Hottie.

I don't know what it is, but when you're 28+ and someone--anyone--hits on you, you feel ashamedly flattered. Like you go inside and do the three head turns in front of the mirror (profile, front, other profile). This very sad, very pathetic phenomenon is new to me. I preface with this to say:

A bold stranger rolled up while I was pulling weeds and asked if I was single. I got to hold up my left hand and say, "I'm married." The look of defeat on his face--this is going to sound awful--made me feel awesome. You can judge me all you want, but you can't tell me that when that Subway guy looked you up and down, you didn't feel a little elated when you responded, "Toasted." So hush it.

I think it's because-- for five brief seconds--someone finds you mysterious. Someone doesn't know:

• You scrounge your house for half an hour searching for $1.31 in change--the price of a Route 44 drink during Happy Hour at the shady Sonic. If your husband doesn't see another Sonic charge on your debit, the trip didn't exist. 

• You have bad yoga pants and good yoga pants and you switch them out depending on where you are going. Nice dinner party? Let's go with the ones that don't have fuzzies lining the inner-leg from your lack of thigh gap.

• You get sore from doing very mundane things. Painted a hutch? Yeah, you're gonna feel that tomorrow. 

• One of your levels of Dante's Inferno includes CrossFit and a juicer. ("When We All Get to Heaven," sing it with me now!)

• You cook recipes that are for a family of four...and your family of two often eats the whole thing. What kind of family shares an 8x8 casserole? We would turn into the Donner party up in here. 

• You watch hours of Criminal Minds and plan out your course of action if you were to get attacked in various places. 

• Using the scan gun at Sam's sends a rush of adrenaline through your veins and fulfills your childhood dream of being a cashier. 

During a period when your life is changing, your body is changing, your metabolism is changing (read: quitting), it's nice to become a mystery--even if it's to Weirdy McWeirdston. 

So enjoy a creepy staredown every now and then and don't be ashamed that it made you feel like a junior high hottie again. 

I'll catch ya'll later. It's 2:37 and I've got loose change to find. 

Dream On

For the past several months, I have started having what I will call "housewife nightmares." I go to pick up a vehicle after a minor tune-up and the guy nonchalantly states, "That will be 6000 dollars, please."

Or I'm in the middle of painting an old piece of furniture and someone grabs it and takes it to the living room and destroys the rug I saved up for. I wake up in a cold sweat over a rug, ya'll. A large piece of carpet keeps me up at night.

I've also dreamed that everyone brought me a weenie dog and my house was overtaken by dachshunds (contrary to popular belief--and my Facebook wall--this was not a positive dream).

It's so funny how, as our lives shift, so do our ridiculous insecurities that weasel their way into our mind's reject pile of thoughts during our REM cycle.

Let's compare dreams:

Before: You're standing at your high school locker and can't remember the combination.

Now: You're in the grocery store line and you forgot your membership card. To make matters worse, you suddenly have no recollection of your phone number either.

Before: You are giving a speech in Oral Communications completely naked.

Now: Being naked. Period.

Before: You meet the man of your dreams.

Now: You killed your husband, but wake up relieved that he's still lying beside you.

Before: You're being chased through a crowd of people.

Now: A crowd of people come over to your house and tell you that they thought you were in charge of Thanksgiving dinner this year.

I'm sure when I become a parent, the dreams will take a turn for the weirder. Each stage of life brings its own set of nightmares and challenges.

But when we wake up, we know who is in control. Even if I have to unexpectedly cook a turkey or dish out my life savings for a couple spark plugs, I know (praise ye the Lord) that goofy nightmares are not my reality.

So mail me a thousand dachshunds. I got this.

Conversation Change

I sat in the drab lobby. I cut my eyes between the other people in the waiting room and the shriveled, dying ferns placed everywhere. Isn't it kind of hard to kill a fern? I thought to myself. It smelled musty in there, like a dying rain forest. I was contemplating leaving when I heard my name called. Here goes nothing.

This was me at a counseling center a couple years ago. After a quick rundown, I was told that I suffered from high anxiety and mild depression (they're kind of disorder best friends). The news flooded me with both relief and guilt. You see, I had no reason to feel like I felt.

I have a loving family. A supportive husband. Great friends. A sense of humor. And a God who created me in his own image.

This. This isn't his image. What's wrong with me? There are people out there who have pah-lenty of reasons to feel like they can't leave their bed, and I am most certainly not one of them.

And I can't share this with anyone because I'm the "funny one." I make people laugh. They don't want to hear about my problems. Heck, I'm one goofy Facebook status away from them not believing me anyway.

That was me up until about a year ago. 

That probably comes as a surprise to many of you; and if it is, I accomplished what I intended. But recent events have led me to be a little more open. Because the truth is, there are people in your midst every single day whose struggle is exponentially more severe than mine was. And perhaps they don't have the means to seek the help they need.

And that's why the church desperately needs to change its outlook on mental illnesses. We are supposed to be the gateway to getting those people help--not the deniers who send them to their homes to pray more fervently.

Depression and anxiety are not correlated to how much spirituality a person possesses or lacks. And until we immerse ourselves in that fact, we will continue to go to funerals and read hateful literature afterward about suicide's "selfishness" to lick our wounds.

I sought help. I got help. And it was because there were a few people in my life who refused to step in and say stupid, outdated things to me. And it made all the difference in my life and in my marriage.

So instead of uttering something tacky like, "That just goes to show you that money doesn't buy happiness," how about we vow to see people. To actually see people. Depression doesn't have a poster child; it can be the chatty waitress you had at lunch or the star of the high school basketball team.

It can be hidden; or it can be so painfully obvious it just can't be ignored. So don't ignore it. Educate yourself, but don't think you're the answer. Realize that God's faithfulness makes a difference, but its implementation can take the form of a medical professional.

Church, we need to change the conversation. And it starts with you.

My Community Church Story.

My journey into the community church setting was not a deliberate one; it wasn't a response to mistreatment; it wasn't because of a sudden scriptural enlightenment; it wasn't a rebellious last stand against my upbringing. Do people make changes because of these reasons? Absolutely. But I was not one of them.

I fell in love.

I fell in love with a guy who worships Jesus with an acoustic guitar in his hand. I fell in love with a guy who hates showing emotion, but can't get through a service without tears streaming down his face. 

And I thought it was going to be a deal breaker. The first few times I attended, I sat the entire service with my arms crossed. People even warned Justin that I was ice that just wasn't breaking. 

But I fought. And I cried. And I discussed. And I studied. And my heart was broken that the legs that I thought I was standing on became increasingly unstable--their stability crumbled by a first-time unbiased look at scriptures I had read a million times. 

The other started slowly at first. 

"Is your fiance a member of 'the church'?"

"I go to a community church in Jonesboro." The awkward pause. The belated response of "Oh." 

Feeling ashamed to be Facebook tagged at church because others might think that I "gave up my religion" for a boy. (I've been told similar before). 

Am I a tad oversensitive? Probably. But these are subtle things that many experience when they enter a slightly different church setting. 

I should be overjoyed to talk about my speaking engagement at a women's conference or the wonderful praise team and worship band we have, but instead I feel like these are things that would elicit a weird subject change rather than more questions. 

I write this, not to be controversial or hurtful, but to bring awareness. Most people have been nothing but kind to me. But I also know that many are oblivious to how glances and certain phrases make other people feel. How the wrong inflection of 'the church' can tear down someone's spirit. How confusing "leaving the faith" with "leaving my church" is a detrimental point of view. 

When someone who wasn't jaded before becomes jaded accidentally after the fact, what insight does this leave in regard to influencing young people who are still there? I assure you that their staying has little to do with "kids these days," Beyonce's lack of clothes or the church next door's rock concerts. It has to do with so much more. So much more. And we're ignoring that. 

I have debated writing this for quite some time. Recent events have helped me finish it. Because I feel like others need to know what muted ostracism feels like. 

The worst part of all this is coming to grips with how judgmental I was. How I could go to a Casting Crowns concert and the next day wonder why you played them at your congregation. How Rated R movies seemed like a better option than a youth rally at a different denomination. 

Looking back, the double standards in my head were atrocious. But I'm proof that it's never too late to change your heart. 

I promise it will change your life. 

The Job of Your Voice

You know you haven't blogged in forever when... it takes you like 238 times to get your password right. Oops.

I could shower you with a ton of excuses right now. I'm good at excuses. Like if there was an American Excuse Ninja competition, I'd put that female 5 ft gymnast alien that's going viral to SHAME.

But here's the bottom line, people: I was discouraged. A wonderful job opportunity fell through (I would have been able to blog and Facebook for a living, folks. Hello, that had my name all over it!) Everyone around me seemed to be starting their medical residencies and popping out kids, and I felt like I was Captain America--frozen in time--waiting for my chance to resurrect itself centuries down the road. I realize I just made an American Ninja and superhero reference within the first few paragraphs. If that doesn't say "marriage," I don't know what does.

I would read these blogs (cough, cough, Matt Walsh) that were clearly cookie cutter written to get certain groups riled up and tons of views. If there was a poster of preaching to the choir, these bloggers would be on it. This would defeat me even more. What's the purpose of writing, I would think, if 2 million people would rather read a whiny mom blog about what her kid-less friends don't understand? 

In this social media driven world, it's hard not to get immersed in numbers, in shares, in hits. What I didn't realize is that I was applying the failure that has plagued my professional endeavors to what was once an escape from all that. As author Meg Rosoff says,

"Your writing voice is the deepest possible reflection of who you are. The job of your voice is not to seduce or flatter or make well-shaped sentences. In your voice, your readers should be able to hear the contents of your mind, your heart, your soul." 

My job is not to flatter a topic, whether I agree with it or not, for the sake of popularity. My job is not to base the weight of my experiences on how many people "shared" them. My job is to relay the depths of my heart.

And it's time I got back to that.

Weeds

As most of you know, I glean most of my spiritual lessons and applications from my day to day life. If I had one word to describe the past several weeks of it, it would be: WEEDS. 

Owning a home has its perks; owning an older home has its charms; but there are times that they combine and the result is not quite HGTV. (At least they get to fast forward). 

Justin and I have finished the bathtub remodel, assembled a shed, painted and redecorated a laundry room, loaded and unloaded mass amounts of filter sand and appliances, installed a fountain, mulched flowerbeds, and numerous other things I don't even want to rehash right now. 

I'm not one of those "Let's work together, this is fun" types. I am the girl who watches makeover shows and speeds through until the end result is finished. I don't want to see all that in-between stuff. Bor-ing. Give me the before picture. Give me the after picture. And I'm golden. 

That's kind of how I am in real life too. While "I want a divorce," is probably the worst thing your husband could say to you, I dare to say, "Can you come out here and help me with something?" could be a close second. 

You know a man's desperate when he wants me (the girl who asks if the flat head screwdriver is the flat one) to be his right-hand man. My job was seemingly simple. Use my sweet little voice to guide him from my view on the inside of the shed. Disaster. I froze. I couldn't remember my left from my right; I would zone out and forget to tell him "when." 

"Ashton. Use words. Use your words. Words are helpful!"

At one point, I cried out angrily, "Just call a BOYYYY!"

Crash, bang, crash. Something fell over, but it literally sounded like the roof was caving in on me. 

Oh, I said a word. Not a really pretty one. It scares me that if I leave this Earth any other way but peaceful, my last words may not be inspirational (gotta work on that). 

So this is just a snapshot of the last several weeks. I'm happy to report we still love each other. And that I have regained the ability to tell my left from my right. 

As I was pulling yet more weeds today, I got to thinking: 

I'm an old house. My appliances like to call it quits; I need patching after a rough storm. I require daunting maintenance and attention; weeds keep popping up even after they're destroyed;

Yet God bought me. He could have had a new house in the suburbs with brand new appliances. 

But he thought I was charming. He thought I had potential. And he decided to work on me every day of my life, pulling weeds he thought he got rid of; ripping down the vines and ivy that attempt to suck the joy out of my life (that is both literal and figurative. I hate you ivy). 

I sat in my now beautiful backyard tonight and I felt a very small-scale version of God at the end of creation. The demolition of shrub roots and the trimming of flowers is a far cry from say humans, animals, stars, and oh yeah- light, but it still was so, so good. I almost said, "And it was good," but I didn't want to steal his line. 

How cool is it that God sees us that way? That he takes time to sit back and view our progress as true beauty? He knows he can't hang up the shovels and the saws and the annoying wife helpers-- but the more he works on us, the more he loves the old house that will become his dwelling place. 

My Writing Process: A Blog Tour

Last week, a friend from college journeyed down the blog tour on her personal blog-- www.owensnest.wordpress.com. Love her marital insight and stories-- check her out if you get the chance. 

The goal is to answer the given questions concerning your writing process and then mention a few blogs you read at the end of your entry. The people you "tagged"-- if they so choose--will continue the trend the following week. I'm thankful to Hannah for giving "Happily Ever Laughter" a shout-out last week. So here it goes:

1. What am I working on? 

Sadly, my writing has kind of taken a backseat lately. Getting our yard and pool ready for spring--along with other activities here and there--have kept me preoccupied. I have also found (post being laid off) how much my writing was based on my daily interactions and experiences. Now that my daily life has changed, I often find myself stuck in the inspiration department. I am still working toward finding out how to write about this new place in my life without becoming boring and redundant. 

2. How does my work differ from others in its genre? 

I feel like more marital/lifestyle blogs are starting to become this way, but when I first started out, I felt like I was helping pave the way to transparency. Marriage is hard. Trying to find a job is hard. Becoming an adult, in general, stinks. I felt like exposing my insecurities about being a newlywed and letting people read raw, cry-while-you're-typing emotion was my ministry. I want people to know they're not alone and that cookie-cutter blogs that show these perfect moms and perfect wives just don't tell the whole story. Don't beat yourself up if your kids eat McDonald's or you don't wake up at 5 a.m. to fix your husband homemade scones. 

3. Why do I write what I do? 

I touched on this in the answer above, but I have always written in order to shine a new light on regular life; to take a situation you face every day and put a new spin on it. To draw a lesson or an insight from something that most people would ignore. I think bloggers wear an interesting lens when viewing the world, and I try to use mine to make others laugh. 

4. How does your writing process work? 

I wish I could say that I can just sit down at the computer and start spouting Pulitzer Prize winning stuff. Instead, this is what a typical pre-blog looks like for me: I'm sitting at lunch with an old friend and she says, "Remember when we were single and we could just have cookie dough for dinner? Now we're married and we have to present a decent plate of food." LIGHT BULB. 

I immediately get out my phone and act like I'm texting. Instead, I am hurriedly typing out other ways that life changes when you get hitched into the "notes" section of my phone.

If something happens to me and police search the "notes" on my phone, I hate to see their mental profile of me. Schizophrenic with great grammar, perhaps? 

Go check out: 

Check out Heather's blog at www.cakeandgreenbeans.wordpress.com. She is blatantly honest like me and holds nothing back. Her take on motherhood is refreshingly real and I've heard countless moms thank her for expressing their exact emotions.

My cousin Hannah is an awesome photographer and her blog is one I frequent-- not just for the beautiful pictures but her vitality and positive view of life. www.thefreckledkeyphotography.com

There's so many more I can mention, but I'll refrain just to give others a chance to participate if they want to. There's only so many blogs in one circuit :) 

Thanks for taking the time to tour with me. I promise I'll get back to writing. This was a much-needed boost.