26
May

How to Sabotage Your Very Own Self

If you are a DIYer, this post is for you. It hails hot off the press from my own daily existence. From the most recent scribblings in my journal. From the blocks on my calendar. As I put hands to the plow each morning to eke out a dream, a calling, these are the ways I’m bungling it on the regular.

  • Find a routine that works and marry it. I am a person very given to a rut. Without intentionality, I will veer to the familiar and plug along dutifully until the cows come home (I’m in touch with my inner farmer today). Now. In my brain, when you find what works, logic says keep doing it. And there’s some truth in that; however, creativity doesn’t play that game. Fresh ideas are rarely born out of stale circumstances. Innovation is a prerequisite for winning at anything, so change it up and regularly schedule some play, some rest, and some new.
  • Heed the skeptic in your brain. Hogwash. Negative, pessimistic, suspicious, ungrateful people make lousy dream chasers.
  • Find someone who’s doing what you want to do and do what they did to get there. Again, there’s a grain of wisdom in that line of thought, but it’s more often a trap than a recipe for success. Someone else’s path won’t be yours. Like it or not, God has you in a process that is ripe with purpose, and His process won’t be hacked. Furthermore, no one is doing what you want to do. Because if someone’s already doing exactly what you want to do, then you don’t need to do it. If someone’s already saying/doing/selling/building what you want to, you haven’t honed in closely enough on what only YOU can say/do/sell/or build.

  • Know when to fold ’em. Know when to walk away. Know when to run. Discouragement is to be expected. You’ll want to hang it up. Almost every day. You’ll feel foolish for attempting to lug around a massive dream that doesn’t fit in your arms. You’ve got it strapped to your back, both arms hugging what they can in the front, a basket full of hope balancing on your head, and you’re kicking what won’t fit down the sidewalk. You’ll grow weary of looking like a spectacle with your grand ideas drawing all kinds of attention. This is where dreams get relegated to the storage units of our lives. Where they dust, out of view of others and occupy space we don’t really need. That’s what they get with their big selves. They get forgotten. And not only are they cumbersome, they smell too. Dreams are steeped in the odor of impossibility. So real deal dream chasing demands a high tolerance for the foolish and the impossible, the oversized and the stinky. Tenacity required. And don’t even get me started on patience…
  • Read everything you can get your hands on and implement best practices. With regards to this blog, I have researched best days to release posts. I have found trusted information suggesting that a blogger can capture the best traffic on a Saturday post. And in the same interval of time, I read a different respected source that stated you should never post on Saturday. I have encountered the same with the optimal times of day for posting. All of that to say, you can waste a lot of time reading about contradictory best practices and land in confusion. There’s more merit in researching what’s working best for you and going with that.
  • Hyper-focus on making it happen. Wreck your marriage, cheat your children, and ignore your friends. That always goes well.
  • Hold your focus loosely and your plan tightly. While I’ve definitely stepped in the puddles of the aforementioned challenges, this is where I’m currently residing. I am a deplorable multi-tasker. So I try to stand in the middle of my life and run in seven different directions at once. Jesus-follower, wife, mama, daughter, sister, friend, small group co-leader, blogger. Where exactly does dream chaser fit in? I am having to get militant, with my very own self, about protecting the time I have set aside each day to dream and work and pray towards what God has called me to do – to help believers find Truth, strength, and hope in Jesus. Now my plan for doing that is an open-handed component because nothing in my life has ever gone as I planned; why would I think this will be different?

So what is that dream you’re paying storage fees on each month? What’s hindering you from pursuing it? Go free it, air it out, belt its largeness back on, and give me a head nod as we pass on the street. I’d wave….but……you know…….my hands are full. Carry on, friend, and I’d love to hear about your journey.

[Feature Image: Chris Devers]
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19
May

Mind the Gap: All Christians Are Not Created Equal

The cell was rank with the acrid stench of urine; a searing spear of blinding torment pierced both temples. Bile rocketed up his throat as he swallowed hard to force it back down. A single tear escaped the corner of his eye; he swiftly wiped it into his hairline. Head down, facing the concrete floor, he silently mouthed, “God, I need you….please help me….please save me….”

_____

She bit the side of her cheek as she thought through what she should do. The goldfish in her belly plunged and soared as an audience went wild in the splash zone. She hadn’t expected to feel nervous. Or afraid. She could hear the dull drone of the mower which meant her daddy was home now. Mom was wiping up a glob of butter from the kitchen floor as she entered. She would just blurt it; that’s what she would do. Ready…ready…set….ready………..”MamaIjustaskedJesusintomyheart.”

_____

Why am I crying? Why the hell am I crying? Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m cussing in church, I’m crying, I’m standing up and all of these people are looking at me. God, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry for all that I’ve ever done. These people don’t know what I’ve done. They have no idea, God, but I don’t want to live this way anymore. I want to be different, God. Please help me be different….please forgive me…..I am so sorry, God…..I want to follow you……I want to do better…….I want to be better…….I want to be a good person…..

_____

Are all three equally in right relationship with God? I say yes. Are all three completely forgiven? Yes again. Going to heaven? Yep. According to Scripture, are all three new? Yes. Second Corinthians 5:17 says so. Do all three still retain unhealed wounds at this transaction? Sadly, yes.

Because new doesn’t mean whole.

New doesn’t mean well.

And new doesn’t mean healed.

In my brain, it’s kind of like a heart transplant. At the conclusion of the surgery, the patient has a new heart. No one disputes that. And this gives him life when death had been his prognosis. But as they wheel him from the OR, is he whole again? Well, healed, and ready to grab dinner with the fam? No. There’s a grueling road ahead. And a lifetime of anti-rejection meds. The threat of the immune system attacking the new organ will require constant watchfulness. Forever.

So. Can we, as the Church, just acknowledge this to folks new to the faith?

Hey, you got a new heart and with that comes new life, but there also may be a grueling road ahead. A lifetime of anti-rejection efforts. Those hurts you brought into this…….they still hurt. That sexual abuse, that addiction, that divorce, that loss, that abortion – those things still hurt even after you begin a relationship with Jesus. Even when they aren’t inflamed and raw to the touch, they’ll still be weak places until they are healed in every way and in every realm of personhood: emotionally, relationally, spiritually, mentally, and physically. Jesus is completely able to heal you, but it’s going to require hard work on your part. And until those places are healed, they’re like land mines that may go unnoticed…even by you. Unnoticed while you lift your hands in worship. Unnoticed while you dress for church. Unnoticed when you pass the offering basket. Unnoticed when you pack the family into the minivan for Sunday lunch. Unnoticed…until your faith fails and you have an enemy that knows all the right buttons to push.

Can we just look eye-to-eye with a new believer and with the grace and compassion of Jesus admit, “The hurts still hurt, and they can’t go unattended”? So folks new to faith don’t feel like failures when the old crap isn’t gone. So they don’t give up on Jesus because they think He didn’t work. Or give up on themselves as Christians because they think they can’t do it.

Can we stop dumping everybody into the saved bucket and stop acting like everybody’s equal once they meet Jesus? We are equal recipients of grace and salvation, but our journeys with Jesus are more affected by what happened BEFORE we met Him than we are acknowledging.

  • Annually, more than 100,000 US parents experience the death of a child.
  • 40-50% of first marriages end in divorce.
  • 27% of children live in single parent homes.
  • 18% of US women have been raped during their lifetime.
  • Approximately 1 in 6 boys and 1 in 4 girls are sexually abused before the age of 18.

People are bringing a lot of garbage to their relationship with Jesus; this paltry list is but a thumbnail of the comprehensive hurt around us. Is Jesus able to heal? YES! No one believes that more than I do. But, can we as believers stop using the Parable of the Sower to tell hurting people to just be good dirt? When believers lose against their former battles, can we stop watching them walk out the back door and stop labeling them as uncommitted? Maybe today – at this point in society and at this time in history – the whole idea of loving our neighbors as ourselves means helping them remove some thorns and weeds. Getting dirty. Speaking Truth. And administering a lil’ anti-rejection meds…

[feature image: raghavvidya]
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7
May

Four Reasons I Won’t Be Mom of the Millennium

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The fact that our youngest will turn ten in a matter of days is a display of God’s grace equal to Daniel surviving his slumber party with a lion pride. Same. In fact, just last night she crept into the kitchen, clutching her hand with parallel streamlets watering her cheeks, “Mama, I was doing something I wasn’t suppose to, and now I’m bleeding.” Turns out, that whole curiosity thing just may talk you into opening your padre’s pocket knife and slicing up two of your digits.

That’s only the latest installment of Campbell’s mishaps. Girlfriend is no stranger to bodily harm, and I haven’t always been the best at protecting her……from herself……or me, for that matter. I’m not expecting any Mother’s Day surprise awards ceremonies this weekend because I have a well-stocked library of mama missteps that will pretty much keep me out of the running for a thousand years.

I won’t be mom of the millennium…

1)…because my Woman-Baby was locked in the driver’s seat of a running car. After walking with a friend and her son, sixteen month-old Campbell and I returned to our car to find the back left tire flat. Chris was out of town, so we called a dude friend who installed the donut tire and gave me strict instructions to drive to the nearest tire shop. Sweet Thang and I ran in and explained our dilemma; tire specialist friend accompanied us out to inspect the situation. I cranked the car, blasted the a/c, parked Campbell in her seat, closed the door, and proceeded to formulate the plan with said tire friend. Without my notice, that precious dumpling of sweetness climbed into the front, stood in the driver’s seat and began to turn knobs; the windshield wipers slapped, and then I heard the click that immediately captured my attention. She had found the automatic locks and cackled at her electronic prowess. Locked-in baby swiftly railroaded flat tire plans, and I stood like a overzealous imbecile trying to coax my child to unlock the door. I defaulted to the American-yelling-at-a-person-who-doesn’t-understand-English-but-surely-volume-assists-comprehension card. Thankfully tire friend was also skilled in baby rescue. Never mind the fact that I had to phone Carson’s preschool director to explain why I would be late gathering my other child. I’m not sure she felt confident about releasing older nugget to my care.

2) …because I never gave thoughtful consideration to all that young ones can shove up their noses. Campbell was two. She and I were heading out for a few errands before my favorite time of day – carline with a toddler (I feel you, young mama).  We stopped at the convenience store just outside our neighborhood (I will not tell you that I left her buckled, locked the car doors, ran in to grab a Diet Pepsi – I could see her at all times – and was out in less than two minutes; I am currently shaming myself for you. Feel better about it). As I backed out, Campbell began to cry the hurt cry, punctuated by mounting panic. I pulled back into the parking space and got out to survey the situation. A Honey Smack up the nose. Yup. Tiny enough not to be a choking hazard but just the right size to shove up your nostril. Our pediatrician’s office was closed for lunch, but the on-call nurse instructed me to be there when they re-opened if it had not dislodged by then. Living on the other side of town, we began to drive in that direction. I was frantically making arrangements for Carson to be scooped up by a friend when…………”At-choooooooooooooo!” I’ve never been so grateful to almost lose an eye to a Honey Smacks bullet.

3)…because I was party to Super Gluing my baby girl’s forehead shut. You actually read that correctly. My Women-Children and I were browsing the racks at Old Navy when Campbell tripped and caught the sharp edge of some shelving mid-way her forehead. The blood. The screaming. I dissolved into a mama puddle beside her three year-old little self. Thankfully, the Old Navy employees told me she probably needed stitches, so I didn’t have to determine a course of action out of my very own brain. It was almost 4:45, so we barely made it before our pediatrician’s office closed. We saw another doctor in the practice who confirmed that stitches would be in order; however, they did not stitch up injuries in the office. I would have to take her to the ER. And they aren’t known for the compassionate stitching of tiny people, he continued. It was after 5:00 by then. He contemplated a solution and then threw it out there. “In Vietnam,” he began, “it was not uncommon to use Super Glue to seal cuts out in the jungle.” I turned my head, lowered my chin, squinted my eye, and slowly processed his words. “……So if you want to run to Tommy’s Quick Mart just around the corner, buy some Super Glue, come back, I’ll clean the cut really well and glue it.” I laughed in disbelief as I hauled my two children to the car and headed to Tommy’s.

“Excuse me, do you carry Super Glue?”

Super nice Indian man said, “Let me look.” He searched behind the counter. “We have Crazy Glue.”

“Is that the same as Super Glue?”

“Well, what do you need it for?”

Giggling at the absurdity of my life, “You really don’t want to know.” He returned a questioning look. “My daughter’s doctor is going to glue her head shut.” He then returned bug-eyed terror. It’s all good though; it healed beautifully and she barely has a scar. The more you know.

And don’t think our Carson has made it her thirteen years unscathed.

4)…because I prayed the wrong prayer. Back in the day when my gals wore bows, a nauseous quantity of pink, smocking, whales and turtles and apples and frogs galore, I regularly prayed, “Lord, please make my girls wise and spiritually mature far beyond their years.” How noble of me. I failed to really think that prayer through. Have you ever had that experience?  Where you rethink a prayer after you begin to see God answer it, and you’re like “Whooooooaaaaaaaa…this isn’t exactly what I had in mind….”  Had I really thought about it, I would have known that spiritual maturity and wisdom do not come from the likes of the Tooth Fairy.  A pink, sparkly figment of their imagination doesn’t swoop in, flying in loops, leaving a flight trail of fairy dust and endow them with spiritual maturity and wisdom while they dream of Reese’s eggs and more TV time. Wisdom and spiritual maturity beyond our years has an uncomfortable price tag.  They are by-products of hardship. And to be super real, sometimes as parents we decide we want to protect our children from God. He is building my babies into fierce women but it’s painful and scary to watch. After thirteen years of parenting, I realize life will beat them up enough on its own; there’s no need to rush God’s purposes.

So, young mamas who still have a fighting chance, throw that babe on your hip while you chat strategy for your flat with tire friend, be vigilant protectors of your children’s nasal passages, stick a tube of Super Glue in the diaper bag (I totally should’ve glued Campbell’s fingers last night – dang it!), and pray an abundance of joy over your little people. Mamas, I love you; be celebrated this week [pounds heart with sideways fist and points at you]!

For more Mother’s day fare, read about one of my very worst days as a mom (and you thought the ones above were disastrous… :), the night my saint mom loved me through my own bad choices, and why banana pudding holds a special place in my heart.

 [title image: Haylee Sherwood]

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29
April

In a World Full of Hurt, How Do We Persist in Love?

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Round bodies. Buff bodies. Hurt people and happy people. Smokers and runners. Ghostly people. Tan people. Brown people. Old men with metal detectors. Extraverted beachcombers who chat with everyone. A couple throwing a football in the shallow. Pretty people. And not so much.

Last week I headed to the beach for a date day with me. I packed books and journals and snacks and music, and I planted myself in a chair for hours. And I often sat, propped on elbows, smiling a smile that was just to me. A smile and soft squinty eyes (’cause my fluffy cheeks sit on my eyeballs when I’m happy) born out of a swollen joy that begged for a name. It was called a raw love for people.

All of them.IMG_0192

Even the fella sunbathing in his sneakers. I find that incredibly endearing. He’s rocking his own thing, and I dig it.

But.

It wasn’t that long ago that I sat in my counselor’s office asking, legitimately seeking an answer that held water, “Based on my experiences, ALL people are selfish and ALWAYS act in their own best interest. What is my motivation to ever trust or love anyone?” Because Jack Johnson was singing in my ear and we wanted to know…

Where’d all the good people go?
I’ve been changin’ channels
I don’t see them on the TV shows,
Where’d all the good people go?
We got heaps and heaps of what we sow.

Of course, my counselor refuted my assertion and touted all the benefits of love and trust and intimacy. And, of course…I tuned him out. He wasn’t going to unravel forty years of distrust and hurt in one session. No matter how comfy the couch or how calming the lavender. But, I have to admit, his words gained traction in my gut over the course of future visits.

At the time, I had a door.

I could go behind the door and look present and engaged but be completely emotionally unavailable. You weren’t allowed behind the door; no one was. I was the population of my safe place. I could even make people think they were invited behind the door……..when they were really just standing on the sidewalk in front of the house. Intimacy was a sham. Because hurt little girls often grow up to be well-fortified women.

Tim, my counselor, had his work cut out for him. But as I began to tread the water of healthy, I began to believe he was on to something. I tested his words like a flag I waved from a crack in the door. And – whatdya know – they. were. true.

I hadn’t been a hard-hearted person before; I had loved people, individuals and people in general, but only in the way a hurt person knows how. I could love you and serve you and cry with you and listen; I was in ministry, for Pete’s sake, but I couldn’t offer you an ounce of me in return. I could hang out with you on the sidewalk, but I always, always retreated behind the door.

I still have the door today, I guess; I just can’t remember the last time I intentionally holed up behind it. The trouble with walling people out is that we wall ourselves in. We inadvertently protect ourselves from the most fabulous thing about wearing skin – the opportunity to give ourselves away. The blast of giving our lives to others.

Will I get hurt? Maybe every day. Will people disappoint me? You bet. Will people do dumb things that are purely selfish and destructive? Yes, yes, yes. Will I hurt and disappoint people and do dumb, selfish things? Unfortunately so.

But. It’s worth it.

Today, my heart melts for marginalized women. I was driving the interstate recently and passed a group of ladies in khaki overalls and loud orange safety vests – incarcerated IMG_0190women collecting litter from the side of the road. Everything in me wanted to pull off and work with them. Smile at them. Dignify them. Serve them.

I love cashiers. Shy cashiers. Distant cashiers with hardship in their eyes. My Diet Pepsi addiction has afforded me lots of opportunities to make great friends in convenience stores. Upon moving back to Florence, one of the people I was most excited to see again was Willie Mae. When smiles were a rare commodity in this life, she never failed to smack talk a grin out of me every day.

I love the warm smiles of strangers on the Rail Trail. I force my introverted self to speak to everyone I pass, and I often receive beaming smiles in return. It’s the goodness in a person that makes their smile pure. There is an imposing man in a helmet and glasses who regularly rides his bike on the Trail. My initial reaction to him was hesitance. His build had me planning self-defense tactics (mainly, run like the wind!) as we approached each other in an empty span of asphalt, but when I spoke his entire head broke into the most disarming smile ever. Now I grin expectantly when I see his big self biking towards me in the distance.

I love Patty from Deltona, Florida. She works at Chick-Fil-A and recently moved there with a friend from Texas. She serves people so well, and her passion is kindness.

And Kenya. That dusty spot on the equator turned my waxy heart into a gooey moldable mess.

There is good in people. Our own hardness is a far greater liability than other people’s selfishness. Even though it is absolutely counter-cultural, we have a mandate to persist in love. But how?

Four Ways to Persist in Love 

  • Do more of what stirs your affection for people. And, as much as possible, eliminate things that feed your cynicism. For me, this means I go to the beach. I engage waitstaff; I run on the Rail Trail…..and I avoid Walmart, Black Friday, and the DMV. It means I don’t watch riot videos or videos of people being shot, and I hide negative Facebook friends. I’m not uninformed about Baltimore and Ethiopia, and I’m certainly not unaffected. In fact, I am protecting my ability to be affected. My ability to be moved. I will not allow my eyes to desensitize my heart. Because if I ever make any impact in my two inches of the world, it will be rooted in a broken tenderness.
  • Stop making fun of people for sport. I’m as guilty as anybody about taking a crack at somebody’s interesting fashion sense (see my friend above tanning in his kicks) or other forms of human goofiness, but when it becomes a lens through which we see people, it affects more than our wit.
  • Create a daily practice of serving people who can’t do anything for you. They can’t spot you $20 when you all go out to lunch. They can’t follow you on Instagram. They can’t keep your kids when you’re in a pinch. They can’t help you get a promotion at work. They can’t lend you some of their favor when you’re hanging out together. When we give of ourselves with no possibility of repayment or advantage, we tap into something pretty stinkin’ beautiful.
  • Know your hang-ups. I know that I naturally prefer to love people from afar. Messy relationships sometimes give me the heebie jeebies – especially when folks don’t make the kind of progress I think is in order. While not holding myself to the same standard (booooooo! selective grace isn’t even a thing). And I can have hard places in my heart for whiny, advantaged women. Even though I am one (selective self-righteousness is self-righteousness nonetheless). When we know what is most likely to keep us from loving well, we can proactively dismantle those tendencies. Because we will never ever accidentally remain compassionate. Vulnerable. And Available.

To read more about my trip to Kenya, you can check out the scariest moment of my trip, our first visit to a school in the bush, when my tongue turned black, and why it’s not a good idea to play duck-duck-goose there. You can see pictures from the trip on the Reel World page.

Finally, if you enjoyed this post, you can share it using the social media buttons below. Thank you!

[Title Image: alles banane]
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14
April

What NOT to Do When You’re Stuck in a Situation

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I promise the details of this story are wholly accurate. Perhaps I shouldn’t be willing to admit that, but girlfriend can’t hide her crazy.

Long before I knew I was……..peculiar, I knew I was a nerd. I was a tad fond of grades, long essays, bizarro literature, standardized tests, report cards, teacher comments, recognition, sharpened pencils – OH MY – wonder wells up just rattling off the trappings of academia. Yes. I’ve seen a counselor about this. I wasn’t, however, the chick who did little and whizzed through. I had to study a lot and work hard. I enjoyed the work, but work I did.

And then one day during my senior year of high school, a life-altering piece of paper was delivered to our mailbox. In the span of a walk to the end of our drive, my future changed. I was going to Clemson University (Go Tigers!) on a scholarship. I was home alone when I opened the letter, but I’m certain all three of our neighbors (I grew up on a farm) heard the whooping cocktail of tears, jumps, screams, laughs, hysterics emanating from my room.

Over the following months that piece of mail grew heavier. The gravity of this gift wasn’t lost on me; to stay a Tiger I would have to maintain exemplary grades. I was going to have to work EXTREMELY hard.

On Thursday, August 22, 1991, I took that requirement to heart. Classes had begun the day before, and my professors had issued reading assignments right out the gate. So I decided to head to the library to get some work done. It was mid-afternoon, clear and sunny; I strode into the Cooper Library like I had the keys to the world in my front backpack pocket. Upon entering, I explored a bit and found the two underground floors to be the most still and hushed. This would become, over my four year stay, my place. I would go there to sleep, to listen to music, to hide, to hermit, but on this particularly quiet afternoon, I chose a desk and started cranking it out. I worked a few hours, gaining ground on my course syllabi like a champ. When I was done, I packed my brown leather backpack and headed upstairs. Quite pleased, I ascended deep in thought and proceeded to exit. When I pushed the heavy glass door, I slammed into it. It didn’t move. Embarrassed and afraid to see if anyone had witnessed my failed departure, I cautiously tried the next door. It didn’t budge either.

I looked for a sign to help me and found none. I turned around to approach the resource desk when I realized no one was there. And the lights behind the desk were dim. I was locked in the library. Stuck. On my second day as a college student.IMG_3800

I THEN noticed a sign announcing shortened hours of operation for the first partial week of classes. Many thanks, library friends [thumbs up]. It was time to formulate a plan. I walked over to a small room on the left where three pay phones hung on the wall (this was pre cell phone era; I did not have one and neither did the people I would call). I retrieved my calling card, punched in a million numbers, and called my boyfriend. My boyfriend WHO WAS FOUR HOURS AWAY. No answer. Fighting some panic at this point, I called my mom. WHO WAS ALSO FOURS HOURS AWAY.

Common sense has never been my strong suit.

My mom did answer, thank goodness or I may still be there, and told me to call campus security.

It was still bright outside and several kindred souls came to the library doors trying to enter. Deciding I didn’t want to be spotted by them through the front wall of windows, I retreated to the resource desk and claimed a chair and a phone.

“Hi; my name is Cookie Eaddy. I’m a freshman and I’m locked in the library…………………………No. I promise. I came here to study, went downstairs for a couple of hours, and when I came up to leave, the doors were locked……………………..No, I’m the only one here……………………………..Okay. Thank you.”

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Maybe it’s campus security. “Hello……………………………I’m sorry the library is closed…………………..I don’t work here………………………………..Well, you see, I’m locked in here………………………………No, I can’t go find your book anyway.” Click.

Footsteps on the stairs.

As it turned out, I was not alone.

“Hi. You’re not going to be able to get out of those doors; they’re locked. We’re stuck in here and campus security is on the way to let us out.”

“WHAT!?!?!?” squawked Increasingly Annoying Rush Girl (I’m not hating; I rushed as a sophomore). I am not making this up. “WHAT TIME IS IT? I CAN’T MISS MY RUSH PARTY OR I’LL BE DISQUALIFIED!!!”

Sucks to be you, I may have thought.

Officer You-Gals-Are-Idiots arrived soon and released us from our nerd confinement, and he even gave IARG a ride to her party.

“Thank you so much,” I said as we abruptly parted; I ambled across campus towards my dorm, wondering what in the world the next four years might hold for me.

So, if you find yourself stuck in a most unfortunate set of circumstances – probably much more grave than I have relayed here…

  • Don’t allow yourself to think that “stuck” is a permanent condition. Even if you feel like your circumstances may never change (marriage, chronic illness, etc…) you always have the ability to change within your circumstances.
  • Don’t look for solutions from folks who can’t help you. Like boyfriends who are four hours away. And even my mom – who wanted to help me but wasn’t in a position to. The solution began when I called the people who could open the doors.
  • Don’t focus on what you’re missing. When we feel stuck, we often focus of all that a new set of circumstances might bring. I am confident Increasingly Annoying Rush Girl never gave a second thought to the hilarity of our plight. She was instantly consumed with what she was missing. She wrung her hands until Officer You-Gals-Are-Idiots arrived and she jetted out the door. Her circumstances were out of her control and her fretting didn’t speed her freedom one iota.

Bonus wisdom:

  • Don’t ever underestimate the very real hazards of nerdhood.

And if you’re in the mood for more evidences of a long history of lunacy, check out how I learned to work the AC in my car here, the questionable comfort I offer my children here, and my die-hard convictions about Diet Pepsi here.

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