Lowered.

I started working on lessons for children's camp today. For one, the weather is terrible so I decided not to waste precious life minutes by fixing my hair and going somewhere. And two, June is sneaking up on me- carrying with it my 30th birthday, VBS, and children's camp. I get to summon my new decade by comparing how my 30-year-old knees weather campground hills versus my 20-year-old knees. I'm going to predict a lot of shouts of "Hey, bring that four-wheeler over here." 

Today's story was about the friends who desperately wanted to get their friend who was paralyzed in to see Jesus. Crowds of people flooded the place where Jesus was staying; the line was so long that it bled out into the streets. I picture Disney World without a fast pass. I somehow survived Mickey's Kingdom in the early 2000s without colorful bands. I had to wait in a line for 2 hours like everyone else and try not to throw up as I realized I was about to be plunged into darkness and spun around in fake space. 

But anyway, the friends concocted a pretty crazy plan to help their friend. They climbed up on the roof, created a human-sized hole and lowered their friend down on a mat. Many of us have heard this story so many times that it's become an oh, whatever. Big deal. 

I'm sitting here watching Reba on Lifetime, muted. I can't stand her voice but somehow the silent scenes are comforting in the background. If my roof suddenly gave way and a man started coming down in front of my TV, there would be some dog-whistle-pitched screams up in here. This wasn't an oh, whatever. This was actually a big deal. And Jesus treated it as so. 

He doesn't say, "Dude, this was a new stick and clay roof" or "Why didn't you wait your turn?"

He says, "Son, your sins are forgiven." 

The scribes get all up in arms about this and start throwing the B-word around (blasphemy- what were you thinking about?)

Jesus realized they were in a tizzy and asked, "Why do my words trouble you so? Think about this: is it easier to tell this paralyzed man, "Your sins are forgiven," or to tell him, "Get up, pick up your mat, and walk? [...]"

As we know, the story goes on and the man eventually takes up his mat and walks away. But the above section is what I want to focus on really quick. 

There is so much noise going on right now. Sometimes I feel like the way to Jesus is too crowded for me. Instead of people, it's clouded with social media posts, boycotts and hateful language. Sometimes I feel like I have to climb up on a roof, tear it open and ninja it down there to find him and to be with him. 

And when I finally lower myself and lower my burdens and lower my questions, I hear three words resounding in my head. 

Is. it. easier.

Is it easier to treat people with human dignity or to tell them, "Get up and leave, you sicken us." 

Is it easier to take a stand against causes that break the very heart of God or to take a stand against a retail chain?

Is it easier to desperately seek policy that will honor the Christian calling or to be complacent with a candidate who manipulatively sticks the title next to his name? 

Is it easier to pray for our brothers and sisters who experience actual persecution or to share a post that boasts of our own apparent oppression? 

The right choice isn't always the easiest choice. It's not always what we're most comfortable doing. Like in the story, it's not always the phrase or the attitude that people want or expect from you. 

But it's the choice that points to Jesus and his message in the quickest, most efficient way possible. Jesus said, "Your sins are forgiven" first because he wanted the man (and the people) to know who He was and what He was capable of. 

We need to make sure that we lower ourselves, lower our opinions, lower our anger, lower our fear down so far into the house that we reach Jesus. 

When we jump off the pedestal of self-righteousness and self exaltation, Jesus can finally speak to the people we bring before him. 

Nostalgia.

You don't have to look very hard to see what America is digging these days. 

Star Wars: The Force Awakens. 

Jurassic World. 

Every Marvel character times 100.

Fuller House. 

Gilmore Girls remake. 

The X Files are reopened. 

The list is expanding by the hour. As a people, we are crying out for things that pander to our nostalgia. We want to sit back, for an hour, and remember an easier time. Even if that involves raising Bob Saget from the career dead. 

I'm not saying this nostalgic yearning is a bad thing. It's fun to be reminded of how stinkin hot John Stamos is things that hold fond memories for us of places, people, and childhoods gone by.

But we have been played. Individuals have come along and taken our nostalgic desires and used it against us. They have cherry-picked screenshots of our memories and told us that the past is where it's at. 

Let's make America great again.

Again.

Like it was perfect then. Like we were a thirty-minute sitcom with an annoying laugh track (For the love, how is it humanly possible to laugh after every single thing a person says?)

I could fill up a Netflix reboot with happy times from my childhood, from my teenage years, from my college years. I could pretend those were the only memories that exist for me. 

But they aren't.

I was introduced to sin. I was introduced to cruelty. I was introduced to suffering.

But more than anything, I was introduced to a God who was bigger than the cheesy recurring catchphrases of my story; who was bigger than the few story lines I wanted to keep; who was bigger than my past. 

Social media and a 24-hour news cycle have created the false impression that things have just recently gone awry. But nothing could be farther from the truth. 

While you were watching Michelle Tanner preciously quip, "You got it dude," there was domestic violence, racial inequality, and struggling families not 5 miles away from you.

You may have been watching dinosaurs chomp down victims in Jurassic Park, but that doesn't mean that simultaneously crooked politicians and a broken system weren't closing their powerful jaws on people who so desperately needed their help. 

Nostalgia is a yearning. But we can't let that yearning cripple us from looking forward and striving to be better.

I may be alone here, but I don't want the America of yesterday. The America of "again." I don't want the America where women and children are expected to silently suffer at the hands of abusers; where churches get to decide who is worthy of God's love and acceptance; where people can be cast out based on nothing but race, ethnicity or socio-economic levels beyond their control. 

I don't want the America that only tries to relive the good times. I don't want the America that ignores the ugly parts or denies that they even happened. 

Perhaps what scares me most of all is that - in the back of my head and heart- I know that for some people, this complacency in ignorance is what made America great back then. They miss not being expected to be better. They miss not being expected to change. 

But the Bible is filled to the brim with evolving stories and evolving people. In 1 Corinthians, Paul says,

"When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up my childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. So now faith, hope and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love." 

It's time to stop thinking like children. It's time to stop reasoning like children. It's time to give up our childish ways.

Let's contain the nostalgia to Uncle Jessie Netflix, shall we? 

 

Living the Dream

Every season of my life has been filled to the brim with something. When I was in my early 20s, it was bridesmaid dresses. My now ancient and extinct Garmin GPS had David's Bridal in Little Rock listed as one of my "favorites." Surprisingly, I have worn a couple of those dresses more than once. Probably to attend other weddings. Let's be honest.

My mid-20s was baby shower season. I remember the first time I saw a breast pump in Target. I told myself that I was not going to be the friend who turned my bestie into a milk farm. So I bought a Boppee pillow. It was still in the nursing realm but could also be used to lie on when 'ol Bess needs a break from filling buckets.

I'm turning 30 in a couple months and oh this season has already started, ya'll. The "I dos" have been said, the babies have been had, and now we're all trying to become millionaires.

I'm almost 30, I don't have a full-time gig, and I spend a lot of money on dogs. I get it. I have a large target on my back.

But I just gotta say it. Nicely. But I gotta.

I. Don't. Want. To. Sell. Anything.

Not in a house. Not with a mouse. Not in a box. Not with a fox.

I'm not saying this to dog on people who do. But this is a perspective I think needs to be addressed.

Driving a company car, exceeding my husband's salary, taking a trip with women, having bodily insides pretty enough to hang in The Louvre, is not my dream. It's not a lot of people's dream.

And that's OK.

You know what one of my dreams is, though?

Authentic friendships. Someone cheerleading me to be thankful for what I have. The understanding that often extra spending money comes from the extra spending money that someone else doesn't have.

I write this, because after numerous meetings, messages, coffee dates, etc, I felt empty. I felt like something was wrong with me because I was being told I could "live the dream," only to wonder if something was wrong with me if I didn't want it.

I love deep conversation, but was always hesitant because I knew the person was probably going to ask me to buy something or start selling something once the preliminary catch-up was over. I was waiting for the bomb to drop.

I can do bridesmaid dresses. I can do baby showers. But I can't let my 30s be ruled by this.

I drive a 2011 Camry. My husband is one of the hardest workers I know and provides wonderfully for our family. We go on trips to Little Rock to see superhero movies in IMAX 3-D.

Essentially, I am living the dream.

I'm Only Good at Holding Dogs

I have always been a crazy dreamer. Not like the ambitious, shoot-for-the-stars kind. Like if I sleep, even for 30 minutes, I become a drunk wandering in an Inception movie. Usually without Leonardo DiCaprio present, unfortunately.

It was no surprise that last night I had a baby nightmare. My Facebook newsfeed is one big gender reveal party right now. I can't even remember who is having what at this point- there might have been some puppies thrown in there too. I've just resorted to saying, "Congratulations on that new thing."

I digress.

So, in my dream, I give birth. It was super easy and I looked at the doctor and said, "This was way easier than I thought it was going to be. People have been scaring me my whole life for this?" Some people come in and they try to put me in a wheelchair. "It's time to go see your baby," they say. I don't want to go. Like I straight up refuse to go see my dream baby.

But they wheel me in there and suddenly, I am standing over the baby and I realize that I am holding Minnie (my dog).

The soft-spoken nurse picks up the baby and asks sweetly, "Do you want to hold your baby?"

This is where crap gets real.

I squeeze Minnie to my chest and I yell, "I'M ONLY GOOD AT HOLDING DOGS!"

I woke up in panic mode, embarrassed that I had just yelled at these people- and that I had a weenie dog in a hospital. But then I laughed really, really hard.

Because, as ridiculous as this whole dream was, it encapsulates how I feel on an almost daily basis.

There are so many times in my life when I want to holler at God and other people, "I'M ONLY GOOD AT HOLDING DOGS!"

Prayer is a much easier concept when you know the absolute desires of your heart. It is not so easy when you and your heart are conflicted. When your heart is like all the emotion characters on "Inside Out" and they like to argue with each other.

It's hard to pray for a career when you're not sure it's the right move for your family and sanity. It's hard to pray for a child when you don't know if being a mother is the high calling for your life. So prayer gets put on the back burner because, let's face it, you're ONLY GOOD AT HOLDING DOGS.

But one of my favorite verses is Romans 8:26: Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words." 

Oh, intercede for me, Spirit. Intercede for us. Fulfill the unknown desires of our heart and give us the faith to accept the unexpected intercession.

But in the meantime, I will be over here- probably holding my dogs.

Weird Things and Winter Storm Jonas

So I'm over here stuck in Winter Storm Jonas. Actually, in Jonesboro, it was a pitiful "Winter Storm Jonas Brothers when they were scrawny and on Disney Channel." The National Weather Service deemed that name too long. They're no fun. 

Regardless, Justin took my vehicle today because his Ford Ranger would react to an ice cube tray like it was a frozen lake. We keep trying to remind it that it's a truck, but it doesn't seem to get the memo.

Let's be honest, I don't do cold. I would be doing the exact same thing if I had a car- but something about not having one makes me feel trapped. So I've had five days of personal reflection. I didn't reflect on things that matter, like how I can change the world or develop obliques that show. Instead, I realized some of the weird things I do when left to my own devices during long stretches of days. If you do any of these things, feel free to tell me and make me feel better about myself. If you don't see how anyone could do these things without being neurotic, please don't tell me that. 

• I own cute pajamas, but wear really weird clothing combinations instead. I passed a mirror at some point this morning and realized I was wearing: striped orange shorts, a blue nightgown, and a forest green Beale Street sweatshirt. You know that lounging seductress in Victoria's Secret catalogues that is drinking coffee with half of her long t-shirt hanging off her shoulder? Have that mental image? Yeah, that wasn't me. Because I wear shorts, I have to wrap myself in a blanket to stay warm. WHY DO I DO THIS? It's like I feel like if I wear a matching set of pajamas, my dogs will think I'm a Kardashian or something. 

• I have a sub-par makeup bag. I like to keep things "spicy" in our marriage so I try to occasionally have on makeup when Justin gets home. I also wear body spray and deodorant if I'm feeling particularly alluring. But because he has no regard for beauty products, I just can't bring myself to doll up with my $38 foundation or Urban Decay eyeshadow unless I'm going somewhere. So I pull out $5 foundation that I've had since college and dab on some ice pink lipgloss that wound up in my stocking a few Christmases ago. I look like an 80s pop singer, but I'm his 80s pop singer. I smell like Juniper Breeze and he gets lasagna. 

• I fast forward workout DVDs. I have been known to do the warm-up, fast forward through most of the exercises, and finish with the cool down. When people ask if you completed a workout, you can say yes without being a liar, liar, pants on fire. But your pants may, however, stay the same size and never get smaller.

• I pretend I'm on cooking shows. I don't like to cook when other people are around, partially because of insecurity. Partially because the kitchen looks like 3 competitors were running around, slinging pasta sauce and dropping food. My dogs wait beside my feet like I'm a toddler about to drop them some yogurt puffs. That's why, when Justin calls, I sprint to the finish like a contestant on "Chopped." I clean up my surroundings, I clean up the plate, and I put it on the table and await his judgment. Luckily, he's not pretentious like judge Scott Conant (who once told a contestant that he was "disrespectful" to his fish). If it's not poisonous or meaty, my vegetarian man will eat it up and go for seconds. 

• I squeeze my dogs as hard as I can, on the hour, every hour. This needs no further explanation.

Work Out, Baby.

One of my favorite hobbies is whining, whether it be in-person or virtually, with girl friends about eating right and working out. If I exercised as much as a I whined, Sports Illustrated would have itself a new cover model. We often send each other those clearly fake studies that say, "20 ounces of chocolate a day equals 1 hour of exercise, says scientist." We're like, "See? We're doing great. Move along."

Today's discussion covered what exercise style best fits our personality. My friend said, "I need structured classes. I need someone to tell me what to do and change it up. I get bored easily; I'm like a toddler." She has had two toddlers so I consider her an expert on toddlerisms.

It got me thinking. I already whine like a toddler. I bet we have more in common when it comes to exercise than one would think. Using what I have absorbed from my FWTs (Friends with Toddlers), I have come up with a few similarities.

1. Puddle Melting: It's not unusual for toddlers to go completely limp in aisle 7 of Target. One minute they are jabbering about wanting fruit snacks, the next minute they have morphed into an Alex Mack pile of goo (Nickelodeon 90s kid shout-out). With judging glares, you collect your 30-pound glob, place it in the cart and cover it with two loaves of bread.

This is me after spin class. Every time I have attempted a spin class, I loathe it with every muscle fiber of my being. This is the cycle for me. Friend asks if I want to take spin, I picture leisurely riding a bicycle, I realize- 30 seconds in- that this in no way resembles riding a bicycle, I go home and cry when I have to go to the bathroom, I vow to never do it again, a friend asks if I want to take spin, I picture myself leisurely riding a bicycle, and so on. The gig is UP. The last time I attempted Satan's favorite group class, I literally couldn't walk for a week. Like I needed someone to collect me, put me in a shopping cart and stick two loaves of bread on my face (I would have used it as a pillow).

2. No: Why we made the worst possible word to hear so easy to say, I don't know. But someone did that and now we have to live with tiny humans spouting it like there's no tomorrow. Come here. "No." Do you want applesauce? "No." Do you need to take a nap? "No." DO YOU WANT A MILLION DOLLAR GIFT CARD TO TOYS R US? That's what I thought.

This is me when a workout instructor (especially DVD ones- I own you. I'm the boss) tell me to do burpees. Some Crossfit fanatic please tell me why these are called that. If I eat a Sam's barrel of cheese balls while binging "Making a Murderer," I will often burpee. If I am going to do something as strenuous as drop down to all fours, get back up, slap my hands, and jump, I'm going to need it to be called something more hardcore, OK? When I'm told to do these, I straight up, toddler style, say, "Oh heck no." I will march in place until you are done with that nonsense.

3. Instantaneous Boredom: Have you ever been to a little kid's birthday party? The gift opening segment is pretty much parental damage control, It's a PR nightmare. You spend 15 minutes amidst the aisles of Wal-Mart doing FBI research on what toddlers like these days and the kid looks at it for 1.5 seconds and tosses it and grabs the next package. The parents pick it up, embarrassed, and try to show it to them again, but the child is like "BYE FELICIA" and tosses it to the curb once more. The parents try to explain that it will get played with when there isn't so much stimuli around. It's OK. He's 2. I get it.

I also get it because this is how I am with workout routines. Zumba classes tread the very fine line of being repetitive enough for you to learn the dang dance and not being so repetitive that you want to send threatening letters to Carly Rae Jepsen for bringing "Call Me Maybe" into the world. There came a point when "Dark Horse" by Katy Perry would come on and my legs would begin to shake in preparation of the leg routine. It's like my thighs were Pavlov's dogs and Katy Perry was the bell. I need to constantly shake it up (NOT SHAKE IT OFF. GO AWAY TECHNO TAYLOR SWIFT).

You see, when it comes to staying in shape, we're all babies. Ok, maybe not all of us. Some of you have Instagram accounts full of pictures of you and your boyfriend working out together. If I did that, it would be a picture of Justin telling me that if I can go immediately into my second set, I need to add more weight and push myself harder. It would be a sepia tone picture of me rolling my eyes.

I'm starting a "Biggest Loser" challenge next week with some church mates. Luckily, our church has inherited some shopping carts from the Target across the parking lot. Now I just need two loaves of bread and someone to push me around.

Present.

There's an older woman at church who regularly does something so meaningful, yet so simple, that she probably doesn't even realize she's doing it.

During the meet and greet time of service (aka, the worst 3 minutes of an introvert's life), she approaches and says, "How are your babies doing?" She might be including Justin too (haven't established this), but what she's truly saying is, "How are your dogs doing?" But she calls them babies, signifying their place in my heart.

She does it with sincerity and it's evident that she actually wants to know the answer. She knows, while some might belittle an animal's role in our lives, that they are a huge part of mine.

They are my present. In them, I find joy.

It's not like this is news to anyone. I have nothing short of 3,746 pictures of them on social media.

But the reason it's significant is because we live in a world where people rarely relish in other people's present. They can always have more children. They can always get a better job. They can always find their spouse a little faster. We begin to dread interaction with those that we crave interaction from because it's tiresome; it's physically and emotionally exhausting.

So far, having children has been an unsuccessful two-year journey for me. I say that, not to solicit sympathy or advice, but to better illustrate my overall message.

I want people to invest in my present; to enjoy my present with me; to ask about my present.

When pictures or talk of my dogs evoke comments like, "Ya'll need kids," or "Wait until you have kids," or somehow imply that my dogs are only fillers for kids, it's hurtful. Undermining my knowledge or ability to empathize with a situation because I'm childless is painful.

Because the truth is, this is my present. And most of the time, I am joyous in it. It's only when people fail to rejoice in it with me that the walls to that happiness begin to erode.

This post wasn't meant to be a scolding post. I realize most things that are said are unintentional and not meant to cause hurt feelings. I want you to know I'm not jotting down names and incidents in a revenge journal (watch yo back). I kid, I kid.

I only write this as a New Year's challenge. We may quit the gym and our diets after 2 weeks, but let's make a vow to live in the present with ourselves- and with our friends and family.

Ask them how they are doing now. Ask them how their parakeets are doing. Anything.

I promise you it will make their present brighter when the anxiety of the future starts creeping in.

Happy New Year!