Part of the Club

My husband and I joke that our street is a tiny slice of ghetto in a suburbia pie. There are old cars and weeds instead of sculpted lawns, and the cracked concrete probably dates to a time before my birth. But none of this stops the kids of our street from turning our neighborhood strip into a half-mile play zone.

I love the kids. They run and bike and scooter and clump noisily in driveways and stairwells, taller ones toting toddlers. If you stop between car door and front door to talk, shyness will evaporate, brown eyes will sparkle, and suddenly you have a friend.

google pic

Ever since I moved in over a year ago, I've daydreamed of building relationships and even organizing a simple Bible Club with stories, games, and snacks. What could be easier? I live here, right? But my student life left no margin, and I've found time just as scarce now that I'm a working woman. God, I prayed,  I want to be involved somehow, but the thought of starting something from scratch feels so overwhelming. 

Enter: the awesomeness that is answered prayer. Boom. 

I wanted to work out at a nearby gym, but instead of driving, I decided--for the first time ever--to walk.

I was halfway down the street, when I heard an excited female voice ask"...And what do you think Joseph did then? He went right to his brothers and told them his dream!" Who is telling a Bible story? I wondered.

As I rounded a group of parked cars, I saw a tiny crowd of children, all giving rapt attention to an elderly blond woman who held a picture for them to admire. Another elderly woman sat nearby with a curly-headed girl in her lap. I quietly came close and sat cross-legged on the edge of the blanket. This was so much better than lifting weights.

At the end, as the kids smeared their mouths red with popsicles, I introduced myself to the women. I discovered that the Bible Club that God had placed on my heart had already been in progress every week for fourteen years! Their faithfulness humbled me to the core. Ms. M actually lives on my street, and though she usually leaves the storytelling to her friend, it is her willingness to host and fund the Club that has kept it going for over a decade.

Yesterday, I went back, and I feel so encouraged! Here is a place for the dream I've held so long. Here I can meet the kids, show them love, know their names and stories. Here I can use the puppets that have languished, unused, in my old trunk for three years. Here I can learn from the faith and faithfulness of the older women, and begin to make love a tangible verb on my street.

(AND, if you live on my street or anywhere nearby, you should come! 4pm, Wednesdays.)

2 > 1 (Two are Greater Than One)

Have you ever visited Enchanted Rock?

The giant pink granite boulder rises 425 feet above the surrounding landscape, and is a popular site for campers, hikers and bird-watchers in the area west of Austin.

In the past three or four years, it has become a Thanksgiving tradition in my family to scale the monolith early in the morning, just in time to watch the sun spill golden over the earth's edge. This past weekend, I made the traditional climb with my parents, my sister, her husband, and my own sweet love--the first triple date the six of us have ever had!

Laced, jacketed and gloved against the dark cold, we left the sleeping campsite and drove an hour to the base of the mound. By the time we arrived, the coming dawn gave hint of the graceful, curving mass looming above us. We started walking.

Because all was dome, there were no edges to fear, but the higher we climbed the more we fought against Lady Wind. Our ears became aching holes on the sides of our heads and I wished for a scarf.

Then, halfway up, Mom almost turned back. She had stolen a glance behind her, and suddenly realized just how high she stood above the tiny trees and cars below.

Dad and sis quickly took her arms and gently, steadily encouraged her forward. One step, then another, and another. I was so proud of her when we all reached the top!

To be honest, I have had many moments of near-retreat just like Mom's. The mountain may have been less visible, less touchable, but no less real. I remember the many sharp twinges of terror and fear that have threatened to paralyze me, the overwhelming urges to lay down, and simply...quit.

I am so thankful for people like my parents and my husband who laced their arms through mine and lent me the courage to take another step.

"Two are better than one, 

because they have a good return for their labor. 

If either of them falls down, 

one can help the other up. 

But pity anyone who falls

and has no one to help them up." (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10)

Doing the dare

Last week, the week of thankfulness, I began the joy dare. I resolved to notice the gifts He gives and make the noticing real through writing.

In the silent moments at work usually filled with mindless boredom or discontent, I wrote.
In the seconds before the green light as the car hummed, I wrote.
And let me tell you, it felt good. Fresh wind through my thoughts, carving new channels of thankful joy.

Here are a few of my jotted thoughts. Hope it encourages you today to notice the true, the lovely, the admirable, and whatever is excellent or praiseworthy.

1. Piercing sunrises that stop the heart with their beauty

2. Floor-to-ceiling windows at work that let the outside in

3. A unique wedding ring that allows me to brag on my husband often. ;)

 4. A chance to hike in the gray dawn with my love.

5. The cheapness and yummy-ness of oatmeal. 

6. Quiet pockets of wilderness next to the office

7. Firesmoke, laden with happy memories of past campouts

Teller Tales :: Fortune Cookies

Conversation overheard at work:

"My fortune cookie says that Fortune is smiling at me."

"That's kinda creepy. Who is Fortune and why is she smiling at you?"

"Why didn't you get a cookie?"

"I always eat too much when I go there; I never have room."

"That's why you're supposed to get ten of them--to eat one hour later when you're hungry."



There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: the secret musings of bank tellers when there are no customers in the lobby.

Thanksgiving :: A Hard Discipline

Honesty time, ya'll.  Last Friday night, I had a world class emotional breakdown. (Or, as my friend would call it, an "EBD".)

Every abrasion of my heart felt like it had just received an alcohol bath, all my failures were hanging out on the line for the world to mock, my eyeliner was at clown proportions from tears, and the last thing I wanted to do was eat a cheerful Thanksgiving dinner with my homegroup. The last thing on my mind was thanks.

But I went. Mainly because I was bringing the salad. Teeth clenched, expectations nonexistent, I gripped the glass bowl and stomped out to the car.

And...of course, the pecan pie and laughter and paper football shenanigans softened my crustiness.

Give thanks in all circumstances.

Seriously--this is a hard lesson!  Can there be anything more difficult than thanksgiving when the car won't start? Does anything rub more against the natural grain when you and your hard work feel invisible and unwanted, when the card declines, when the future is murky, when your energy bottoms out and you get a paper cut on top of it all?

I'm learning that discipline can be a mercy, that the very thing that puckers my mouth may settle my stomach, that obedience is always best, even if I go kicking and flailing. Thankfulness--like love--is a choice, not a Norman Rockwell painting or giddy emotion.

I've read about a life brimming with "eucharisto thankfulness" in Anne Voskamp's book. I know that no other life is fuller, even if poverty is the discouraging reality of the bank statement, the pantry, or the social calendar. But if I'm going to stick to honesty, I have to admit I'm out of practice.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds...

So here we go: I'm going to practice this week. I'm taking the Joy Dare, and I hope it extends past Thursday.

Post-makeover Pumpkins

Remember a few weeks ago before all the wedding craziness when I told you about my new orange canvas?
Well, here are some belated pictures of the finished product!

A pumpkin patch on a pumpkin. :)

 I even took some pictures of my co-workers pumpkins, just so you could see the incredible variety that half a dozen bank tellers could produce. 

An ombre creation, complete with colored glitter and spiders. 

I thought the dots looked like jelly beans. 

Definitely the scariest!

With sharpie-drawn face, this was the pumpkin version of Annie Oakley. 

The blind, purple LSU pumpkin. 

Minnie!

Currently, the cowgirl pumpkin (without her hat and gun) and the glittery pumpkin (sans spiders) are chillin on my front porch as interesting fall decor. I would have kept mine, but it got moldy. I guess that's what happens when you cover a pumpkin completely in paint?

His first look

*Google Images

I have this habit at weddings. The crowd will rise and their heads will twist back, eager for a first teary glimpse of the bride on her father's elbow. But in that moment my attention is drawn to the groom.

*Google images

Eyes moist or dry, chin quivering or still, his face is always a study. In the safety of universal (or so he thinks!) focus on his bride, his deepest joy, love and tenderness for her come surging to the surface undisguised.

She is here, this is my beloved. At last. 

I have been the bride. I know her joy as the one presented, the one beloved, the one treasured by father and then groom. I also usually know the bride personally and have walked with her on the heart's journey from first butterflies to final soul-binding committment.

But when I look at the groom, I see his amazement at the gift before him. Can she be for real? She is. Wow. 

With every step she takes toward him, he seems to become more of a man. Not in the stoic American way, but in the noble, tender way of Aslan, ready to lay himself down for the beloved.

I guess I'm just enamored by any glimpse into the heart of Jesus.

This weekend I had two different vantage points from which to view the groom: from the stage on Saturday, and then from behind the carved pillar of a tiny chapel on Sunday. In the first, I peered around the pastor's shoulder and saw the groom's mouth open, half laughing and half crying for the joy of it.  In the second, our friend's eyes shone wetter and brighter as he unconsciously sighed several times and clasped his hands nervously.

One of the brides was the wonderful girl who rented a room from us this fall. We will miss her, but they're not living too far and I am sure some of their new adventure will run parallel to ours. (Yay for game nights and hangouts!)