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.
Monday, November 22, 2010
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.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Thoughts on a Child's Tale
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." - The Velveteen Rabbit
I have tried to write this blog several times before, and somehow I just couldn’t get all my thoughts to flow in a coherent fashion. I could run with it in a thousand different directions. But tonight just felt like the right time to share that something about The Velveteen Rabbit resonates deeply within me, and I assume it’s because the Lord is trying to teach me something or some things. I have begun noticing that many times the Lord captures my attention through tales- fables, the parables, even a cartoon or two. Perhaps that’s why I love telling stories so much, because stories speak to my heart in such a relevant way.
At the heart of our story is this: the Velveteen Rabbit longs to be Real. But in order for that to happen, he must first be loved. This love is risky; it is not for the faint at heart. Like the Skin Horse warns, “it doesn’t happen often to people to break easily, or have sharp edges, or have to be carefully kept.” But the Velveteen Rabbit cares nothing of these warnings for the weak. He takes the risk, and at our story’s end he does indeed become Real- not just Real to the boy, but the Real that comes from being truly alive. And at our story’s end this rabbit, the Rabbit formerly made of Velveteen, visits the boy who first gave him to chance to become Real. And he is the most beautiful rabbit of them all.
I think I’m a lot like the Velveteen Rabbit. Not that I was fake before, I just wasn’t alive. On the outside I may have looked alive, I was living and breathing and maybe even smiling once in a while. But I’d be willing to bet that on certain days, if you looked inside, you’d see cotton batting in place of my organs. It was as if somewhere along the way I started to believe the lie that I didn’t have anything important to say. Maybe I never did believe. And with that, I shut off my heart to the world and at times to God himself.
It didn’t happen all at once- Satan was too smart to pull that. Surely I would have caught on sooner. But slowly and surely, over the past 10 months, my heart started to slip away. I bought into the lies that I was boring, that I was foolish, and that I certainly had nothing to offer the world or to the Lord. And so I kept to myself, not wanting to bore or burden anyone with my words, my hopes, my friendship. Until now.
As the Rabbit wants so badly to be Real, I too long to be Real. I want to choose the gutsy love, the love that is not for those who break easily or who need to be carefully kept. I know that in the midst of this difficult season, the Lord is offering me that love, His love. His offer has actually always been on the table; in fact, it's offered freely to everyone! But I'm just now starting to truly understand the value of his offer.
Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn't matter.
Often times over the past few weeks I have compared myself to that little rabbit. At times I have felt pretty shabby; my smile and freckles faded, and sometimes I scarcely felt like a normal person. My heart and attitude were ugly. But I am reminded that no matter how shabby I look to the world, I will always be beautiful to the Lord.
I’m still fighting that battle, the one that says that sitting on the shelf being carefully kept and free from breaking is better than subjecting myself to tough love, Real love. But my heart knows that ultimately, if He’s offering me the chance to become Real -to become like his Son, to allow the Lord to love me- than that’s all this little rabbit wants to care about.
I have tried to write this blog several times before, and somehow I just couldn’t get all my thoughts to flow in a coherent fashion. I could run with it in a thousand different directions. But tonight just felt like the right time to share that something about The Velveteen Rabbit resonates deeply within me, and I assume it’s because the Lord is trying to teach me something or some things. I have begun noticing that many times the Lord captures my attention through tales- fables, the parables, even a cartoon or two. Perhaps that’s why I love telling stories so much, because stories speak to my heart in such a relevant way.
At the heart of our story is this: the Velveteen Rabbit longs to be Real. But in order for that to happen, he must first be loved. This love is risky; it is not for the faint at heart. Like the Skin Horse warns, “it doesn’t happen often to people to break easily, or have sharp edges, or have to be carefully kept.” But the Velveteen Rabbit cares nothing of these warnings for the weak. He takes the risk, and at our story’s end he does indeed become Real- not just Real to the boy, but the Real that comes from being truly alive. And at our story’s end this rabbit, the Rabbit formerly made of Velveteen, visits the boy who first gave him to chance to become Real. And he is the most beautiful rabbit of them all.
I think I’m a lot like the Velveteen Rabbit. Not that I was fake before, I just wasn’t alive. On the outside I may have looked alive, I was living and breathing and maybe even smiling once in a while. But I’d be willing to bet that on certain days, if you looked inside, you’d see cotton batting in place of my organs. It was as if somewhere along the way I started to believe the lie that I didn’t have anything important to say. Maybe I never did believe. And with that, I shut off my heart to the world and at times to God himself.
It didn’t happen all at once- Satan was too smart to pull that. Surely I would have caught on sooner. But slowly and surely, over the past 10 months, my heart started to slip away. I bought into the lies that I was boring, that I was foolish, and that I certainly had nothing to offer the world or to the Lord. And so I kept to myself, not wanting to bore or burden anyone with my words, my hopes, my friendship. Until now.
As the Rabbit wants so badly to be Real, I too long to be Real. I want to choose the gutsy love, the love that is not for those who break easily or who need to be carefully kept. I know that in the midst of this difficult season, the Lord is offering me that love, His love. His offer has actually always been on the table; in fact, it's offered freely to everyone! But I'm just now starting to truly understand the value of his offer.
Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn't matter.
Often times over the past few weeks I have compared myself to that little rabbit. At times I have felt pretty shabby; my smile and freckles faded, and sometimes I scarcely felt like a normal person. My heart and attitude were ugly. But I am reminded that no matter how shabby I look to the world, I will always be beautiful to the Lord.
I’m still fighting that battle, the one that says that sitting on the shelf being carefully kept and free from breaking is better than subjecting myself to tough love, Real love. But my heart knows that ultimately, if He’s offering me the chance to become Real -to become like his Son, to allow the Lord to love me- than that’s all this little rabbit wants to care about.
Friday, July 9, 2010
What Do I Know of Holy?
Lately I’ve been battling a faith crisis in a major way. I know it seems silly, that someone who is going into full-time ministry would fight to believe that God loves her. A lot of it has to deal with unmet and perhaps somewhat unrealistic expectations, but somehow I’m still not fully grasping it. My head gets it, but my heart is still wanting to rebel against the God I know I love. It’s a little embarrassing to admit that. But I know that if I confess my sin to Him, he is faithful and just to forgive me and cleanse me from every wrong. 1 John 1:9 makes that clear. With that confession comes another- that over the past few days, I’ve felt too weak to even pray coherent thoughts. So I’ve had this song on repeat in my little Hyundai, hoping that as I belt the words, that God would know what I am trying to say. It’s by Addison Road, and it’s titled What Do I Know of Holy?
I made You promises a thousand times
I tried to hear from Heaven, but I talked the whole time
I think I made You too small, I never feared You at all, No
If You touched my face would I know You?
Looked into my eyes could I behold You?
What do I know of You, who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood, but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire? Are You fury? Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know? What do I know of Holy?
I guess I thought that I had figured You out
I knew all the stories and I learned to talk about
How You were might to save
Those were only empty words on a page
Then I caught a glimpse of who You might be
The slightest hint of You brought me down to my knees
What do I know of You, who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood, but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire? Are You fury? Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know? What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of wounds that will heal my shame?
And a God who gave life it's name?
What do I know of Holy?
Of the One who the angels praise?
All creation knows Your name
On earth and heaven above
What do I know of this love?
What do I know of You, who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood, but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire? Are You fury? Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know? What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of Holy?
I made You promises a thousand times
I tried to hear from Heaven, but I talked the whole time
I think I made You too small, I never feared You at all, No
If You touched my face would I know You?
Looked into my eyes could I behold You?
What do I know of You, who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood, but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire? Are You fury? Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know? What do I know of Holy?
I guess I thought that I had figured You out
I knew all the stories and I learned to talk about
How You were might to save
Those were only empty words on a page
Then I caught a glimpse of who You might be
The slightest hint of You brought me down to my knees
What do I know of You, who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood, but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire? Are You fury? Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know? What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of wounds that will heal my shame?
And a God who gave life it's name?
What do I know of Holy?
Of the One who the angels praise?
All creation knows Your name
On earth and heaven above
What do I know of this love?
What do I know of You, who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood, but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire? Are You fury? Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know? What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of Holy?
Friday, July 2, 2010
Rhythm is a Dancer
I love…
Waking up and not feeling the least bit tired.
Walking around the quad with my special friend who lives in Africa.
Getting calls from people I love.
Eating my weight in chocolate before noon.
Receiving personalized mail.
Not having to drive.
Spending time with fun friends.
Skating rink music.
World-cup themed cookie cakes.
Making people laugh.
Laughing really hard myself.
Chocolate reprises.
Days when I can’t seem to get that goofy grin off my face.
Dressing up.
Having Rachel do my eye make-up.
Thai food.
Taking glamour shots.
Knowing I’m delighted in.
Living carefree.
Being able to experience all this and more yesterday as a result of turning 25,
and the Lord, for loving me and blessing me with so much more than my fallen human heart will ever deserve. He gives such good gifts to his children, and I received so many of them yesterday!
After some very strategic stalling, I walked in on a "sweet" surprise!
This may be the most natural "action" shot of the night- trying to read my cake! There was a lot of icing to be read!
Confession: I may have watched one soccer game ever from birth to age 24. Then I fell in love with the World Cup this year. I can't get enough!
I told you I ate my weight in it!
I see you, Heather!
A few of my beautiful friends, from left to right: Alana, Elaine, me, Heather, & Rachel.
The favorite pose with my favorite friend!
Waking up and not feeling the least bit tired.
Walking around the quad with my special friend who lives in Africa.
Getting calls from people I love.
Eating my weight in chocolate before noon.
Receiving personalized mail.
Not having to drive.
Spending time with fun friends.
Skating rink music.
World-cup themed cookie cakes.
Making people laugh.
Laughing really hard myself.
Chocolate reprises.
Days when I can’t seem to get that goofy grin off my face.
Dressing up.
Having Rachel do my eye make-up.
Thai food.
Taking glamour shots.
Knowing I’m delighted in.
Living carefree.
Being able to experience all this and more yesterday as a result of turning 25,
and the Lord, for loving me and blessing me with so much more than my fallen human heart will ever deserve. He gives such good gifts to his children, and I received so many of them yesterday!
After some very strategic stalling, I walked in on a "sweet" surprise!
This may be the most natural "action" shot of the night- trying to read my cake! There was a lot of icing to be read!
Confession: I may have watched one soccer game ever from birth to age 24. Then I fell in love with the World Cup this year. I can't get enough!
I told you I ate my weight in it!
I see you, Heather!
A few of my beautiful friends, from left to right: Alana, Elaine, me, Heather, & Rachel.
Working my way to fabulous.
The favorite pose with my favorite friend!
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