I chose to move to Virginia. I chose to make that change from small town of 5,000 to a bigger city of 75,000. I’d say it’s a good choice – I got a great job, made wonderful friends, and met my husband!
But I never really accepted this place as my home.
I have this routine for putting on pants.
To be honest, I don’t like pants that much. I don’t like jeans that much, actually. Six out of the seven days of the week find me in a skirt or dress, and I never put on jeans of my own volition after work.
This is partially due to my hatred for the whole pants-putting-on process.
Jeans straight out of the dryer are a force to be reckoned with – can I get an ‘amen’? I spend a good two hours doing squats, donkey kicks and high knees to loosen them up to a form worthy of the public eye. Trolls would love to see me transgress my own posts about modesty, so fear not: I’m not wearing jeggings. It’s just really hard to get slim leg jeans on drumsticks.
I’m quick to put a shirt on during the pants-dance routine, because the whole cupcake-look doesn’t appeal to me. I’m also quick to put on makeup, style my hair, and wear my signature pink lipstick. I’m quick because it is urgent: this covering-over, making-up, be-presentable womanhood I’ve embraced. I have scars to cover. I have curls to tame. And I have no upper lip, so I have to draw that on.
We pinch, poke, and prod; diffuse, scrub, exfoliate, and pluck; run, lift, and crunch. Even then, we thousands of women peer into mirrors, hoping to hear we are the fairest – not to them all, but at least to ourselves.
We aren’t all discontent with our bodies, lives and homes. But I do think, like me, many women have trained themselves to meet expectations. When we fail, we feel we have no excuse for that failure.
Faith in God is not evidence of a great person, but of a person trusting the greatness of her Savior.
It’s in those stressful moments I cease to remember that greatness. I cease to trust. In that moment, I cease to have faith.
Normally I would work on a post for today, but I'll be honest with you all: I am focusing my energy on being 'filled' before trying to 'fill' anyone else. It's been a difficult week and my heart has been very burdened. So today I'm going to share the Psalm I've been...
Chop, chop, chop.
I sliced the green peppers in slim lines, then cut them crossways and pushed the pieces into a little pile on the cutting board. I moved to the cherry tomatoes, and then the carrots, then the romaine. My Kitchen Aid whirred loudly, beating a batch of pumpkin bread, and I could smell the banana bread as it rose in the oven.
“I still need to do the laundry, vacuum the bathroom, and wash the dishes…” I muttered to myself, because not talking simply isn’t an option, even when there’s no one around.
As I moved around the kitchen I thought about the last week. I’d done all these things before. I do them every week, some of them every day. I get up at 5 AM most days, make breakfast for myself and Mr. M, and do devotions until 5:45. Then we head to the gym until 7 AM, when I shower and head to work by 7:45. Then it’s phone calls, Excel sheets, deposit bags, meetings and tour times until 5 PM, when I battle traffic back to the apartment and make dinner, pack the gym bag, and chop peppers for the next day’s salads and lunches once again.
We read the words mommy bloggers who go through this with their little ones: the diapers, baths, and bottles; the “Why?” and “When?” and “I’m hungry!”s of the day after day. But we have those, too: the needy infants of our own in-between lives. To-do lists with menial tasks we do again and again.
I recently took a personality test, just for giggles. The result stated my type was ‘The Executive’:
“The ENTJ has many gifts which make it possible for them to have a great deal of personal power, if they don’t forget to remain balanced in their lives. They are assertive, innovative, long-range thinkers with an excellent ability to translate theories and possibilities into solid plans of action.”
The results went on to state that people of this personality may “have a problem with being constantly absent from home, physically or mentally” due to their intense focus on achievements and goals.
As I read that paragraph, I thought of myself chopping peppers in the kitchen. My mind is never on those peppers. So menial. So pointless. Yet so necessary.
Dear Girl,
You see my pictures where I look happy, laughing-happy. Happy because I’m married and have a cool job, because I go on business trips and girls’ weekends. Because I drink coffee and blog, because my hair looks good in that picture and I probably don’t have a care in the world.
I look happy to you, like I don’t worry, don’t stress, like I woke up this way. Like my apartment is perfect, my clothes and husband and life are perfect. And yours isn’t.
In a world where we all ‘follow’ each other – a discipleship of image and best-face-forward – you look at me and think less of yourself. Or you look at me and think more of yourself.
Just like I look at others and do the same.
Dear girl, I’m just like you.
I’m the woman at the gas station in the scuffed heels. I’m the girl answering the phone with annoyance in her voice. I’m the one with the fighting heart and the too-strong tongue that stings sometimes, even when I don’t mean it.
Mondays are my least favorite day of the week, and my resentment towards them builds from 5 PM Sunday night to my alarm’s unwelcome tune at 4:50 the next morning. Yet another week of trying to juggle everything, my mind stews as I make the familiar drive into work, usually running late. I enjoy the busyness; I thrive in it. I love my coworkers. Yet when Monday comes, the dread builds as I realize I must shift from the ‘optional’ to the ‘required’ mode of operation.
It had been a day. Not just a day… but a day: the kind that, when you reach the end of it, you either want to put on your best heels and go out on the town or curl up in your duvet and die.
To start, I’d been up late the night before and only had five hours of sleep. I came to work late because I had to pick up some tax forms Financial Aid needed. Then I got sent home sick.
Once home, I found out the tax forms still weren’t right. I couldn’t reach Mr. M, who was in Tennessee – and he’s who put the forms together.
Nationwide wanted information on our renter’s insurance, which I also didn’t have.
I tried to call the doctor to pay an outstanding bill and they wouldn’t answer. I called another doctor – the one I’d been trying to get an appointment with for three months but couldn’t because the last one wouldn’t send my records – and they stated, once again, that my records were MIA.
So I sat on the sofa in Mr. M’s t-shirt eating a bowl of Cocoa Krispies, bawling my eyes out for a good five minutes. This is the most effective response under such circumstances.
And I still had a three page essay and seven page paper due that night. My computer decided it would be nice to just shut down in the middle of my essay.
“Moral question:” I texted my sisters. “Would it be wrong to swear while writing a theology paper?” The answer is quite obvious, and I didn’t do it, but my stars! What a day!!
—-
Our lives are a transcript of our theology. We cannot separate what we believe about God from the choices we make.
One of the saddest things I encounter as a writer is the lack of biblical knowledge many Christians possess. They attempt to parse together a knowledge of God from Sunday School messages, Beth Moore studies, and the every-now-and-then quiet time. We live in a world of Christians who might know the word ‘justification’ but couldn’t tell you what it means for their lives.
Our doctrine – our theology – it matters. It is fundamental to absolutely everything we do as women. What you believe about God and His gospel story will affect:
How you speak
How you think
How you dress
How far you go with your boyfriend
How you navigate your future
How you view marriage and children
How you handle your finances
How you view your purpose in life
Don’t believe me? Here’s an example.
The plan had been given with strict instructions to meticulously craft every detail. The materials were of choice selection, imported from afar. The field of laborers was vast, totaling 70,000. The quarrying of stone required another 80,000. Still another 3,600 oversaw the work.
This would be no small undertaking.
With King Solomon at the helm, all worked together to create such splendor as had never been seen. After all, this was the Temple of the living God and nothing less would do. It had to be unmatched in magnificence.
Twenty-three tons of gold overlaid the walls. The beams, the nails, and the door sockets were made of gold—even the floor was overlaid with the precious metal. All of the priestly utensils were finely crafted before being overlaid with gold. Palm trees, chains, pomegranates, and cherubim decorated the walls, adding lavish marvel everywhere the eye could wander. Jewels graced the walls in elegant display.
Within the heart of the Temple hung a fine linen curtain lavishly decorated with blue, purple and scarlet thread. Here was found the most significant place on all the earth. The Holy of Holies. Beyond this curtain stood two cherubim. Together, their wingspan drew 30 feet of shelter above the Ark of the Covenant, dwelling below. The Holy of Holies.
Seven years of tireless effort brought the close of the building period. It was here. The moment all had been anxiously awaiting. In grand procession, the Ark was laid to rest beneath the cherubim. Dressed in fine priestly garments, the Levites stood to the east of the Temple. One hundred and twenty trumpeters accompanied cymbals and other instruments in magnificent unison. All lifted their voices in great praise unto the Lord.
“He is good! His faithful love endures forever!”
This was their song. Can you hear it?
Then, a thick cloud descended. A hush may have covered the crowd in silent awe and memorization.
The glory filled the Temple.
You don’t know me. I don’t know you.
I saw you come in and sit down in front of me, smiling and hugging each other, looking around the sanctuary for familiar faces. During the greeting break you shook my hand, we exchanged a few words; maybe ‘Hello, how are you?’ or ‘What’s your name?’
You are all very pretty. Beautiful, actually: tall, thin, with good hair, nicely styled. Your makeup is perfect, even if you don’t think so. You are quite a good looking trio.
I didn’t keep watching you – I’m not that creepy. But after the sermon, as you walked out the door, I wish I had touched your arm and spoken.
I wish I had thanked you.
There’s something else you don’t know – other than me, that is. You don’t know that this Sunday there was a young man sitting behind you; a young man who desperately needs Jesus. I’ve been praying for him for months and it’s a miracle he was even in church today.
He probably didn’t come to church looking for Jesus. He likely came for a pew like yours – a pew of girls. But you provided him no distraction.
Every one of you was attractive. Every one of you could have advertised that attractiveness with what you wore, drawing attention to the shape of your waist, your curves, or the length of your legs. But you didn’t.
When you worshiped God in front of me and the young man behind you, the most prominent visual of your character was your heart for God. When this young man may have been looking for a distraction, he couldn’t find it with you…