'tis the season

You know what feeling I love best?

Anticipation.

Unfortunately, I don't think I do anticipation very well as an adult. With children, it's easy to spot: the bright eyes, the wide smiles, the cannot-be-contained energy. They literally don't know what to do with themselves until the expected day or event arrives--and it shows.

But adults? We seem to temper ourselves. We maintain an appropriate level of excitement. The anticipation may threaten to leak out everywhere, but in general, we keep it under wraps.

However, this is the season of anticipation: Advent, in which we await the birth of Christ. I didn't grow up celebrating Advent, with the calendars or the wreaths or the candles, but discovered it in college: first, with the Book of Common Prayer in Renaissance Literature and then, at Life Church, where I began unpacking the concept of holy anticipation.

As a woman, it's especially meaningful to me that Advent begins with a woman in the most intimate moment of her life. I love the language of the Magnificat, and as gorgeous as the first line is in Latin--Magnificat: anima mea Dominum--I appreciate the simplicity of the Book of Common Prayer:

My soul doth magnify the Lord : and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.

For he hath regarded : the lowliness of his handmaiden.

For behold, from henceforth : all generations shall call me blessed.

For he that is mighty hath magnified me : and holy is his Name.

And his mercy is on them that fear him : throughout all generations.

He hath shewed strength with his arm : he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.

He hath put down the mighty from their seat : and hath exalted the humble and meek.

He hath filled the hungry with good things : and the rich he hath sent empty away.

He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel : as he promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed for ever.

So Advent begins with the announcement of a pregnancy. (No, really.) A pregnancy that was dangerous, a pregnancy that should never have happened, an impossible pregnancy, really. Mary is so strong in her vulnerability at this moment. But if we limit Advent to the joyful anticipation of the birth of Christ, I wonder if we've missed the bigger picture:

Advent is really the anticipation of the arrival of Israel's salvation.

Perhaps we don't have a clear concept of that kind of anticipation: Waiting. Thousands of years of waiting. Patient waiting sometimes, but mostly impatient waiting. Groaning. How long, O Lord? Come quickly. Questioning. Has He forgotten us? Perhaps our God won't make good on His promise.

See, anticipation isn't just bouncing our knees, arms outstretched, smile on our face. It is that, but it is more. Advent is joyful because we know that He does arrive, and He does ransom Israel. But it's also messy. It's impatient people, unworthy of rescue, crying out to God to be saved, maybe even doubting it will happen. As the years stack up, and generations stretch out, perhaps it becomes the stuff of legends, like that story your grandpa tells you're pretty sure isn't true. It just seems so unlikely that the waiting will ever end. That God will ever remember you.

And then it happens. The promise is fulfilled.

Doesn't that make the shepherds seem so much more genuine? Imagine the young men, who doubted it would ever happen. Imagine the old men, whose hope was maybe a little more real. Imagine the small boys, who would never know the lifetime of waiting all their forefathers knew. The fulfillment was right now. It was here. It was real.

That is Advent to me. It's so much more than the excitement of pregnancy. It's the culmination of years of that quietly-whispered hope and those tender prayers. So Advent is anticipation: joyful and messy. Isn't that just the story of our whole lives?

Magnificat: anima mea Dominum.

my thanksgiving was better than your thanksgiving

It's the end of the month of gratitude. Many of my friends have been participating in the 1000 gifts project, taking the month of November to list 1000 gifts from God. Consider this my contribution to the project.

I'm grateful for spending Thanksgiving with my family in Colorado, and for sledding together in the Rocky Mountains:

I'm grateful for cousins crazy enough to marry into our family:

I'm grateful for newly engaged cousins (!):

I'm grateful for toboggan rides that start out promising:

but end in whitewashes:
(let's be honest, I really did miss this in Nigeria)

I'm especially grateful for the strong women in my life, from whom I can learn so much:

I'm grateful for the community of friends, old and new, that God has built up around me, to encourage me and keep me on track.

I'm grateful for a job that fits my gifts and passions, and one I will learn and grow in.

I'm grateful for this stage of life, however in-between it feels, and for the lessons I'm learning in the process.

i'm not that kind of girl

Let's get something straight: On the wide spectrum of femininity, I am more of a girly-girl than a tomboy. It's just that I'm just not that far left of center.

The most recent piece of evidence was submitted Friday. The church I grew up at hosts a women's Holiday Tea each November. The women of the church sign up to host and decorate a table, and a formal teatime is served. It is a pretty spectacular display of the feminine ingenuity of the women of that church, let me tell you. I haven't been in several years and it gets more elaborate each year. Last Friday, I was half-expecting a waterfall. Or two.

I definitely appreciated the event and the hosts who dedicated so much time to their tables. But as Mom and I surveyed all the tables with their place settings and fine china and knife rests (knife rests!), she asked me if I could see myself hosting something like that someday.

(There we are...yep, I look like my Mom.)

I was honest. I said no, thus fixing myself at the place where "painting our nails" meets "screaming at the football game on TV."

I am a girly-girl. I do enjoy attending holiday teas, and eating scones, and placing my soiled knife on my knife rest. I went shopping for a fancy dress this weekend and loved every second. I even curled my hair this afternoon.

It's just that I don't get a thrill from the prospect of owning fine china or hosting a formal tea someday. I guess a girl has to draw the line somewhere. I guess I'm more practical when it comes to dishes.

I discussed it with my Dad, who was the Tea's most adorable server. I said something like, "I enjoy this, but the elaborate business...it's just not me." To which he lovingly replied, "You're such a cynic...don't worry, you get that from me."

(Oh, the bow tie. And the teapot. Precious.)

i have a knack for embarrassing myself

Just because y'all are special

and just because it's my hundredth post

and just because I'm feeling generous and more than a little self-deprecating

but mostly just because I write whatever I want on this blog anyway....

Tonight, I'm going to tell you a story.*


Once upon a time (because that's how these things always start), there was a well-meaning girl with a heart of gold and honest intentions. Sure, sometimes she did brainless things like accidentally resending text messages to an ex-boyfriend, or losing her keys in a restaurant and not realizing it for approximately 7 hours, or oversleeping twice in two weeks, or even keeping an absurdly overemotional online journal throughout her early years of college.

But truly, this girl meant well. She tried to do the right thing in loving God and loving people. She tried to encourage them and point them back to a gracious God. It's just that sometimes she did stupid stuff.

Or, rather, does stupid stuff. Still.

Because this morning, this girl with the good intentions was supposed to get up at 5:15 to take her wonderful boyfriend to the airport so he could go spend the holiday week with his sister and his college friends. And she really wanted to be a help to him and getting up early on her day off was the least she could do. But even in that, she failed.

Due to a number of outside circumstances including, but not limited to: not going to bed early enough, setting the alarm for PM instead of AM, and--lest we forget--leaving her phone in her desk at work, our little Miss Congeniality failed to wake up until 7:15am, which was more or less the takeoff time for her boyfriend's flight.

Kai.

Thankfully, Mr. Wonderful made his flight, due to a great friend who has proved, once again, that he is great at coming through in the clutch. Not to mention that Mr. Wonderful has been nothing but gracious and forgiving about the whole mess. Which makes our well-meaning girl feel a bit less terrible.

But only a tiny little bit.

*This story may be my measly attempt at penance.

when impatience gives way to homesickness

I had a very impatient moment today, in which I thought (though, thankfully, did not voice) very irritated feelings about a woman at the post office. When I caught myself in that not-very-nice thought pattern, I thought to myself, How very non-Nigerian of me, reminding myself once again that the thing I miss most about Nigeria (besides the people) is the person I was when I was there.

The thought prompted me to pick up the journal I kept in Nigeria. For context, the following was written the day I left for good: June 17th 2010.

That's it. That's all she wrote.

I'm 5000 meters in the air and there's no going back. Literally--no visa, no ticket, no going back.

I wish i had the right words for this moment. How crippling and gutsucking it feels. How conflicted.

I want to cry. I want to cry so bad. I want to mourn this place, these people, and who I am around them.

I want to beat down the doors and go back...

I want.

I wish.

I want.

I just want to go home--but where is that anymore? Surely I'm at home in MN, in Wheaton, too. And surely I feel at home at Plot 1079 Opposite American School, Durumi, too.

How long, O Lord?

How long will it be until I feel at home again? How long until I find a way to adequately express my intense longing for 2 places?

I love you, God, and I trust you.

But I don't trust myself and this feels a lot like the wrong decision.

Help.

That portion is followed by an unsent letter to a friend. Next is this:

I'm watching the sun rise over France and listening to my iPod's Relaxed playlist. Fitting, no?

A few thoughts:

- I have a plan. God has a plan. My plan doesn't matter.

- Man makes plans, but God determines his steps.

- God is still who He is no matter where I am.

All this circumstantial evidence to the contrary does little to convince me that this plan in leading me away from Nigeria is designed to do anything but rip me apart.

Lord, help me make sense of this decision, and if not, help me be at peace about it.

While I still struggle with these restless feelings, I would say I am more or less at peace about being in Minnesota for such a time as this. My main struggle now is feeling caught in the in-between, between the right now and the future, between the where I am and the where I'm supposed to be.

This tension feels a lot like what Wheaton taught me about the kingdom of God as the already and the not yet. I think I was made to live in that tension. It's just not a very comfortable place to be.

hallelujah

I admitted it out loud last night:

I have a really hard time being sad that Grandpa died.

It sounds hateful and cold when taken out of context, but it is the truth in my heart. My grandfather lived 80 long, rich, full years. Years full of love, and family, and celebrations. The last 40 of those years were also full of some kind of pain. And that pain is no more.

Hallelujah.

I was privileged to know the love of my grandfather. To have held his hand, to have kissed his shiny bald head, to have smelled his English Leather aftershave, to have heard his laugh - the kind that brought tears to his eyes. I bear witness to my grandparents' generosity, over and over and over, every Christmas, birthday, graduation, time and time again.

Hallelujah.

I was blessed to hear him sing. To sing with him, in the car, in church, at the kitchen table. I was blessed to watch him read and write. To reflect on the joy in his life and to remember what was important. To work crossword puzzles and debate politics. To record his daily happenings, because God is in the details.

Hallelujah.

I am grateful that my memories of Grandpa are positive and beautiful. I am grateful that my grandfather's legacy will extend long past my generation. I am grateful that he is whole and complete and standing--upright and pain-free--in the presence of God.

Hallelujah.

I enjoyed the life and love and laughter of my grandfather for all of my 23 wonderful years. I will carry his memory with me for the rest of my life. I will teach my children about the incredible man he was.

Hallelujah.

And though I will miss him on holidays, at weddings, and when we celebrate births, I know he is exactly where he ought to be. It is the reward for a full and faithful life.

Hallelujah.

We all grieve in different ways, and though my tears are few, my smiles are many. My grandfather was a good man, who married a good woman, who raised good children, who loved his grandkids. We will remember him well and continue the love. And we will praise the God who gave him to us and gave us to each other.

Hallelujah.

once a nanny, always a nanny

I had one of those "moments" tonight.

You know the kind where you're pretty sure time is moving too fast and you just want everything to slow down a little?

Yeah, that.

I babysat tonight for a family I have come to love. What started as a strictly housekeeping position three summers ago has become a beautiful, flexible, on-call-when-you-need-me job. A few weeks ago, it was taking Andrew to hockey (and getting all his equipment on him, which was a job and half). Tonight was straight-up babysitting for Andrew (6) and Matthew (almost 3).

Here's why I had my little "moment":

Fall 2007. Matthew arrives.

Then there's these, from tonight:

Andrew eating Cheerios and working on homework.

Matthew, snuggling up after a little meltdown

So there it is: my moment. I can't believe Andrew is old enough to read books to me. I melted a little when Matthew pointed at the lions in our book and said "li-lon." I've been privileged to watch these little ones become little boys. I've been with this family through potty training and home renovation. I've taken the boys down the slide at the park and pushed them on the swings. I've looked after them in toy stores and hair salons. I once stopped Andrew from being struck by a car. And a few weeks ago, I had intermittent freak-outs every time he fell on the ice at hockey practice.

Their family has shared my life with me, too. They were around when Amanda got married. I was still with them when Dad and Jake had their accident on the Yellowstone. In fact, they were among the first to know about Nigeria, since I was working for them at the time.

There's just a lot of life that's happened in the 3+ years I've known their family. And tonight I had a little moment: memories of all that I've been blessed to see and experience with them wrapped up in a glimpse of the future in store for them. It was precious, to say the least.

Clearly, I'm not a mom yet. And from what I've heard, these "moments" get more intense worse when they're your own. Clearly, I'm not there yet. But I hope to be someday. I figure this is something like fair warning.

at a time like this

I feel obligated to talk about my grandfather. To remember and tell stories. To honor him in my own small way. To give details of the memorial service (which was beautiful) and of my long weekend with extended family (which was intensely rewarding) and of my grandfather's incredible life (which is to be celebrated).

I feel like that's what I ought to do, and yet, I know my grandfather. He would say, "Only write about it if that's what you want to write about." I'm not ready--just yet--to write about Grandpa. I'll get there. Just not today.

Today, what I want to write about is community.

About the people we surround ourselves with. About the blood-relatives and non-blood-relatives who share our joys and sorrows and do life alongside us.

Without them, the past several weeks would have been very, very different.

Losing a grandparent is new territory for me. I've never walked through this before. But so many others have. They know loss and sadness. They have grieved, and they know how to support me while I learn how to grieve, too.

My dear friends, relatives, coworkers--true brothers and sisters in Christ--have prayed for me, hugged me and held me, listened to me, and told me they love me. They have shown me patience and understanding, even when plans changed unexpectedly. They invited me into their homes and shared their sympathy-expressing cats (S&M, I'm looking at you). They gave flowers and sent cards, emails, and Facebook messages expressing their condolences.

They are the living embodiment of the Early Church and I am profoundly grateful.

This is what I mean when I talk about living missionally. Because yes, it means I desire to live in such a way that points people to Jesus--as my beloved Life Church says: loving others into a relationship with God. So there's that part of missional living. But it also includes living with other Christians. Reminding them of Christ's grace and mercy. Reflecting Christ's sacrificial love. Being Christ to each other.

I can't imagine experiencing loss without the support of the body of Christ. I believe I can speak on behalf of my family when I say we are thankful for you and for your expressions of love. It is my hope to continue to do life with you, bearing your burdens and sharing your hopes, as you have done for me.

a grief observed

My grandfather, Robert Gene Thomas, passed away in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

Which is an uncomfortably sterile way of saying that my Grandpa Bob is now with Jesus.

It is sad, and we will miss him, and finding the right words to describe him to my children someday will be an impossible task.

BUT.

He is pain-free for the first time in 40 years. He has a new body. He is walking the streets of heaven unassisted, with no walker, no cane, not even a limp. He is praising God in the presence of God.

Today I will watch football and drink a Diet Mountain Dew in memory of Grandpa Bob, knowing that I would trade my reality for his in a heartbeat.

new territory

You can expect a longer post this weekend, after I've had time to process and be amongst family and loved ones. For now, I'll simply say that I'm headed to Colorado early in the morning to see this dear man and tell him how much I love him (because you can never say it often enough):

My college graduation, May 2009

Cousin David's wedding, June 2004

worship music does this to me

I've been thinking through a lot of heavy stuff lately. Heavy stuff like sin, guilt and shame, but also heavy stuff like forgiveness, redemption and the grace of God.

This is what I keep circling back to: we serve a good God.

He is righteous and He is just, and His righteousness and justice does not tolerate my sin. But because He is also good, He has provided a way that I can stand in His presence - His very presence! - blameless and pure in His sight, and that is through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

It doesn't take too long before that thought completely overpowers the heaviness of my sin, guilt, and shame. Which might be something akin to victory.

it's not about pity

If you have ever lived through a Minnesota winter, if you have children, if you have been to Africa, if you know what culture shock is, if you have ever seen a homeless person, if you have ever felt cold, if you strive to live missionally, if you want to do something practical to help your fellow man:

I NEED YOU.

My friends Samuel & Shola, and their two daughters, Esther (8) and Grace (2) relocated from Nigeria to Minnesota in August. (Do you know where this is going yet?)

Weather.com says Minnesota is going to get cold this week, with wind and rain.

Samuel and Shola and their daughters are not prepared for a Minnesota winter.

And for once, I can help. I know how to help.

But I need your help. They need winter clothes. All of them. And boots and coats.

MN Moms and Dads: Esther and Grace need the clothes your kids have outgrown. I don't have sizes for them, as their parents are unfamiliar with US sizing. From holding her, I would say little Grace is a 2T, maybe 3T. Esther is tall for an 8-year-old, but quite thin.

If you want to get on board with this, please email me at maggie.e.thomas@gmail.com. I'm going to check with the family on sizes and compile a list of what we have and what we need.

It's not about pity, it's about love. And right now, my Nigerian friends need some MN lovin'.

starry starry night

When you're a kid, you're pretty much at the mercy of your parents when it comes to musical tastes. Which isn't a bad thing at all; in fact, if your parents were really into the pop music of their day, having knowledge of MJ or Madonna or Prince or Springsteen might actually score you some points with your peers.

Except I was the kid who was all about Van Morrison and Billy Joel and Simon & Garfunkel and Tom Waits and Don McLean. Knowledge of these guys' music doesn't get cool again until you're about 18. And that's okay.

(Moral of that story: it does become cool again to love Simon & Garfunkel. Eventually.)

So my dad was really into folk music, and more specifically, sad songs. The first song I learned harmony for was this horribly depressing tune called "Souvenirs," a duet between Steve Goodman and John Prine. Best lyric of that one has to be: "Broken hearts and dirty windows / make life difficult to see." Suuuuper optimistic. Yet I loved it.

My brother and I were also big fans of "Goodnight Saigon" by Billy Joel, which critics called "poignant and harrowing." Jake and I called it the Helicopter Song because of the recordings of rotors at the beginning and end. The choice line from that song would be: "And we will all go down together / We said we'd all go down together." Nothing like establishing a sense of brotherhood at age 8.

Then there was "Vincent (Starry Starry Night)" by Don McLean. As in this Starry Night:

(Coincidentally, it happens to be one of my favorite paintings, too.)

The song first celebrates Van Gogh and then mourns the loss of his genius. It's poignant and sad in a way that makes you wonder what else you take for granted (besides, apparently, Vincent Van Gogh). Memorable lines include: "But I could have told you, Vincent, / This world was never meant / for one as beautiful as you."

As odd as it may be, that's our song, Dad's and mine. It's kind of strange, and not father-daughter-esque, but then again, "our songs" don't have to make sense to anyone but the people who make up the "our." (See also: Jake's and my love for Taylor Swift.)

About three months ago, on the way home from my cousin's wedding, "Vincent" came on the radio. Dad asked me if people will find it strange when we dance to it someday at my wedding. Obviously, he and I had never talked about "Vincent" being that song, but at that moment, it made a lot of sense. "Probably," I said, "But who cares? It's our song." And I think that's the way it should be.

Here's to songs that don't make sense and the people who make them special.

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.

my hope is built on nothing less

When darkness veils His lovely face,
I rest on his unchanging grace.
In every high and stormy gale,
My anchor holds within the veil.

On Christ the solid rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.

It was a tough evening for the extended Thomas family yesterday.

But you know what? God is still in control. He is still merciful. And He is able.

And we are believing for a miracle.

In the meantime, Thanksgiving can't come soon enough. I miss my family.

forward motion

Last week, Ashley asked if I wanted to do the Reindeer Run 5K with her and Kathryn.

The more I thought about it, the more it sounded like a great idea.

Just yesterday, I determined that if I actually want to do it, I should probably move my butt between now and December 4th.

So I ran. A little. More like jogging. But I did it here:

And here:

Hyland Lake Park Reserve is my favorite place in the world to run. I love that it's a mile from my house. I love that I can choose dirt or paved trails. I love that I know my favorite loop inside out. I love that my memories of this place go clear back to childhood, playing at the park formerly known as Chutes & Ladders, and losing my sunglasses in the lake while paddle-boating with my Mom and brother, and the summer of 2007 running with Amanda Twistol just weeks before she became Amanda Prihoda.

(uh, PS, those photos aren't mine. Just sayin'.)

Right. So back to yesterday. I purposely left my iPod at home. It was just me, the 50F wind, the sunset, and God.

It was glorious.

I forgot how much I love being outside. And being outside in autumn. And maybe even that burning in my lungs reminding me that I am alive.

I did couple loops, didn't push too hard, just enjoyed the weather. And 4.2 miles of forward motion later, I was home again, absolutely invigorated and thinking "Again! Again! Again!"

Then I saw that the forecast for next Thursday reads "Rain/Snow Showers."

Ugh. Fall, why do you have to leave me so soon?!

the hump that is wednesday

Following the overwhelming cuteness of that last post, how's this for a dose of reality?

I overslept this morning. Meant to get up at 7:30. Looked at the clock at 8:42.

Aaaand this whole being-an-adult thing gets thrown under the bus just. like. that. Embarrassing.


[I was only 10 minutes late to work. I love my job and my 2.5-mile commute.]

a few of my favorite things

[This post has some incredible photography, none of which is mine. Thank you, Marjorie Howell.]

Once upon a time, it was October.

Which is probably my favorite month of my favorite season. For a lot of reasons. October brings changing leaves, harvest time, birthdays, crisp weather, and tiny whispers of winter.

It also brings apple picking, which is probably the most delightful activity there ever was.

If you plant me a Cortland apple tree, I'll love you forever. Fact.

So this weekend, I went to an orchard.And I picked. And I ate. Well, we ate.

And we took pictures and laughed.

Oh, did we laugh."We" being me and three amazing people that God has seen fit to bless me with.
How it makes sense, I don't know; but I am grateful.

It was the most enchanting day I've had since coming back from Nigeria. By far.

It is true that life also goes through seasons. Some are filled with trials and pinching and stretching. Other seasons, like this one, are filled with innumerable joys. The differences between today and 365 days ago are vast, but my trust is in the same God, who is still faithful, still in control, and still blessing me.

Here's to a new season, which coincides nicely with my favorite season.

All pictures courtesy Spencer and Marjorie Howell. Thanks, you two.

in the interim

I have a great post (with pictures) on its way.

In the meantime, enjoy my 4th published article on my new concept of home.

Ladies, this one was geared towards you. Gentlemen...well, read between the lines.

happy birthday, buddy

Today, my best friend turns 20. Which, conveniently, makes me feel ancient. You see, Jake is my first memory. Ever.

Allow me to set the scene:

October, 1990. I was as precocious a 3-year-old as there ever was, with my wicked mullet and my fancy pink windpants. Mom, don't even deny it: home videos don't lie! I also talked. A lot. And I talked a lot about baby Jessica, who would quickly become my new baby sister. (whoops.)

I wasn't too sure about this new baby thing. Even at 3, I was already a drama queen, and didn't relish the thought of sharing the stage with someone else. The story goes that my grandma Pinky asked me once what I was going to do with the new baby. I swiftly replied that I would throw it in the garbage. What an angel.

There are other bits and pieces from the early years, but definitely, there is this one memory, standing at the forefront of everything else:

Sitting in a chair in Mom's hospital room, I waited for Nurse Julie to bring him in to see me. I wrapped my squidgy little arms around the bundle, firmly believing that I was "holding" my little brother. (I was not; Nurse Julie held. I simply hugged.) The memory gets hazy here, but I was enraptured. My little face full of wonder, Grandma Pinky asked if I was going to throw him away now.

No, I think I'll keep him was my whispered reply.

20 years later, I'm glad I kept him.

Happy Birthday to the best protector an older sister could ask for.

365 days, kiddo.

on manly men and being protected

Disclaimer
You will be offended by this post if you are one of the following: feminist, misogynist, pacifist, anti-outdoors/anti-camping, anti-vigilantism, or anti-guns. Here we go...

Once upon a time, my dad was a mountain man. There are not many things I love more than seeing pictures of my dad with a wild red beard or a bandana on his head. He and his friend Mikey once canoed the entire Yellowstone River from start to finish, just to give you an idea of the severity of their mountain man-ness. Everyone, meet my Dad, circa 1982:

Dad on the left; on the right is Mikey.

Please permit me to state outright and without apology that my dad is a total badass.These guys are some of the manliest men I've ever known. I'm pretty sure they got into legit fights. Again: manly. men.

Right, Dad is the bomb. So is Mikey, who now lives in the Wyoming wilderness and wields chainsaws on a regular basis. Dad and Mikey remain in contact, and a couple years ago, when my dad and brother set off to do the same Yellowstone trip (plus or minus 26 years), they stopped to see Mikey on the way:

Yep, still badasses.

You have to know about Dad and Mikey's adventures, and you have to appreciate their mountain man-ness in order to appreciate what I am about to tell you.

My dad raised me to be an independent young woman; I don't believe I've ever been a "daddy's girl." That said, we have always had a close relationship, and I don't think I will ever know or understand what it did to my dad when I decided to move to Nigeria. Outwardly, he was a rock: he put on a brave face, encouraged me to do this crazy thing, and trusted God for my protection. For that I will always love him.

But the other day, Dad made mention of those weeks prior to my move:

"You know, Mikey told me if anything had happened in Nigeria, he would have gone to find you."

I wish I were kidding, but images of Taken flashed through my head and tears came to my eyes.

As independent as I may be, I am still (on some level) a little girl who wants to be loved and protected. And though my interactions with Mikey have been few, the stories have been many. Mikey is a good man whose word is his bond. If Mikey told my dad he would have come to get me, I believe him. It means a lot to know that I am cared for and protected by good men.

So today I am thankful for the men in my life: men who are like grandfathers, men who are like fathers, men who are like brothers. I am surrounded by godly, protective men, and I am grateful.

the truth about encouragement

God gave me a big heart. True story. I mostly feel made to love on people.

(Unless you're a jerk, in which case, God is probably using you to teach me about loving people.)

In the past few weeks, I feel like God has put me in a place to encourage others. I would say this is different from the spiritual gift of encouragement, but I have had some choice opportunities to talk with dear, beloved people--people who are buried deep in the heart of God--and to encourage them.

I've been radically blessed in my own life. I've seen God show up in big ways and small ways, and I can testify to new mercies and amazing grace. Having that perspective puts me in a place to be encouraging and motivational.

But there's a drawback here; one I can't get around. I've spoken with some very broken-hearted people, people who have not seen God show up in big ways and small ways, people who can barely remember evidence of new mercies and amazing grace.
Others are just plain struggling--nothing extraordinarily awful has happened, but they feel uninspired, frustrated, not fully alive. When I talk to these people, do you know what I feel like?

A proselytizer. A phony. A lucky girl whose life just happened to work out.

It breaks my heart. I can imagine being in their shoes, and I would say to me: "Well, that's all well and good for you, and I'm glad God has been faithful in your life, but from where I sit, it doesn't look like God even cares."

So I'm torn between two reactions, and both feel disingenuous:
1. Don't believe the lie. God does care. He is near. He is faithful.
2. It may be difficult now, but I believe time will grant you perspective and answer the why

Either response makes me out to be an effervescent optimist: empty-headed, ungrounded, or worse--ignorant. Not the good kind of optimist, the annoying kind.

And yet.

I still feel that in their sharing of pain, of trouble, of stress, of discontent, of life, and in my response of joy, of hope, of perseverance, of promise, there is still a tiny provision of encouragement there.

So I press on. I can really only be two things: a cheerleader for those needing a boost, and an empathetic heart for those experiencing pain I will never know.

If you need it, I will cheer you on. If you need it, I will sit with you and hold your hand.
But either way, I'm going to tell you that God is faithful. Even when you can't see it. And that might be frustrating for you to hear. But you need to hear it, from someone who means well, from someone who believes it is true, from someone who will remind you of it until you believe it, too.

Also, to those people: you are loved. You are loved by me, a girl who received a big heart from a God who loves you even more.

intellectual christianity

So I joined a Theology discussion group.

Which sounds really holier-than-thou but it's totally not.

Basically, it's like this: I loved my Christian Thought class in college. I learned about history, foundations, heresies, interpretations, schisms, denominations. It was more formative than any other class in shaping who I am--period--but also who I am as an intellectual Christian.

You know, intellectual Christianity: loving Christ with your head as well as your heart. (a.k.a. for the geeks out there [like me] it's not enough to serve God with a child-like faith, I want to be able to wrap my brain around it all, too.)

A year after I graduated, plus and minus a move to Africa, I found myself craving the Calvinist v. Arminian debate again, and went looking for discussion. I found it at Southland City Church's City Groups - they have an entire one dedicated to Theology.

I totally geeked out, you guys. I realized how much I wanted to engage with theology, ask big questions, search for big answers, and be humbled in that feeling-small way when I recognize how little I understand about God.

So tonight was my first night. We discussed the "birthright" the Jews have on heaven. Are they shoe-ins because they're descendants of Abraham? Have they given that up because they rejected Jesus as the Messiah?

We scoured Scripture - and I mean scoured. We pored over words and someone with the Logos software interpreted Greek and Hebrew terms. We looked at traditional interpretations and dissenters' opinions. Incredible. This is the passage I contributed to the group: Romans 11: 25-36:

Paul addresses this seemingly huge issue (which really takes up the whole of Chapter 11, for context) and breaks it down and states God's position on the issue, only to use his last breath of the chapter to acknowledge how omniscient God is. How God's judgment cannot be known by mankind. And ultimately, how the glory goes to God, regardless of the outcome.

I just want to be like Paul.

I want to have the ability and the passion and heart to discuss really hard things (like whether or not the Jews, God's people, today will inherit the kingdom of heaven promised to their father, Abraham) and I want to do it in view of my insignificance. In view of God's righteousness and in view of my inability to know how He thinks.

Essentially, Paul lays it all out there and closes with, "But I am not God." I want to be able to do that, too, in true humility.

I have a really long way to go.

And if you ever want to join me in that pursuit, the Theology group meets on Wednesdays.

let's play a game

It's called the Neck or No Neck game.

I'm torn over the concept of turtlenecks. I got a couple from Marjorie, but I just don't know if it makes me look neckless or not. The general concept is that I need a neck. Being neckless is not a desirable state, in my opinion.

So, calling all fashionistas: please evaluate the picture below. I need to know if this should be a regular contender or a one-time-only show, if you know what I mean.

where credit is due

My embarrassing post from yesterday really has another story. And I need to tell the other side of that story. It's far better, and more redeeming, than my stupidity.

So yes, I lost my keys. But in those precious few minutes of sheer panic ("Oh my gosh they could be anywhere in downtown Minneapolis!"), I had some really amazing people on hand.

Everyone, meet Spencer, Marjorie and Jon. ::Hi, guys:: Yes I used their real names and if they hate me forever and wish to remain anonymous and protect their internet identity, I'll just change their names to something really unbelievable like Bullwinkle or Guadeloupe.

OKAY. Not the point of the story. So I kinda tweaked a little when I lost my keys and maybe pulled at my hair and bit my lip really. hard. and muttered bad things under my breath. But there were really only two options: look for them and cry about it or look for them and laugh about it. And really only one of those is even remotely desirable.

So we looked. They dumped out bags of newspapers and pulled the cushions off their furniture and got down on the floors and shook coat pockets and hugged me and reassured me that it would be okay and we all checked my purse over and over and over. And in the middle of it all, someone cracked a joke. And we laughed. And it wasn't so terrible. And it was mostly okay. Which is what amazing friends are for.

BUT WAIT. It gets better.

Because when we resigned ourselves to the idea that the keys would not, in fact, be found that night, my thoughts turned to how I would get home. And just like that, Spencer goes, "You can take the Taurus." Just. Like. That. Not enough to offer to take me home, but to let me take one of their cars.

This is what amazing friends do. They put forth more effort than necessary. They give more than the standard permits. They complicate their own lives (however slightly) and go down to one car per family to help the idiot that lost her keys. And we laugh about it. Together. I am so inspired by these friends I have. And grateful. And humbled. And reminded that this is, once again, what it means to do life together.

This is community. And it is beautiful. And accepting of idiots like me.

the embarrassment continues

I thought that post on high-school-aged me was the most embarrassing one I've ever written.

I'm about to outdo myself.

As some background, let me just tell you I had the most amazing weekend. Twins game, good friends, good movies, good food, and lots of good laughs. Just a phenomenal weekend.

As the cherry on the top of that weekend is the tiny little detail that I lost my car keys last night.

Lost my keys. Do you know who loses keys? Ancient people who shouldn't be driving. And 15-year-old girls. And maybe also my brother.

Jake just did this a month ago. And when it happened to him, I laughed and thought, "Hmm. Maybe I should have a spare set made for my car. Whatever - I'm responsible."

Joke's on me.

The keys could be in any of the following places: Spencer and Marjorie's house, their car, Fogo de Chão in downtown Minneapolis, anywhere on the Nicollet Mall, the 38th floor of the IDS Tower, or Jon's car.

You know, one of those places.

What a great foray into adult life: phoning the Hyundai Dealership to find out how to create a car key from scratch. Watch me grow up realfast.

EDIT 3pm CST: My keys have been located at the restaurant. Thank God! My pride is restored!

Nigeria, get it together.

Today is the 50th anniversary of Nigeria's independence from Great Britain.

A friend emailed this morning to tell me of 2 car bombs that exploded in Abuja around 11am local time (5am CST). They happened near Eagle Square - a place I know, a place I could easily get to in a taxi.

Do you know what happened to me this morning at 5am? I was startled awake. Seriously, I was. If you knew how hard I sleep, you would understand that it was probably not coincidental.

Nigeria, you're killing me.

There are tears in my eyes as I read news reports and accounts. BBC said the first car bomb drew first-responders to the area, and 5 minutes later, the second bomb exploded.

Nigeria, what are you doing?

Today I proudly wear Nigerian traditional clothes, delighted in the strides made in the last 50 years, blessed to have spent a year of my own life there, grateful that I will always feel at home among her beautiful people.

But today I mourn the foolishness, the selfishness, the greed. I mourn that a celebration which could have united a people religiously and politically divided fell short of that goal.

And selfishly, I mourn that I am not there to rejoice with those who rejoice and grieve with those who grieve.

Nigeria, am missing you today ooo.

up and down and up and down and up and

It's been a bipolar kind of day. You know what I mean, right? Those kinds of days that start out promising and nosedive before your second cup of coffee? It might pick back up again at lunch, but woe to those trying skate through the witching hour of 3:30 - 4:30.

Well, that's been my day. I hope you can relate. I hope I'm not alone. For the sake of humor, here's a recap of my rollercoaster day (quotes courtesy my Facebook and Twitter feed)

"As I was falling asleep last night, I had a thought and said to myself, "You should tweet that tomorrow." Well, it's tomorrow. I forgot."

"Dealing with argumentative and belligerent people has to be the least favorite part of my job."

"Need to marvel at something today? http://justpaste.it/3ky"

"Hiskja (coworker's son, age 6) just walked into the office saying, "I have to show my dad my new Clone Wars skateboard with General Grievous on it." Oh how I love my job."

"I hate budgets. #monthlycashflowplan @daveramsey #FPU"

"Financial Aid makes me want to tear my hair out."


Someone please tell me I'm not alone in this. Someone also please tell me that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it. Someone also remind me that Glee is on tonight and I'll be with good friends for it.

marvel-ous

I'm a big fan of photography. I have some friends, like Sarah and Ashley, who are pretty good at it. I'm rather slow on the uptake - I know what I like, and I can to pick out "good" photos - but I personally am not gifted in the photo-making and -taking categories.

But if you are also a fan of photography, or travel, or the world, or even its inhabitants (generally speaking), methinks you'll appreciate the following link. You might even, as the title implies, marvel at this incredible world we live in.

Let's cultivate some appreciation together.

http://justpaste.it/3ky

Here's a teaser. It's a shot of houseboats in--go figure--Lagos, Nigeria, copyright Yann Arthus-Bertrand.

forever is an awfully long time

Eternity has been on my mind lately.

I know, really light subject, huh?

It started with an incredible funeral last week. I say incredible because it was a 37-year-old mother of an autistic toddler; she died from a massive epileptic seizure.

I also say incredible because have you ever seen an entire family, robbed of their youngest daughter, with hands uplifted, singing Great is Thy Faithfulness? It's incredible.

There are a number of questions which accompany funerals. You generally think about yourself: What if it happened to you? What if it happened tomorrow? Are you prepared? Are things in order?

I had a few other reactions, too. It was an open casket funeral, and I haven't been to that type of funeral in probably 10 years. It just struck me, though, that she wasn't there. Her body was, but everything that made her Melanie has passed onto glory - where she is healed, whole, and standing in the presence of Jesus Christ.

There was a lot of hope present at that funeral - this life is not all there is. We have a hope that transcends this material world. Glory to God!

My internal dwelling on eternity continued tonight at Southland City Church. One of my new favorite songs is called Yahweh, and these are the only lines I know from memory:

We look to Yahweh, Yahweh.
Forever Yahweh, Yahweh.

And He shall reign forever; He shall reign forever;
He shall reign forever and ever.

I sang those lines over and over, in my car, all the way home. I was struck by the realization that long after I am gone, when this place is nothing but wasteland, and when the temples of man's ingenuity are nothing but forgotten ruins, Yahweh will reign.

And for forever after that, He will still reign.

And for all that time, from the time I am finished in this world until time is no more, I will give praise to Him.

Which was when all my thoughts came together: When Melanie lost consciousness that day, she left this world and awoke to the presence of Jesus Christ, whom she will praise forever and ever.

Glory to God in the highest.

the clock is ticking

In recent years, I've found myself increasingly attuned to others' marketing strategies. The most effective strategies I've seen lately are in video format.

It started in July with Ford's video campaign to unveil the new Explorer. It was a mystery, really, that a marketing video for a car could give me goosebumps.

Then there was this one, which brought tears to my eyes: Amazima Ministries on Vimeo

And then just today, a friend shared this one in their Facebook stream. It's for The Girl Effect and it's put a burning in my soul.



I still don't know what I'm going to do about it, but it's raised a lot of burning questions in my heart, primarily: "What can I do? right now? from here?"

daily dose of embarrassing humor

Discovery of the YEAR:

I kept a Xanga account during my freshman year of college.

Oh my it is atrocious. I was so angst-ridden. How did I live with me?!

I'm not going to share the address with you, because I am that embarrassed, but here's some fun snippets. Let's all just laugh together. I'm nothing if not self-deprecating, yes?

"Interests: music, friends, coffee / Expertise: massages"

5/24/06: "Maybe I'll try keeping this thing updated more often. Maybe I'll start waking up before noon. Maybe I'll start running 3 miles every day. Maybe I'll be a size 6 before August. Maybe I'll be more responsible this summer. Maybe I'll make a lot of money. Maybe I'll plan out my life...at least the next 3 years. Maybe I'll receive some kind of Divine Revelation about my future. Maybe I'll take life more seriously. Maybe I'll take life less seriously. Maybe I'll bond with my brother this summer. Maybe I'll get to know my dad better. Maybe I'll quit talking to half my Wheaton friends. Maybe I'll develop my relationships here at home. Maybe I won't come home at all next year. Maybe I'll make a rash decision this summer...like choosing to pick up and fly to newhampshire to see Jayj or to newjersey to see Mattie or to texas to see... Maybe I'll learn how to be a leader amongst my peers. Maybe I'll make a lot of really good decisions this summer. Maybe I'll make a lot of bad decisions, too. Maybe I'll actually sort through all my crap. Maybe I'll just let it sit in the boxes until August. Maybe I'll cut my hair. Maybe I'll just let it grow. Maybe I'll start playing tennis. Or golf. Yeah, maybe golf. Maybe I'll be a fantastic nanny this summer. Maybe the kids will hate me. Maybe Connor will be an angel this summer...who am i kidding, maybe he'll threaten my life. Maybe I'll buy a new wardrobe. Maybe I'll get colored contacts. Maybe I'll come back a changed woman. Maybe I'll just stay the same.

Maybe."

11/23/05: "well, God continues to be good. (what a surprise) I am still an English major, but the hope is to become certified to teach ESL overseas. That's right...Maggie's gonna be a missionary."

9/12/05: "I secretly want to do something semi-destructive...dying my hair wasn't enough"

It's just so humiliating! If you were friends with me back then, thank you for sticking it out until I was less annoying. And if you dated me back then, well...bless you. That must have been a bumpy ride.

now playing: an experiment

This is a experimental video post. No, it's not a vlog. It's just a video of the song I'm currently hooked on. And I took it from YouTube. And I have no idea if it's an infringement. And if this blog gets shut down I guess I'll have my answer.

For the record, Guster has been a favorite of mine since junior year of high school (seven years ago). I love their lyrical strength and imagery, the gentle acoustics, and the easy harmony I fall into when I sing along in my car (or in my room, or in the shower).

Also for the record, Guster is not a Christian band. They're all Jewish guys. But being the good liberal arts kid I will always be, I like to pick apart lyrics to find Truth in there somewhere.

Enough qualifying. Just listen already and tell me what you think.

Guster's "Stay With Me Jesus"



from IndependentPresident's YouTube channel

All theirs, not mine. (There. I hope I covered my bases.)