Pity Parties.

I am thankful for “pity parties.”

Of all the potential best friends in the world, my JB ranks in the 99.9^th percentile. She is a genius. She is hysterically funny. She is supportive and dependable and sarcastic and a terrific wife and mother. She’s one of the best gifts God has sent me to date, and I will lose my mind if she ever has to live far away from me. Although, after 12 years of friendship, we have dozens of memories and traditions, one of our enduring favorites is the “pity party.” We established said parties during our senior year of high school and have indulged in them infrequently but when necessary ever since. They’re based on two fundamental beliefs: 1) Sometimes you just want someone to listen to you complain, and 2) Chocolate is delicious.

If I describe the glory of pity parties, I realize I’m running the risk of everyone—or at least all the like-minded women—wanting to attend. But I’m going to do it anyway because they are wonderfully therapeutic. It goes like this: a 2-liter of soda + Swiss Rolls + moaning and complaining until you feel better + someone listening sympathetically as long as it takes + Bridget Jones’s Diary (optional humor booster) = pity party. I assure you, it cures all evils. JB and I have had pity parties to get through breakups, family/work stress, procrastination, and general disappointment. We even had a pity party over the phone while I was in graduate school. Lost your job? You need a pity party. Your boyfriend cheated? You need a pity party. Your car was stolen? You need a pity party.

While I realize it’s not the healthiest idea to wallow in despair and gorge yourself on Little Debbies, I assure you both are side notes in a much lovelier story. What makes the pity party work is the loving support of a friend who cares deeply about your hurt or frustration or confusion. Pity parties are about reminding yourself that you’re not wandering in the dark. You’re connected, loved, and integral to someone else. That’s what JB tells me all the time, directly and indirectly, whether we call an official pity party or not. And that’s one of the 3,000 reasons I love her. So here’s to pity parties! Which translates, of course, to, “Thank God for friendship.” And chocolate. And most importantly, in my case, for JB.

Mistakes.

I am thankful for mistakes.

I was up to bat. Luckily for my team, it was knowledge of French grammar that was requisite to win, rather than physical prowess. I had a death grip on the buzzer, ready to signal my intelligence. “What is the vous conjugation of faire?” my professor asked. I slammed the buzzer. “Fairez!” I yelled. She gave me a disappointed look and said, “Sorry, no.” My face flushed. I assumed I’d misunderstood the question: all vous conjugations end in –ez, right? Obviously. But in fact, when I opened my textbook to confirm my correctness, vous faîtes stared me in the face. “Well, crap,” I thought dejectedly. But on the exam the following day, I didn’t miss a single question using faire.

You probably have a story like this as well: you missed the mark somewhere, got something all wrong, but you gained valuable knowledge or wisdom. That’s what I love about mistakes: when you start making them, you start learning. C.S. Lewis, whose work I admire greatly, once wrote, “Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn. My God, do you learn.” In the past few weeks, I have decided that there is really no shame in making a mistake. The only shame would be not learning from it. Mistakes, after all, are brilliant teachers.

Of course, some mistakes hurt. Some engender a blow to the confidence. Some are unspeakably costly. Some cause months or years of shame. But making them shows you weren’t afraid to jump in, to go after something. You were willing to do something risky. And after the fact, you became wiser. You got up and continued on—that is the stuff courage is made of. And if you did it right, you learned.


“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’” — Mary Anne Radmacher

Teenagers.

I am thankful for teenagers.

They’re my job security.

But, of course, there are more important reasons than that.

There’s a song by My Chemical Romance that repeats the line, “Teenagers scare the living [feces] out of me.” Many people seem to agree: I’m always hearing about how frighteningly they drive, what attitudes they have, and their egregious sense of entitlement. There are days I agree on all three accounts, especially the driving. But often I think adults shortchange teenagers simply because that’s how we’ve always interacted with younger generations.

I think about the girl who told me a couple of weeks ago that her life was shattered because…wait for it…her boyfriend of two weeks broke up with her. I know, I know—“How could she love him after two weeks?” “It’s lust, not love.” “She’ll get over him in twenty-four hours.” “Teenagers think they invented love.” “There are so many other boys out there.” But here’s the thing: while the love of a teenager is different than the love of an adult, they’re loving to capacity. They’re expending their whole heart’s energies on their special person. Whether it’s Love or “love,” it feels the same to a teenager, and it’s crushing when it’s over. It sometimes leads them to unwise decisions and heartbreak, sure. But it’s also admirable. They do love like they’ve never been hurt. I don’t, not if I can help it. I love cautiously, sometimes pessimistically, even in non-romantic relationships. I’m always wondering, “What if I let myself trust these people, even rely on them, and then they leave?” My brain has people moving or passing away before we’ve spent two hours together. A teenager, on the other hand, loves recklessly, fiercely, enthusiastically. Their love might be fickle sometimes, but it’s also beautiful. Teenagers love first and ask questions later. Kind of like God.

And I love their honesty. Ask a teenager a question, and you get a real answer. “So, Josh, did you do your homework?” “No, I didn’t want to.” (Not that I’m suggesting we shirk responsibility. It’s the candor I admire, not the laziness.) We adults beat around the bush so often that we end up sugarcoating even when it would be beneficial to us to simply tell the truth. We tell the guy, “I didn’t call because I was busy,” rather than just being honest and saying, “It’s flattering, but I’m not interested.” We take on more than we can handle because we can’t bear for others to know we’re overwhelmed. We agree to go out to dinner or on vacation with friends when we know we don’t have the money, just so we don’t have to say, “I can’t afford it.” Perhaps the place that most desperately needs a dose of teenage transparency is the church. Why don’t we just say to each other, “I need you. Help me.” Or, “I screwed up, and now my heart is broken.” Or, “I can’t do this anymore.” We wouldn’t have to spin our wheels and internalize so much if we just got it out.

In short, I guess my favorite thing about teenagers is that even though they’re just as messy as adults are, they often aren’t afraid to let their messiness show—their big emotions, their confusion, their heartache. Their words don’t always come out right, they don’t always make the right decision, and they don’t yet have all the information and wisdom it takes to live successfully. But they go for it. They build things, start things, jump in. They’re scared, beautiful, weird, passionate, and goofy. And I am thankful for them and love them with my whole heart.

Bubbles.

I am thankful for bubbles.

My first memory, albeit a blurry one, is pictured off to the side. When I was twelve or thirteen, I was looking through family albums with my mom for a school project, and when we got to this picture, I gasped and said, “I remember that!” According to Mom’s note on the back of the photo, I was a little over a year and a half old at the time it was taken. Now, I have to admit: I do not remember what we were doing that day, I don’t remember any conscious thoughts, and I don’t remember what anyone said to or around me as the picture was being made. But I definitely remember the moment. The strength of my dad’s arms holding me up, the smile on my mom’s face lighting me up, and pure, uncontainable happiness spilling over within me. You can see it in my eyes. And I remember that it felt like bubbles—millions and millions of bubbles filling me up and running over.

Before writing this, I considered other “bubbly” moments in my life, and it turns out that many were from childhood: sitting on Pastor J’s lap during the children’s sermon at the church where I grew up; watching SEC football with my parents, sister, aunts, and uncles at my aunt’s house; mini-golfing with my “grown-up” friend AM; Christmas the year I was ten when my parents got me a personalized teacher’s bag; receptions after piano recitals when my beloved piano teacher AC would dote and brag on me; I could list 130 others at least. Perhaps this is why Jesus was so insistent on our need of childlikeness in his Kingdom. Being bubbly requires wonder, joy. It requires innocence, hope, and love. All the “adult” things people sometimes do—myself included—trying to feel bubbly end up pushing us in the other direction: buying things we don’t need, getting into relationships we shouldn’t be in, swallowing diet pills and/or overindulging in food and drinks, and so on. In my life, the bubbles have always come from connecting with other people. From peace with my place in the world and the condition of my spirit. From acceptance of myself. Those are a whole lot harder to come by than a boat or a one-night stand.

There’s a beautiful poem by William Wordsworth that starts with an often-quoted (and often-misattributed) phrase: “surprised by joy.” All of a sudden, a million bubbles. My favorite bubbly moments are those—the ones where you’re going about your business and then out of nowhere…joy. When you’re sitting on the porch swing in the peaceful twilight that follows a productive day and joy rushes over you. When your puppy curls up on your lap and sighs with contentment. When someone gives you an unexpected compliment. My wish for us as we end the year is to experience millions and millions of bubbles and the best of friends to celebrate them with.

“Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.” — Henry David Thoreau

Halloween.

I am thankful for Halloween.

I’ve never been much of a Halloween fan, mostly because I don’t like scary things or donning costumes. And these days I don’t eat a lot of candy either. (Unfortunately, I’ve learned that chocolate consumption is inversely related to weight loss. This was an unhappy discovery.) So that effectively knocks out 99% of the holiday’s festivities. But I do love fall, and I especially love Thanksgiving, so I thought I’d spend my holiday energy celebrating what I do love. In honor of Thanksgiving, I’ve mused recently about things in life I’m particularly grateful for.

Ironically enough, one thing I must say I’m grateful for is Halloween. It is because of Halloween and its frightening nightlife that the church I attended in my adolescence created “Hallelujah Night.” Hallelujah Night was the brainchild of the children’s pastor, and I must say, a pretty brilliant one. Costumed children went in groups from room to room in the church, watching skits of Bible stories. Every room gave out hundreds of pounds of candy over the course of the three nights, and a really long line of children waiting to participate always snaked around the church. There was a Jonah room where you were lit up with a black light and sprayed with whale saliva (…or water streaming from water guns), a Lazarus room where a biblical zombie came back to life, a Noah room with more water and strobe lights, a resurrection room with an authentic-looking Jesus (seriously, you should see the man who played Jesus), and the list goes on. (I do wish there’d been an Ahab-and-Jezebel room. Or Balaam and the donkey. Or Sodom, Gomorra, and the pillar of salt. Some highly entertaining Bible stories were completely overlooked.) To this day, when I think of Hallelujah Night, I can smell the black trash bags that lined the walls in the water rooms and the trampled-on popcorn in the fellowship hall.

Since I was an adolescent when I attended the church, I never went through Hallelujah Night as a child, but for years I worked it as a teenager. I was a tour guide, leading the groups through the rooms. It was so much fun rushing around like I was in high demand, wearing a T-shirt that said staff, and acting like the adult I so desperately wanted to be. But even beyond this, Hallelujah Night gave rise to some great memories. I remember my friend J’s mom jumping off a chair in a dark room to scare the workers as we were cleaning up. I remember a water gun fight (thank you, Jonah) between J, me, and some other friends on a cold autumn night on the playground. I remember getting so sick and tired of Sandi Patty’s “Via Dolorosa,” but still tearing up at the end of the resurrection skit every single time. And thanks to Hallelujah Night, and thus Halloween, I met P, one of my very best friends in the whole world.

So I have to be grateful even for one of my least favorite days of the year. Thinking about what my adolescence would’ve been like without Halloween, and thus Hallelujah Night…that’s, frankly, a little scary.

Tires.

Yesterday early, so early, in the morning I groggily opened my eyes to the sound of my beloved dog snoring so loudly I feared a disturbance-of-the-peace citation from the policeman across the street. (Of course, we’re running this risk every time Peabody eats, drinks, or sees another animal. Or car. Or human. Or dried-up leaf blowing in the wind.) I am no morning person, but the sight of that little creature snuggled up next to me melted my heart, even though he did wake me up ten minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off. Oh, well: ten minutes to consciously enjoy the warmth of my bed. But somehow—this mystifies the mind—the ten-minute change in my schedule set off a chain reaction: a tad late getting in the shower, a little later packing lunch, moderately late making coffee, seriously late leaving for work. My anxiety quotient skyrocketed because I hate being late for work, even though I don’t have a first block class. Still, as I pulled out of the driveway, I could get there before the first bell, even without speeding, as long as traffic was at a minimum on the interstate.

What I was definitely not expecting was for one of my tires to blow out on a bridge, less than two miles from my exit. I lost control of the car but kept the steering wheel turned slightly to the right so that as I drifted, I’d drift away from traffic. As smoke trailed off into the distance from somewhere in the back of my vehicle, I cocked my head and said aloud, “Interesting.” When I had stopped shaking like a hedonist on Judgment Day, I investigated the tire. The wall had caved in, causing the rubber to separate from the wheel. It was masterful. So I crawled back in my car, turned on my hazards, and did what all girls do when they’re in trouble: I called my daddy. He was tied up at work, so I called my mom. She and her (male) assistant came, and in a few minutes the latter had my tire changed. Only one problem remained: the spare was flat.

Already we have a comedy of errors. And by this point, I was chuckling a little at the unlucky turn of events. But hey, nothing terrible had happened, and when I apprised my boss of the situation, he was very helpful. T assured me that I’d have enough air in the tire to get to the truck stop and fill it up the rest of the way. “Gotcha. Thanks,” I replied and settled into my car a third time. I’d barely turned the ignition when my mom walked up to my door, laughing. I rolled the window down and looked up expectantly. Through her laughter, she finally managed to say, “My battery is dead.”

“What?!” I said in disbelief. Apparently, the fifteen minutes of hazard lights flashing had been enough to drain the battery. So T, gentleman that he is, went to work on the third automotive problem of the day. Fortunately, I had a battery charger that my dad got me for Christmas the year before. But, as you probably already guessed, it was dead itself. And the only other thing I had to offer was a set of girly jumper cables. They’re not even jumper cables: they’re two cigarette lighter inserts attached by a cord that are supposed to start the car without touching the battery. Now, before you point and laugh, I have before started girls’ cars in the high school parking lot with said apparatus, so I know it works. It does not, however, work when what you have to charge is a full-size truck.

No problem! Mom had normal, human-style jumper cables under the passenger seat in her truck. When my car charger didn’t work, she opened her door and pulled up the lever to release the seat so we could reach them…only to throw a new monkey wrench into the situation when the lever broke off in her hand. I am not making this up. So now poor T is stranded on the side of the road with two maniacally laughing women who own two down-for-the-count vehicles. I’m sure this is not what he pictured when he took the job last year.

I called my boss and thanked him for his concern. Then, I said, “Umm…P.S.: Do you have jumper cables?”

“I thought it was a blown-out tire?” he said, more as a question than a statement.

“It was. Then, it was a flat tire. Now, it’s a dead battery and a broken seat lever as well.”

“Wow. What an awful morning,” he commiserated.

“Not an awful morning per se. Certainly a ridiculous one,” I conceded.

“Okay, well, I will find you some jumper cables. In the meantime, keep calling people in case you find a set before I do. We’ll get you to work somehow, I promise.”

I thanked him and hung up. Then, I called my friend A (remember Italy Day?) and explained the situation. “So…do you have jumper cables?” I asked.

Without hesitation, A said she would find me jumper cables. Not only did she find me some almost immediately, but she also brought them to me herself. At this point, we were quite the spectacle: three cars and four adults on the shoulder of the interstate, seemingly having a roadside party.

I did end up getting to work just fine. A little worse for the wear, perhaps, but there all the same.

After all that, this morning was so uneventful it was almost boring. Almost.

Crap.

Last week my friend A and I had Italy Day. We ate pasta, planned our someday-vacation in Europe, and watched a couple of movies set in Italy. Interestingly, both movies—Under the Tuscan Sun and Eat, Pray, Love—feature women making a drastic, spontaneous change to heal their broken hearts. Frances renovates a Tuscan villa and fills it with food, friends, and family; Elizabeth takes a yearlong quest for self-discovery, starting in Italy. That’s all very nice, and it makes for gorgeous films. But for most of us it’s not financially advantageous to buy a villa in Tuscany or rent an apartment in Rome. Some of us have to deal with our crap right here in our own houses while we drive to work, walk the dog, and cook dinner. Lather, rinse, repeat; take care of the crap when you get a chance.

But that’s okay. Because sometimes getting past the pain is just a matter of refusing it, of being patient enough with yourself that you choose against self-doubt for a day. Or turning up the music and dancing until you have to catch your breath. Or closing your eyes and filling your lungs with fresh air. Or hitting your knees and admitting your fallibility to God. Or spending the day with a dear friend, laughing and talking and watching Italy movies, and thanking the Lord for the sweet gift of friendship.


Sometimes you just have to remember, as one of my friends regularly tells me, that the crap is ancillary to who you are. You’re lovely; the crap is just a mess you have to clean up because humans have to do that sort of thing sometimes. Today the crap will not win. And I…I am dreaming of Italy.

Lessons.

NOTE: There's a PG-rated word in #3.


Every New Year’s Day from the time I was 19 until I was 25, I took a few hours to think back over what the past year had taught me. I’d come up with a list that was as long as my age—19 lessons the year I was 19 and so on. I did it seven years, skipping it for the first time this past January. Because I am a sucker for fresh starts, I decided the beginning of the school year was a good time to resume my neglected tradition. But I’m not doing 26. Six is enough.

1.     When you reach out to people, they reach back. This summer I’ve made it a point not to turn down invitations. If it was possible for me to go, I went. I’ve gone out with larger groups than I’m used to, ridden in a race, reconnected with old friends, had long conversations with people I’d just met, and spent time with people I don’t know well. This may not sound like a big deal, but my introverted self has felt the growing pains. Luckily, I’ve noticed that when I leave my comfort zone and reach out to others, they meet me halfway.

2.     Worrying is a complete waste of time. This lesson came as a result of my exams and a friend’s wisdom. Knowing that it was the day before my writtens, my friend asked how I was doing. I had let worry consume me: my hair was falling out, everything I ate went straight through me, I couldn’t sleep, I was irritable, and I’d developed a slight tremor. My friend commiserated but then said, “Amie, the results of your exams aren’t in the hands of your examiners. They’re in the hands of the God you belong to.” I kept repeating that incredible sound byte verbatim in my head until it hit me that worrying was not only unnecessary but also at odds with my faith in God. My friend added in amusement, “80% of the stuff you worry about doesn’t happen anyway.” How true.

3.     Rubbing alcohol stuns fleas so you can pick them off your dog. My least favorite creature on the planet right now is the flea. Before I had a dog, I gave little thought to the pests. Now their tiny, insidious, jumping bodies send me into a flood of ire. I want to smash them with a hammer. It seems that after you treat your sweet puppy with FrontLine, all fleas should fall off, surrendering their weapons and cowering in fear. Not so. Word to the wise: if your dog is tormented by fleas, try alcohol. It makes those little jerks your bitch’s bitches.

4.     I am brave. I always considered myself a huge coward, and sometimes I am. But I did have the cojones to stick out a graduate program in French at a tough school. And I did go to France last summer, rent an apartment, and live in a city I’d never visited. And I do spend my days with 85 (and some days 101) needy, impressionable teenagers. I’m no John McClane, but I’m not the wuss I always told myself I was either. Yippee-kye-ay, y’all.

5.     Everybody screws up, and it’s no cause for alarm. We humans sometimes cause ourselves—and others—a lot of disappointment. A few weeks ago, a friend and I swapped stories about major screw-ups in the classroom. I told her about a situation I handled so poorly in my first year of teaching that I’m surprised the teaching gods didn’t break into my classroom immediately and shred my license. Although she agreed that I’d made a mistake, she said, “I guess the only thing left is forgive yourself.” Every day across the globe, our flaws lead us to do and say stupid things. And of course, we are free to judge, condemn, and gossip about people’s mistakes. But why do that when we’re all in the same boat? We’re all screw-ups. That’s why we need a Savior.

6.     People really know how to love. The epigraph to a book I read this year declared that we often tell ourselves a myth: that if people really knew us, they wouldn’t love us anymore. The fact is, however, that “if people really knew you, they could really love you.” All my life I feared my secrets, my mistakes, my flaws. For years they kept me from getting close to others: I believed that if someone got to know me too well, they’d see all the scum beneath my semi-polished exterior. The fact is that as I’ve trusted people more, not a single person has said, “Oh, I didn’t realize you did that. Eesh.” All I’ve been met with is grace and acceptance. It makes sense, right? The more we let each other in, the more opportunities we have to show each other love. And I can say with complete assurance that none of my friends or family could ever do anything to change my love for them. Love is about who a person is, not what he or she does or has done. If Jesus forgives and loves past the flaws, I have to make it my business to do the same.

Thank you to the numerous hearts in my life that make lessons learnable and life livable.

Sixth Sense.

This post is dedicated to Maggie and PM, her owner. Had I not met Maggie, I might never have taken the dog-adoption plunge. And I am very, very glad I did.

Two weeks ago, I did something I’d been wanting to do for a long time: I adopted a pet. My baby is a shih-poo, a shih-tzu-poodle mix. (Although, my best friend’s husband suggested that he be called a poo-zu, which I find much more entertaining.) Peabody is all the things that a dog is supposed to be: playful, cuddly, sweet, and totally devoted to me. Never have I had a cuter shadow. I mean, this dog trots from one room to the next, no more than a foot behind me. When I come home, whether I’ve been gone thirty minutes or all day, he can’t contain his excitement. Of the four words I’m trying to teach him, the only one he seems to consistently recognize is “bedtime” which translates to “seven uninterrupted hours of curling up behind Mama’s knees”—his favorite time of day. I’d barely known this animal two hours before I fell in love.

And I’m not the only one: he’s melted the hearts of everyone who’s met him so far. Last weekend my mom and I went on a road trip to see her side of the family. Since it’s a long trip, we stopped several times on the way to let Peabody do his business. At one stop, he walked right over to a homeless man who was sitting on the ledge around the gas station. Peabody stopped in front of him and paused, as if waiting for something. The man reached his hand out and began petting my dog lightly on his head. His eyes filled with tears as he smiled and choked on a chuckle. He said nothing, not to me or to Peabody, but I could tell his day had been made. After a moment, Peabody looked up at me as if to say, “Alright, Mama, we can go now.” As we walked away, I turned to look at the man. He was still grinning and wiping the tears from his eyes.

Call me crazy, but I believe animals can sense more than we give them credit for. I’ve heard several times about dogs that began sleeping at the foot of their mistress’s bed when she got pregnant. Countless stories circulate of dogs showing special devotion to a sick family member. One morning shortly after I adopted Peabody, I was upset, and that dog crawled into my lap and put his head right next to mine—something he hadn’t done before and hasn’t since. I think, in the case of the man at the gas station, Peabody could sense his loneliness and somehow knew he could brighten the man’s day.

John Grogan published Marley and Me several years ago now. I read it and loved it before I was a dog owner, but I found one part kind of silly. Grogan writes that he learned something about love from Marley: “Give a dog your heart, and he’ll give you his. It’s that simple. How many people can you say that about?” To be honest…I don’t find it silly anymore. Having now experienced the canine sixth sense for myself, I too feel like I’m learning from my dog. Would I have gone over and talked to the man at the gas station had I not been dragged there by Peabody? No. And yet the man clearly needed a reason to smile. How was my dog more sensitive to this than I, a fellow human, was? Perhaps Peabody could teach me something about being more perceptive and more willing to be someone’s miracle.

My dog is a genius.

Hope.

dedicated to my dear friend J.S.

I am tired.

In the last six years, I graduated college, returned for a teaching certificate, endured my first year of teaching (complicated by no student teaching, an absent administration, and two students trying to get me fired), bought a house, married, fought my way out of sexual dysfunction with the help of myriad professionals, transferred jobs, miscarried more than once, moved away from my hometown, dealt with depression, dealt with serious relationship difficulties, and graduated with a master’s degree that felt like a mini-doctorate. In the space of ten days at the end of May this year, I moved back to my hometown, crashed my car, and landed in the hospital.

It’s been a long six years.

Do I bring this up to drum up sympathy? No. I bring it up because in the midst of all of this, I am constantly reminded of my Jesus. The fact is that everyone goes through this. Everyone experiences sorrow, loss, conflict, and pain. But regardless of who appears and disappears from my life, who strengthens me and who ignores me, Jesus is my hope. Because I know how fervently and unconditionally He loves me, I am able to revel in the cool water of His peace. As my friend J.S. reminded me today, He promises joy on the other side of the pain, joys upon joys. And He has already given me the joys of a loving, supportive family; the most loyal, dependable friends on the planet; and a job that utilizes my interests and allows me to work alongside amazing coworkers. These are not coincidences: they are gifts from a loving Parent who has my best interests at heart. Whatever I deal with, He is my strength and my song (Exodus 15:2). Whenever darkness threatens me, He roars, “This far you may come and no farther” (Job 38:11). He prays for me (Isaiah 62:1), delights in me (Isaiah 62:4), and rejoices over me (Isaiah 62:5). That is the God I love.

And sometimes my Lord speaks in an unexpected voice. Like a spider’s. I watched Charlotte’s Web last night because that’s what I do when I’m feeling down. (Or when I'm really down, I read it.) Early on, Wilbur’s destiny is uncertain: as a spring pig, he is likely to be cured ham by Christmas. One of the animals references this fact, which nearly gives Wilbur a heart attack. “Charlotte, should I be worried?” he asks his best friend. She chuckles a bit. “Of course not. What good would that do?” Tears sprang to my eyes as I looked upward. God might as well have been in my room, winking at me, smiling, and saying, “That goes for you too, my love.” And if you ask my heart, he was.

Hospitality.

When people find out I’m a French teacher, most of them respond one of three ways: 1) “I could never teach high school,” 2) “Bonjour!…That’s about all I remember,” or 3) “Why did you choose French?” In general, I’m sure people mean the third question benignly, but since humanities programs are slashed from universities like crazy of late, what I hear is, “Why in heaven’s name did you choose that?” In my French courses, in both college and grad school, the fact of being in a discipline that requires a constant fight for relevance was a frequent topic of discussion. It’s an increasingly prevalent opinion that students’ time would be better spent on science or math. So I do a preemptive strike on the first day of French I. I tell my students that the only reason our planet is of any consequence at all is that there are people on it. And the only way these people can get anything done is to communicate with each other. The more people we can communicate with, the more efficiently and effectively we can get all our things done. And since the brightest people in the world are not concentrated in one country, they speak different languages. Ergo, we learn languages. That is the pragmatic argument anyway.

But that wasn’t compelling enough to 17-year-old Amie to make her choose French. I usually tell people that French chose me, in fact. My French textbook called out to me: “You love to travel? Countries on five continents claim me as their national language. You love to read? Study me, and you can read millions more books. You love words? I’ll give you a whole new set of words to play with.” Clearly, 17-year-old Amie was persuaded to study French by selfish reasons. But as I got further in, I discovered that learning another language isn’t about speaking so much as listening. Conversing with someone, when you think about it, is pretty darn magical. Language, mere sounds your mouth makes or lines and dots scratched from the tip of your pencil, translates your feelings and thoughts into something others can understand. So the act of learning another’s language communicates, “Understanding you is important to me.”

If that hadn’t already hit home for me, it certainly did while I was in the hospital last week. One of my technicians was named Jacotte, a kind, lovely Haitian woman. On the second afternoon that she came in to check my vitals, she said, “You speak French.” Surprised, I said, “I do. How did you know?” She smiled. “The way you say my name. I said to myself, ‘Jacotte, that girl called me by my name. She speaks my language.’” From that point on, barely two words of English were exchanged between us. At one point Jacotte told me, “It feels so good to speak my language. I don’t get to do that much.” So Jacotte and I had a constant exchange of hospitality: she took attentive care of me physically, and I let her relax into her linguistic comfort zone for a few minutes each day. Following my surgery, Jacotte was the one who took me walking to keep my muscles in motion. She introduced me to everyone, saying, “This is my friend. This is mon amie.” And when my mom went to the desk to ask for Jacotte’s help, she said, “Yes, yes. Anything for mon amie.” I didn’t say anything special to this woman. I didn’t do anything extraordinary for her. But because she was able to communicate in her natural way, because I was willing to be at a linguistic disadvantage, Jacotte showed me every kindness she could.

I believe in studying math and science. I believe in studying organic chemistry and calculus and medicine and physics. But if we let go of language study—as many universities are now wont to do—vital lines of communication will be broken. International trust will be harder to win. Cultures will have trouble understanding one another. Why not study math and science alongside the way to communicate them? This way, we will continue to discover our friends, our amis.

Glossolalia.

Here is my deepest embarrassment as a girl raised Pentecostal: I have never spoken in tongues. It’s not for a lack of trying. I have listened to infinite how-to sermons on the topic, and at the end of each, I have traipsed down to the altar and done exactly as I was told, which varied wildly from preacher to preacher. One instructed us to interminably repeat one word – he suggested “hallelujah” – so that when the foreign words came, God wouldn’t have to surmount whatever complicated prayer we were praying. Another admonished us to stand with hands raised; God must see us praising – in exactly this manner, apparently – in order to be convinced of our desire. Another gave a three-step formula that even God can’t resist:  1) Confess your sins, 2) Surrender to God’s will, and 3) Ask sincerely for his Spirit to fill you. One of the aforementioned preachers vowed he would not leave the building until all seekers had spoken in tongues, but he lost interest with me after what felt like hours of coaching. He asked me if my heart was right, if I had any lingering sin. When I realized I was confessing sins I hadn’t even committed, I assured the man I’d done everything on my end that I could. He left that night with at least one devotee who hadn’t spoken in tongues.

God never did bless me with the gift, even though I wholeheartedly cast every preacher-advised spell on him I could. The unwillingness of my tongue to break free caused me stress and frustration for nine infuriating years. Six years ago, when I graduated with a B.A. in French and English, it intensified. I had never longed for the gift more: I’d spent the last few years of my life studying language, and I desperately yearned for the ability to use God’s own words to praise him. I had learned how to speak another people's language; why could I not do this with my Lord? How many times did I pray, “God, please let me speak in tongues”? Each time it didn’t happen, I was crestfallen anew.

If you don’t understand why this is a cause for embarrassment (rather than mere disappointment), let me explain. In many Pentecostal churches, such as the one I attended for eight of those nine years of frustration, my lack of speaking in tongues meant that I had not been filled with the Spirit. Therefore, I was not a full-fledged Christian because I didn’t have the power boost that his Spirit gives you. Essentially, the “other half” of my salvation was hanging in the balance. Speaking in tongues was not a choice. And I craved it besides.

I learned in a college class for my minor that this Pentecostal doctrinal stipulation on salvation comes from the Acts account of the Day of Pentecost (2:1-13, NLT): On the day of Pentecost all the believers were meeting in one place. Suddenly, there was a sound from heaven like the roaring of a mighty windstorm…Then, what looked like flames appeared and settled on each of them. And everyone present was filled with the Holy Spirit and began speaking in other languages*, as the Holy Spirit gave them this ability…When [others] heard the loud noise, [they] came running, and they were bewildered…“How can this be? These people are all from Galilee, and yet we hear them speaking in our own native languages…about the wonderful things God has done!” So the thought line is this: when the Holy Spirit fills followers of Jesus, speaking other languages ensues. Note that the church has relaxed the prerequisites of the “mighty windstorm” and the “flames,” but the speaking of other languages is still a requirement.

One May afternoon a few years ago, I was reading the Bible and happened upon 1 Corinthians 12, part of which declares: All of you together are Christ’s body, and each of you is a part of it…First there are apostles, second are prophets, third are teachers, then those who do miracles, those who have the gift of healing, those who can help others, those who have the gift of leadership, those who speak in unknown languages. Are we all apostles? Are we all prophets? Are we all teachers? Do we all have the power to do miracles? Do we all have the gift of healing? Do we all have the ability to speak in unknown languages? Do we all have the ability to interpret unknown languages? Of course not! (vv. 27-30, NLT). My head reeled, and I read it several times more: “Do we all have the ability to speak in unknown languages?…Of course not!” Oh, wow, I thought. I put the Bible down and lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. Wow, my brain kept saying. I can’t explain the overwhelming grace I felt. And you are a teacher, my Lord whispered to my heart. And I am so pleased. It was too much for words, something inexplicable and glorious and freeing and joyous.

Later, when my heart realigned with my brain, I did some thinking. No doubt, God did a beautiful thing on the Day of Pentecost; what modern-day church wouldn’t want it? People verbally exploded in praise, such that sticking to their own languages couldn’t describe the bubbling of the Holy Spirit inside them. That’s holy and God-given and divinely lovely. However, to require a reenactment of such from every believer – and from the God they serve – is constricting and unholy. God will not be forced into doctrine because it so pleases the church overseer. God works as God desires because only he has complete wisdom. Furthermore, as God is anything but one-dimensional – look at the rainbow of his actions and words and emotions throughout the Bible – so should our reflection of him be. In the church he raises up apostles, prophets, healers, teachers, etc., and each of these roles reveals a little more about the God we serve. If we were all unknown-language-speakers, where would our interpreters and leaders and miracle-workers be? The wisdom of God is manifold and diversified by definition.

I have been filled with the Spirit for years. I never dared believe it until I read the 1 Corinthians passage because my experience did not include the linguistic manifestation; nonetheless, I know it’s true because I do things that reach people. And the reason for that is the Holy Spirit’s stirring in me. My victories with students, for example, come from the pouring out of the Holy Spirit’s wisdom in me. Pieces I have written that have blessed someone are from the Holy Spirit’s words in me. He uses me, and I am filled.

In my experience, conservative Pentecostals do not agree. A well-read Pentecostal layman a few years my senior is insistent that I am missing a “higher power” in my walk with the Lord because I don’t speak in tongues. He explained to me a few years ago that two things have held me back; namely, that I didn’t want it enough, and after so many missed opportunities, I have now closed my heart to the possibility. My response is two scriptures: 1 Corinthians 14:33, God is not a God of disorder but of peace, and 1 Corinthians 12:11, It is the one and only Spirit who distributes all of these gifts. He alone decides which gift each person should have. The first verse speaks to my years of disorder, confusion, and anger over not speaking in tongues, contrasted with my now perfect peace over not having that particular gift (at least, not now), but being blessed with others instead. The second verse dovetails with this, explaining that the Spirit gives the gifts as he deems necessary. He’s the only one doling them out, and he has not seen reason as of yet to allow me to speak in tongues. In the same way that he doesn’t give everyone the gift of healing (nor does the church doctrine require everyone to have it…), he’s not giving everyone the gift of unknown languages. Should he see fit one day for me to speak in tongues for a moment or for the rest of my life, I will be open and willing. In the meantime, I will simply learn to trust his judgment.

*Although this is somewhat of a side point, I think it’s important to note that the languages spoken on the Day of Pentecost were earthly languages. The gift of these languages brought others to the scene where God’s power could be displayed.

Mothers Day.

Chances are you think your mother is the greatest of her kind. Me too: mine is beautiful, wise, compassionate, and seriously smart. My mom has spent hours and hours of the last two years on the phone with me while I cried or complained or unloaded fear and hurt. She never turns down a hug or says she’s too busy to listen. She works to make sure everyone in the family has what he or she needs. As I write this, tears of gratitude spring to my eyes, for I am blessed with such an amazing mother. I love that a twenty-four-hour period is set aside for my family to give her an extra dose of special treatment. Mothers Day is a sweet time.

Mothers Day church services are a different story. To those of us who aren’t mothers, it can feel a little like not being tapped into a sorority. The beginning of the church service I was in last Sunday was like this. One of the pastors asked the mothers to stand as he thanked them on behalf of all of us. “Ladies, you make significant sacrifices through the years, and we rarely recognize it. You have answered the highest calling a woman can have: raising children. We want to bless you and thank you for your service to us.” He said other things—he spoke for five or ten minutes—but that’s the gist. My issue with this is not that it’s necessarily untrue: my own mother does some serious sacrificing, and she deserves appreciation for that and so much more. So do all mothers. Across the world, women spend their days cleaning up spills that no one else sees, mending tears in clothes, administering medicine, crying as they rock their children to sleep for hours on end when the little one just won’t cooperate. Mothers are strong, so strong.

But I do not believe that raising children is a woman’s “highest calling.” If that’s true, a sizeable demographic will never reach its female potential. In this subset, some have chosen not to have children for very valid reasons, and some have chosen against wifehood, as well. Some want desperately to have children, but for a reason that mystifies the doctors, it isn’t happening. Some have had surgeries rendering them infertile. Some have hormonal abnormalities, chronic illnesses, or other medical factors that bar them from motherhood. Some have watched in horror as their dreams of motherhood ended abruptly in the bathroom. For some, this holiday is a reminder of the loss of life or the inability to give it, not its celebration.

However, there is much more to the concept of “mothering” than giving birth. Some women who have not and will never bear children have left an indelible mother’s mark on the little ones in their lives. Aunts, stepmothers, grandmothers, nurses, teachers, big sisters, babysitters, family friends—these women and others like them have the same capacity for “significant sacrifice” and “service” to children* as the women whose biological offspring are involved. Mothering, I would argue, is the art of cherishing and guiding children, an art that does not require a functional reproductive system. Mothers encourage. They spend time with children. They cause smiles and laughter. They provide for children’s needs and wants. They teach. They love. Women with unused wombs are just as capable of these functions and eager to fill them as their childbearing counterparts. Many of these mothering-women have played important roles in my life, as I hope to in the lives of others.

So maybe the entrance qualifications for the Mothers-Day sorority can be modified. Rather than honoring only biological or legally adoptive mothers, perhaps we can include all mothering-women who nurture and care for the world’s younger people. While only one woman births us, many, many women along the way help us become who we are. One such woman in my life was A.M., a family friend who spent a lot of time with me during my childhood. She took me out to dinner (and as a good Southern girl, I almost always picked Cracker Barrel), she took me mini-golfing, she invited me to spend weekends with her in her apartment. Many evenings she made us hot dogs and we talked and laughed while eating in her kitchen. A.M. reached out to me: she loved me, cared for me, and looked me in the eye when we talked. I knew I was important to her. And there is no greater gift a mothering-woman can bestow than the message “You’re significant. You’re special. There’s something wonderful inside you that I love to watch and be a part of.”

For A.M. and all the other members of the mothering corps out there, whether you are biological moms or moms of the heart: thank you most sincerely for the love and guidance you so freely give, and a very happy Mothers Day to you.

*Although I use the word “children” throughout, certainly some women mother us when we are already old enough to have children and perhaps grandchildren of our own.

Roulette.

Yesterday a psychologist said to me one of the most honest things about romantic commitment that I’ve ever heard: “Relationships are a great gamble. When two people enter a committed relationship, they should be aware that things could go terribly wrong. Their love could die. Another could attract the attention of one of the partners. They could grow apart. I think the best thing two people can do is admit the reality of those possibilities from the outset. Is the love they have now worth the potential hurt later? Will they decide how to combat these dangers before they arise? Relationships are a gamble, always a gamble, but a good one.” Certainly, that is a far less romantic way of looking at love than what’s in the movies. It’s more fun to think of love as something that hits you when you see her lovely face laughing at a joke right before she notices you for the first time. It’s easier to think of love as an emotion that arises from attraction and compatibility and that, when it comes to you, lasts forever. Thinking of love as a risk with a potentially painful end is just depressing.

On the other hand, if we treat love this way, aren’t we actually elevating its status to something even more precious? If we’re willing to admit that sometimes things get broken, won’t it make us more determined to hold onto love when we find it? It seems to me that if two people can look at each other honestly and say, “I see your selfishness,” “I see your paranoia,” or “I see your fear,” knowing that those qualities left unchecked could destroy the relationship, and still be willing to take the risk, that is the miracle of love. To see another’s most ingrained faults and be willing to love him or her even if those traits never change, to be willing not to berate him or her for being imperfect, that is the hard work demanded by commitment. Perhaps making the decision to choose love over destruction each individual day is a more honest way of approaching a relationship than making a rash, often infatuation-driven, promise of eternal bliss early on and spinning the roulette wheel, betting on romantic fantasies.

I don’t believe committed love is left entirely to chance, of course. Unromantic, un-glorious grit and determination have their place. But it is equally true that we cannot know the future. In the limited scope of human wisdom, the enormity of our imperfection, and the frightening fickleness of attraction, “forever” cannot be certain. Even the Bible claims, There is…a time to kill and a time to heal…a time to embrace and a time to turn away…a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend (vv. Ecclesiastes 3:3a, :5b, :6b, :7a). Therefore, there are times committed love should be worked at and times it should be let go. Knowing this, admitting (but not dwelling on) the possibility of not-happily-ever-after, can paralyze us into an inability to love or can challenge us to hold love in the highest esteem, fighting for it however we can, even without knowing the outcome.

I believe there is magic in love, despite the reality of the risk. To find someone whose presence makes you feel peaceful, cherished, and deeply happy is not something to trivialize. To find someone who wakes you up from the inside out, who makes you feel special just by being who he or she is and allowing you to do the same, whose laugh delights you, who looks your faults in the eye and says, “I can work around that”…it’s a gift. Certainly one worth both the gamble, however scary, and the hard work, however frustrating. It reminds me of a Benjamin Disraeli quote: “There is no greater risk than matrimony. But there is nothing happier than a happy marriage” (1870). Today I wish you a successful roll of the dice.

Doughnuts.

Don Miller tells a beautiful story in his work Through Painted Deserts about God’s provision. He’d climbed down the Grand Canyon with a friend--a feat of which the mental, physical, and emotional toll was nearly unbearable. After a particularly grueling day, his friend asked him, “If you could have access to anything right now, what would it be?” Miller replied, “Tortillas and scrambled eggs.” An odd answer perhaps, given his more immediate needs, but he went on to explain how strongly the meal reminded him of home and family. When the pair emerged from the Canyon, they resumed their trip but didn’t get far: their jalopy broke down. They walked to a nearby diner to eat, and guess what was remarkably available for breakfast? Yep, tortillas and scrambled eggs. And guess what was wrong with their truck? Nothing; it started up the moment they were ready to leave. Miller says it brought tears to his eyes, realizing how personal our God is. Even something as simple as breakfast food becomes important to God when it’s important to us. Knowing how much pleasure tortillas and scrambled eggs would bring Miller, our Daddy-God orchestrated a plan for him to have them.

I have never climbed the Grand Canyon and completely lack the desire to try. I do, however, understand the concept of an experience that reduces you to a helpless mass of flesh dependant on a great big God. The last two years have brought enormous challenges in every area of my life: academic, relational, physical, personal, spiritual. One such challenge was my master’s examinations, which I successfully completed last Friday. Spaced over a two-week period, there were four parts, two written and two oral, based on a list of more than 200 works in French. The most terrifying component of the exam came last: the orals. The panel could ask me literally anything from any work on the list, starting with the Revolution. To say this is “terrifying” is an understatement of gargantuan proportions. Not only are you worried you don’t know enough about the individual works, but you’re also wondering whether you know enough historical context, whether you can remember what you’ve read, whether your nerves will hinder your mental capabilities during the exam, and so on. In a word, it’s nerve-wracking.

It’s no wonder, then, that I woke up Friday morning with a stomachache and tears in my eyes. And a huge craving for doughnuts. Huge. You’d think I was pregnant. My brain and heart were so worn out from the stress of the previous two years—and, of course, the task in front of me—that all my nervous energy zeroed in on one desire: a doughnut. Irrationally, I thought, “The only thing in the world that could calm me down right now is a doughnut.” When Jeff asked what I wanted for breakfast, I said, “A doughnut. I want a doughnut.” I didn't get one. It was almost more than my distressed self could take. “No doughnut?” it asked me quietly. “But that’s all I want.” I tried to calm my inner self, saying, “Some way or another, I will get you a doughnut. But you have to shut up now with this nonsense so I can practice my presentation.”

As we were heading out the door, Jeff realized he had to make an emergency run to work to drop something off for his boss. When we got there, he promised to return quickly so as not to make me late for my appointment. I was surprised, however, when he returned in less than five minutes, knocking on my window. I rolled it down and was handed…a still-warm glazed doughnut. “I don’t know where these came from, but they were sitting out on the desk,” he said with a shrug. Tears sprang to my eyes for what must have been the eighty-eighth time that morning. I gratefully ate my doughnut and was reminded of Don Miller’s tortillas and eggs. God was providing for me, something so silly and so irrelevant, but something that showed me how personal he can be. Right then I knew that if my desire for a ridiculous little doughnut was important to God, then my need for success on the exams was that much more so. I knew that, as Isaiah promises, he’d be with me and would help me and hold me up in his victorious right hand (41:10). My human weakness doesn’t matter in the face of such an almighty God.

One July night in 2009, a week before I moved, I was telling God how nervous I was about what lay before me. He showed me the first chapter of Joshua, and I knew in my spirit the words were for me too. Wherever you set foot, you will be on land that I have given you…I will be with you. I will not fail you or abandon you. Be strong and courageous…Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go (1:3, 5, 9). God had already prepared the way for me to succeed. Nothing about my program or my professors or my exams shocked him. He never had to reconfigure his plan for me because something didn’t happen the way he expected. In fact, he was and is so much bigger than a French degree. And if he was on my side—which the whole Bible promises—then what is there to fear? So I went in the exam room being strong and courageous, knowing that God had already given me the “land.” And a doughnut.