Yet

There's an individual I cross paths with pretty often who begins every interaction with, "Found a job yet?"

"We are blessed that Justin's job is allowing me to stay at home and be more selective about a job if the right one presents itself." 

I say some version of this every.single.time.

Yet I can feel it looming when I approach; like the musty perfume that signals "that" customer is already waiting for you in your office.

"Found a job yet?" 

I know this person means absolutely no harm; I know it is simply a grasp for a more personalized greeting. But I was telling a friend the other day that I sometimes feel like every question phrased to me ends in the tiny but highly personal word "yet." 

"Have you and Justin thought about having kids yet?"

"Are you pregnant yet?"

"Have you tried Monster.com yet?"

We agreed to refer to these people as "yetties" to make ourselves feel better. The Yetties are coming, the Yetties are coming.

The reason I think this small word can harbor a big blow for a lot of people is because it reeks-- even if accidentally-- of personal control. 

And honestly, I don't have the answer to the "yets" either. Next week will mark a year since I lost my job and it's hard to outline what strides I've made since then (if you don't count learning how to make a wreath and no longer burning supper). 

I used to halt the job inquiries by talking about possibly starting a family; that has begun the fairly early stages of not looking like it's going to be easy either; so I am lying on a hammock in "yet" limbo.

Most of the time I am content; I realize I am blessed to have a spouse who says, "Don't just take any miserable, minimum-wage job. You've done that enough." I'm blessed to have this time to sleep through the night (praise ye the Lord) and be selfish a little bit longer. 

But I think I speak for a lot of people, when I encourage you to take a new conversational path. This includes me. Let's take a cue from Proverbs 12:25 that says, "An anxious heart weighs a  man down, but a kind word cheers him up." 

People are anxious by nature; people are naturally feeling like their lives are moving at a snail's pace and spiraling out of control simultaneously. Let's not add to that by including more "yets" into their timelines. 

There are plenty of questions to ask and encouraging words to give. And I guarantee you, they'll be glad to give you an answer.  

Roar.

Happy Wife, Happy Life.

The husband may be the head of the household, but the woman is the neck and can turn the head any way she wants.

I am woman, hear me roar.

We've probably all heard or said one of these phrases in our lifetime. Mostly used in jest, I have never really given such woman-isms much thought.

Until lately.

The Lord has really convicted me lately. I have a love-hate relationship with conviction. It's like the calorie counter on my phone. How dare you tell me that the dish I wanted at Olive Garden has 2,349 calories. Ok, thanks. I needed that. I hate you.

Add a sermon about James and bridling the tongue this morning and you have the Alfredo sauce on top of the fettuccine that is my heart this week.

I think, as Christian women, many of us have adopted the notion that if we ain't happy, nobody's gonna be happy. And that we will outwardly support leadership and causes, but underneath we will use our necks to spin that head like the girl in those exorcist movies.

I can't tell you how many times I have roared with what I thought were good intentions, only to find that they stemmed from my deep-seeded desire to be in control. Why does my self-professed passion often take the form of gossip and complaining rather than positive action and an outpouring of compassion?

God's plan for the woman is so vast. It is so powerful. It's unique to us.

But you know what?

He needs us to get our menu-planning, carpool driving, full-time nagging, drama mama selves out of His way (Ouch and Amen).

Repent is a hard word for me to say (I think it goes back to that control freak thing). But I'm here to repent, ya'll.

For the times I have said things about you.

For the times I have listened and even laughed.

For the times that judgment gave me joy.

For the times that I didn't meet you in your time of need.

For the times I told myself that running my mouth was a product of loving concern.

We are called to a higher purpose. The church needs women. Not to be a manipulative neck; not to interject ourselves into situations under the guise of caring; not to treat the church like a PTO meeting we're in charge of.

But to lead in love.

Let's renew and recommit. And leave that roaring stuff to the lions.

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.