groupie.

I’ve stuffed a collection of light bulb moments into my big purse of life lessons over the last couple of weeks. I’m not sure exactly why God has been speaking so loudly to me as of late, but I am surely not complaining.

In a cabin in the woods, I heard loud and clear how self centered and vain I had become. God broke my heart for the hurt. 1 Samuel told me that the world looks at the outside but God looks at the heart. So I decided to give it a shot and as I began to look at others from the inside out, instantly my eyes were opened to this whole revolutionary movement of selfless love and this idea that led me to question… would I love Jesus if he were ugly? I began to wonder if the Jesus I had grown up with was an accurate depiction of the real living breathing Jesus, or if it was a Jesus jack-in-the-box I had created to fit my liking. It sounds silly, but it was really quite an earth shaker for me. I imagine also, that if Jesus came back tomorrow I wouldn’t see him dressed nicely in the pew behind me at church. He probably wouldn’t sing and clap to trendy Christian bands. I very much believe he’d swing by a bar or two, feed the poor and make camp with the homeless all before sun down. I love my church and I believe strongly I have found one of the few genuine churches around that loves Jesus and seeks to connect people into a relationship with him, yet I’m intoxicated by this idea of missional living, and venturing outside the Christian bubble. This excitement was followed by confirmations upon confirmations of a gigantic leap to the other side of the US. The ball is now in motion for a most certain summer in Oregon.

This weekend I chased Donald Miller to a conference in Orlando that I knew nothing about. I just wanted to meet the man who had written the book I sleep with at night—he told me that life is a story. That is pretty much all I processed from Don’s brilliant message, for I couldn’t focus with the ridiculous grin on my face and birds singing around my head. I do remember that the theme of Fushion 07 was to seek what it is you are passionate about and set out to do it, and do it not for you but for God’s glory. During the breakout sessions I avoided the mission driven speakers, for I was deathly afraid God would tell me I was to move to Africa. Instead I stumbled into a room and took notes on how to get published. Then I heard a guy by the name of Dan Kimball and he seemed to think that ‘people like Jesus, but not the church’. Dan was weird and had bad hair. But I liked Dan and I agreed with Dan.

So here’s the deal. I hear loud and clear that most importantly God wants me and he can use silly little me to build His kingdom. I believe over the next couple of months He will continue to polish and refine me into a Jesus loving machine and because I want to and because I sought after Him and not because I was going with the flow. I want to figure out where I stand on certain issues and get to the bottom of my political party of choice. I want to learn more about Emerging churches and find out if I want to jump on that bandwagon movement that reaches out to postmodern people and befriend’s the uchurched. I want to be revolutionary and not trendy. I want to be a free thinking liberal hippie who loves Bush and I want to share my faith in a culturally relevant way.

Welcome to my enlightenment, complete with David Crowder singing a catchy tune that tells me ‘I’ll never be the same,’ and that very much excites me.

coffee shops and changing leaves.

I’m moving to Portland. Don Miller says I should move to Portland. And I think maybe God is telling me to move. But, Don Miller is definitely telling me to leave. Why Portland? I’m not sure. I don’t aim to understand. To leap just feels right--to even breathe in the idea of a cross-country move is liberating. So, I’m moving to Portland… at least for the summer. A summer in Oregon. I like the sound of that. Spending my days in authentic coffee shops discussing current events with strangers. I’d like to go on walks in parks downtown where I can marvel in the excellence of building tops as they peak over the brightly colored trees with leaves that seem to change color before my eyes. I’d like an apartment close enough to the city where the sound of cars and life put me to sleep every night. Yeah, I’d like that very much. I’d take day trips to the coast to catch a sunset and sketch my name in the sand. And I’d write. I’d write and I’d talk to God and I’d write some more. I would enjoy very much going to art galleries with my new liberal hippie friends sharing how the colors made us feel and how our hearts break for the hurting. I’d enjoy Sundays sitting rows behind Don, listening to Rick Mckinley send messages across a room and into hearts of new Christians, strong Christians and non-Christians. I think I’d very much like Imago Dei, even though I‘m still not exactly sure how to pronounce it. So, I think I’ll go to Portland. I can’t imagine a much better feeling then moving far away with absolutely nothing to depend on but God. I think I’ll fall very much in love with Him there. So yeah, I’m moving to Portland.

the oregon trail.

Having been born in raised in this south Florida paradise, I find very few if any other climates that appeal to my nature. If I have to wear much more than a hooded sweatshirt more than 10 times a year, I’m not interested in calling it home. Don’t get me wrong, it is my life’s mission to visit any and every crevice on the face of this earth. But, I’m a simple girl. I love my God, love my family, love my friends, love my life. I live contently in my bubble of comfort, having all the ambition in the world overshadowed by this unshakable fear of change. I dream big high budget film dreams. I cast all the highest paid actors and shoot rolls and rolls of film in the most exotic of locations. But as each minute of screen time passes my heart becomes more and more restless in this vicious cycle of attack and retreat. I lay out my escape to a far away land, only to pull all plans to a screeching halt as soon as reality begins to line up with my intentions.

I’d like to think I include God on all major decisions on my life. I trust Him with my life, my friends, my future husband, but I keep the lid vastly tightened on the jar'o'moving. Every now and then I swing the jar around dangerously daring it to drop and bust into a thousand pieces. And after each close call I quickly place it back on the shelf of safety for fear that God will insist I am to move.

Just recently I loosened the top to the jar. It remains shut, but just enough to smell the sweet fragrance of new life. The scent of northwestern territory tickles my nostrils. I breathe in the back to school fragrance and the possibility of new relationships. The aroma is intoxicating and ever so addictive and with one last inhale I soak up every bit of wonderment. I breathe in so deeply it begins to resonate in my heart. My soul is quenched; my heart is calm, even if only for a moment. It’s the kind of peace that quiets your soul and sends a tingle of contentment up your spine. It’s the beauty of watching a sun sink below the horizon or waking up to light breaking over the Grand Canyon. I walk away from the jar, but not before storing the fragrance in a memory bank to be recalled anytime I desire, only leaving behind the excitement of a sensory overload if ever I decide to actually explore the contents of such a container.

Oh, to explore.

the last will steal forever.

Young, and molded
Left with scars
The first boy would define me.
Years were lost
In blinding dark
The second led to life.
By chasing states
Through starry nights,
The third I won't forget.
So endless time
Will count the suns
The last will steal forever.
Long time waited,
Other half
So sweet is this surrender.

enzo, like the ferrari.

I took Enzo to the park today. This had become a regular thing for him and I. Some days we play soccer. Some days we race down the hill. Some days we pick flowers or roll in the grass. Trips to the zoo, playgrounds, and parks have quickly filled up my day planner. Today I found rest on a wooden bench and watched as Enzo entertained himself by climbing up next to me and then quickly back down, each time reaching the top with more excitement than the time before.

Today was different. Today had been the day I was scheduled to board a plane for my long anticipated trip to Italy. It had upset me to the point of sickness; but that was when I received the initial blow. Anger had masked the pain much like a band-aid would cover a gaping wound. I stared at today’s date on my phone for what seemed like the better part of a lifetime and then I tried to regain composure, realizing I-75 was not the best place to have an emotional breakdown. The battle was already lost, there was no repair. The flood gates had been breached. I ran through several nasty thoughts, far too nasty to repeat. But, nonetheless would turn the corners of my mouth upright for a split second, (the nastier the thoughts, the longer the second). As the tears began to dry I looked out over the interstate and in a light bulb moment realized today was still going to go on. Even more so, today people would suffer—suffer far worse than losing a free trip to a far away land. I pleaded with God to either make today a wonderful day, complete with blessings far too great for my mind to wrap itself around, or... teach me something. Reveal to me why I’m here working a very long shift while someone else is enjoying my prize.

I bargain with God. Some bargains might prove healthier than others. I figured this particular bargain was harmless enough. So, I went on with my day.I’ve been watching Enzo now for about a month. Everyday we go for a walk. Everyday I walk down the same street, say hi to the same people, and wave to the same cars. To be honest, I had forgotten about my previous tear fest and was content with the undeniably amazing day outside. As I pass a house only a few doors down from my starting point, I see an elderly couple who has gathered at the end of their driveway to get a glance of the ridiculously good looking child in the stroller I was pushing. The woman smiled and made noises. This was a very normal occurrence when dealing with a child as gorgeous as my main man, Enzo. Then I picked up on a minor detail. She was speaking a language other than English. I coax Enzo into putting on a little show. Old ladies dig the hand wave with the over enthusiastic “hi" combination. It worked, success was ours and we continued on. That is, until she uttered her next word…“Ciao."

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! (for story telling purposes I am pretty confident I shouted this outloud)

As soon as she shouted her Italian farewell, I wanted to crawl in a ball. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh hysterically, or cry uncontrollably. "So, let me get this straight, God… out of all people to run into that day you place an unavoidable Italian obstacle in my path?" Sounds more like a cruel joke, if you ask me. Needless to say, my cup’o’blessing was not running over, and my question had still gone unanswered. I went on to work an exhausting day. The end.

But wait, I had overlooked an epiphany, small in size and awe factor; nonetheless there was a beautiful moment on a wooden bench in the park that was worth mentioning. This particular grassy knoll was my Central Park, with a lot less people and without the coolness of being planted in the middle of a major city. As Enzo climbed up and down, I watched as the wind blew through the grass almost poetically. Millions upon millions of blades spread out before me, yet as the breeze blew over the top of them all, only a few blades were rustled by the wind. Becoming one with nature is breathtakingly intoxicating, yet ever so corny. However, it was God’s reoccurring gift to me today—a reminder that this world is made of so many of us. He watches as some of us experience hardships and others moments of ecstasy. Much like a wind blown over us, some are affected, others still stand unwavered. The view was spectacular and at the risk of sounding overdramatic, it was as captivating to me as scenes of waves breaking on a California coast and trees big enough to drive a car through. This moment of enlightenment still didn’t grant my bargain requests, but it had been quite sometime since I had seen something so beautiful as I saw sitting next to Enzo on that wooden bench in the park.

Maybe He’ll answer me tomorrow?

a night with the crazy.

I was buried in another Donald Miller book and while I was searching for God on his pages, my heart broke as he began to tell this story of a boy he went to middle school with. Every school has their geek and this was just another tragic story of a boy who was picked on and deemed “uncool" by all his peers. How could they be so cruel to him, I wondered. And with each hateful word the pain I felt for him penetrated a little deeper in my soul.

Though words weren’t their only weapon, most wouldn’t acknowledge his existence, predestined unworthy even to share the same air they breathed. My heart in that moment desired to become a teacher, so I could befriend students like him. I wanted to reach into the story and tell that little boy he was loved. I wanted to tell him to ignore the bullying from the school’s jock. I wanted to assure him the last laugh was as good as his, as quarterback Joe would eventually go on to impregnate cheerleader Jane and both would wind up fat and unhappy. My next thought was to raise up popular kids (which is inevitable because of my DNA) who would befriend the smelly kid in class. My children would single-handedly bridge the gap between cool and not-so-cool. I wanted to take an ax to the social ladder’o’popularity. This high lasted a whole 30 minutes until I put the book down, but found myself on a one-way flight to Conviction Town shortly after my epiphany.

My new job would have me overseeing a room full of grown up toys. I am basically there to make sure no one walks out with the big screen, breaks a pool stick or tries to smuggle out ping pong balls. Most people leave me alone to watch CSI or play on the computer in peace, but there are some regulars that come in the game room not for the toys but to avoid the loneliness of their apartments, or to annoy me. Most of the time to annoy me, I'm certain.

My first night on the job, we’ll call him Bob, Bob plopped in the chair next to me eager to make a new friend. I flashed a half assed smile in his direction and pretended to be deeply involved in my television show. Bob was walking a fine line of persistence or obliviousness as he managed to carry on a conversation with the side of my face for the better part of an hour. I did some minor nodding, but in no way invited him to continue talking. Eventually he got the hint, or possibly he ran out of European history to impress me with and left. Almost as quickly as the glass door shut behind him, I remembered the little bucktoothed kid Miller had wrote about. This wave of ugliness and shame washed over me as I proved no better than the mean kids I had just read about. For some reason in that exact moment, I saw Jesus in the face of Bob. And I was broken. Jesus would have sat down with Bob. Jesus would have made eye contact. Jesus would have hung on every word that Bob had to say. Jesus would have loved Bob. Instead, I swatted at him like a fruit fly until he flew away.

Bob came back the next night I worked. Recognizing this as my redeeming moment I checked my ego at the door and gave Bob my full attention. I made eye contact when I shook his hand and asked his name. I listened intently to his synopsis of the “Everybody Loves Raymond" show, complete with in depth character evaluations. I don’t know about you, but my God has an enormous sense of humor and two hours later a talkative Bob showed no signs of slowing down, or ever leaving for that matter. I pictured God and his angels sitting around the water cooler getting a good chuckle out of my lesson in love. Eventually the conversation turned to matters of religion and I was able to share a little bit about the Jesus I knew. Nothing to write home to mom about, he hadn’t finished explaining why Northern Italians are lighter skinned than Sicilians, and the moment had come and gone.

The seed had been planted, nonetheless and I couldn’t help but wonder how many other opportunities God gives us to love people. I assume about as many as I shoot down to make room for my own agenda. I am not Mother Teresa. It took every ounce of me to keep from rolling my eyes, or telling him to leave me alone for that matter. I suppose my nose will find itself in the upright position more often than not. But, I took a good look at Bob through my ‘Jesus Love Goggles’ and we were all one big happy family, even if only for a second. I can’t say I won’t act ugly ever again, at least not without a backhand of guilt served on a platter of shame, that is. But, maybe for the first time in my existence I obeyed the second most important commandment. I loved someone as much as I loved myself. And though it was a short-lived romance, I can assure you I was changed forever.

bobby idol.

I know exactly what it is I put before God and most tragically choose to do absolutely nothing about it. Because let’s gets real, allowing God to have control over every aspect of your life sounds good in theory, but how many of us actually hand it over--the whole thing, that is. It’s easy only handing over pieces, while grasping tightly to others.

I am extremely guilty of negotiating with God. In honesty, I do it with everyone and everything in my life. I’m the 2 year old that holds a death grip onto about 10 toys and yet still dropps down to my knees in utter pain as I watch another child try to grab something of mine. The catch being in those brief moments between the awakening of your selfishness and a parental scolding you realize you need to give something up.

Here God, you can have my relationships with family and friends, oh... and finances. You can DEFINITELY have that one. What’s that, God? My future husband?? Um, well actually... if you don’t mind, I think I’ll hold onto that one myself.“The heart is deceitful and beyond cure...” Jeremiah 17:9. We underestimate the wickedness of our own hearts. God not only knows the very depths of our hearts, but wants to save us from the bondage of evil within it. The heart is tricky. It allows us to think we are in control, when it’s actually quite the opposite. I’m learning in this very moment that God is a jealous God and while He gives us the option to choose Him, He also reserves the right to rip every single idol you put before Him right out of your hands--and has no problem doing so. He should be number one in our hearts, no ifs, ands or buts. He deserves nothing less and won’t rest until He reigns from the throne of our hearts.

God has one by one released (for lack of a better word) every potential love interest from my life. After each failed attempt I heard Him say loud and clear... Choose me. Pick me this time. Pursue me instead of this boy. However my flesh responded with an... Okay God, how about I pick up my Bible and read a few verses AFTER I finish talking to this boy on the phone. Or better yet, what if we talk about You? That counts, right? I was allowing my current crush to get comfortable in the throne of my heart and expecting God to cozy up in John Doe’s lap. To no fault of the boys, I can almost picture God wistfully hauling him out of the chair and a couple helicopter wrestling moves later the boy is flat on his butt out in the streets. Then God ever so patiently brushes His hands off and returns to the room to give me another undeserving shot at assigning seats.

So what’s my response? I don’t think God wills me to never look in the direction of another boy. Or drop my guy friends like a bad habit. I don’t think it’s a sin to rent countless love stories upon love stories dreaming of the day my prince will come. So what would dying to myself look like in this case? I assume I won’t look too much different on the outside. I expect there will not be a physical change in my outward appearance. I’m guessing there will be no bells and whistles that I have passed on. The change will happen from within--starting from the inside and moving outward. I don’t have to attend an AA meeting to know that the first step is to admit the problem. My heart--your heart is deceitful. Meditating on the verse in Jeremiah helps to remind me that I am not in control over my hearts actions. If anything I am a victim; with my heart cleverly working against me. The second part of Jeremiah 17:9 says, “Who can understand it?” and carries on in verse 10 to answer, “I, the Lord, search the heart and examine the mind, to reward a man (or in my case a woman) according to his conduct, according to what his deeds deserve.” It all falls back on the truth that God will not withhold any good thing. He longs to fill the desires of my heart. All he asks is that I trust in Him. Delight in His ways. Let Him reign over my heart, not the next pretty boy that walks by with a killer smile and a pair of baby blues.

I say good-riddens to the falseness of my delusions. Let God deal with my manipulative heart. It’s almost bitter sweet. With my heart in God’s hands the appropriate action would result in an eager jump to my carnal death. Being a writer and a hopeless romantic with a gift of imagination that tends to run off in all directions under the sun, it’s hard for me to willingly hand over the pen of my life--of my love story. I insist that I am capable of a better storyline; followed by forced emotions and painful mistakes that can’t be erased. So instead I’m left with a paper full of scribbles and mark ups that lead me back to the first line, each time a little more discouraged than the time before. When I finally do hand the pen over to the true Author of all things, I envision a gigantic sigh of relief as the weight of all my selfish actions are removed from my chest, followed by an ‘about time’ from the Man above. I watch as He pulls out a completely fresh piece of paper and begins to write a love story so far beyond what my silly mind is even capable of wrapping itself around. And it's there that I realize, my story was a poor attempt at a carbon copy movie script complete with an unhappy ending. But immediately upon role reversals He begins intricately designing an original masterpiece for my life. A custom made, hand written story line begins to unfold created by the One who created me. Seems fitting that He might know a little better than I, not only what events should play out but how the story ends.

Dare I even say... Happily Ever After???