window. Isn't it funny how we pay a fortune so that little micro-bugs don't eat our ENTIRE house? That's one of the many fun details they don't tell you about being a grown up. Probably because it would induce nightmares. Hey sweetie, I can't believe you just got your driver's license. Next thing you know, you will be ready to finance a company to make sure your floors don't cave in from gluttonous home terrorists. Have fun.

Then it was the plumber's turn. He showed up 15 minutes early. Early. He was polite and he finished within an hour and only charged me $90 (when another company said it would be $185 just to crawl under my house. Even if they did nothing else). I wanted to kiss him. I didn't. I'm not a Desperate Housewife...yet. 

I still share exciting news like this with my mother; she used to hear about college functions, now she gets to hear me squeal that the plumber didn't charge me a billion dollars. "You need to write his name down," she cheered.

"I will. I'm going to write his name in my book of life."

I don't know where that quote even came from. But there it was.

It's the truth, though. When you become an adult, you keep a little black book of sorts. When you find a stylist who doesn't style your hair like the duck in the Aflac commercial, ya write it down. When you find the grocery store cashier who lightning scans with fire in her eyes, ya write it down. When you find a mechanic who doesn't tell you a bad brake pad totals your vehicle, ya write it down.

Justin and I will purposefully try to sit in a certain waitress's section if she knows us and has our order pretty much down pat.

You spend most of your life trying to get in with the "cool kids." You spend the rest of your life trying to get the cell number of an honest plumber, a capable mechanic and a hair stylist. They're the ones you don't want to get all 'Mean Girls' on you.

If you're reading this and thinking, "That is such a sad existence," you are young and your time will come. And when it does, call David at Emergency Plumbing and try not to kiss his face.

.....

Isn't it cool that God has our number on file? Our name in his book? We have nothing to give him. He doesn't need us to patch a leaky pipe or give him blonde ombre'. He just needs us to bring our messes to him. To have faith in his power. To love like He loves.

And when that day comes, we will hear our name called and we will rise.

And go to a place where moths and [termites- praise Jesus] can't destroy.

Temple.

I was monotonously riding the elliptical today; I say riding because I like to create so much momentum at the beginning that my legs kind of just go on repeat for about 45 minutes. It's like a less fun swing for grown-ups to do so they can eat breakfast.

My mind began to wander. How did I get here? I'm on this hamster wheel next to all these other hamsters. You have bombshell hamster who doesn't sweat and somehow has a ponytail that perfectly keeps the beat of her Taylor Swift techno mix. You have Big Gulp hamster, who puts a Dr. Pepper in the cup holder and hopes for the best. You get in the middle of them so you feel like a mediocre hamster - not the first to get picked from the pet store, but certainly not the one gnawing on its own leg in the corner of the cage - the one who will soon be on sale for 75% off.

I got here because, when I turned 25, my body said to me, "I hope you lived your carb years to the fullest. I'm out. Peace." I went from not knowing what a nutritional label was to reading one like a Nicholas Sparks book (same amount of tears involved). I would slave for weeks only to lose a pound. I would allow myself some birthday cake at a party and subsequently gain 7. There has got to be some angry gremlin harboring my socks and living in my scale.

This time in my life has given me perspective; it has given me empathy for people who didn't even get 25 years of calorie-loading bliss. Now I'm that creeper who accidentally finds herself, mouth agape, staring at beautiful women at the gym. Forget Magic Mike over there grunting like a child making a dirty diaper. My eyes are fixed on that fine lady who doesn't sit up and have sweat streaks on her shirt where the rolls huddle for a break. You lift back up and hello, zebra. But not this gal. Her XS "I Hate Running" tank mocks me from afar: "I love to run. My shirt is just rubbing that in. Salt in the wound. I am about to go run right now actually. Want to join? Of course you don't."

As evidenced by the above paragraphs, I have my days. I have days where I am tired of working hard. I have days where it hits me, in one swift moment: This is the rest of your life. It's only going to get worse. You haven't even birthed an 8 pound human being yet. You might as well sell your soul to this treadmill and strap a weight belt on. This is you. Forever.

 .......

I remember when I was baptized and dedicated my life to Christ. I rose up out of the water and breathed new air into my chest. I was changed. I was pumped. It's like pre-25 when I could (and would) eat an entire log of chocolate chip cookie dough for dinner with no repercussions.

But the second I became a temple of God, the world started trying to trash it - littering it with discouragement and lies from the pits of hell. I went to church a few times a week; I went on mission trips; I joined small groups. Anything I could do to maintain and grow my new spirit.

Staying in shape physically is quite the feat; but staying in constant relationship with God is much, much harder. Yet I often jog on the hamster wheel of doom more than I kneel in prayer. Perhaps it's because saddle bags are more evident to those around me than sin and a pair of jeans buttoning is a greater victory to me than bringing someone to Christ.

It hit me today while the clock on my machine dragged on: my body is a temple. My whole body. Yes, even the stretch marks (I didn't get fat that fast, dumb skin).

You only get one body- so not mistaking mozzarella sticks for carrot sticks is an important first step. But our physical bodies are slowly fading away. I was ever so reminded of that after camp this past week when I couldn't walk or sit down without groaning.

We've got to work, ya'll. Every day of our lives. Forever. Until he comes back for us. It's not going to be easy. You're going to compare yourself to other hamsters. You're going to wonder why your journey has more obstacles in it.

But it will be worth it. I promise. So keep fighting and get back on the hamster wheel.

(Plus, rumor has it, there are carbs with no calories in heaven).