Fall la la la la

I've yet to start my shopping, and I won't get my tree for at least one more month. But Christmas carols, oh I love me some Christmas carols. I made it until August before breaking out my fave artists singing the classics. I've made sure to blend in some normal (read: bleh) music as well, just in case it were possible to get tired of Christmas Songs. How tragic would that be? However, it's worth the risk.

Me this time of year on carols: It is fall. A few ambitious trees are already turning shades of red. The sun is getting lazy, going to bed early and sleeping late.  Pumpkin spice runs rampant among coffee shops. And Christmas is less than three months away.

Me this time of year without carols: Summer is over. Leaves are dying. If the sun doesn't have to get up, why should I? I need more coffee to get through the morning but I'm  sick of the same old flavor. How is it only Monday?

As you can tell, it is for good reason that I'm grateful for Christmas carols.  Every year the band o' the month tries to sing new Christmas songs.  

Songs are not carols. Songs are like the ugly cousin of lovely carol. The one exception is Mariah Carey, whose Christmas songs are pretty tight.  But still, nothing can hold a candle to the hymns and festive melodies composed a century ago.  Bing and Dean are the chocolate souffle of music.  Ave Maria and Jesu, Joy Of Man's Desiring always make me want to be a prima ballerina. And the traditional hymns remind me how wicked cool it is the the Almighty God came to earth as a sweet little baby, all pink and vulnerable and worthy of all praise and all glory.

I will always love music, but like the star on top of the tree, Christmas Carols will forever be the most lovely.

Mmm.

It's Saturday. It's 75 degrees out. It's 2:47, but it's five o'clock somewhere.

Need I say more? 

Good Jeans

Did you know:

• The number one thing people fear is spiders.
• More people are afraid of heights than germs.
• A fear is only considered a phobia if it impedes your actions.
• Brontophobia is not the fear of brontosaurus (brontosauri?), but the fear of thunderstorms
• Phobias are considered curable. The cure? Exposure.

Well, this week I had to face one of my own phobias. 

Deniphobia: n - the fear of shopping for denim, primarily exhibited in the search for jeans.

I H.A.T.E. shopping for jeans.  I believe perfect jeans are much like the perfect man.  If you have that magical encounter once, you're lucky. You look and feel taller and more beautiful. You run down the aisle with no hesitation.

But unlike men, that one pair of jeans wears out. And then there you are, shuffling past all the other shoppers searching for another pair of pants that you love enough to commit to. Or at least, won't hate as soon as you go home together, and aren't embarrassed to be seen in public with. 

You try out a half-dozen styles in two sizes, and find that one pair that's almost right, almost. Maybe you just always wear shirts that cover your body above the knee. That's doable. Tunics are in, right? You slip them off, check the tag, and realize they cost almost as much as Dirk The Blue Impala. Twice.

 Oh, the trials!

This is precisely why I've been shuffling around in jeans older than my niece, even though the frayed hems whisper about the likelihood I was raised in a barn whenever I walk. I have on occasion veered towards the denim section, and then my phobia kicks in and I retreat to accessories. Or lipstick.

Well, after years of delay, following my successful half marathon (yes, I'm still riding that high) I figured I could do just about anything. So, I sucked it up, or in at least, and hit the mall to find some new dungarees that, if they couldn't make me look long and lean and hip, at least didn't make my legs look shorter, my thighs look thicker, or my waist look muffin toppier. I took a friend for moral support and to help me distinguish between jeans that looked bad, and jeans that I thought looked bad.  She was a great help, and I'm now the proud owner of three new pairs of jeans, and two old ones.

Am I cured?

No.

Do I feel ready to try this again?

Not until I have to, and with three new pairs, I might make it a decade.

But, I do have jeans that I can leave the house in without worrying strangers will dump their change in my coffee cup.

I'm grateful for Banana Republic Factory Store for making jeans that don't hate women, for Lauren and her distinguishing eye for denim, for Mr. Strauss, even if his invention is the cause of much stress, and   for the suffragettes, who long ago decided bustles and corsets were so last season, and donned trousers instead.

Finishing

Saturday, I completed a half marathon.

Those are words I never thought I'd type.  In fact, right up through that last tenth of a mile it was iffy.  I've never been that close to a finish and wondered if I would make it.  But, I did and I have the t-shirt to prove it.  It felt so good to cross that line. Even as my muscles ached, my stomach churned, and I discovered the ugliest big-toe blister ever, I had no regrets.

Well, today I reached another milestone.  I typed The End on my third manuscript!  It still needs to be rewritten, but its there. All 82,000 words of it.  I don't have a t-shirt, or an ugly blister as a result, but I do have that same deep and vast sense of, "Yes!"

I've never been one to put "Life is the journey, not the destination," on my bumper. I love finishing. Yet while the process of writing is more fun than the process of running, both of these endeavors were actually fun. Yes, for real.  I loved watching the story form and grow and flourish in ways I hadn't anticipated. And I loved--well, liked--plodding past the Parthenon, Music Row, and Belmont University in Nashville.

Which made me wonder if I should revamp my philosophy and start setting paths instead of goals.

Mmm, not gonna happen.  As healthy as that might be, its just not me.  I am learning though, through these long, slow, goals to enjoy both.  I can take in the scenery without forgetting the finish line. I can delve into the possibility of story without letting it take me by the hand and lead me on a dozen rabbit trails that lead to a half-finished manuscript.

All this goal pondering reminded me of the Apostle Paul's analogy in 2 Tim. 4:7, namely, "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." He was a finish line person too. 


This life is glorious and is a gift. It is a chance to see and experience and love and learn. To sing with Cambodians, to hike in Thailand, to dine in Italy, to drink coffee and talk Jesus with Guatemalans, to hug Kenyan children and see wild elephants, to build friendships and familyships, to read, to laugh, to write, to run.

And yet, this is the race. Just, the race.  The finish line is out there and the best part of existence lies beyond.  How cool is that?

Thank you, Lord, for these goals and the persistence you are intent on teaching me. Thank you for this story and for the characters I'm half in love with. Thank you for getting me through 13.1 miles, and for a running buddy to do it with. Thank you for the glorious event this life is, and even more for the wondrous promise of so much more beyond, including you! Please let me never lose sight of either.  All my love.

Either Way

Tomorrow I will complete a half marathon.
Or possibly meet my maker trying.
Either way, it will be memorable.


I'm thankful for angry music to run with, this stuff called Gu that I am told I will need toward the end, running skirts, cool weather, water, grace, and the promise of Heaven and a crazy thrilling eternity with the most creative, funny, brilliant, gentle God ever.

Pandora gets Hijacked

There's a children's book called, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Replace Alexander with Kimberly, and you have my Tuesday. I won't go into why, but by 5 pm, when I could set Business Kimberly aside, I was a wreck. And there was nothing I could do about it.

So, I called my Mom and we prayed.

Not five minutes later, Pandora selected In Christ Alone. I can't hear that song without my eyes being drawn to the grandeur of the Master plan.  I sighed, sniffed, dabbed my eyes and was lifted. The song faded.

And then Pandora picked... In Christ Alone.
Again.
Hmmm. Methinks there was more than an algorithm going on there. Step aside, digital song-picker. There's a Bigger Dude making the choices right about now.
I finally stopped writing and just let it wash over me. Let the Comforter comfort. Leaned fully and bonelessly on the Almighty, whose heart breaks for injustice and cruelty and all pain, and who will one day fix all the things I can't. Who knows, more than I ever will, what ugly looks like. And who won.

I'm not going to say the snot-faucet shut off right away, but the agony was on Someone else's shoulders and my tears faded.  It is impossible to feel hopeless in the presence of God. In Christ Alone my hope is found. He is my light, my strength, my song.

Thank you, Lord on High, that you see the tiny things in this world, that you are pure love and that all the ugly that mars this planet cannot ever hold up against your goodness. You win.
You win.
Please, oh Comforter, lift up those hurting. Wrap your holy, mighty, comforting self around them. Insulate those who need it.  Bring your joy, your freedom, your victory to this place. All my love.

Story time

Did you know 80% of the world is oral-preferenced learners vs. literate learners? I didn't either.

But this weekend I took part in a training class on orality, which is the practice of teaching the Bible through oral story-telling.  I participated primarily because I love story itself, be it written or verbal (which is what keeps that 80% number from stabbing this writer in the heart.)  I showed up with my notebook and laptop ready for an education on the art of effectively sharing Biblical truth without notes and charts and bullet points.

This is not what happened.

Instead, the trainers just started by telling a memorized story from God's Word. They didn't add words or details, they straight up spoke the story, as a story, as written. And then we discussed it with broad questions like, "What does this story tell us about God? About us? What does it mean for our lives?"  Of course these questions led to deeper discussion, and before we were two hours in, something happened.

My notebook was gone, my analytical bullet-point mind had yielded to the experience, and a Holy encounter took place. This group of leaders for God were sharing, were crying, were learning from simple stories we've heard, read, and bludgeoned to death with those damn bullets.  Life change occurred while we discussed the feeding of the five-thousand, and Jesus' encounter with the Samaritan woman.

It wasn't because the stories were told with finesse. Some weren't. It wasn't the vibrant scene-setting, because little to none took place before the story began. It was because the Word of God doesn't return to him without accomplishing his work. It was because the Holy Spirit got excited that His kiddos were together to open themselves to what He had to say instead of what they could dig up on their own.

I will treasure that time in my heart and fell in love all over with the Almighty Original Story-Teller, with his Word, with my brothers and sisters in Christ.  The power of story sings through my veins even now.

Thank you, dearest Jesus, for story. For your story. For using story to teach us. For the Spirit to untwine the truths in your words steadily throughout our lives and experiences.  Thank you that your living word is powerful and that I have the honor to read it, to share it.  All my love.