“Do y’all have sweet tea?”
“We have raspberry tea.”
“I’ll take a water. Thanks.”
I should know that when I’m anywhere south of the panhandle I may as well request a water up front, but there’s always some glimmer, some tiny ray of hope that my drink of choice will be featured on some menu, some where. Sweet tea’s popularity grew exponentially during the six years I lived in Orlando, so I thought that the good people of Clearwater would have caught on by now. They haven’t. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it’s like Little Ontario down here. And what do Canadians know about southern staples, eh?
Clearwater is a good place, don’t get me wrong. There’s a lot to love here. And I love and appreciate greatly the time I am getting to spend with my sweet friends. But I wish I could also enjoy that sweet beverage while I’m visiting. I’ve asked for it three places now, and at all three locales it was no where to be found. I forget that tea and sugar don’t hook up and have delicious babies all the time here. It just doesn’t happen.
I don’t know why not. It’s just so natch.
It’s true, there’s always Chick-Fil-A. But even here, I promise you the tea is not as sweet. I have not yet decided if for a self-proclaimed sugar addict, this situation is good or bad. Either way, the day will come again when I'm back in my neck of the woods, liquid gold in my hand.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Yeah, We Met On the Internet...
I wasn’t looking for love as I scoured the online profiles- I was really just curious to see what it was all about. “Just look and see if anyone catches your eye,” my friend urged me. I doubted that I’d feel that strongly toward anyone right away, I mean, I wasn’t really sure what I was signing myself up for! But the second I saw his face, I knew I was a goner.
Every time I see his picture, this big goofy grin stretches across my face. I can’t explain it. It’s like he’s so cute I can’t even handle it. But that’s not why I love him. Our interests aren’t totally the same- he’s more of a math kid while I prefer the language arts. But we both do like art- and soccer.
I’m not quite sure how he feels about me, but I’d venture to say he likes me a lot too. We don’t talk all the time, but I know our bond is legit. And despite the fact that our only communication occurs through written letters, I believe we’re quite the pair- a great match. A match literally made in heaven.
So just who is this guy? His name is Peerapong, and he is my sponsor child through the organization Compassion International. Compassion International exists as a Christian child advocacy ministry that releases children from spiritual, economic, social and physical poverty and enables them to become responsible, fulfilled Christian adults. Founded by the Rev. Everett Swanson in 1952, Compassion began providing Korean War orphans with food, shelter, education and health care, as well as Christian training. Today, Compassion helps more than 1 million children in 26 countries.
My Peerapong, who lives in a mountainous community in Thailand, is one of these million. He lives with his father and mother, who are sometimes employed as farmers. The oldest of 3 children, Peerapong is responsible for running errands and cleaning. My sponsorship allows the workers of the church child development center in Peerapong’s village to provide sponsored children with Christian education, Sunday school summer camp, health care and hygiene activities, health checkups, drug education, community service activities, tutoring, vocational training and writing and reading skills classes. Parents of sponsored children are provided with care and resources as well. Above all things, my sponsorship signifies to Peerapong that he matters. He’s not just one of millions, he’s one in a million to me.
He is a precious gift from the Lord, a reminder of how much Christ loves me. Although my love for Peerapong is an imperfect reflection of God’s love for me, I want to love him like Christ loves me. I liken him to my child; I want to be a better person for him. I want to fight against the lies I so often believe about myself, knowing that if I bow to these lies that say I’m worthless of disposable, how much more does a child living right above the poverty line believe them? I never want Peerapong to believe those lies. I want him to know that he matters- he matters to me! And even greater than the American girl who sends him letters and pictures and trinkets, he matters to the God who created the universe. The God who created the universe is crazy about him! The God of the universe loves him unconditionally and has great plans for his future.
For almost a year and a half now, I have had the special privilege of being a part of Peerapong's life through my sponsorship with Compassion International. I look forward to many more years of friendship, many more letters and drawings and pictures, and to witnessing this child grow and mature as both a person and fellow believer of Jesus Christ.
I extend the invitation to you friends; find your Peerapong today.
Please visit www.compassion.com to find out how you can play a role in releasing children from poverty in Jesus’ name.
Every time I see his picture, this big goofy grin stretches across my face. I can’t explain it. It’s like he’s so cute I can’t even handle it. But that’s not why I love him. Our interests aren’t totally the same- he’s more of a math kid while I prefer the language arts. But we both do like art- and soccer.
I’m not quite sure how he feels about me, but I’d venture to say he likes me a lot too. We don’t talk all the time, but I know our bond is legit. And despite the fact that our only communication occurs through written letters, I believe we’re quite the pair- a great match. A match literally made in heaven.
So just who is this guy? His name is Peerapong, and he is my sponsor child through the organization Compassion International. Compassion International exists as a Christian child advocacy ministry that releases children from spiritual, economic, social and physical poverty and enables them to become responsible, fulfilled Christian adults. Founded by the Rev. Everett Swanson in 1952, Compassion began providing Korean War orphans with food, shelter, education and health care, as well as Christian training. Today, Compassion helps more than 1 million children in 26 countries.
My Peerapong, who lives in a mountainous community in Thailand, is one of these million. He lives with his father and mother, who are sometimes employed as farmers. The oldest of 3 children, Peerapong is responsible for running errands and cleaning. My sponsorship allows the workers of the church child development center in Peerapong’s village to provide sponsored children with Christian education, Sunday school summer camp, health care and hygiene activities, health checkups, drug education, community service activities, tutoring, vocational training and writing and reading skills classes. Parents of sponsored children are provided with care and resources as well. Above all things, my sponsorship signifies to Peerapong that he matters. He’s not just one of millions, he’s one in a million to me.
He is a precious gift from the Lord, a reminder of how much Christ loves me. Although my love for Peerapong is an imperfect reflection of God’s love for me, I want to love him like Christ loves me. I liken him to my child; I want to be a better person for him. I want to fight against the lies I so often believe about myself, knowing that if I bow to these lies that say I’m worthless of disposable, how much more does a child living right above the poverty line believe them? I never want Peerapong to believe those lies. I want him to know that he matters- he matters to me! And even greater than the American girl who sends him letters and pictures and trinkets, he matters to the God who created the universe. The God who created the universe is crazy about him! The God of the universe loves him unconditionally and has great plans for his future.
For almost a year and a half now, I have had the special privilege of being a part of Peerapong's life through my sponsorship with Compassion International. I look forward to many more years of friendship, many more letters and drawings and pictures, and to witnessing this child grow and mature as both a person and fellow believer of Jesus Christ.
I extend the invitation to you friends; find your Peerapong today.
Please visit www.compassion.com to find out how you can play a role in releasing children from poverty in Jesus’ name.
Here he is, the little man that captured my heart and pocketbook. I picked him because he looked grumpy and needed lots of love. I doubt he's really grumpy. But I hope he's turned that frown upside down!
Monday, February 21, 2011
To Know You is to Love You
For a self-proclaimed perfectionist, I sure don’t like being around perfect people. I don’t think I am alone in this. But I sure like to pretend that I have it all together. I don’t think I’m alone in this either.
Why is that? Why do we attempt perfection, when perfection itself is what alienates others from us? Exactly what is it that keeps us feeding this desire?
I’m no psychologist- I can’t claim to have it all figured out. But I can claim an answer for my own behavior, and that is this: I long desperately to be loved. This explains a great deal about how I’ve operated for the past 25 years of my life- offering only the pieces of myself that I believe will be liked or accepted, sometimes even to my best friends. So many times I wanted to offer all of myself, to be known- fully known. But I mistakenly believed that if these two longings, the desire to be loved and the desire to be known, were each made reality, they could not co-exist.
It wasn’t until I turned 25 that I realized how flawed my belief systems were. It wasn't until I turned 25 and soon after hit rock-bottom emotionally that I began to see how wrong I was. Reaching an all-time low sought me to seek the face of the Lord. As I sought answers from Him, I began to know Him more fully. As I got to know Him better, I began to love Him more. I can say I love Jesus because I know him. And the more Real He became to me, the more Real I wanted to be.
Easier said than done. Being Real is hard. This past year, I’ve actually fought harder than ever to look like I have it all together. I've defaulted back to the patterns I know and love, therefore robbing myself of opportunities to be known or loved. Luckily for me, there was One fighting harder for me than I was fighting against myself.
In His grace, I am finally able to flourish in the freedom of being Real. It started with an email to the people I had been hiding from the most, my friends and ministry partners. It hasn’t ended. It continues with phenomenal responses, outpourings of love from friends so thankful that I had taken the time to be Real with them and those who wished to be Real by sharing their prayer requests with me.
I share with you this email now, because if you read my blog, I guess you want to know me. I want you to know me, the Real me. I want to know you too.
Hello friends!
I hope this email finds you happy, healthy, and full of hope!
As the sunlight came streaming into my car during my drive over the causeway this morning, I was reminded once again of how powerful a promise hope is. The first truly warm day after months of cold and gloom brought with a glimpse of life. In a lot of ways I feel like that is what the Lord has been doing in my heart over these past couple of months, bringing it back to life. This might seem strange coming from me, a person whose goal is to share true hope with college students on a daily basis. But as winter came and hovered, hope retreated and fear and shame came in to take its place. They invited their friend disappointment to make a home in my heart too, and despite my vain attempts to root them out, they lingered for much longer than I would have liked.
I struggled with whether to tell you this because frankly... I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed that after a year and a half, I was still not done raising support. I was ashamed that I was struggling to believe that God's plans for me were good and perfect. I began emotionally beating myself up for not being a better follower or Christ or a better support-raiser. And worst of all, I was mad at the Lord! Why couldn't I be done already? After so many people (me included) projected that I would be done and officially reporting to FSU in January, why was I still struggling to finish?
This friends, is what I mean when I say that I had lost hope. I began to believe that my mistakes were too big for the Lord to use for his good, or too ugly for Him to weave into something beautiful.
But when I least expected it, something beautiful did happen. When my hope-tank was on E, the Lord stooped in and re-introduced me to grace. He reminded me that my mistakes can be used for good in His kingdom, and that His infinite wisdom enables Him to take my errors and weave them into a intricate work that is good. And for the first time in a long time, I actually believed him. This is the message that college students so desperately need to hear- that there is hope! And the only place they can find it is in Christ alone.
So what is hope? Hope is confidence in the character of God. And what do we know about God's character? That he is loving, that he is good, that he is sovereign, and that he is faithful (even we we are faithless)! And these are but a few facets of his perfect character!
At this point if time, I am still 100% confident that the Lord has called me to work for Campus Crusade for Christ on the Florida State campus, and I believe each day that passes brings me closer to that goal. If anything, my journey through this wilderness makes me ever more excited to share with students the only hope I know- Jesus. I am still not done raising my needed monthly support, but I praise God for the 80% he has brought in and trust him for that last 20. My eyes are on the prize, and I am running harder than ever to finish what He has called me to.
Again, I struggled with whether to share this with y'all because I was feeling because more than anything, I was fearful. I was scared people would judge me or give up on me, or think I mis-heard God's calling on my life. But as friends and co-laborers in ministry, I feel that not only do you desereve to know, I want you to know. I covet your prayers. I ask for your prayers now, prayers of strength and belief. Please pray that I would continue to recognize His grace and willingly receive it. Please pray that I would willingly pass this grace, the grace that comes from God, to my non-Christian friends and family for the remainder of my time at home. Pray that the Lord would do a supernatural work to bring my support team to completion faster than I ever dare dream. And lastly, please pray for the students at Florida State who today have no hope and no idea where to find it. They is the most important request of all.
Where is your hope, friends? What are you trusting God for today? How may I be trusting Him alongside you? From the bottom of my heart, thank you for taking this faith journey with me. Your prayers, encouragement, and sacrifice mean more than you will ever know. Please let me know how I may be journeying with you.
Love in Christ,
Katie
Why is that? Why do we attempt perfection, when perfection itself is what alienates others from us? Exactly what is it that keeps us feeding this desire?
I’m no psychologist- I can’t claim to have it all figured out. But I can claim an answer for my own behavior, and that is this: I long desperately to be loved. This explains a great deal about how I’ve operated for the past 25 years of my life- offering only the pieces of myself that I believe will be liked or accepted, sometimes even to my best friends. So many times I wanted to offer all of myself, to be known- fully known. But I mistakenly believed that if these two longings, the desire to be loved and the desire to be known, were each made reality, they could not co-exist.
It wasn’t until I turned 25 that I realized how flawed my belief systems were. It wasn't until I turned 25 and soon after hit rock-bottom emotionally that I began to see how wrong I was. Reaching an all-time low sought me to seek the face of the Lord. As I sought answers from Him, I began to know Him more fully. As I got to know Him better, I began to love Him more. I can say I love Jesus because I know him. And the more Real He became to me, the more Real I wanted to be.
Easier said than done. Being Real is hard. This past year, I’ve actually fought harder than ever to look like I have it all together. I've defaulted back to the patterns I know and love, therefore robbing myself of opportunities to be known or loved. Luckily for me, there was One fighting harder for me than I was fighting against myself.
In His grace, I am finally able to flourish in the freedom of being Real. It started with an email to the people I had been hiding from the most, my friends and ministry partners. It hasn’t ended. It continues with phenomenal responses, outpourings of love from friends so thankful that I had taken the time to be Real with them and those who wished to be Real by sharing their prayer requests with me.
I share with you this email now, because if you read my blog, I guess you want to know me. I want you to know me, the Real me. I want to know you too.
Hello friends!
I hope this email finds you happy, healthy, and full of hope!
As the sunlight came streaming into my car during my drive over the causeway this morning, I was reminded once again of how powerful a promise hope is. The first truly warm day after months of cold and gloom brought with a glimpse of life. In a lot of ways I feel like that is what the Lord has been doing in my heart over these past couple of months, bringing it back to life. This might seem strange coming from me, a person whose goal is to share true hope with college students on a daily basis. But as winter came and hovered, hope retreated and fear and shame came in to take its place. They invited their friend disappointment to make a home in my heart too, and despite my vain attempts to root them out, they lingered for much longer than I would have liked.
I struggled with whether to tell you this because frankly... I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed that after a year and a half, I was still not done raising support. I was ashamed that I was struggling to believe that God's plans for me were good and perfect. I began emotionally beating myself up for not being a better follower or Christ or a better support-raiser. And worst of all, I was mad at the Lord! Why couldn't I be done already? After so many people (me included) projected that I would be done and officially reporting to FSU in January, why was I still struggling to finish?
This friends, is what I mean when I say that I had lost hope. I began to believe that my mistakes were too big for the Lord to use for his good, or too ugly for Him to weave into something beautiful.
But when I least expected it, something beautiful did happen. When my hope-tank was on E, the Lord stooped in and re-introduced me to grace. He reminded me that my mistakes can be used for good in His kingdom, and that His infinite wisdom enables Him to take my errors and weave them into a intricate work that is good. And for the first time in a long time, I actually believed him. This is the message that college students so desperately need to hear- that there is hope! And the only place they can find it is in Christ alone.
So what is hope? Hope is confidence in the character of God. And what do we know about God's character? That he is loving, that he is good, that he is sovereign, and that he is faithful (even we we are faithless)! And these are but a few facets of his perfect character!
At this point if time, I am still 100% confident that the Lord has called me to work for Campus Crusade for Christ on the Florida State campus, and I believe each day that passes brings me closer to that goal. If anything, my journey through this wilderness makes me ever more excited to share with students the only hope I know- Jesus. I am still not done raising my needed monthly support, but I praise God for the 80% he has brought in and trust him for that last 20. My eyes are on the prize, and I am running harder than ever to finish what He has called me to.
Again, I struggled with whether to share this with y'all because I was feeling because more than anything, I was fearful. I was scared people would judge me or give up on me, or think I mis-heard God's calling on my life. But as friends and co-laborers in ministry, I feel that not only do you desereve to know, I want you to know. I covet your prayers. I ask for your prayers now, prayers of strength and belief. Please pray that I would continue to recognize His grace and willingly receive it. Please pray that I would willingly pass this grace, the grace that comes from God, to my non-Christian friends and family for the remainder of my time at home. Pray that the Lord would do a supernatural work to bring my support team to completion faster than I ever dare dream. And lastly, please pray for the students at Florida State who today have no hope and no idea where to find it. They is the most important request of all.
Where is your hope, friends? What are you trusting God for today? How may I be trusting Him alongside you? From the bottom of my heart, thank you for taking this faith journey with me. Your prayers, encouragement, and sacrifice mean more than you will ever know. Please let me know how I may be journeying with you.
Love in Christ,
Katie
Monday, November 22, 2010
Say Yes to the (Cocktail) Dress
I had to stop looking at fashion magazines last October. I think people think I’m being dramatic or funny when I say that, but sadly this bit of information is true. It’s not that I read magazines that often, but at some point I realized that what had started out as harmless fun had become harmful to my heart.
Before this past year, I would have never considered myself to be the type of girl that struggles with materialism. Don’t get me wrong- I have always liked fashion and shopping, but I was usually very content with what I had. But almost as soon as I made the commitment last summer to be a self-supported missionary in the worst economic crisis in a half-century, the little sin of materialism crept slowly and steadily into my life. I didn’t even realize it was happening at first, but eventually the reminder of all the pretty things that I may never be able to afford started to almost haunt me. I distinctly remember crying last November because I couldn’t even afford a little summer dress that was on sale for $30. You know things are bad when you burst into tears over a dress that you probably won’t even like 2 years down the road. And so I made the decision to lay down the glossy pages with the pretty faces for a long time. Only recently have I been able to enjoy fash mags again. But I still have to ask the Lord to protect me from loving the things of this world too much. I still have to be careful not to find my identity in looking cute.
While I like to pretend that I’m trendy and maybe sometimes even a little fierce, I’ll admit that my fashion attempts are a tad misguided at times. Sometimes I simply cannot rely on my own instincts. And so when the Dilliard’s saleswoman tapped on my fitting room door the other day to ask if I needed help or a different size, I jumped at the opportunity to get a much needed second opinion. I soon as the words "I need a cocktail dress for a friend’s wedding" left my lips, the saleswoman jumped at the opportunity to bank on commission by pulling for me 15 of the most expensive dresses in the store.
Faster than you can say “Semi-Annual Sale” my new fashion advisor was back. Are you scared of one-shoulder? asks my new BFF. Not at all, I say. Bring it on. I crack open the fitting room door and she slips me a gorgeous BCBG dress, the exact dress in fact I’ve been lusting after for weeks but steered clear of because I knew it easily costs almost what I make in one paycheck. I’m treading on dangerous ground here. Against my better judgment, I decide to try it on, just to see. Maybe it will look terrible, I think, and then I won’t even have to worry. No such luck. It’s gorgeous. I’m gorgeous in it. I know this because now not one but two sales women are practically squealing like a pair of tweens who just spotted Justin Bieber. They tell me over and over how gorgeous I look, probably to make a sale, but I’d like to think the way I looked in it actually had something to do with it too. I glance down at the price tag again. Gulp. The number didn’t magically shrink like I had hoped. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t afford this dress. Which I decide is really okay, because I enjoy being able to pay my bills like a responsible adult. I also enjoy being able to afford feeding myself, because I really like food.
I inform the crestfallen Dilliard’s employees that as much as I love it, I simply cannot afford the dress. Who cares? interjects employee Two. It’s (yes you guessed) gorgeous! Call Daddy! jokes employee One. Umm, did I give off the impression that I’m a spoiled rich girl and/or a reckless spender? I think. Cause I definitely didn’t even wash my hair this morning. Employee Two perks up as she tells me that I could open up a Dilliard’s card today and get a whopping 10% off! Uhh, I hate to break it to ya sweetheart, but the extra $34 I’d save isn’t gonna help me much. Begrudgingly they decide it is time to graze in less expensive pastures.
“Semi-Annual Sale!” Saleswoman Numero Uno is back with another fistful of dresses. I shopped the MaxAzria sales rack for you! she practically sings. Oh great. Even at 30-50% off, I’m still looking at more than I pay in cell phone and car insurance combined each month. But the dress is just soooo pretty that I can’t pass up trying it on. I still have some Christmas money from last year, so maybe I could make this work . Yeah, only if it’s 50% off and they give me another discount for some loose threading around the snap closures. I slip it on and boom!- instant glamour. Greasy hair aside, I feel like I should be cartooned and slapped on a Jordi Labanda notebook. Flowing fabric, one sleeve, intricate beading; I look like I belong on the runway. The women also love this one, but luckily for me they agree that this dress might be too fancy for the event at hand. I breathe a sigh of relief while I decide what to tackle next.
At this point there are still several cute and more affordable dresses left to try on, but because saleswoman and friend realize that I will be purchasing a dress under $125 they quickly lose interest. And here I was thinking they actually cared about the customer!
Without having to show the Sales Hawks the rest of the options, I quickly breeze through the rest of the dress searching process. Because they weren’t around, I also received the added bonus of not being forced into trying on the few dresses that were designed for people neither young nor hip. Yes, here even the ugly dresses are expensive too.
My fair-weather saleswoman comes back to half-heartedly help me choose from the three I had narrowed down. Actually, that’s a lie. She stands there as I choose the final one, a very cute, very versatile, and much more affordable frock. I don’t know why she was so glum. The dress was still expensive in my book. I checked out excited about my purchase but even more excited about the upcoming event- the upcoming wedding of my sweet friend Tess to her fiancé Jared.
I realized on the way home how silly these shenanigans had become, how silly my battle with material things had become. Whatever void I’m trying to fill, it will never be filled apart from Christ. I don’t ever need to be the most beautiful girl in the room, and I certainly don’t need a dress to make me beautiful. Beautiful things don’t equal a beautiful girl. Only Christ can make me beautiful, because He is beautiful.
Before this past year, I would have never considered myself to be the type of girl that struggles with materialism. Don’t get me wrong- I have always liked fashion and shopping, but I was usually very content with what I had. But almost as soon as I made the commitment last summer to be a self-supported missionary in the worst economic crisis in a half-century, the little sin of materialism crept slowly and steadily into my life. I didn’t even realize it was happening at first, but eventually the reminder of all the pretty things that I may never be able to afford started to almost haunt me. I distinctly remember crying last November because I couldn’t even afford a little summer dress that was on sale for $30. You know things are bad when you burst into tears over a dress that you probably won’t even like 2 years down the road. And so I made the decision to lay down the glossy pages with the pretty faces for a long time. Only recently have I been able to enjoy fash mags again. But I still have to ask the Lord to protect me from loving the things of this world too much. I still have to be careful not to find my identity in looking cute.
While I like to pretend that I’m trendy and maybe sometimes even a little fierce, I’ll admit that my fashion attempts are a tad misguided at times. Sometimes I simply cannot rely on my own instincts. And so when the Dilliard’s saleswoman tapped on my fitting room door the other day to ask if I needed help or a different size, I jumped at the opportunity to get a much needed second opinion. I soon as the words "I need a cocktail dress for a friend’s wedding" left my lips, the saleswoman jumped at the opportunity to bank on commission by pulling for me 15 of the most expensive dresses in the store.
Faster than you can say “Semi-Annual Sale” my new fashion advisor was back. Are you scared of one-shoulder? asks my new BFF. Not at all, I say. Bring it on. I crack open the fitting room door and she slips me a gorgeous BCBG dress, the exact dress in fact I’ve been lusting after for weeks but steered clear of because I knew it easily costs almost what I make in one paycheck. I’m treading on dangerous ground here. Against my better judgment, I decide to try it on, just to see. Maybe it will look terrible, I think, and then I won’t even have to worry. No such luck. It’s gorgeous. I’m gorgeous in it. I know this because now not one but two sales women are practically squealing like a pair of tweens who just spotted Justin Bieber. They tell me over and over how gorgeous I look, probably to make a sale, but I’d like to think the way I looked in it actually had something to do with it too. I glance down at the price tag again. Gulp. The number didn’t magically shrink like I had hoped. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t afford this dress. Which I decide is really okay, because I enjoy being able to pay my bills like a responsible adult. I also enjoy being able to afford feeding myself, because I really like food.
I inform the crestfallen Dilliard’s employees that as much as I love it, I simply cannot afford the dress. Who cares? interjects employee Two. It’s (yes you guessed) gorgeous! Call Daddy! jokes employee One. Umm, did I give off the impression that I’m a spoiled rich girl and/or a reckless spender? I think. Cause I definitely didn’t even wash my hair this morning. Employee Two perks up as she tells me that I could open up a Dilliard’s card today and get a whopping 10% off! Uhh, I hate to break it to ya sweetheart, but the extra $34 I’d save isn’t gonna help me much. Begrudgingly they decide it is time to graze in less expensive pastures.
“Semi-Annual Sale!” Saleswoman Numero Uno is back with another fistful of dresses. I shopped the MaxAzria sales rack for you! she practically sings. Oh great. Even at 30-50% off, I’m still looking at more than I pay in cell phone and car insurance combined each month. But the dress is just soooo pretty that I can’t pass up trying it on. I still have some Christmas money from last year, so maybe I could make this work . Yeah, only if it’s 50% off and they give me another discount for some loose threading around the snap closures. I slip it on and boom!- instant glamour. Greasy hair aside, I feel like I should be cartooned and slapped on a Jordi Labanda notebook. Flowing fabric, one sleeve, intricate beading; I look like I belong on the runway. The women also love this one, but luckily for me they agree that this dress might be too fancy for the event at hand. I breathe a sigh of relief while I decide what to tackle next.
At this point there are still several cute and more affordable dresses left to try on, but because saleswoman and friend realize that I will be purchasing a dress under $125 they quickly lose interest. And here I was thinking they actually cared about the customer!
Without having to show the Sales Hawks the rest of the options, I quickly breeze through the rest of the dress searching process. Because they weren’t around, I also received the added bonus of not being forced into trying on the few dresses that were designed for people neither young nor hip. Yes, here even the ugly dresses are expensive too.
My fair-weather saleswoman comes back to half-heartedly help me choose from the three I had narrowed down. Actually, that’s a lie. She stands there as I choose the final one, a very cute, very versatile, and much more affordable frock. I don’t know why she was so glum. The dress was still expensive in my book. I checked out excited about my purchase but even more excited about the upcoming event- the upcoming wedding of my sweet friend Tess to her fiancé Jared.
I realized on the way home how silly these shenanigans had become, how silly my battle with material things had become. Whatever void I’m trying to fill, it will never be filled apart from Christ. I don’t ever need to be the most beautiful girl in the room, and I certainly don’t need a dress to make me beautiful. Beautiful things don’t equal a beautiful girl. Only Christ can make me beautiful, because He is beautiful.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Something Beautiful
One of my greatest joys in life is making things beautiful. Maybe not necessarily in a typical way, because not everyone perceives beauty in the same way. But the more I discover what beautiful is to me, the more I realize that I hold it as one of my highest values. I don’t think this is superficial. The Lord himself values beauty. After all, he created it! He created His children with different opinions, personalities, & interests, and He meant for us to sparkle and shine for Him in unique and beautiful ways. As children of the King, we see His world through individual eyes. In many ways, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Over time, I have come to decide that beautiful is hand-crafted. Beautiful is so much more than this, but hand-crafted is one aspect. I absolutely love making things. Pretty things. This is not to say that I can’t look at things that are dark or masculine or outside my normal realm of thought and find them beautiful, because I can and often do. But when I have in mind to make something beautiful, it’s usually something that will speak to my personal aesthetic.
My personal aesthetic takes center-stage when seen in the light of my secret career aspirations: toiling away all day in the sugar heaven of a cupcake shop or surrounding myself in a sea of florals as a florist. (Don’t fret, friendlies, I love ministry and am not going anywhere soon! These will hopefully be my old lady jobs.) My yearning to be the one who coordinates the outfits of the Ann Taylor LOFT mannequins totally makes sense to me now, as does the delight I find in painting my nails. I am not super artistic, but I do think I was born to create. And every so often, I indulge in a little bit of hand-crafted, creative fun that I hope will translate into something beautiful.
Today I decided to do just that. I went to the diva of craft stores, Hobby Lobby, in search of the items needed to create the perfect wreath for my new place in Tuscaloosa. In my mind it was a early housewarming gift for myself and Rachel for when we report to campus (which Lord willing will be soon- I'm 75% of the way there!), kind of like the joy of an early paycheck, only prettier.
In the neighborhood where I lived in Birmingham there was a wreath on almost door for just about every season, and the crafter in me dreamed about the day I’d have my own house with my own wreaths. Now, before you judge me as a crazy crafting-wreath-lover, you must know that you’ll never catch me with one on my door for Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Columbus Day, George Washington's birthday, or any other seemingly insignificant holiday. So Christmas, Easter, Fall (cause it’s my special season) and Fourth of July (for my patriotic BFF) it will be. If I get that far. Today witnessed the creation of the standard Fall wreath and nothing else. We’ll have to see what the Rachinator says before baby wreath gets some friends.
Not at all where you thought this blog was going, eh? From a narrative on one facet of beauty to my most anticipated craft project of the year to date, my train of consciousness (much like my creative energy today) is on the loose!
Over time, I have come to decide that beautiful is hand-crafted. Beautiful is so much more than this, but hand-crafted is one aspect. I absolutely love making things. Pretty things. This is not to say that I can’t look at things that are dark or masculine or outside my normal realm of thought and find them beautiful, because I can and often do. But when I have in mind to make something beautiful, it’s usually something that will speak to my personal aesthetic.
My personal aesthetic takes center-stage when seen in the light of my secret career aspirations: toiling away all day in the sugar heaven of a cupcake shop or surrounding myself in a sea of florals as a florist. (Don’t fret, friendlies, I love ministry and am not going anywhere soon! These will hopefully be my old lady jobs.) My yearning to be the one who coordinates the outfits of the Ann Taylor LOFT mannequins totally makes sense to me now, as does the delight I find in painting my nails. I am not super artistic, but I do think I was born to create. And every so often, I indulge in a little bit of hand-crafted, creative fun that I hope will translate into something beautiful.
Today I decided to do just that. I went to the diva of craft stores, Hobby Lobby, in search of the items needed to create the perfect wreath for my new place in Tuscaloosa. In my mind it was a early housewarming gift for myself and Rachel for when we report to campus (which Lord willing will be soon- I'm 75% of the way there!), kind of like the joy of an early paycheck, only prettier.
In the neighborhood where I lived in Birmingham there was a wreath on almost door for just about every season, and the crafter in me dreamed about the day I’d have my own house with my own wreaths. Now, before you judge me as a crazy crafting-wreath-lover, you must know that you’ll never catch me with one on my door for Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Columbus Day, George Washington's birthday, or any other seemingly insignificant holiday. So Christmas, Easter, Fall (cause it’s my special season) and Fourth of July (for my patriotic BFF) it will be. If I get that far. Today witnessed the creation of the standard Fall wreath and nothing else. We’ll have to see what the Rachinator says before baby wreath gets some friends.
Not at all where you thought this blog was going, eh? From a narrative on one facet of beauty to my most anticipated craft project of the year to date, my train of consciousness (much like my creative energy today) is on the loose!
After 30 minutes of strategic browsing in crafter's paradise, I emerged with these raw materials.
And after 1 hour of careful assembly, my wreath was born!
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Miss Rosa
Back in my hometown, I have this neighbor named Miss Rosa. Well actually, that’s not true. Miss Rosa is my neighbor, but Miss Rosa is not really her name. Miss Rosa’s son told me once that he thinks her name is Maeying, but before I or my family was privy to this information we had already started referring to her as Miss Rosa. Looking back, I don’t even know how we came up with that name, but somehow we did and it stuck. It just fits her somehow, and I mean that in the most endearing way possible. I think Rosa is a rather sweet name, but maybe that’s because I associate the name Rosa with roses. Come to think of it, Miss Rosa gardens a lot, which subconsciously may have influenced the choosing of our new neighbor's new name. Sweet Miss Rosa, she has no clue that according to us, that is her name.
When I really think about it, it is pathetic that this woman has been our catty-corner neighbor for 12 years and we still do not know her real name. It is not that we don’t care. Well, I don’t know if I can honestly say that for the rest of the family, but I for one do care. With the realization of caring comes this confession: I am a bit ashamed that I don’t know something as important as my neighbor’s name.
I know you’re all dying to know how we could possibly not know our neighbors name, and I believe there are two main reasons for our ignorance. The first of these is that Miss Rosa’s English is pretty terrible. I do not say that to be harsh or cruel, because I know she tries. She never lets her language barrier or thick accent stand in the way of trying to chat. She’s actually very friendly, more friendly in fact than most people on my street. But in the 14 years of being co-residents of Festival Drive, the only person I know who can understand her well enough to hold a conversation of some significance is Rachel. I joke that they have that Asian connection, even though Rachel is only ¼ Chinese. The second reason is that perhaps we chose to be big dummies. What I mean by this is that we, like most Americans, didn’t take the time to understand.
I have aspirations of living overseas one day, preferably in western Europe because I’m fascinated with most (but definitely not all) European people… but we’ll see where the Lord takes me. It’s much more than the superficial cool factor that takes my heart there. Seeing nations of melancholy people who have the gospel at their fingertips but have no idea where to find Truth makes my heart break. My job with Campus Crusade for Christ took me to Italy for nine days last spring, and it was during those nine days that I became convinced I could totally kick it in Europe. Of course there is always the risk of wasting away during the first couple months due to the fact that I’m not banking on high language proficiency, and you need to speak the language to order food, but hey, I’ll take that risk. Italy, of course, would be the exception to this rule, because after a week there I became quite the expert in ordering gelato and Coke on tap (the best Coke always comes from a fountain) and if forced to return for an extended period of time I may end up becoming a little too plump for my pleasing. All joking aside, to someone who wants to live overseas someday, this whole conundrum serves as a huge wake-up call. I feel so Carrie Bradshaw as I write this, but the question I find myself asking is: Will I someday be someone else’s Miss Rosa?
Miss Rosa’s daughter once told me that their dog, a brown toy poodle, was named "Twigs". But Miss Rosa calls "Twigs" Brownie, so to us "Twigs" is Brownie. Miss Rosa and Brownie walk up and down the street every night at dusk, whether for exercise or leisure I’m not sure. I don’t know much else about my neighbor, other than that she has beautiful gardens in her backyard that border on being a jungle, that she goes to church every Sunday, that she drives her Saturn up the street entirely too fast, and that every time someone passes Miss Rosa and her Brownie by, they will be met with a friendly greeting and a sincere smile. In many ways, I admire this woman I don’t know much about.
I’m praying for a greater language proficiency, but I also pray that wherever I may live, I will be have the courage to step outside myself to be someone else’s Miss Rosa.
When I really think about it, it is pathetic that this woman has been our catty-corner neighbor for 12 years and we still do not know her real name. It is not that we don’t care. Well, I don’t know if I can honestly say that for the rest of the family, but I for one do care. With the realization of caring comes this confession: I am a bit ashamed that I don’t know something as important as my neighbor’s name.
I know you’re all dying to know how we could possibly not know our neighbors name, and I believe there are two main reasons for our ignorance. The first of these is that Miss Rosa’s English is pretty terrible. I do not say that to be harsh or cruel, because I know she tries. She never lets her language barrier or thick accent stand in the way of trying to chat. She’s actually very friendly, more friendly in fact than most people on my street. But in the 14 years of being co-residents of Festival Drive, the only person I know who can understand her well enough to hold a conversation of some significance is Rachel. I joke that they have that Asian connection, even though Rachel is only ¼ Chinese. The second reason is that perhaps we chose to be big dummies. What I mean by this is that we, like most Americans, didn’t take the time to understand.
I have aspirations of living overseas one day, preferably in western Europe because I’m fascinated with most (but definitely not all) European people… but we’ll see where the Lord takes me. It’s much more than the superficial cool factor that takes my heart there. Seeing nations of melancholy people who have the gospel at their fingertips but have no idea where to find Truth makes my heart break. My job with Campus Crusade for Christ took me to Italy for nine days last spring, and it was during those nine days that I became convinced I could totally kick it in Europe. Of course there is always the risk of wasting away during the first couple months due to the fact that I’m not banking on high language proficiency, and you need to speak the language to order food, but hey, I’ll take that risk. Italy, of course, would be the exception to this rule, because after a week there I became quite the expert in ordering gelato and Coke on tap (the best Coke always comes from a fountain) and if forced to return for an extended period of time I may end up becoming a little too plump for my pleasing. All joking aside, to someone who wants to live overseas someday, this whole conundrum serves as a huge wake-up call. I feel so Carrie Bradshaw as I write this, but the question I find myself asking is: Will I someday be someone else’s Miss Rosa?
Miss Rosa’s daughter once told me that their dog, a brown toy poodle, was named "Twigs". But Miss Rosa calls "Twigs" Brownie, so to us "Twigs" is Brownie. Miss Rosa and Brownie walk up and down the street every night at dusk, whether for exercise or leisure I’m not sure. I don’t know much else about my neighbor, other than that she has beautiful gardens in her backyard that border on being a jungle, that she goes to church every Sunday, that she drives her Saturn up the street entirely too fast, and that every time someone passes Miss Rosa and her Brownie by, they will be met with a friendly greeting and a sincere smile. In many ways, I admire this woman I don’t know much about.
I’m praying for a greater language proficiency, but I also pray that wherever I may live, I will be have the courage to step outside myself to be someone else’s Miss Rosa.
Friday, August 6, 2010
And It's Probably Cause, You Think You're Cooler Than Me
I’ve been denying it for years, but tonight I feel the need to confess what I know to be true. Sometimes I pretend that I’m cool, but deep down, I’m really kind of a dork.
No, I’m not the kind of dork that collects Star Wars memorabilia or counts down the days to MegaCon every year, and I’m certainly not the type of dork that is deemed cool by Hollywood’s standards right now. Yeah you know what I’m talking about, the “hot nerd” type- aka- the beautiful celebrities that claim they are really big geeks. Nope, I’m just your average dork. There would have been a time when I would have been ashamed to admit this, like say, every day until yesterday. So why come clean now? I would say it’s the fact that I am totally vibing that song, “You think you’re cooler than me,” but I know that it’s not. (Although it does make me laugh every time and prompt me to pretend that I'm cool while cruising down highway 90 in my aviators and extra lipgloss). No, the real reason I share this juiciness with you now is that quite frankly, the Lord is bringing me face to face with this reality. And as strange as it sounds, I think He wants me to share it.
My descent into dorkdom/denial of dorkiness started approximately 10 years ago, just a few days before my sophomore year of high school began. For the past 10 years, that day has lived in infamy as the day I was branded "dorky".
I don’t remember exactly where I was when my best friend delivered the news, but I do remember exactly what she told me. As we chatted, she recounted the events that had transpired in the hallway that day. I walked by in my shortalls and floppy Blossom-esque hat on my way to the TV production classroom (I really am not making up these details to make myself seem less cool. This is for real)for mandatory pre-planning. I smiled and waved to my best friend and the two other girls she was with as they worked on tasks for student government(SGA- aka- the cool kids). A few minutes later, the conversation had somehow taken a trip down memory lane, when in the sixth grade, my feelings had been crushed when this same friend had informed me that some of the things I said and some of the clothes I wore were, well, dorky. And to be fair, she was right. I really was dorky. But somehow I had believed that that was then, and this was now, right? Wrong. Apparently I still was a dork, because right before my BFF had a chance to redeem the rest of the story and say how wonderful she thought I was now, one of the girls blurted out, “well, it’s true!”
“Well, it’s true.” That’s all that was said. The conversation changed right after, no other comments were made, no more laughs delivered at my expense. Most people would probably not see count this as a big deal, but I am not most people. And I can tell you in that moment, I. was. crushed. Mortified. Ashamed. I felt so foolish, for you see, I kind of actually thought I was friends with “well, it’s true” girl. Sure, she was beautiful and popular and stylish, but she had always been nice to me. I mean, we had cheered together as little girls! She knew my name!
This is probably seeming a little ridiculous by now, and maybe it is. Truth is, if I can count hearing that a pretty, popular girl said I was dorky as one of the most traumatizing things that has ever happened to me, then I’ve really had a pretty good life. But as a 15 year old with fragile self-esteem, I felt that night like my world was going to end. I cried myself to sleep that night and maybe the next night too. Yet even worse than my shattered ego was the attitude of my heart. I hated pretty, popular girl for what she said about me. I hated me for being so uncool. I envied her for being so pretty and likeable. And years later, as graduates of the same university, I still feared her. I feared what she thought of me. I feared what everyone thought of me.
I have to interject now, lest I go any further in my not-so-sad sob story without informing you that this girl is actually a very nice person. She loves the Lord, genuinely loves people, and I promise you that if she even had the slightest idea of how traumatized I would be by those three little words she whispered almost a decade ago, she would never, ever had said them.
But those words stuck like shrapnel in my brain, the only “truth” about myself that I could believe. I let that belief shape a lot of who I became. Because surely, if somehow that pretty and likeable thinks I’m a dork, then everyone must think that, right? I don’t think any change was visible on the outside, but something inside me changed that day. That was the day I started living in denial, denial of who I was and denial of who the Lord said I was. That was the day I started offering only the pieces of me that I thought people would like.
Flash forward ten years to today, where the Lord has brought me face to face with my fears. I think he’s tried to make me do business with this one before, but in my own sin and stubbornness I have refused to listen. This has nothing to do with that girl; I’ve forgiven her in my heart a long time ago. But now the Lord wants me to forgive me. Forgive myself for not being cool enough, or pretty enough, or nice enough, or godly enough. He wants me to believe that being a dork isn’t bad, because really, what is cool anyway? He so desperately wants me to believe in what I have to offer and give myself wholeheartedly to others, because he believes in me. He wants me to hop down from the shelf, in all my dork-glory, and be the woman he created me to be. And he wants me to invite others to do the same for themselves.
So today I present to you Katie Stickle, in all my dork finery. So what if I have an unhealthy fear of blushing because I get embarrassed easily and my whole face looks like it’s on fire? Or if I’m totally okay with wearing something that is so last season as long as I think I look cute? Who cares that I’m still totally awkwarded-out when guys try to hit on me, or that I get intimidated by pretty girls because I wonder if they can sense how not cool I feel. (And to think that the Lord has called me to ministry to sorority women. Crazy!) I’ll fess up now that I own an Aladdin thermos, and that try as I may my hair never stays in place, and that one of my shoes is usually untied. I may be shy, but I’m totally loveable.
That’s me. And if that makes me a dork, so be it. God told me he loves the dorks too.
No, I’m not the kind of dork that collects Star Wars memorabilia or counts down the days to MegaCon every year, and I’m certainly not the type of dork that is deemed cool by Hollywood’s standards right now. Yeah you know what I’m talking about, the “hot nerd” type- aka- the beautiful celebrities that claim they are really big geeks. Nope, I’m just your average dork. There would have been a time when I would have been ashamed to admit this, like say, every day until yesterday. So why come clean now? I would say it’s the fact that I am totally vibing that song, “You think you’re cooler than me,” but I know that it’s not. (Although it does make me laugh every time and prompt me to pretend that I'm cool while cruising down highway 90 in my aviators and extra lipgloss). No, the real reason I share this juiciness with you now is that quite frankly, the Lord is bringing me face to face with this reality. And as strange as it sounds, I think He wants me to share it.
My descent into dorkdom/denial of dorkiness started approximately 10 years ago, just a few days before my sophomore year of high school began. For the past 10 years, that day has lived in infamy as the day I was branded "dorky".
I don’t remember exactly where I was when my best friend delivered the news, but I do remember exactly what she told me. As we chatted, she recounted the events that had transpired in the hallway that day. I walked by in my shortalls and floppy Blossom-esque hat on my way to the TV production classroom (I really am not making up these details to make myself seem less cool. This is for real)for mandatory pre-planning. I smiled and waved to my best friend and the two other girls she was with as they worked on tasks for student government(SGA- aka- the cool kids). A few minutes later, the conversation had somehow taken a trip down memory lane, when in the sixth grade, my feelings had been crushed when this same friend had informed me that some of the things I said and some of the clothes I wore were, well, dorky. And to be fair, she was right. I really was dorky. But somehow I had believed that that was then, and this was now, right? Wrong. Apparently I still was a dork, because right before my BFF had a chance to redeem the rest of the story and say how wonderful she thought I was now, one of the girls blurted out, “well, it’s true!”
“Well, it’s true.” That’s all that was said. The conversation changed right after, no other comments were made, no more laughs delivered at my expense. Most people would probably not see count this as a big deal, but I am not most people. And I can tell you in that moment, I. was. crushed. Mortified. Ashamed. I felt so foolish, for you see, I kind of actually thought I was friends with “well, it’s true” girl. Sure, she was beautiful and popular and stylish, but she had always been nice to me. I mean, we had cheered together as little girls! She knew my name!
This is probably seeming a little ridiculous by now, and maybe it is. Truth is, if I can count hearing that a pretty, popular girl said I was dorky as one of the most traumatizing things that has ever happened to me, then I’ve really had a pretty good life. But as a 15 year old with fragile self-esteem, I felt that night like my world was going to end. I cried myself to sleep that night and maybe the next night too. Yet even worse than my shattered ego was the attitude of my heart. I hated pretty, popular girl for what she said about me. I hated me for being so uncool. I envied her for being so pretty and likeable. And years later, as graduates of the same university, I still feared her. I feared what she thought of me. I feared what everyone thought of me.
I have to interject now, lest I go any further in my not-so-sad sob story without informing you that this girl is actually a very nice person. She loves the Lord, genuinely loves people, and I promise you that if she even had the slightest idea of how traumatized I would be by those three little words she whispered almost a decade ago, she would never, ever had said them.
But those words stuck like shrapnel in my brain, the only “truth” about myself that I could believe. I let that belief shape a lot of who I became. Because surely, if somehow that pretty and likeable thinks I’m a dork, then everyone must think that, right? I don’t think any change was visible on the outside, but something inside me changed that day. That was the day I started living in denial, denial of who I was and denial of who the Lord said I was. That was the day I started offering only the pieces of me that I thought people would like.
Flash forward ten years to today, where the Lord has brought me face to face with my fears. I think he’s tried to make me do business with this one before, but in my own sin and stubbornness I have refused to listen. This has nothing to do with that girl; I’ve forgiven her in my heart a long time ago. But now the Lord wants me to forgive me. Forgive myself for not being cool enough, or pretty enough, or nice enough, or godly enough. He wants me to believe that being a dork isn’t bad, because really, what is cool anyway? He so desperately wants me to believe in what I have to offer and give myself wholeheartedly to others, because he believes in me. He wants me to hop down from the shelf, in all my dork-glory, and be the woman he created me to be. And he wants me to invite others to do the same for themselves.
So today I present to you Katie Stickle, in all my dork finery. So what if I have an unhealthy fear of blushing because I get embarrassed easily and my whole face looks like it’s on fire? Or if I’m totally okay with wearing something that is so last season as long as I think I look cute? Who cares that I’m still totally awkwarded-out when guys try to hit on me, or that I get intimidated by pretty girls because I wonder if they can sense how not cool I feel. (And to think that the Lord has called me to ministry to sorority women. Crazy!) I’ll fess up now that I own an Aladdin thermos, and that try as I may my hair never stays in place, and that one of my shoes is usually untied. I may be shy, but I’m totally loveable.
That’s me. And if that makes me a dork, so be it. God told me he loves the dorks too.
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