Slowly

The rain is pounding on the roof as I type. It’s the kind of slow, steady rain that lulls you to sleep and makes you feel like there is no alarm in the morning. Summertime is creeping by and I feel like I can almost hear whispers of the next season. I won’t say it, because it seems when I talk about months passing by quickly people get antsy and anxious. But it does feel like _ _ _ _ is coming very quickly, and I can hardly contain my excitement.

Today was rough. No, today was an overload of anxiety and worry – which was an abrupt change to my normal day-to-day. I’m not going to go into the causes of those two symptoms, because they simply aren’t the focus of this post.

After work on Mondays I normally drive over to the gym for an hour and a half of sweating. Not feeling like cooping myself up in a cold concrete room with BO hanging in the air, I drove home, picked up my dogs, and went for a hike. I decided the sunshine and sweet summer air were a better choice. I parked at the foot of Kennesaw Mountain and got my overly excited pups on leashes. As we began the journey, a calming presence followed. My shoulders relaxed, my pace slowed, and I began to enjoy my surroundings.

The trail was wide and dirt covered. The tall trees stretched way up into the sky, and hung over the hikers like a protective arch. I felt like I was walking deeper into a mystery, a sweet and slow mystery that wasn’t at all scary.

I stopped every so often to sit on a bench or a rock and pray. I brought my tiny travel Bible, and I would read it often and let the words soak in like air, like life. The evening seemed to stretch out like molasses dripping off a toothpick. Two tiny fauns grazed literally 20 feet in front of me, sweetly and without a care in the world. The night was perfect, and I was beginning to feel at ease again.

Tonight reminded me that God created the trees and his creativity brought forth the mountains. It reminded me that days come and go just like seasons, and burdens are meant to be lifted off our shoulders. Soon the crackle of a fire will replace the splashes of children in a pool and we will crave hot cider over iced sweet tea. Honestly I’m ready for that time. But I can wait for now, listen to the rain, and think about how big and brooding the trees were tonight. For now. 

Cool Drinks and Summer Nights

I worked with a pastor in the Dominican Republic who was probably the kindest man I have ever known. He had the biggest and broadest white smile, with a cheery heart to match. One evening, a couple teammates and I walked over to his house with a guitar and sheet music in hand. We were planning on running through some songs for the kids’ service.

Manuel lived in a beautiful Dominican house about two blocks away from where we were staying, and it ways a great night for a walk. Manuel and his wife Patricia welcomed us into their home. We chatted and sauntered out on the back porch where we made ourselves comfortable on the chairs and white fence.

Manuel had a mischievous look on his face. As soon as we were comfortable and had run through a few songs, Manuel’s wife brought out a tray of ice-cold orange liquid.

She had made us homemade mango milkshakes, complete with buttered toast to dip them in. I know it sounds odd, but the shake tasted like a thick, juicy marmalade on deep-dish buttered toast. It was actually a very sweet combination to the palette.

He set down two HUGE pitchers in front of us and said, “I am the Pastor and in charge of this house, so I say you have to drink it all!” Needless to say, we didn't have any trouble finishing the sweet refreshment.

This is a simple recipe I’ve wanted to share and I thought it would be a perfect first food travels post. Here is the recipe:

Peel, cut and blend several fresh mangos in a mixer.

Add about a cup of creamy milk

Add about 3/4 cup sugar

Add about one part ice

Bend until thick and creamy

Try it with thick sourdough bread, toasted and buttered. Great for summer nights! 

Why I Traded Business Attire for Chacos and a Backpack

Another blog I wrote for Plywood People that I never got around to posting:

Last year I lived out one of my dreams. I did something that everyone talks about, but never does. I stepped into one of my lifelong dreams, and slowly felt it become a reality.

Two and a half years ago I sat through an all day training for my first professional job, fresh out of college and ready to tackle my big girl dreams. I had a closet of freshly pressed blouses, my own office, and a typical Atlanta commute to match every droning 9-5er out there.  My life had just started and I couldn’t wait to pay off my student loans, set up a budget to establish credit, and lock in my 401K.

But something was missing. All of the securities of a steady salary, a comfortable work environment, and a fluffy pillow at night slowly became less and less appealing. This isn’t my dream. Although it could be for someone else, it isn’t for me. So I began to search for something new. The more I searched, the more my dreams seemed to reach out to me, like a beaconing whisper alluring me to the mystery of the unknown.

One day I decided I was going to listen to that whisper and do what I’d been dreaming of doing my whole life:

travel the world.

help the hurting.

live in a different circumstance.

create meaningful experiences in my life.

have stories to tell.

I went for it. I signed up for a mission trip called The World Race, where I traveled to 11 countries in 11 months to feed the hungry, clothe the poor, and take care of orphans. I lived on $4 a day for food and $5 a day for lodging. I traded my morning commute for tea with the Iranian teashop owner next door. I traded my comfy bed for a camping sleeping pad and my car for the bed of an old, rusty red truck.

I traded the commonalities of my life for unique, one-of-a-kind experiences with people from the African bush all the way to a Thai market.

I took a risk and gave up a very comfortable, normal life for an uncertain (and some may say crazy) year of service and travel. I don’t regret riding elephants through a rain forest in Thailand or spending Christmas with eight orphaned toddlers in South Africa. I don’t regret giving up a stable life to pursue the nagging desire for something more. Even if your MacBook Pro crashes in Haiti, the restaurant fails, or no one likes your idea, nothing is lost in the pursuit of your dream. You will only gain knowledge, experience, and stories to tell to your grandchildren. Don’t we all want to live a story that’s worth telling? 

Food Travels

Food always comes with a story. The taste of the searing hot tamale from your grandma’s tomato soup, or the feeling of the slippery oyster as it slid down your throat; we each have vivid images branded in our minds when we think of food.

I will never forget (and my friends will never let me live it down) when I tried candied ginger for the first time. It. Was. Awful. It felt like someone had stuck the bitterest blob of congealed liquid in my mouth and made me swallow. I think the candy had a mind of its own because it made its way to the side of my mouth and sat there as if to say, “You will like me. I am going to sit here and rub myself in your taste buds until you do.”

But I didn’t like it, and I don’t think I will ever like it. But I will always remember the side stiches I got from laughing so hard after the whole incident.

I also remember the bunny cake. My mom made me a bunny-shaped chocolate cake for my 9^th birthday, and I will never forget it. I remember the moist, thick chocolate layers and the creamy white frosting throughout the center of the cake and smeared on top. There were flakes of coconut coating the top of the white frosting like an inch of snow from the North Georgia Mountains. It’s been 16 years since we had that cake, and every Easter Sunday or birthday celebration I sneakily ask if she will make it again. She sighs and rolls her eyes, but eventually she caves in and agrees.

Over the past few years of my life, I had the distinct privilege of doing some travel. I translated in Guatemala, studied in Spain, and packed up my room, quit my job, and traded my pressed white button up for green-strapped chacos to go to 11 countries in 11 months. It kind of sounds like a dream, doesn’t it? It was a dream fulfilled for me. Between the helping, serving, and elephant riding, I learned a thing or two about cooking. We hopped from grass hut to South African orphanage, with every country bringing a different smell and taste with it. You see, I love food. I love how food cultivates community in an evening, early sunrise breakfast, or afternoon lunch with a friend.

So I’m going to start sharing the stories, recipes, and humorous antidotes I learned through my ‘food travels;’ one recipe at a time. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope it inspires you to cook these new creations! (As I hope it inspires me to do the same :D)

I Expect Hot Coffee

When you stop and think about, expectation is a weird word. It literally means a hope, anticipation, or potential, but rarely do we think of it as such. Our expectations are generally things that we think we are entitled to, instead of something that is a potential or even a hope. I never hope that my car will start in the morning or think that potentially there will be coffee at the Starbucks drive through.  I just expect it, and if it doesn’t happen, I act like the world is against me.

I didn’t act like this last year. A year ago today, I was living in a cold, sunless, soot-filled and trash-covered hole of a city in Southern China. I was working in a welfare center for dying children. I didn’t expect coffee in the morning. I was just excited if we had enough time to heat water for plain oatmeal or if I could actually choke down the incredibly spicy food they prepared for lunch. My perspectives were harnessed on right. Not because I thought about people dying in foreign countries, but because I was witnessing it everyday.

But here I am, a year later, watching my impatience brew as the car in front of me is driving 10 miles under the speed limit. What’s changed? The fact that my experience in China didn’t rock my world? No. The fact that I don’t have to eat spicy greens everyday for lunch? Well, maybe. But honestly it boils down to the fact that my surroundings and influencers changed. I grew up in a house where dinner was always ready promptly at 6pm and my bed was soft and warm. Spending a month in communist China isn’t going to change 25 years of comfortable living. But it did give me a glimpse of another life. A life where if you own a car you are in the top 2% bracket of the wealthiest people in the world and the $4 I spent on a latte turned into my entire day’s worth of food money. Ironic, isn’t it?

So what do we as do? Stop expecting everything and live on the line of mediocrity? I don’t think so—I don’t believe that people are called to a complete upheaval of their current lifestyle to fix our incredibly overblown expectation list. There could be a time and a season for that, but we all know the power we have as consumers in this country to change the world for good (I’ll save that for another blog). But I do think it starts with our expectations. A healthy amount of expectations is good for your life: expectations of a job you love, a beautiful family, or fun, quality time with your friends. But it’s when things like this become standard, and if you aren’t seeing them come true in your life and delivered to you by your fairy godmother, you start to get whiny and pessimistic. That’s when we have a problem.

Tomorrow morning do I expect to have hot coffee for breakfast? Yes. Will my morning be destroyed if that doesn’t happen? I hope not. For now I will consider my morning cup of coffee a treat, and something to hope for over expect. Everything becomes much more of a joyful experience when you look at it that way. 

Summertime.

Summer holds something special. There is a nostalgia that hangs in the air on warm summer nights, and beckons you to join its carefree way of life, glass of sweet tea in hand.

At least that’s what its like for me. It reminds me of running barefoot on hot pavement and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the pool. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like summer has a way of making you feel like a kid again, without the remorse and dread of leaving adulthood behind. It frees you; helps you see that sticky marshmallow-covered fingers and lazy Sunday afternoons are an accepted way of life.

A few days ago I was in California visiting a great friend. Unbeknownst to be, San Diego nights are windy and cold; unlike anything I would have imagined. One night we decided to have a bonfire on her back porch. We pulled sweatshirts over our heads and buried ourselves in blankets, only to let out one hand for marshmallow roasting. We listened to the fire crackle, ate sticky marshmallows with gooey chocolate, and told story after story from each friend’s memory bank. It was a perfect night. It brought me back to summers as a child, and I was reminded of the freedom to be childlike, no matter what your age, title, or season of life.

This summer, don’t be surprised if you catch me out on my back porch, barefoot with skewer in hand. We all need a little reminder of childhood sometimes, and summer provides the perfect atmosphere to jog your memory. 

Someone is Pursuing Me

Early this morning I watched my mom prance down the stairs dressed and ready for work. I was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping my warm coffee and scooting my eggs around my small plate. As she often does, she put her arms by her side to model her outfit and said in a sweet but straightforward manner, “Does this look dumb?” (She always phrases her questions like that when she wants my approval of her outfit. It’s like she thinks she only knows how to dress like a clown until I set her straight)

“No, it looks cute. Oh, and you’re wearing the pearls I bought you in Thailand. They look really pretty!”

“Oh, well thank you,” she said in a posh more dapper tone. “Did you buy yourself some? Every girl needs a some pearls in her jewelry box.”

“Um, no, no I didn’t. I guess I’ll just have to wait for some man to buy them for me,” I said in a joking, half sarcastic tone.

That’s generally how my day starts. I drink coffee, mom asks me if her outfit is dumb, and I make a snarky comment about men. Ok, I’m being a little extreme but you get the picture.

Nothing out of the ordinary about today.

I went about my normal routine, which included working, working out, and coming home. When I got home there was a small package on the counter with my name scribbled on it. I picked it up, shook it, and began to carefully open it up, in a confused and curious manner.

A beautiful jewel-toned bag slipped out, and a note that was folded three ways glided to the table. I unfolded the note and read over the beautifully scripted writing. It was a love note. Literally. The author wrote about my pure heart, his love for me, and how he longed to meet with me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I continued to open the small bag and found a tiny, white box. I shook the box, clink, clink, clink, made the noise.

No way. This sounds like earrings. No way has an admirer sent me jewelry.

Sure enough, I opened the box and two soft white pearls rolled out into my cupped hand. I couldn’t believe what I saw, especially considering the conversation I had with my mom that morning.

The giver of this gift had not surprised me like this before. This was a first attempt in the past 2 months he had made at my heart.

The other time came after and warm and bubble filled bath. It was a Sunday evening and I was soaking in the tub while talking to God about what I wanted for my life, well, whom I wanted for my life. I told him that I was OK waiting for this man, but that I needed his to show my some pursuit, because my heart was getting a little lonely.

The next day, I was looking up plane tickets to visit my friend Emily in California. No matter how many times I refreshed or checked a different site, the ticket prices were the same: $450.00.

Aghh. I can’t justify spending that much money right now, but I know this is the only chance I’ll get to see her before she moves to Seattle, which is even further away!

So I decided to give it one more day, and see if the wonderful world of social media could give me a hand. I posted a simple request on Facebook: “Does anyone know of any sites that are offering good deals to California? Preferably under $400.00.”

The next thing I know I’m getting a message and then a phone call from someone I haven’t talked to since 10^th grade history class. He said he saw my post and would like to purchase my plane ticket for me. He said he had some extra skymile points, and wondered if I would like a window or aisle seat.

...

I’m sorry, what? Was my prayer of pursuit just answered by someone I haven’t talked to in years and now lives in upstate New York? Yes. At this moment thoughts of doubt started swirling around like a merri-go-round, until a javelin came down and stilled every thought in my mind. I heard a still quite whisper.

Is this not what you asked of me? To pursue you in a tangible and clear way? I am the ultimate pursuer of your heart. I love every piece of you, treasure your whims and ways, and pursue you continually. This time I had to pursue a little clearer for you to get the picture.

The truth is, a mystery man didn’t buy me the earrings or plane ticket. Well, one was from a man and the other was from a friend. However, both parties said they purchased these gifts for me because God pressed it on their heart to do so.

People, do you know what this means? Jesus is pursuing me personally. The creator of the universe is orchestrating my life so that I realize that he loves me deeply and wants me to give my heart fully to him.

His pursuit is working. I’m believing more and more every day that his plan for my life is out of genuine love and care for me. He is sovereign. He is our highest calling and only fulfillment to that deep hole inside of our chest that is crying out to be filled.

He wants to be the lover of our souls. Do you believe that? I dare you to ask him to pursue you. See what he does—I promise it will be more than you have ever dreamed up.