On Belonging, 30, and Riding Trains

The past month I have been thinking about belonging. What does it mean to be a part of something larger and how should I actively participate in that?

In our very long drawn out place of transition, it was more survival that was on my mind rather than belonging. I knew in that season that there were people whom I belonged with and that with those people my belonging was not something to be earned, but previously existed from years of navigating life together--family and friends at home in Long Beach.

As a side, it is interesting to me that if there are just one or two places where I have felt like I belonged during a time of survival, it has been enough to keep me grounded and somewhat sane, even if I haven't felt like I belonged everywhere else.

Being in Seattle, I find myself and my thoughts shifting, opening up dusty (and sometimes locked) boxes in my heart, realizing more with each day that I am safe and that it is time to pull them out again. I want to belong here, with these people, in this place, and to feel like my contribution is welcome.

And I think I am actually ready to jump off and dive in completely.

My diving is actually really ugly. TJ tries to give me pointers every time, and every time my knees bend and it results in an almost belly flop. Even knowing that the dive won't be anything worth looking at, other than for amusement's sake, I still try to go for it because at the end I will be in the water, and in the water I am the most happy.

This is what I have to keep reminding myself of in a new job, new city, new relationships, new home, new obstacles, and new conflicts:

You have been waiting a long time to dive in, Lindsey. This is the moment and the water is beckoning.

Tomorrow I turn 30. I feel so young and so old all at the same time. It is funny to me that everyone in their 30's tells me it is better than their 20's.

For the past few months as 30 got closer, this was a comfort to me. Until, of course, I started thinking about it more and realizing that it is very possible that those in their 30's are also trying to make themselves feel better with that comment.

Even if that is the case, I do hope it is true. I've been holding on to that the past year, and hate to be disappointed. I'm counting on you 30...no pressure.

Since I was young, I have had an unusual love for trains. It could be attributed to asking for a train set one Christmas, and never getting it. Or the association of trains with my childhood during Christmas--the train that would twist and turn through the snow in the Christmas village on my grandparents white grand piano, or that much of "White Christmas" happened on trains.

Whatever it is, it is has been tucked in my heart as a dream to travel by train. To participate in a piece of history while seeing the places that only trains and those on them can have access to.

As I have approached turning 30, I have felt this sense of urgency to not waste time, to do things I have always wanted and to stop making excuses for not doing them. TJ has been the best in holding me accountable to this, and even planning some of them for me as surprise adventures.

This past weekend, as part of my actual birthday present, I went on a train. Twice.

TJ wins.

I was completely surprised and seriously acting like a kid the whole time, jumping around, obessively waving at anyone we went past telling TJ each time, "You see TJ? Everyone loves trains. Wave! It will make them happy."

People waved back. I was ecstatic.

And I got to thinking about belonging again. People want to be about something. Maybe more than actually feeling that strongly about things, it is that we want to participate in what is greater than just our individual selves. There are beliefs that we hold on to tighter than others, and interests that vary, but in the deepest, quiet places, we want to belong.

As I enter into a new decade, I hold this idea gently in front of me. How can I be one who invites those in my sphere of influence to belong? Not just to belong, but to thrive, exactly as they are created growing into a more whole version of themselves. Where will I go to find belonging and to thrive?

I have lived quite a bit of life, but there is much more to experience. I want to look back on my 30's and to be thankful for the risks that I took, the ugly dives, and the (sometimes) annoying waves I've given to those along the way. Taking those risks means that I am swimming in the deep, blue waters and riding the train through the secret beauty that can only be discovered by jumping off or hopping on.

But it doesn't stop with me. It is about extending the invitation to you. We are in this together, and we belong.

The Open Road

Tomorrow marks the start to a new chapter, an exciting season that has me bubbling over with joy and so much hope for what is ahead. When I wrote my blog post about loss the beginning of June, I was sitting in a coffee shop in Tacoma, Washingon the day before heading into Downtown Seattle for a job interview.

Let me be more specific, I was flown up by Seattle Pacific University as 1 of 2 finalists for a Residence Life Coordinator position (more commonly known as Resident Director, same job, fancier name). The whole process was a struggle for me for some reason, with each stage convincingly directing my emotions to be prepared to not be hired. Every time I got an email requesting more information, a phone interview, and then to be a finalist I was blown away. I figured being able to have a free flight to Seattle to see friends and family over a weekend, was an achievement in itself, not believing that I would actually receive a job offer with the way everything else has gone over the past almost 10 months.

The day went really well, and although SPU felt different than other schools I was familiar with, there was something refreshing about the environment and the staff and students I met that day. There was an authenticity that I appreciated and a willingness to acknowledge that the journey of shaping student life at the school is continuously in process and will be done together with humility and wisdom. It felt as if who I am and what I can offer would fit in with the movement of the university, and is really appreciated in this job role. Finishing the day eating an incredible dinner with part of the Residence Life staff at Stoneburner a hip restaurant in Ballard was the cherry on top.

Being in Seattle always feels comfortable and inviting. Having been born there and spending summers visiting family and my childhood friend Rachel, it has remained a place that also feels like home. On this trip to interview, it felt even more normal to be there. TJ was able to join me for part of the time, and with every close friend and family member we saw, there was overwhelming support, prayer, encouragement, and belief in us, and specifically in me.

Yet still, getting my hopes up wasn't an option, even after all of that.

10 long days later, I got a phone call that changed everything. They wanted to offer me the position. I refrained from asking if it was a prank call, and decided to wait for the email with all of the of paperwork to prove the validity of what I was hearing on the phone from the Director of Residence Life.

Reading some paperwork here, a signature there, and just like that our lives were headed a new direction (or in my mind, headed a direction).

It's been about a month and a half since that call, and tomorrow we pull away from beautiful Southern California gently closing the door behind us on this painful, transformative, and yet gracious season. Despite everything TJ and I have experienced, we have been met with so much love and support from those around us here. Being near my immediate family and our closest friends once again, having them speak and minister truth, hope, and kindness has been our lifeline in the midst of it all. I can't say thank you enough. We can't say thank you enough.

This time we leave Long Beach it feels like a different transition than before. Some of our friends have also made or are making transitions of their own to different parts of the country, or even out of the country. Some of our friends are staying in Southern California. With all of them, we do not know when we will see them again. There is not a time we will be back here next, and most likely our holidays will be spent in the Northwest. Luckily, my family comes through Seattle fairly often, meaning we will see them more regularly.

Thnking of starting over in a new physical location with a job that I am passionate about has been surreal. TJ and I meet this opportunity and adventure with joy and gratitude for God's care and grace in every step. We are thrilled.

However, I also am feeling a sense of sadness in once again leaving our community. Some of us have shared in meals, grieving, celebrations, breakups, marriages, multiple life changes, birthdays, trips, and living out fullness of life and brokenness in the most beautiful of ways. It hasn't been without its struggles, but to have traveled for so many years with people is difficult to leave behind. Others of us have shared life less frequently, but still so obviously marked with authenticity, love, and joy.

To each and every one of you who so generously loves TJ and I, who have prayed for us, cared for, and supported us in every way, thank you. All of you have been a tangible expression of the love of Christ in our lives, no matter how our paths crossed.

Looking back, especially reflecting on all of the treasured moments we have had since being here, saying goodbye isn't easy.

Looking ahead, excited for change and the unknown, feeling like this past season of loss truly is the seed of new life for us, we greet tomorrow with anticipation and expectation.

Looking inward, grateful for the gentleness with which I have been held by God and each of you, and the ways that I have been changed by these life experiences, I reach my heart out once more, both vulnerable and strong.

24 hours. See you soon Seattle. I believe you will be good to us.

As a sidenote: The following two songs off of the "YES!" album by Jason Mraz have been the soundtrack to my feelings in this transition. Also, interesting to me (in a really-not-that-important-but-still-kind-of-cool-sort-of-way) is that the title of the album is the title of my very first blog post this past March, exclamation point and all. Here is to saying, "YES!"

It's So Hard To Say Goodbye to Yesterday

3 Things

Attitude Adjustment

During this in between season of figuring out what is next and living at home with my parents and sister, I haven't had to wake up at a particular time for awhile. TJ, on the other hand, usually wakes up at 6:10am, 5 minutes before his alarm goes off, because he is usually anxious about oversleeping. He tries to be at his office early enough to get a lot of work done before the day gets filled with meetings and unexpected tasks. I try to get out of the house everyday.

Since my wake up time is, ahem, slightly later, TJ and I have this little thing we do to at least see each other before he leaves for the day. At the last possible moment before he walks out the door he gently squeezes my arm to wake me up just enough to kiss me goodbye and tell me that he loves me. (Insert cheesy "awwww" here).

Yesterday morning before he headed out, TJ sat next to me on the bed, squeezed my arm gently, but instead of leaning in for a kiss, he looked straight ahead. I finally noticed this once I could get my eyes open, about 7 minutes later.

TJ: Are you still mad at me?

Me: What? What do you mean?

TJ: You were mad at me last night before we went to bed. Are you still?

Me: I was? Why?

TJ: I don't really remember. No real reason I think.

Me: Oh. Well...I guess not? No? I don't think so?

Then barely a kiss, and off to work. Although confused, I had no trouble falling back asleep immediately. It is a gift, I must say.

We met up for lunch later and I asked TJ about the night before and being mad, sincerely not remembering what had happened. He told me that I had been really upset and fell asleep not talking to him. Conveniently, I didn't recall any of that exchange. Inconveniently, TJ was affected by it.

You know what I get so tired of? All of the quotes about having a good attitude: "Only you can choose your attitude!" "If you can't change your circumstances, change your attitude." "PMA (Positive Mental Attitude) makes the day!" "Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference."

Why do I get tired of them? Because they are true, and because they are engrained in my mind, on repeat. (I had to have a lot of "attitude adjustments" growing up where I was reminded of these quotes often).

Sometimes I would rather be cranky, have a bad temper, and be completely unreasonable. Sometimes I want to be mad at TJ just because. Hearing the quiet, wise, encouraging voices in the back of my mind telling me how I can choose to change the present situation into something much more enjoyable by simply having a better attitude just further frustrates me. Holding firmly to my stubborn nature, I push humility to the side, stand with my arms crossed over my chest, chin slightly tilted up, stomping my foot, and let my heart beat faster and stronger in defiance to choosing a better, more restorative ending to the situation.

To be clear, there are seasons of life where there are a multitude of factors contributing to one's emotions, and those are not to be treated lightly, with a little bandage of "change your attitude". That isn't what I am talking about here. What I am referring to, however, are the moments when, at least for myself, I am a terrible person to be around and I knowingly choose to remain that way. You see, to admit that I am the one with a bad attitude would mean that I have to admit to my pride, and I think that is what I hate the most.

I can think of at least 10 examples off the top of my head the past few years where I really missed out on enjoying people, places, and experiences because of my attitude, because of my pride. As I sit here and write this, I have to ask myself, "Is it worth it?"

I really don't think so.

I don't want to start my mornings forgetting I had been angry the night before, and seeing the sadness in TJ's eyes reminding me that choosing that bad attitude for no real reason actually hurt him. He doesn't deserve that.

And truthfully, I want my morning kiss with a smile.

Living in Crazytown

Sometimes I feel like I am living in Crazytown.

Where is Crazytown you ask? Aw yes, Crazytown is a too often frequented place in my mind.

I find myself entering into Crazytown at the least expected moments. Everything in a day is normal, uneventful, nothing to write home about. And then I remember the text I sent to a friend and that they haven't responded yet.

My mind starts going a million miles an hour.

It's already been 23 minutes. They must be mad at me. I must have said something that rubbed them the wrong way. My friend has a lot going on and I need to be sensitive to that. Did I sound too pushy? I know I do that sometimes. I mean, I really want to hang out, but I don't want to expect it. But I do want to make it clear that it's what I want. Is that manipulative? Am I a manipulative person? Should I have added emoji to make it seem more friendly and less controlling?

Oh no. I should reread the text.

I was trying to be controlling. I am controlling, and it's so engrained in me that I do it without thinking! I'm the worst. This friendship is over, unless I do something quick. I've got it! I'll send a 6 paragraph text explaining why I didn't put an exclamation point at the end with the smiling poop emoji to lighten it up so it didn't seem manipulative. It also proves that I am self-aware, recognizing my issues and being willing to directly communicate about them. Next time we see each other in person, I can explain the 6 paragraphs more thoroughly. With my active listening skills, I also can be sensitive and listen carefully to how my non-manipulative, manipulative text affected my friend.

Wait a minute. Is that too much? Maybe. I don't know? Ugh, I am so indecisive.

23 minutes and 42 seconds.

VIBRATE.

"I'd love to hang out! Can't wait :) So glad you text. See you this weekend!"

Sigh of relief.

I knew everything was fine, I was just....checking. I mean, I know this person really well and have shared life with them for a long time. We both know each other's imperfections, struggles, deepest hurts, and real-life issues. Because of that I am hyperaware. Because I care. Because I love them.

But I am a perfectionist. Recovering. Well, kind of.

Out my perfectionism, with the knowledge of my relationships, in my care for those people in my life, I want more than anything to say things that demonstrate I have listened, I know them, and I am sensitive to that...perfectly. That even in our broken and messy conversations about life, I can perfectly handle it.

I want to be perfectly messy. Most of the time, I try to be perfectly messy. Thus, I live in Crazytown.

Crazytown is the place where my need for perfectionism meets my desire to be real and authentic. More than anything, I want to be able to relate to people, being present with them in every season of life, knowing them and still truly loving them. Subconciously more than that, I want people to like me because I have proved my authenticity and that it is obvious I am better at it than others. Perfect, per se.

That puts me in the fast lane to Crazytown, and slowly, (semi) patiently, I am able to identify that quick pedal-to-the-metal mind game and hit the brakes, pulling the car over into reality.

Yesterday I had the privilege of spending the day with the sister of one of my dearest friends, showing her some of the most enjoyable parts of Los Angeles. Since we each had some background on one another, immediately we were engaged in deep conversations about life, and this season of pain in particular, for each of us. It was beautiful and so very refreshing to quickly experience that with a new aquaintance. Moments like that remind me of why I love being authentic and sharing full life, the peaks and the valleys, with the people around me.

At the end of the day, we said our good-byes with at least 3 wonderful hugs to express what our words were lacking. As I drove home, I headed to Crazytown, worrying if the few words I expressed at the end conveyed enough of the enjoyment and fulfillment that I had experienced with her. All I wanted was for her to know that I loved it. ALL of it.

But I hadn't expressed it perfectly. Or so I thought.

This morning her sister, my dear friend, text me telling me everything that her sister had said about me. It was all that I had hoped to communicate the night before, and assumed I hadn't.

Crazytown wasn't real life. Crazytown stripped me of basking in all that I find pleasure and meaning in: authentic relationships that demonstrate a selfless and life-giving love.

Luckily for me, Crazytown only lasted while I slept, and I was jerked awake, back to reality, to hang a U-turn just in time to see what is truth and that perfectionism, proved once again, is terribly overrated. As is Crazytown.

Loss-Colored Glasses

As if anyone is surprised, a lot can happen in a day. It has been exactly 26 since I last blogged, and yes, that means 26 days of up and down, the only constant being change. Thank you Heraclitus for declaring that philosophical truth.

More than just the past 26 days, this chapter in my life has been marked by ebb and flow. Stepping and waiting, then waiting some more. Hoping and disappointment. Hurting and healing. Chaos and rest.

Over the past week or two I have been reflecting on this ebb and flow in my own life, and within my relationship with TJ.

More than anything, it feels like since TJ and I have been together, and especially since being married, we have experienced an incredible amount of loss.

Three weeks after she was in our wedding, one of our dearest friends and life adventurers died suddenly. The elation of being newly married was quickly replaced with an unexplainable grief and sense of emptiness.

The next June, my grandma died. We had been expecting it for some time, but it didn't remove the loss that our entire family felt. My grandma was almost always the one who brought us together around things that really matter in life, like sharing moments around the table with an amazing home-cooked meal, simply being present with each other.

At the same time I transitioned jobs. I was eager to help reshape and build something that was floundering, but it ended up having to be done mostly alone. It was difficult to feel like I was really meeting my potential.

The next year, my grandpa passed away. It felt like he had been gone for a long time, having had a stroke unexpectedly in the middle of recovering from a heart surgery. In an instant his world was turned upside down and he often was discouraged by his inability to talk, walk, drive, and engage people they way he had in the past. You see, Grandpa was the life of the party. He was exuberant, creative, and generous. He would sing and whistle Sinatra or old showtunes most of the day. He loved people and people loved him, even when his antics instigated eye rolling.

Two months later I lost my job due to lack of finances. I began looking again, trying to find something that allowed for me to be in a place where I could thrive and make a difference. I was up for a job, one of two final candidates. I wasn't hired.

TJ and I then had a chance to move and help start a ministry on a farm with some friends in Northern California. It was a lot of work, as anyone who knows something about farming or living in community or ministry. Try putting all three of those together. We did it though, and for the time that we were there it was rich with new experiences and new friendships and new growth that can only happen when you put your heart and energy into something that requires a lot of risk, and even more faith.

Our time at the farm was slated to last a minimum of 2 years. With anything that is a first try, it didn't pan out the way any of us on the farm anticipated, which is difficult, and also expected. It is the reality of risk-taking and I firmly believe it was worth it.

However, it did not change the fact that moving back to Southern California only 7 months after we had transitioned to the farm felt like a loss.

As much as I want control over my life and circumstances, change occurs and plans are interrupted. Repeatedly. Daily. By the minute.

Since being back, we have lived with my (incredibly generous) parents and sister, throwing off the rhythm that they had in their home. The three of them would tell you that they do love our version of the Brady Bunch, with the 5 of us in the house, but we also all know that us being there has significantly impacted their routines and norms.

TJ and I have not had our own space to create a home since November 2012. That has been a place of loss for us. We love creating safe spaces for authentic relationships to be built by welcoming people into our home and sharing meals and life together. Not having the freedom to do that for so long feels as if a part of who we are is missing.

TJ and I have waited for almost 9 months since being back from the farm to find a job that would be something I love. A job that would reignite the excitement and passion for living wholly and encouraging others to do so as well. Getting a job is so hard for anyone right now. Getting a job that I want feels impossible. Résumé after résumé after interview after interview after making it to the final round multiple times, but still not being hired.

Every small amount of hope mustered seems crushed by (what feels like) loss after loss.

We are tired. We are discouraged. We are waiting. Waiting for this season of loss to shift into something more.

Yet as I have been reflecting, I think that slowly it is, and even possibly has been for some time.

With loss-colored glasses, naturally we would view the past few years from those lenses. And that is okay, because loss truly has been a deep mark of our relationship and marriage. In no way am I dismissing our pain and heavy heartedness.

Yet as I have been reflecting, I realize that a life marked with loss has the potential to be a life marked by overwhelming gain.

Seeing our journey in hindsight, some of the most cherished moments and people, the most authentic growth, wholeness, fullness of living, best adventures and engrained memories has come from our season of loss.

The pain of the losses has been incredibly real, even crippling. The gain from the losses has been incredibly rich, even healing.

I am realizing, you see, that life grows from death, but it is a process that requires time, patience, and perseverance.

Ask a gardener. They will tell you. And they will share the fruit of their labor with you as well, once it is ready.

The Locker Room

TJ and I have started working out during his lunch break. We've gone twice already! Two days in a row you ask? Absolutely not. Twice in two weeks.

Nothing makes you feel more in shape than still being sore from the last workout that was literally, two weeks prior. We're proud of ourselves, though! Okay, I wouldn't say proud, but I would say we're not not proud of ourselves. We went to the gym and did stuff! We could have easily stood around pretending to look for a machine we wanted to use and then leave not having really done anything. (If you ever go to the gym and feel too overwhelmed to work out, but feel weird walking in to walk out 5 minutes later, take a few laps, pretend to be looking for something you want to do, then splash a little water on your face and clothes in key sweat areas before leaving. It fools them everytime.)

Still having a buildup of lactic acid in our muscles from two weeks before is the worst reminder of how unfit we are. We can barely get our butts to the gym, and when we finally do, we're too sore to do all that we want. We workout sore to be even more sore and to have even a less promising workout next time we find ourselves at the gym, which at this rate will be in another month. Or ten.

Something that I have grown to love from the five times I have gone to the gym in my "adult" life is the women's locker room. Weird, I know.

As a teenager, the locker room has got to be one of the absolute worst and most intimidating places ever. You don't have a choice whether or not you want to change into your PE clothes, you have to change. Or fail for the day. Unless of course you have an ingrown toenail...all year long...that just won't heal and the excuse note from your mom doctor conveniently has no expiration date. That never happened to me, sadly? Luckily?

The locker room means everyone seeing each other in just their bras and underoos, or less. In middle school this translates as seeing who has gone through puberty, and who hasn't. In other words, the girls that felt very confident and womanly in their padded bras and lacy underwear, and those that still wore the little under tanktops with scallopped straps and white flower patterned panties from a Hanes 6-pack. Every possible physical insecurity that you have as a tween turning teen is exposed, and everyone is looking at only you. Probably not really, but it feels like it.

The social ranking is more solidified in that dreadful, drab, dirty place. Who wears Walmart and who wears PINK (Victoria's Secret that appeals to tweens. Unnecessary). Who is skinny and who might be considered roly poly. Who knows to shave their legs and armpits, and who is completely clueless that shaving is a "thing" until a boy in 8th grade tells you your legs are hairy when you wear shorts one day. (No that didn't happen to me. No, I'm not scarred. No, I didn't go home and shave that weekend.)

All of that to say, things have changed in my fauxdult life. I now, truly, have an affinity for the locker room. The trauma experienced in days of old has disappeared.

Something must shift as people get older and become (hopefully) more comfortable in their skin. The locker room is no longer a place of our most exposed vulnerabilities, but an in-between space. Its only purpose is to get us from one place to another. From the gym to the shower. From the pool to our towels. From work Lindsey***** to workout Lindsey.

As an in-between space, it feels less intimidating. Women feel the freedom to stand around naked, especially the older women. Some older women even choose to bathe in the middle aisle of the shower stalls with their doors open shooting the breeze and sharing shampoo, leaving as little as 3 inches for anyone else to squeeze past them and their wrinkly confidence to access the other showers. (Yes, this happened to me, two weeks ago, during the first lunchtime gym session with TJ).

Honestly, I love it. I love it all. The different ages, the diversity, the shapes and sizes, and especially the lack of inhibition. It seems like one of the few places in the world where a group of strangers can be in the same room and be fully themselves. Literally. It doesn't get more real than standing naked in a room of strangers.

In a culture that places such high value on physical appearance from fashion, fitness, and appeal, it is refreshing to be in the locker room with women much older, more wrinkly, and less fit than myself that demonstrate how fleeting those things are. In the comfort of their skin, they just be.

It is a reminder that there is nothing to prove and beauty can be found in each one of us, our vulnerabilities, quirks, and folds. It is a reminder of what actually matters: the people behind the façade of a physical appearance.

It is a reminder to simply be, especially in relationship with others; maybe even bathing in the middle aisle of the shower stalls shooting the breeze and sharing shampoo.

*I still am currently not working. This is figurative.

A Selfish Confession

I have felt extremely selfish lately.

I was sharing with a friend of mine that because of the season that I am in and coming out of that I feel like I am taking (x100) from the people around me. For almost a year, I have sought out those that I am closest to, seeking their comfort, encouragement, sanity checks, life, wisdom, and love. In all honesty, I don't know how I would have gotten through this journey without each of them. It has been a wild ride, but knowing that at every turn someone would be there to to keep journeying with me was the strongest source of hope and motivation to keep going.

My friend graciously offered that those things have completely been reciprocated from myself back to them. That is hard to believe, knowing the lack of energy and excitement I have had; knowing that I have done much more of the talking and processing; knowing that safe community has never felt more necessary than right now. However, it was a very gracious thought.

Here's the thing, I am not the only going through whirlwind stuff right now.

My friend Christina (affectionately known as "Mia") told me yesterday, "This whole season is just so weird. This whole life thing is just so weird. Ugh."

Yes. Yes, it is.

And since I am not the only one going through things, and since I feel extremely selfish lately, I leave you with a note of gratitude, a small offering of moving toward selflessness once more. Hoping and needing to care for more than my small little world, remembering that life must be knowingly reciprocated.

Dear Friends,

Thank you. You have reminded me that life can still be lived in the midst of excruciating pain, both physical and emotional. You have shown me how to never give up, even when the rug is completely swept out from underneath you. You have stayed close, asking hard questions, engaging in and carrying my burdens with no hesitation, with no limit. You have pointed me to truth, to what is beautiful in the world, to hope. You have allowed me to be fully myself, the brokenness, the questioning, the struggling, and then kept believing in me.

I see in you, who I want to be.

So I set my aim high. To love people, to taste life, to shed the cloak of me, and awaken the heart of we. To forgive and to feel, to choose humility and service over self-promotion and affirmation. Also, to say, "no" and to care for myself, especially when not doing so could bring harm to those around me. To operate out of my true self, of who I have been created to be, rejecting the lies of perfectionism and acknowledging my woundedness, yet choosing to continue growing.

I see in you, glimpses of the Kingdom to come.

And I pray, that hand in hand we carry on, for you, for me, and especially for a world in need of experiencing the transformation of community at the table.

With all of my love and gratitude,

Lindsey

The 25 Minute Drive on Repeat

I have had the most ridiculous day.

I got a little over 7 hours of sleep, but stayed in bed longer hoping for a few more winks. That didn't happen. I'm also pretty sure I woke up at a terrible point in my sleep cycle.

My brain is foggy as a result.

Today I am wearing a pirate outfit. I convinced myself that this certain pair of gypsy pants looked good on me, and since they were ridiculously on sale, how could I resist? Well, pair black gypsy pants and a orangish-red striped tank, complete with an anchor on the button for all to see, "AAARRR matey!" A pirate's life for me. I thought I could pull it off. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. Either way, I'm definitely faking confidence in it.

Late morning I finally got around to deciding what to do with my day: go to a creative coffee shop, work on some job applications, catch up on some emails, and be inspired and invigorated by having other similar creatives around me too. Plus, my pirate outfit almost makes me look cool enough to fit the vibe. Noticeable, but not obnoxious.

I hop in the car, drive 25 minutes to Portola Coffee Lab and find parking in the nosebleed section. If you recall from a previous post, this is a hipster mecca and it is always packed.

Unusual things happen in the nosebleed section. People think they can get away with more since there is less foot and car traffic. They do things like, leaving their car parked overnight hoping no one will notice and that the towing sign is just a suggestive fear tactic. Or they do things like screeching their way too expensive car into a spot, throwing it in park, and in a "the house is on fire" type of panic start making out in the front seat while the car idles. For 30 minutes. Barely stopping to breathe.

So, that happened.

Why was I around long enough to know what was going on and how long it lasted, you may be wondering? Oh right, that's because as soon as I could peel my eyes away from "get a room", I realized I forgot my wallet and was scrounging every corner of the car for money to buy coffee and stay awhile.

$2.38 doesn't cut it at a craft coffee shop, leaving me with one option if I wanted to get caffeine in my system to wake up my foggy brain enough to work: drive 25 minutes back home.

I learned from my travels around the world, pee when you have a chance. Since I faced another long journey before there would be a toilet available, I ran in and used the bathroom (without buying anything...shhhhh).

At this point, I'm pretty frustrated with all that happened, but try to make the best of the wasted day. I decide to go to a coffee shop closer to home within walking distance. I've had enough of parking by the abandoned cars and crazy makeout sessions.

Heading out the door, I go to grab my stuff from the car and realize that my sunglasses have vanished.

Or, I left them by the bathroom. The bathroom that is 25 minutes away.

Oh yes. Indeed this is true. Another u-turn and I find myself sitting at Portola by 2:15pm, at least having found my sunglasses by the bathroom like I suspected. It is two hours later than when I wanted to be here, with no time left to apply for jobs, but just the right amount of time for a blog. A complaining blog, because today has been ridiculous.

Don't worry, at least I remembered my wallet this time. I also got a fantastic iced latte. And just as assumed, it is busy in here, but to my surprise the hipsters have come and gone. Now the clientele are suited adults with their end of the day business meetings and the grandmas that finally got here for their one big outing of the day.

I wish someone would have told me. Now my pirate outfit really looks strange. I should have worn jeans and a t-shirt.

Ugh. Life is so unpredictable.

But, enough about me. How are you doing today?

Celebrate Today

I believe that life is worth celebrating.

Part of this could be attributed to growing up as an only child, the only grandchild on my mom's side, and the youngest and only girl of 3 grandchildren on my dad's side. It is safe to say that most holidays revolved around me. With a small family, I was the child that got most of the attention during any sort of celebrations. So I suppose, why wouldn't I believe celebrations are important?

I remember when I was in elementary school and my grandparents would watch me while my parents worked. One time I walked into their home after school on an average day and waiting for me on the counter was a shiny silver Nordstrom box. Inside was an adorable shorts and tank onesie with jungle animals on it and buttons up the front. Yes, I did just call it adorable.

For Halloween in 2nd grade I dressed up as a girl from the 50's complete with a poodle skirt handmade by my mom, my grandma's scarf tied in my hair, and my grandpa picking me up from school in his baby blue, 1957, immaculately restored Thunderbird convertible to wow my friends and to make me feel like a real deal sock-hop gal. (This same car was featured in a photo shoot with Drew Barrymore in Vogue magazine and had its very own agent. You can get autographs at Carsland.)

My parents have always found the smallest ways to make each moment special. Eating a homemade breakfast as a family each morning and spending time connecting before the busyness of the day. Fresh cut flowers from my mom's garden appearing on my dresser just because it was Monday. Themed birthday parties. Writing notes to say, "I love you." Making the most dreadful of chores into a game, tricking me into doing them, and actually having fun in the process. Well, kind of having fun. I still don't look forward to cleaning my room. Ever.

I know people that don't make a very big deal about things in life. A birthday is just another wrinkle on the forehead. Work is just a means of survival. People come and go, plus deep relationships are a lot of work. Having expectations leads to disappoinment, so better to not care.

How sad.

There is enough pain in the world. There is enough reason to remain in the shadows of life without creating even more excuses to hide away. Complacency is the death of life.

Believe me when I say I know that it is easier to not care. It is easier to sit back and let things happen as a bystander, watching numbly as minutes, hours, days, years pass. It feels safe.

But safety is never guaranteed.

So then, why not engage? Why not celebrate? What is there to lose?

I have a terrible memory, you can ask anyone close to me. It's not that I don't want to remember things, I just can't. I really hate it. But you know what is interesting? I do remember the moments growing up where we were celebrating someone, something, some special occasion. They have been imprinted on my mind and heart because I learned from a young age that the moments that were important enough to celebrate must be important enough to remember.

Life is happening all around us. I have to tell myself this daily. Blink and we will miss it. Celebrate and we will engage it.

It is in the small things. Wearing tutus at 5:30am while doing chores on the farm. Smiling at strangers just because. Little surpises to brigthen someone's day. Taking a walk. Calling an old friend. Stopping to smell the roses. Seriously, stop next time.

I believe that life is worth celebrating.

I believe that life is asking us to celebrate it.

So, go. Close your computer. Turn off your tv. Leave your phone at home. Celebrate. I don't know how many days you have, but you do have today. What're you going to do with it?

Stuffy + Trying

I'm sick.

I have a stuffy nose that is contemplating turning into a rushing river of liquid down my face, but the floodgates are still (barely) holding back. My brain is foggy and my eyes are tired. It hurts a little to swallow and I don't have much of an appetite.

It seemed like a good idea to sleep in, but then I couldn't really so laid in bed an hour blankly staring at my phone. It seemed like a good idea to finally try Naturewell to get some cold-pressed juice and a pitaya bowl to boost the immune system, so I did expecting an instant miracle. (If you consider going to the bathroom a dozen times a miracle, than it has done the job.) It seemed like a good idea to ride my bike to get out of the house to work on lingering job applications, but the foggy brain has taken over.

So I decided to write a blog instead. Not necessarily about anything profound or honestly that interesting, but just a day in the life of a sick Lindsey.

Here's the punchline: Today I have tried within the means that I am able.

Sure, I could have tried harder, but at least I tried. At the end of today I can look back and see that even though they were only the littlest of things, I did them, rather than giving up or giving in.

In this place of life where I am pursuing and then waiting, hurting and then healing, always unsure of what the next day will bring, not giving up or giving in is a huge victory for me. Trying is a big victory for me.

It means that I am not allowing my outside circumstances and the unfairness that (I feel like) has been handed to me rule my life. It means that I am going for it, some days slower and more difficult than others, but I am standing. I am fighting. I am trying.

Hopefully by tomorrow I can try a little bit harder with a clear nose, a clear brain, clear eyes, and a clear heart.

For today I need a box of tissue, lots of water, a hug, and rest.