I recently went to a fancy spa. The kind where all the ladies checking you in have Botox- tight lips and foreheads. The kind that gives you a bathrobe, slippers and water injected with cucumbers. I hate the taste of cucumber water. But I sip it to feel fancy.

In the midst of trying to feel fancy and at-ease in the posh spa, I tried to do everything right, but failed miserably.

The dressing room got me off to a bad start. It’s always an awkward situation in there anyways. Some women are private. Others are not. This particular day the women appeared to be very private. So I tried to honor the unspoken get-undressed-without- anyone-seeing-any-of-your-body-parts code. But this is nearly impossible to do when you are trying to take your clothes off, while covered by an enormously bulky bathrobe, in the tiny confines of a little bench. And if you are spastic like me… forget about it.

Somehow as all the demure Botox ladies were stealthily undressing, I got tangled up in the belt of my bathrobe and falling was imminent. I decided that falling forward and smashing into a locker was better than falling backwards and traumatizing the Botox ladies with the sight of my well-protected lady parts. So, half way hunched over, with pants around my ankles and a robe belt somehow wrapped between my legs, I fell forward. And put my hands up to catch myself on the lockers. Which meant I dropped the belt that I was tangled in. Which meant the belt fell to the ground and the robe was now wide open and I bent over to get the belt and untangle it from my pant legs… and…you know, disaster.

And the room was silent.

These are the moments when the nudist in me just wishes I lived in Santa Fe. Everybody is naked up there. You’re like the weird one if you’re at a spa and you aren’t naked. Why can’t I just live there? Where lots of women don’t shave and most don’t have Botox done. And if they do, it’s Botox they have grown, cultured and fermented in their own horticulture house of healthy hippie happiness.

I digress.

After all my hard work at being completely private I ended up showing these ladies more than they bargained on. And I gave up. I just took the robe off all together and got properly undressed. You can’t be modest and get a massage- or birth a freaking baby for that matter- so just deal with it.

I remember the first time I saw a room full of undressed people. It was in a bathhouse in Budapest, Hungary.

Look: If you are a demure, Southern, Botox-loving, private, modesty advocate… don’t go to a bathhouse in Budapest, Hungary. Or in Santa Fe, New Mexico. That’s all I got to say about that.

Except- I will also say- that in Hungary, if a giant woman with ghoulish strength begins to wildly beat on your back- you should know- she is not trying to kill you. In the midst of you being buck naked with the oldest men and women you have ever seen in your life and dying inside from anxiety and privacy issues while wondering why no one shaves- sweet Ghoulog is actually just trying to relax you, not kill you.

This is relaxation! Don’t you know it? Don’t you recognize its hallmarks?

This my friends is the good life: Ghoulog slapping your back while buck-naked old people surround you in a hot, steamy, ancient bath house.

I digress.

I move to the relaxation room of the spa. Everyone is very quiet and not looking at me so I feel as though this is my opportunity to redeem my spa-reputation. I sit down next to a cup of hot tea and a first-timer-massage questionnaire. The lady said she would leave it for me, along with a hot cup of tea. So I sat down and filled it out. I sipped my cinnamon tea. I hate the taste of cinnamon tea. But I sip it to be fancy. I set the dainty teacup back down. Halfway on the coaster. Half-way on the table. It spills all over my robe and paperwork and I say _ _ _ _ !!!! Followed be a squeals of pain.

And it is only then that I look down to realize that the paperwork I am filling out is for another lady. Who has apparently already left the room to tattle-tell on me. She comes back in with a spa lady. Who quietly picks up the name plate?!? next to the spilled cup of tea that says “Susan” and erases it.  Then quietly asks me what my name is.

Awesome.

There are cutesy name plates.

Seriously? How did I miss that? The cute little black thingy’s with my name scribbled on it in white chalk? Do I have no eye for Pinteresty-adorable things? Have I no class? No Spa-dom in my blood???

Oh yeah. I missed the little black name thingy’s because I saw the free snack bar with almonds and berries- the kind that I always want to get at Whole Foods but never do because they are too expensive- so I made a B-line to them. I decided I better eat as many as possible while I’m in the demure-Botox-lady-place and they are free. While I loaded up a little plate- and an extra napkin-full for later, I dropped the almond tongs and again gained the attention of those enjoying the relaxation room.

But really. Whose idea was it to use tongs for almonds? This is so not practical. I can’t operate tongs when using them on big leafy pieces of lettuce much less slippery little nuts. I think after I dropped the tongs, which then reverberated on the silver platter like a never-ending gong-and disturbed the peace of Spa-dom- well, that’s when I got nervous and self-conscious and sat down to sip Susan’s tea and fill out her paperwork for her.

Sorry Susan. Or- you’re welcome.

I  have way less ailments than you and you know it.

When the little person finally came in to bring me back to my massage room- it was a welcome relief. A reprieve from feeling like a 7th grade girl who has no idea what to do with her body and clumsily sputters through her days in an awkward, self-conscience haze of small disasters.

I learned something really important the other day at the spa: Don’t go unless you plan on going naked- otherwise your whole experience will just be ruined. Just get naked from the get-go.

Just kidding. Sort of. Not really. #benaked

What I really learned was quite simple: Don’t be so hard on yourself. Because when you are, the pressure is crippling. Anxiety will almost always have the wrong effect on you. And you are bound to get tangled up in your bathrobe with that kind of pressure. It’s too much to bare (get it? hee-hee).

This my friends is the good life.

Take a deep breath. Relax. And only apply pressure when absolutely necessary.

It is 6:59 a.m. and I am sitting on my front porch watching birds.

Annie, my four-year-old, is still sound asleep. I’ll admit. She sleeps in late everyday. Most days I have to wake her at about 9:00 a.m. But if you have a child, please don’t be jealous. In her waking hours she runs laps across parks and fields for fun. Then she does it again and again. Then she doesn’t nap. She doesn’t even honor “quiet time.” Instead, she sings at the top of her lungs in character voices. Strange characters that she has made up. Then, when quiet time is over, she runs more laps. And she always, always wants me to run with her. And I do. Because I don’t have a desire to produce a sibling for her to run with. So I run more laps out of guilt that she’s not going to get a real-life-sister-in-a-cage for Christmas like she really wants. And I dance. And sing in character voices and then run some more.

And she unfolds this way with gusto, passion and slightly creepy superhuman energy each and every day. She is a freak of nature.

So don’t be envious that she is still asleep. Soon she will wake. The giant will awaken from her slumber.

Until then- I sit and cherish the silly, mindlessness of watching the birds in the trees directly across from my front porch.

There are millions of birds, if not hundreds, who live in these trees. I know. Because they wake me up every morning. Whoever the ring leader is, he starts his yapping each morning around 4:00 a.m. when it is still dark and still night time. By 5:45 a.m. they are in full swing.

*Side note: My new neighbor just walked out and got in his car with a metal Star Wars lunch pail. There is no kid in sight. Please tell me this isn’t a thing grown men do? Is it?

There are three birds who are clearly in love with each other. They bicker and fly around each other and chase one another. There is definitely some tension between two of the birds. They are clearly both chasing the other bird. And the other bird (it has to be a sassy pants girls) is clearly enjoying leading them on a chase. She is not making it easy for them. She is weaving in and out of trees like a wild woman. I think she is trying see which of the other two birds will die first. One of them- oh my gosh- yep, one of them is going to smash into a tree branch any second now and die. Then I will have to have a small service and bury it so the neighborhood cat doesn’t get it and drag it around and leave it on my stairs for me to explain to my hysterical four-year-old why there is a dead bird head on our front porch.

I was so unprepared for a bird funeral today. Why can’t they just try polygamy?

There are about ten birds playing chase or follow the leader or some sort of game like that. They are free like children. I follow their patterns as they follow each other around power lines, up trees, swirling around a squirrel and resting on tree branches for mere nano-seconds before taking off after the next leader. This is their version of summer fun.

There are two birds sitting in the little tree to my right. They must be the elder of the birds. They are buried in the branches, perched and sometimes talking. Mostly resting. Mostly just being. A cluster of birds fly by to occasionally taunt these elders, perhaps begging them to come play, but they are not shaken. They have done their fair share of playing. Now they rest. I look at them and I wonder- will I ever rest?

They look back at me. Curious. Still. The breeze slightly swaying their branch. The breeze slightly blowing through my hair.

You are resting, child.

A host of birds chase a hawk. Every single morning this happens. This enormous hawk with vulture like wings and midnight black, leathery skin swoops down to the tops of our trees. I think he is after our baby birds. And we will have no part of that. No, we won’t.

The birds rally the troops and begin to dive bomb the hawk from every direction. I take it upon myself to narrate. “That way!” “Left” “He’s back peddling! Quick! “RIIIIGGHHHT” “YOU SON OF A”  “FREAKING BIRD EATER- GET HIM!!!!!!”

I gasp.

He appears to have gotten one. They press in harder. Making noises that sound more like wild baboons than birds.

“Birds unite!” “CHARGE!!!!”  “KILL HIIIIIMMMMM,” I say with gusto.

OUT. LOUD.

I freeze.

Oh my gosh. I just said that out loud. I just narrated that out loud didn’t I?

I quickly scan the other front porches in my row of condos to see if anyone else may have heard me narrate the epic battle. With overwhelming relief, I see no one. But I’m sure my neighbor, whose front door is wide open heard me. I am sure she is thinking, “Please tell me this isn’t a thing grown women do? Narrate bird battles while their child sleeps to an ungodly hour each morning.”

What goes around comes around.

The two grand-momma birds are still sitting on the branches to my right. Unmoved by the epic battle. Or the flirting birds. Or the group of birds relentless in their quest for worms in my flower beds. Or the ones who are just flying to fly. Just to move. No. The grand-momma birds just sit. Knowing they will face those other responsibilities soon enough.  Knowing that cool, breezy mornings only happen for a few minutes each day. Knowing that the world will not stop while they sit and they will not get too far behind in their duties. What is truly all that pressing?

I hear Annie yelling my name now. She never wakes up gently. It is always with full gusto and passion. Soon she will say, “Hi mom. Should I tell you my dreams now or later? Do you want to play? I was thinking we could play princess and we can BOTH be princesses! What are we having for breakfast? When are we going outside? Do I HAVE to go to school today? Mom, I just want to run.”

I know you do baby.

And the talking will not stop for the next twelve hours. And I am grateful for the moments on my porch. And I am grateful for her. And I am grateful for the old lady birds who speak Jesus to me. Reminding me of what rest truly is. And I am grateful I didn’t have to bury a dead bird this morning. And I am grateful my neighbors don’t judge me for being the bird lady. And I am grateful that we haven’t caught the evil hawk yet. It gives me something to look forward to.

Tomorrow morning.

Here- where I find rest.

I met Scott the summer after fourth grade.

We became the best-est of friends. And luckily, we have stayed friends. He is a brother to me. An eternal part of my story and my family’s story.

Recently, Ryan and I were at dinner with he and his wife Jessica. Jessica began to tell about a funny moment she had at work while on her lunch break. She recalled checking Facebook and seeing that I had posted a message that went something like, “A dear friend of mine since the 4th grade just bought 25 copies of my new CD to give out to his friends and family. I hope I’m as good of a friend to other people as they are to me.”  She immediately knew who that friend was and called her husband.

“Hey- what are you doing?”

“Not much,” he replied. “What are you doing?”

“Well- I’m just at work, checking Facebook, wondering if we are the proud new owners of 25 copies of Jenny’s new CD?!?!?”

We all died laughing as we sat around the dinner table hearing this story. And Scott said he couldn’t help it. He had to support me. I was like his sister.

Scott is also the man who found out that Ryan and I needed to move from one apartment to another- in less than 24 hours- and showed up. I was 9 months pregnant and about to leave on the last leg of a tour. We went downstairs to find our van, trailer, merchandise and all our instruments gone. Not only did we lose everything we used to make a living; we lost our sense of safety. And I refused to bring a new little person into that kind of place. So we called the police and I immediately started packing.

A lot of generous people showed up for us that day. Scott sticks out because he drove 30 minutes and came in a 3-piece suit on his lunch break and worked, in the Texas sun, for nearly two hours. Who does that?

My friend Krista also sticks out. She showed up that day with a yellow legal pad. She handed her own kids off to a babysitter and told me to get in the car. She was going to drive me to apartment complexes across town until we found a suitable place to live. Dropping everything on her agenda that day- she took a broke, crying, pregnant girl to apartment complexes and negotiated lease agreements like a seasoned lawyer. When the agent didn’t seem like they would break- she would play up the “this is a pregnant woman whose livelihood was just stolen from the parking lot- don’t you have anything better to offer her?!” card.  And then she would look at them with that look. You know the look. She helped me find the perfect place. The place our daughter called home until she was three-years-old.

Exactly one year later, March 2010, Krista was one of the first people to reach out after the fire that took away the rest of our livelihood. Krista is practical. Not so much the nurturing friend. But the friend who shows up with a legal pad. She called and said- “How much money do you need?” I said I didn’t know. She said- “To replace instruments and the things you need to make a living until the insurance money kicks in? How much?” After some adding up I told her about $10,000. “Gregg will be in touch asap”- she said.  That’s her husband- our friend.

They sent us $15,000.

They told us to keep doing what we were doing- making music that brought the world a little bit of hope- and pay them back whenever the insurance money started coming in.

When I think of generous people- I think of Scott and Jessica; Greg and Krista. I think of so many people who are just- well-

slightly crazy

Over the years I’ve learned a lot about what generous people have in common. They are free. They are people lovers. They are usually joyful. They are people of purpose. They are not necessarily rich by “Western standards”; just diligent and faithful with what they do have. And- truth be told- they are just slightly crazy.

They live differently than the rest of the world.
They live with open hands and open hearts.
They make decisions based less on logic and more on love.
They think a little less about themselves and a little more about others.
They see a bigger picture. Often beyond today. They remember yesterday and dream big for tomorrow.

25 CD’s? That doesn’t make logical sense. It’s excessive! It’s exorbitant! It’s generous.   A legal pad, leaving your kids, and a day devoted to coaxing apartment agents? It’s excessive! It’s exorbitant! It’s generous.
A normal couple loaning a band $30,000 out of the kids college fun? It’s excessive! It’s exorbitant! It’s generous.
A dad who says “Are you 0k” long before he wonders if his stuff is ok. It’s excessive, exorbitant generosity.

People who live like this seem a little bit crazy. They stand starkly against the tendencies of human nature and show us what it looks like to turn things upside down and on their heads. Jesus was the ultimate example of generosity. And he taught that his ways would be so confounding to people fully immersed in themselves and the greedy, selfish nature of this world that they would actually hate him and his ways- because his way of living- stood in stark contrast to selfishness.

“In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus:
Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage;
rather, he made himself nothing
by taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
by becoming obedient to death—
even death on a cross!”

Philippians 2:5-8 seems to paint a pretty upside down idea of a typical “successful man.” And yet it was this man who changed the course of history because of who he was, how he lived and what he gave away freely. Jesus set the stage for what it looks like to live generously.

People who practice generosity don’t expect anything in return. In fact, often times there is no way to even give them something in return. They give without expecting. They give without selfishly hoarding. They humble themselves- giving freely of who they are and what they have.

Generous people give away intelligence, cures, time, money, grace, wisdom, friendship, power, hope and health. They do it backwards. Their idea of success is different. And at the end of the day- many people look at generous people- with puzzled eyes, all the while thinking, “You people are CRAZY.”

And they are. They live by different standards. Generous people are free, people-loving, joyful, purposeful people living counter-culturally in a “me-first”, security-driven, selfish culture.

And that makes generous people just a little bit crazy…

for all the right reasons.