Dust Mites

I woke up to the smell of bleach and the sound of a vacuum cleaner. I could hear my mom yelling for my dad outside my window. I plopped back down as I covered my head with the covers, groaning with the knowledge of what was coming. It was Saturday. I should be excited about this. I had plans that day—okay, as much as a 13 year old can considering I was land locked until the parents could take me somewhere. And from the sound of things, they had made plans for me. I crawled out of bed knowing the inevitable. I adjusted my wrinkled PJs, pushed my hair out of my face and made my way to the kitchen. Walking through the living room I was blinded by the sun as my parents had already opened all the windows and pushed the furniture to the middle of room, apparently preparing to wash windows. Ugh. I needed coffee. Yes, I was 13 and a coffee addict. Making my way to the breakfast bar I saw three plates with warm pancakes and a hot mug waiting for me.  My brothers were still snoozing through the hustle and bustle that woke me up. I was reminded how much I hate being a light sleeper. As I took my seat and settled in I saw it. Staring at me, mocking me. My dad had even written my name fancy on the top to try and add some excitement. Or maybe he was being sarcastic. Either was likely. The daunting list stared at me, watching me as I ate my pancakes. I prolonged the eating, slowly enjoying every bite, knowing I had to accomplish that list soon after. To be honest, the list of chores wasn’t that terrible. The pain came from knowing my mother had to approve my work. What most people deemed clean, she believed could use a bit of improvement. Every drawer pushed in, every sheet washed and even the baseboards deserved a good wipe down.

Later in life, I would silently thank my parents for teaching me the importance of chores and learning how to clean properly. Being taught how to vacuum and dust is a skill I would soon find out many were lacking. Unbeknownst to my 13 year old self I would go through over 20 roommates in my lifetime (so far!) and being a clean person is a perk to everyone you live with. (I knew I was slowly morphing into my mother when I caught myself thinking in my southern twang, "were you raised in a barn?") Yet growing up in the “list, correction and ‘that's not good enough go back and fix it’" years, I was miserable. But the ends justified the means it took to get me here.

In the end, wiping away the clutter, grime, dirt and filth makes things new. The smell of a fresh, clean and awakened room is something that helps you realize how dirty it was to begin with.

My life is no different. I can see Him looking at me, gracefully handing me my list. He asks me to push in the drawers, reminding me that somethings need to be left to the imagination. He tells me to go get some bleach and I might need to get on my knees to get the job done. A little elbow grease and breaking a sweat never hurt anybody. There are some areas that might need to be scrubbed a little harder. He guides me as I clean off the layer of dead filth, the dust that is collecting and covering the truth of what lies underneath. As I pursue, clean and remove the clutter, the sun comes in. The purity of my true wealth comes through and I'm reminded what was there all along. I'll be back, there will be another Saturday morning with a list next to the plate of pancakes. But for right now, I’m going to bask in the Light that has brought me here.

{un}Inspired

If you were to open up my computer, go to the folder "musings" on my desktop, you would find a slew of half written ideas, rambling, musings and incomplete thoughts. Some are pages long while others may consist of one word. Nothing is complete and nothing makes sense. There is no eloquence, no color that can contrast with the grey. Combine that with journals that are overtaking my bookshelf and I'm reminded that there are more in a box somewhere which just means that this is old hat.

It all started when I was 13 as my dad handed me my first leather bound book full of blank pages. He told me to write everyday. Everyday, even if it was just a few thoughts and knowing that occasionally I may need to burn it. At the time, I had no idea how life altering that gift would be. No masterpiece comes out of it, no published great American novel will be formed. But those books of handwritten thoughts, dreams, worries and moments are what keeps me from going crazy.

Problem as of late is the apathetic grace of absence. Whenever I need a slight dose of reality I look back at my journals and Quiet Time musings and I realize where my head and heart has been. Lately, its all over the place. My mind, my spirit, my life is a list of stops with no connections.

So now what? I'm in the rut of "blah".  I sound like the teacher from Charlie Brown and I have to ask myself "what are you even saying?!"

Its a good question to ask yourself: What am I saying? The answer may not make sense at the moment or even for a little while. It may be a list of stops with no connections or the lack of color may make your view point rather gray. Yet it's in that moment of stops, that we recognize the miracle of connection. That we fully come to sense the peace that surpasses all understanding.

I'm waiting in anticipation for God to give me that "Holy crap!" moment as He brings all the sporadic thoughts and ideas together. Yet until then I will stay {un}Inspired and focus on the simple things.

Push forward. Fight for it. Get inspired.

I wonder

I wonder if I have more worship songs memorized than scripture.

So shall My Word be that goes forth from My mouth; it will not return to Me void.  Isaiah 55:11

I wonder if today is going to be better than yesterday
He shall hide me; He shall set me high upon the rock. Psalm 27

I wonder if what is coming in will cover what needs to go out.
My God shall supply all your needs. Philippians 4:19

I wonder if He hears me
and after the fire, a still small voice. 1 Kings 19:12

I wonder if I dream too Big
But at the end it will speak, and it will not lie. Though it tarries, wait for it; Because it will surely come. Habakkuk 2:3

I wonder what He has up His sleeve next
His way is blameless. Psalm 18:30

I wonder what they think
For do I now persuade men, or God? Galatians 1:10

I wonder what tomorrow will bring
Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much. Luke 16:10

I wonder if its all worth it
In Your Presence is fulness of Joy. Psalm 16:11

I wonder if I am missing it
Meditate on these things; give yourself entirely to them...for in doing this you will save both yourself and those who hear you. 1 Timothy 4 15:16

I wonder if we realize the power of the little things.  

Edify one another. 1 Thessalonians 5:11

I wonder where this is all headed
Therefore, behold, I will allure her.  Hosea 2:14

Mr. and Mrs.

I love weddings. (I have been a few)

I love instagram.

I love the south.

This past weekend I got to enjoy all three. 

Happy Wedding day Mr. and Mrs. Crosby!

Guess what?

I wrote a guest blog post for Good Women Project.
If you don't know who they are or what it is- PLEASE check it out. Amazing group of ladies.

Good Women. They do exist.

Read it here: When It Isn't a Skinny Day.

www.goodwomenproject.com

Boston in Film. {take two}

43 Minutes

For whatever reason, I love trashy teen soap operas. I am not sure what the exact draw is. The unrealistic story lines, the reminder that no matter what is going on in my life, it is not as bad as the pretend people on TV. (Some of that is because vampires don't exist, but we will discuss that another day.) Maybe it started helping my mom fold clothes on her bed when I was five, watching Guiding Light. I love getting caught up in the stories, the lives, the dramatic failures and celebrations of these fictional people. Every episode, every story line involves some dramatic twist that leaves me hanging in the balance at the end of that 43 minutes. (Plus the shows have really good music. I have discovered some great bands watching those shows.)


Why? Maybe its an escape. I love to read and just genuinely love stories. To get lost in someone else's world for a bit is refreshing. I get joy out of discovering other people's lives and the road that got them there.


Yet along with that comes the thief of all joy—comparison. Our lives are not written by Hollywood script writers (and honestly, sometimes I think I could do a better job; end of Dawson's Creek anyone?). Our lives are not going to have a soundtrack playing in the background with perfect lighting. Our love story is not going to be made into a movie or have a song written about it.


We have to be careful not to get so caught up in the emotional porn of the fictional stories of these "people" that our actual lives are disappointing. The Creator of all things is writing every moment so give Him the pen. Give Him the pen and don't try and read the last chapter or watch the season finale.

Now excuse me, I have some One Tree Hill to catch up on.