What if They Were Angels...

Last night a friend told me that he ended up reading my blogs at the same bar in Houston every week and has, at several points, begun to cry. He worries the bartenders are going to think he is creepy. I agree Gregg- this should be a legitimate concern. He asked me if I think through what I am about to write or if it is just a word dump?

I think he meant word vomit, he was just being sweet though.

So am I calculating every twist and turn of the story in order to elicit your tears, anger, and laughter... or do I innocently sit down and write a story- start to finish- in a furry of emotion, passion, and word dumpetry?

99% of the time, it's word dumpetry. These entries are lightly censored, rarely edited, and often written faster than it takes me to fill out the paperwork at the doctor's office.

1% of it is storytelling. Or, maybe 5% of it is. OK, 10% at the most.

But usually, the honest truth is, I sit down and it flows out.

The same thing happens on stage.

If you were to follow a musician around on tour, odds are, he or she will say nearly the same thing each night. In the context of the church, this gets a little strange and can possibly derail genuine worship when a pastor or worship leader relies on the same prayer three services in a row. Or, when a band decides on a "tour message" and rarely deviates from the stories they tell or the emotions they convey each night of the tour.

It's a hard call. You want excellence in programming; you want the flow and connectivity between songs or messages to fit; you want the words on the screen to match with the words you are speaking; you need some sort of concrete direction. It can't just be a free for all. But, it's way too easy, in protecting the perfection of programming and services that must flow like clock-work in order to herd people in and out of the doors before the next cattle call; to lose a free flowing, genuine spirit that comes new into God's presence. I guess I've always been afraid that I would fear the clock, the schedule, and the pre-set direction so much that I would become it's slave.

So, I decided a long time ago, to err on the side of letting things flow freely and naturally.

Get to the Point

I am pretty sure my dad let Ryan in on a secret before we were married. The conversation went something like:

"Now Jenny talks a lot."

"Lord, don't I know."

"So you just got to tell her: get to the point Jenny. For the love of all that's holy, get to the friggin point of your story."

"OK, sir."

"And that's all we ask. Debbie and I give you our blessing. Just don't let her beat around the bush. Look, you let her do it once, she'll do it a million times. Trust me. I'm married to her mother. You understand?"

"Yes sir."

"She'll start telling you one story and before you know it, mark my words, she will have you back in kindergarten with her and then talking about some man she met at a gas station and then talking to you about the gas station her and her sister crashed the car into and then she'll be talking about her sister... and then... and I'm telling you Ryan it won't end. And you can't act like you like hearing these stories cause your young and stupid and in love. Don't let her get a foot hold or you'll never hear the end of her... you gotta promise... nip it in the butt. Make her get to the point."

"Yes sir."

I am pretty sure that conversation happened. A sort of man support group for any man who married me or my sisters.

The point of my story is this:

Sometimes I open my mouth on stage and I have no idea what has just come out. I didn't plan it. I didn't rehearse it. It may not have even crossed my mind that day. But there I am, mouth open, telling some random story and there is a little voice in my head forcefully protesting, "What the heck are you talking about? Why are you even talking? You are being paid to sing. Not talk. " I try not to get nervous in that moment when the mean voices of criticism come out in my head. I try not to listen to the demons. I try not to think. I try to avoid being logical, structured, or afraid. I try to just keep my mouth open and keep going. No thinking. No stopping. No analyzing. No reality. Just keep letting it flow Jenny. Just let it flow.

And this week, I just wanted you to know, it paid off.

My mouth is open and I am telling 1300 students and adults the story about the little boy in the restaurant who threw his rock and made the whole restaurant stop and gasp. At a pivotal point in the worship service, I have stopped to tell this story, about a dad who picks up his little boy and holds him and kisses him and whispers in his ear and how this little boy fights against it, but the dad keeps hugging, keeps whispering, keeps kissing. And before I know it, the room is silent, and people are crying in every corner of the room. It's one of those moments where I feel like God has actually used me.

There are a lot of tough kids at this camp. I know. I have spent my week talking to them. They are here, at a church camp, because somebody paid for them to come and that meant their parents, for those whose parents hadn't kicked them out already, had a week off. They knew it. They were only there so their parents didn't have to deal with them. Thanks mom. Thanks dad. There were a lot of tough kids at camp this past week.

I've met kids with stories this week that would rip your heart out. They did mine. One night right before worship I talked to a girl who was raped by her student pastor. For two years. She has not gone to the police. He has since divorced and will re-marry a girl who has no idea what happened. And the response of her church, parents, and community? They call her a whore. Her dad calls her a bitch. Her mom won't talk to her because of the "affair" she had with her student pastor. No adult has stepped in to be an adult. No one has told her that she was seduced by a predator, that she was a victim. No one has wanted to put this guy in jail. No one has given her a chance to start over again. Instead, at a recent concert, she ran into a group of students from her old church and they spit on her.

I talked to this girl all week. Now, I am making plans to drive to her hometown to go to the police station with her because no one else will. She's just one of many, many tough kids I met this week. She can tell the story, show me the emails, the text messages that she saved as evidence... she can do it all without crying. Her eyes are glazed over. My heart breaks for her.

Imagine a room full of students with similar stories. Two girls this week had been kicked out of their homes. They are bisexual and living together in an abandoned motor home. Their churches want to talk about fixing their sexual preferences. That's it... forget the fact that they have both been sexually abused, abandoned, and have no understanding of Jesus Christ, those issues aren't on the table. Just fixing their sexual preference... My heart breaks for them.

I meet a girl whose dad has been trafficking her. I mean, I'm still stunned this even happens. A beautiful, young girl... Tia. You would never know by looking at her that her own daddy sells her body out. I told her about a girl I met in another state, Charissa, and without Charissa even knowing, her story of healing changes Tia's life.

Still... how crazy is it that I have now met two girls in the last six months, in the context of a church setting, who have spent half of their lives being used as prostitutes by their own dad's? My heart breaks for them.

The stories go on and on. From simple stories to horrific stories... and this week I found my self a bit stunned. I wish this were storytelling 101. I wish this were some sort of sick imagination. I wish these stories were not real. But they are real. And with each knew story I hear, the more sick to my stomach I feel. I don't even know what to say. I just cry and hug and listen. And I feel like the air has been knocked out of me.

These are tough kids. My stomach churns before worship.

Welcome! Worship with me for all the good things the Lord has done! Easier said for me than for the girl whose dad has sold her soul for fifty bucks...

It's in these moments that I am so grateful there is no set plan. No certain prayer or replicated story. I am quite sure those pre-prepared words would sound phony and stilted in light of the reality of the stories in the room. I am grateful there is no agenda on my end and grateful there isn't a certain scripture I have to read like, "rejoice in the Lord!" But, while I am grateful for the freedom of the moment, I am also terrified. "Lord, I have no idea what to say. I have no idea what to do next. No. Clue. What do I say? How do I lead worship?"

I feel desperate for help. For direction. I feel like the scrawny kid on the playground trying to lead the bullies in red rover. I am in over my head. I have no idea what their lives are like. I cannot even begin to relate. And, what's worse, I can't make it better. I cannot fix.

I open my mouth, songs flow out, and stories take shape.

It's in these moments I am grateful for word vomit.

Word Vomit

This week the word vomit came in the form of the blog entry I had previously written, A Human Touch. I tell 1300 students from stage that the mom is frustrated and the poor kid is ADD and how it sounds like a machine gun is going off in the restaurant and I get a few good laughs. I get to the part about the dad holding the boy. And- what I believe to be the Spirit of God- takes over. I tell them that the Lord holds them the same way that dad scooped up and held his little boy. The tough kids who have been beat down by this world. Who have been hurt. Abused. Spit upon. The ones who are full of rage and anger. Who have shut down. That tonight they need to be reminded that no matter what they do or how hard they try and escape... a true dad holds you while you are kicking and screaming and kisses your cheek, whispers your name, tells you that he loves you.

The self doubt begins to settle in. Where did this story come from? Why am I telling it at the end of a worship service? And even more frightening, I'm getting emotional. I have a strict policy about intertwining emotion with worship... especially when vulnerable students are involved. I refuse to manipulate on behalf of God. He does not need me to twist anyone's arm. He does not need tears and lame promises to make Himself known. He is God. To emotionally intimidate people into knowing Him is a terrible offense. It's an insult and I want nothing to do with it. But here I am, almost in a whisper telling these kids that the God of the Bible promises to be like this dad in the story. That Psalms 139 says that God does not let go of us. Ever. Whether we are in dark or light. He just holds on. He just keeps loving. He remains constant. Good. Untouched by the pain of this world. Whispering in our ear...

A lady came up to me before leaving camp to tell me about R. R is an orphan from the Czech Republic. She has been suicidal and has felt utterly alone. Her adoptive parents got her as a third round pick. And she knew it. She was a mistake. She couldn't believe anything good about herself. "But that story," the lady said through tears, "That story saved her life. It did. I watched her as she realized she was being held by something bigger than herself. As she realized God was holding her. You could feel it. We all could. She fell to her knees and wept and said that it was the first time she had felt love..."

An 18 year old guy came and said the same thing. "That story saved my life, thank you."

Another guy came up, he was 16. Then Tia... this story pushed her over the edge. She finally decided to believe in God's love for her. And they kept coming, kept telling me what that story had done for them. Who knows how many people felt God's love for the first time. I have no idea. I just know that this week I was reminded that sometimes our word vomit ends up not even being our own words. Sometimes it's just Holy Spirit vomit. We open our mouths and it comes out. Flows out. Pours out. Gushes out. Pukes out. Whatever you want to call it.

God is faithful. When we are willing. When we are available. When we say no to the clock, the schedule, the boundaries, the etiquette, the fear of free-falling... when we put our logic, pride, confidence, and security aside for something that ebbs and flows with a reckless inability to control what happens next... sometimes the Holy Spirit shows up and does something amazing. Sometimes the Holy Spirit uses us.

The lady who came up in tears said something peculiar, "We've been praying for this girl for over a year. She's been suicidal and has tried several times to take her life. Nothing has gotten through to her. Nothing. But this story... I've just been thinking, maybe that family in the restaurant, maybe they were angels."

I shivered.

Angels? Do I even believe in angels roaming the earth? Coming to restaurants? Sitting by hospital beds? Her comment totally took me off guard.

"Maybe you saw angels. Maybe God sent them so you could see what it looks like for God to scoop us up and hold us in his lap. So you could tell us that today. These kids Jenny. Today they needed to be held. That family, what if they were angels? Just so you could tell people what you saw? I think you saw angels. "

Practically Speaking...

Be impractical.

Structure stifles spirit. Caution curbs creativity. Fear fosters faithlessness.

Don't be afraid of word vomit. It won't always be life-changing. And most of the times you might mess up or say something pretty simple or mundane. But sometimes, every once in a while, when we leave enough space...

our words are not our own.

sometimes there are moments of brilliance

sometimes there are angels

and sometimes the Holy Spirit says something we would never think to say...

sometimes He says something perfect through us.

Today, I am grateful for that. That God knows what to say when I don't.

I know dad, I should've skipped the story and just said that :)

Dear Dadsky...

I already feel like a nine year old on the playground with this blog.

"Noooo, my daddy is better."

I mean, how do you write about someone you love on a lame, commercially lucrative holiday? For that matter, how do you buy them an appropriate gift?

"I love you dad" and "power-saw" don't really compute in my mind. Even a Starbucks gift card so my dad can devour his venti non-fat, extra hot, White Chocolate Mocha's don't really seem to do the trick. And don't get me started on Hallmark cards. I don't come from a card giving family. In my mind, if you need to write someone a card, you make it yourself. Some signature artwork on the front, markers, a glue stick, some old family pictures or magazine clippings, and a heartfelt letter inside, voila! Hallmark has nothing on that business!

Still, here I am wide-awake and keenly aware that I'm not with my dad on Father's Day and I didn't even make him a homemade card this year. And even though I know that he and I both know that a shirt from Sear's or a gadget from Home Depot would not really mean all that much to him, I want to give him something... and all I can come up with are words.

My dad's the best dad in the world.

He wasn't always. And he'd be the first to tell you how far he's come. He'd be the first to tell you his flaws and shortcomings; his regrets from when my sisters and I were little girls. Unfortunately, some days we'd be in line to add to that list.

But mostly, the boy who raised us as little girls is not the man we have now as our father.

We have grown up in his arms and he has grown up in ours.

So if you ask my sisters and I to tell you about our dad, we will tell you about a man who loves us fiercely. We will tell you about a man who cries with us. Who hugs us. Who writes us emails of encouragement. And stands by our side while we defy him, logic, and other guiding lights and make tragic mistakes... still, he stands right beside us. We will tell you about a dad who uprooted his family to follow a dream, only, that dream led to unemployment. For years on end. We will tell you about how that man went and worked at demeaning jobs to pay the bills but never grew so bitter that he quit. In fact, he just seemed to trust God's prompting in his life; he just seemed to get wiser and more kind. Grace. That's it. We'd tell you about a man who has learned a lot about grace. And patience.

But mostly, we'd just tell you about our dad who woke us up by blaring music through the house and singing at the top of his lungs. A man who bought a tiny gun, the size of a toy car, that lit up and made police siren noises, just so he could stick it in our ears to wake us up in the most torturous way possible as teenagers. A man who then got his feelings legitimately hurt when we yelled at him for doing such. The guy who found me in the living room and rocked me the night before I left for college and then, held me again after my first college boyfriend, who I was sure I would spend my whole life with, broke up with me in the car outside of the house. The man who made us all sit on the living room couch and talk through our fights before we could leave the house for the day. Who always sang songs in an atrocious country accent and made jokes that were not funny at all, but made us laugh all the time.

A lot of people don't have good dads and they turn out just fine. A lot of people have amazing dads and they end up mean and crazy anyways. So I get it, a dad or mom or home life doesn't necessarily make or break you. Still, I attribute what I do with my life to my dad (and mom)... who loved me so well that I had the courage to do it in the first place.

I have a treasure trove of beautiful letters from my dad. My mom. My sisters. My friends. I pull them out on days that I am sad and don't want to get out of bed. On days where I am weary and wondering if I am crazy for leading this abnormal, sometimes road weary, homesick life. I pull them out when I need to be reminded that I am not alone. That I am loved. And most of me wants to keep them all private, tucked away just for me.

But the thing about my dad is, he would want you to feel those things to. He would want you to know the love of a father. And while he wouldn't voluntarily share his words with the world, he would understand that when I do it, I give a little bit of him a way. The part of him that every little girl and boy needs. An advocate. A cheerleader. A fan. A coach. A friend. A safe house. A daddy.

With that, here are a few words from a dad who has always loved me well:

"My favorite author, M. Craig Barnes, says that the Christian life is a process of giving up the dreams we have for ourselves in order to receive the dreams God has for us. I pray that God's dreams for you will bring you more joy than you could have ever imagined. I LOVE YOU, MORE THAN YOU WILL EVER KNOW, AND I COULDN'T BE MORE PROUD OF YOU....not because of what you do but because of who you are. Love ya, me"

"Jenny, your honesty and transparency, while sometimes raising people's ire, is what sets you apart from so many others. This is a ministry that only a few are willing to embrace. You know, I am your biggest fan, but only because you like what you're doing, not because I need you to be a rock star or a great minister. I just need you to be happy and safe in the arms of a loving God....everything else is just life. Love ya, me"

"J, hey, have I mentioned lately how much I love you and how happy I am that you're getting to do your music?"

"J, how cool is it that you had a chance to meet astronauts, and especially one that just came back last week! I think it is wonderful, and, looking at your other email, I think its great that you allowed God to use you to touch another soul. I know you at times don't like to think about it, but Jenny, you are a gifted minister....not a minister like church staff work, but you are someone who can connect people with God, and that is a rare person indeed.

And the Funny Stuff:

A letter I wrote to my dad after he spent too much money on me:

We, jenny's beloved parents do hereby promise to celebrate her 28th birthday with her at her home on the evening of November 18th. We formally by law agree to her terms mentioned hereafter. No presents. No gift cards. No money. No large items. And no shopping trips. Only small strange items that have already been purchased by strange mother will be allowed (and trust me you know she’s already picked them out). Nothing else will be given. We agree to this joyfully since we have already spent several hundred dollars in cute pregnancy outfits on our daughter since September. We have already paid a thousand dollars for her unborn child. And we plan on giving her a car (which is still under consideration). We just sent her to get an amazing full body massage. And have fed her Mexican food frequently over the past two years. We agree that in light of these expressions of love and abundance we will simply celebrate her birthday by providing a dessert and letting her cook dinner for us. And nothing else! Just our love and company. Here ye, here ye,amen, allalujah. AGREED????

My Dad’s Response:

Oh thouest of jennyith, verily I sayeth unto theeth, we must humbly beseath the divine intervention and guidance of the great god of gifts, for verily I sayeth unto theeit that what thou has proposed goeth against all precepts of parenthood and birthday celebrations both past and present, and yea verily furturieth I dare say.

So lettuce all most humbly implore the lord of gifts, known by the code name of pappy, to see if such a thing has ever been done without the heavens becoming unaligned. Then we'll have our people get wit your people....

My dad has constantly spoken words over me that have given me love, safety, courage, and bravery. Obviously he thinks more highly of me than he should. He loves me more than he should. He dotes on me way more than he should. But isn't that what grace is? Undeserved love that gushes and gushes and gushes? That's what he has given me. A love I have never earned or deserved. One day I want to buy him a boat and a big house and a new car. I want to give him every single thing he has ever wanted! But those are just far off dreams. In reality, I can only give him my adoration. For showing me the love of God by truly being, in my humble opinion, the best dad any girl could ever ask for.

Happy Father's Day... I love you.

Sherelle

The Dirty Parking Lot

I was sitting outside a cheap airport hotel in Nashville when she walked by me. No more than 90 pounds, this little African American girl had an afro full of curly bouncy hair , and I was quite sure that that beautiful head full of hair was the only thing keeping her feet on the ground. She was so little she could’ve blown away at the slightest breeze of wind.

She wore little tiny hot shorts, the kind that high school volleyball players wear. The kind that make you look away because they make you blush. The kind that need just a few more inches in order for you to look up and look into the person’s eyes.

She had tall wedge shoes on, without which, she could have passed as a seventh grader. The shoes gave her some age though. Perhaps legal. But more likely just seventeen. Yeah, she looked about seventeen. With a tiny spaghetti strap top, big chunky belt, and hoop earrings, she could’ve been in Seventeen Magazine. Elle. Glamour. Lucky. But there she was.

I was reading USA today. Slightly concerned about the sketchy neighborhood but more concerned about reading in peace and quiet. The lobby was too loud and it was worth the risk to sit outside and enjoy reading the paper. I just wanted peace and quiet...

But there she was. This little fire-cracker of a girl walking about the parking lot, with confidence, with humility, almost like she was looking around for a friend, but half-way expecting to be beat up. She was both fearless and terribly afraid. I found myself watching her, but I was afraid too. I wanted to watch her but I didn’t want to look into her eyes too deeply.

She disappeared into the lobby and came back. Walked past me a third time. Walked straight to a van and took a wheelchair out of the trunk. Opened the front door and awkwardly helped a disabled man out of the drivers seat and into his chair. She turned around and began walking towards me. He lingered by the van adjusting his shirt, getting himself ready. She walked towards the front door.

I’m a kid who doesn’t see the nitty gritty of this world. I don’t see war. I don’t see drugs. I don’t see abuse or poverty. And I can’t say that I’ve ever seen a prostitute in the middle of a transaction but last night...there she was.

I felt sick to my stomach. I thought I would throw up. I felt sweat beading up on my neck and my heart racing. There it was with skin on it. Sexual exploitation. Sex slavery. Prostitution. Destitution. Hopelessness. Whatever you want to label it... there she was. When my world stopped spinning I found my heart in a huddled mass at my feet, below my newspaper. “Lord. Why? Why do I have to see this? What do I do for her? I don’t even know what to do.”

As a mom, wife, sister, co-worker, and friend who thrives off of coming up with answers and quick fixes, it was debilitating to see this girl that I could not help. I felt frozen. Afraid. Helpless. How can I be God’s hope and love between here and the bedroom door? What do I say to a girl who has already been bought? What do I say to a man that looks no one in the eyes and sneaks away to a dark room to do a dark thing? Prayers welled up in my soul as she got closer and closer to me. Do I look at her? Do I say hi? Lord, ARE YOU HERE? Really? Because I don’t see you anywhere in this dirty parking lot.

I feel angry, like I’m watching my own sister take each and every step.

“Girl... what you doing out here all by yourself,” her sweet voice barged into my soul’s tailspin.

She stopped to talk to me. Oh my gosh, she stopped to talk to me. It was like a Christmas present. She stepped into my scared world. Her questions continued. Was I from Nashville? Why was the lobby too loud? Wasn’t it a beautiful night? I got the feeling she genuinely wanted to talk to another girl. I got the feeling that by talking to me she was able to redeem herself, redeem her moment, redeem her dignity. I got the feeling that by coming to me on her own terms she was able to say to herself and to me, “I am still human.”

“My name’s Sherelle.”

“My name is Jenny. Your hair is awesome. You are beautiful by the way. You are so beautiful sweet girl.”

I looked as deeply, intimately, lovingly, and compassionately into her eyes as I could. For a moment I felt like it wasn’t even me looking into her eyes. Like maybe Jesus was looking at her through me. She looked back. Sad. Tired. Resolved. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to buy her back. Pay double. I wanted to call the cops. I wanted to follow my heart to the ground and lay on my face and cry out to God in that run down parking lot.

She walked through the front door and I am quite sure I will never see her again.

My friend, Kim Jones, has started a weekly email to encourage and challenge those of us at Irving Bible Church who are interested in reaching and loving on people who are sexually exploited. She asked us to pray for a holy awareness so that we might see the ugly reality around us. So I prayed for it. But last night I wished that I hadn’t.

I didn’t know holy awareness would mean little, 90 pound, bubbly Sherelle in the Nashville hotel parking lot.

Holy Awareness Hurts

As I laid in bed and prayed my heart out, I told my husband what happened. There was this girl in the lobby tonight...”Oh yeah,” he cut in, “The prostitute?”

“NO, Sherelle. Her name is Sherelle, she’s from Chicago.”

I felt the tears run down my cheeks.

Sherelle.

This is the face of sexual exploitation. Not a monster. Not a whore. Not a druggy. But a young girl who could be a model in a magazine. A young girl who should be going to Sonic with her friends and hanging by the pool. A young girl who moved here from Chicago to be near her family. A young girl who should be young. But here she is...

a young girl who because of poverty, hopelessness, or imprisonment, has become the face of our culture’s sexual perverseness. She is the face of the broken.

Will you pray for her with me? All week long, remember Sherelle. I have no answers and I feel utterly helpless but I am trusting that God will take that one moment I had with her and he will multiply it. I pray that she will know the prayers of God’s people and she will know his love.That somehow, someway, God will do what only He can do: save. I pray that each and every one of us will open our eyes and pray for a Holy Awareness. It is not easy and not even desirable... I was afraid. Then sad. Then angry that God didn’t come and save her. I prayed the hotel would burn down. The fire alarms would go off. Or the man who bought her would have a heart attack. Then I cried some more. And then, I was afraid again.

How many Sherelle’s are there Lord? I fell asleep in prayer.

It’s easy to ignore what we cannot fix. What is harder is to pray for Holy Awareness, knowing that we may not have an answer or a quick fix, but knowing that the more brokenness we see, the more we are drawn to the heart of God. Praying on behalf of our brothers and sisters, we desperately seek restoration and God’s redemption for those who are sexually exploited.

Do Something!

Educate yourself and start to pray over this epidemic. To join my friend’s email list regarding the sex industry, simply send a blank email to the following address and we will add you to the weekly email:

[email protected]

Check out what other Christians are doing about it. Hope House. This one of a kind Christian ministry in Asheville, North Carolina is committed to rescuing teens from human trafficking and they are the first and ONLY faith based safe house shelter for sexually exploited teenagers in the country.

Donate. If you just feel better by giving money :) (who doesn't!) there is an amazing organization in the Dallas area helping women each and every day to come out of the sex industry. My dear friend Lauri Lanier works as an advocate for these women and could spend hours telling you the redemptive life stories that happen every day at New Friends New Life. Their building was just broken into last month and they are in the process of re-building computer systems and other things that were stolen. Your financial donations would greatly help as they continue to walk alongside women who are starting their lives over again. You can make a MUCH NEEDED financial donation and read more about the amazing, life-changing love that happens at New Friends, New Life by clicking here.

And remember, pray for Sherelle.

Reality Please...

So I think my mom has gotten me another year long subscription to Women's Day magazine.

Thanks mom.

I'm serious, thank you. I find myself needing mindless entertainment for just a few brief moments today, and Women's Day is doing the trick. Not that it's mindless, but it certainly doesn't require much from my heart and soul.

So I'm saying thank you in the same way that my gallbladder says thank you when I eat a salad and not a steak.

Make sense?

Anyways, here I am reading my women's day magazine and the very first ad in the July issue shows a beautiful, baby blue, infinity pool spilling over into a perfect, oil-free ocean. The pool is edged by khaki lounge chairs, yellow striped beach towels, and mahogany poolside tables. I can practically hear the seagulls and feel the wind blowing right off the page. And the ad says this, "If you want to be here...

Stop right there. Yes. I want to be there. I want to be there so badly I might jump in my car and not turn around. I want to stick my feet in the water and look over the ocean. I want to smell the salty sea instead of the stinky diapers. I want to feel the sand instead of the spaghetti that invariably ends up in my hair after Annie's dinner. I want to sleep with the wind and the seagulls. I want to be in the sun, in a bikini, with a pool of gorgeous water waiting to envelop me at the first sign of sweat. Yes, I want to be there. Are you going to take me?

"If you want to be here... (next page) Smell Here,"

And a picture of a Glade wall plug-in hovers obtrusively over the water with a "rub to activate" caption below it.

I am royally disappointed.

Really? Bring me to Fiji on the first page and then leave me with a consolation prize of Glade air freshener scratch and sniff and the daunting reality of life on the next? What kind of ad exec thinks that up? That's just mean.

As if to prove a point, my phone vibrates while I am being mad at Glade for leading me on and one of the guys from the band has sent a picture and this text message, "Guys... I've never been so excited about deodorant before in my life. Old Spice has a new line out. It's called Denali. 'Smells like Wilderness, Open Air, and Freedom' and it does!"

There's a picture of old spice staring me in the face.

Promising me 'wilderness, open air, and freedom.' I tell my friend I am happy he's found underarm freedom. He writes back and says there's one called Fiji that he bets I would like. I write back and say, "Will it physically deliver me to Fiji? If so, I will take it." He writes back and says, "Yeah, just close your eyes and sniff your pits." I write back and say, "I so needed to smile today. Y'all will find me in my closet wearing a bikini, listening to Bob Marley, drinking from a coconut, Fiji deodorant in one hand and my Glade room freshener in another... and I'll probably be high on fumes... but hey, I will have finally made it to Fiji." At one point, he writes back to say he's praying for me.

Praying for me? Do I sound like a woman who needs prayers??? I just want to go to the real Fiji and don't want to go there through sniffing deodorant fumes and reading mean magazines in my house... is that too much to freaking ask for???

He's gonna pray for me... ha.

And then, in a final twist of fate, I get an email update from Southwest Airlines.

"Wanna get away?"

Reality People, Reality.

Reality is this. I just flew home two nights ago from a week of camp. Annie's first night back home she woke up screaming every hour on the hour. The next morning, Ryan blew his back out and he's been on heavy drugs ever since. My house is covered in a layer of dust from being gone for so long, but I only have 48 hours, and I have to choose: do the laundry before the next trip and clean the strange ring out of the toilet or dust. Option A wins.

Reality is this. I have to get Annie from the church daycare in 13 minutes and I still have 200 new emails in my inbox that I didn't get to, and I feel perpetually guilty lately for being a bad friend. I feel a bit lonely and disconnected from my sisters, friends, and my church today. I could really use a girl night. Some coffee. A cupcake. A good laugh. A night out. But all those require a babysitter... and babysitters require money... and I suppose real money comes from a real job. And of course it requires time, which I have very little of today. I have very little of until sometime in July.

And this is not a pity party. It's not even to say that reality stinks. It's just to say. This is reality.

And I'm so tired of picking up magazines and tubes of deodorant and hearing about all the ways that all the products can help me escape reality.

Is that really the answer? Glade? Old Spice? Fiji?

I just want someone to tell me the truth.

Instead of products, people, movies, and songs that encourage me to escape reality, why doesn't someone say, "Here, use this deodorant. It smells good. And while it won't do the dishes, mow the yard, or raise your child for you... you'll smell pretty dang good while you suck it up and be an adult and do the things you have to do anyways."

That's what I want to hear.

"Here, use Glade. You won't be in Fiji and the dust won't disappear and we can't help the strange ring in your toilet and we are really sorry you are tired and only home for 48 hours, but at least the house will smell good."

"Here, drink our soda. It won't give you time with your friends, but you'll feel so fricking hyper that it won't matter."

"Here, use our sugar scrub. It won't actually deliver you to a Thai Massage Parlor, but if you close your eyes and turn up the music loud enough, then maybe, just maybe, you will have a few minutes of peace and quiet in your busy life."

I'd rather here the truth than buy into the lies.

The lies tell me that the answers to my problems lie in people, places, and things. Las Vegas. Wine Country. The Spa. The mall. The ocean. The cruise. New York. Europe. The pool. The deodorant. The glade plug-in.

Truth is, the answer lies within myself and my ability to own my responsibilities, to find joy in my current situation, and to be content with my little apartment far, far away from Fiji.

Yeah, we all need a break from time to time. Everyone can use a vacation. But when I spend my life wrapped up in all the places I want to escape to, I forget that the toil and sweat of each day, the reality of my day to day life... well, I forget that that is reality.

So, I was supposed to pick Annie up six minutes ago and now I am "that mom" who comes late. But that's ok. Today I'm praying for an extra dose of reality. I want to be happy where I'm at. And if I ever find myself lusting over a Glade ad again... I hope Annie will throw up on me and snap me out of it.

Why would I want to be in Fiji when I could be loving on a sweet baby girl who has just puked on me?

Reality trumps make-believe. It has to.

From one Foodie to Another

Friend and foodie in crime, Chelsie.

French toast and breakfast burrito at Flying Star.

Five Places You Must Try in Santa Fe, New Mexico:

1. Guadalupe Cafe

2. Coyote Cafe

3. Pasqual's

4. Tomasitas

5. Harry's Roadhouse

*Best coffee shop and dessert joint with free wi-fi*

Flying Star

the breakdown:

Guadalupe Cafe, located right next door to the capitol building, is a small, un-air conditioned restaurant that serves the best New Mexican food I have ever tasted. Salads are large enough to share between two, maybe three people, and are served in large wooden bowls. A bowl big enough to stick a newborn baby in. Everything is fresh and the specials change daily. My favorite is the chicken and guacamole enchiladas. Lunch and dinner run about $10 a plate and it's worth every penny. The outside patio is lively and there is always a wait. No matter how many times I visit the city, I always make a trip back to Guadalupe Cafe.

Coyote Cafe has a rooftop bar and dining area with blue twinkle lights and the prettiest people in the city. Enough said. The food is to die for. Yes, you can have amazing organic chicken and cheese enchiladas, but you can also have a flat iron steak, amazing burger, or prawns. Whatever you order, it will almost look too pretty to eat. Inside dining is business casual, but you feel like a million bucks. Outside dining, which overlooks the little streets winding in and out of Santa Fe's historic plaza, offers a club like atmosphere that makes you feel like you might be in New York or Cancun. If you're young and looking for a cool place to hang without totally breaking the bank, Coyote Cafe should be your first stop of the night.

Pasqual's- Rare. Perfect. Local. They have mastered the art of breakfast and serve the best homemade desserts. Every artist should eat here once. The intimate setting boasts a shared table and original paintings, twinkle lights, and local folk art. The line is long and the tab is high (breakfast starting at $14, dinner $25) but as you eat from their seasonal organic menu, you will see why the windows are lined with culinary awards and locals are faithful to this incredibly artsy establishment.

Tomasita's family owned, family operated restaurant sits right along the historic train station and boasts some pretty dang hot New Mexico chile. There are not only warning signs throughout the menu, but a sign on the wall as you walk in that suggests you try before you buy... their chile is the real deal. (FYI: In New Mexico they are actually referring to red and green chile's, not the stuff that Wendy's has on its dollar menu and not the red powder that is thoughtlessly thrown into most Tex-Mex dishes. These are bonafied chile's.) This traditional New Mexico restaurant wins this foodies heart for their amazing stuffed sopapillas, flour tortillas, and honey laced sopapillas for dessert.

Harry's Roadhouse is last because it is taking everything within me to share this restaurant. If it were up to me, this place would simply exist for my own happiness... no one else invited! I always get the RoadHouse tostada. I am ok getting the same thing over and over again, because in the course of a week spent at Glorieta, I eat there at least three times, so there is ample opportunity to try other things. The outside patio spills over onto three levels of garden and tables are nestled in between trees, flowers, and yes of course, twinkle lights. The sangria is scrumptious. The mostly organic menu is seasonal, changes weekly, and always includes fresh seafood as well as the most fresh vegetables and fruits available on the market. They make homemade cakes, pie, and ice cream sandwiches daily. Breakfast is to die for. Locals are fiercely loyal. And tucked away on an access road overlooking the mountains makes for a nice change of pace from the tourist heavy Plaza. If God tells me to pick one restaurant to eat at for the rest of my life, I'll tell him Harry's. I'll invite Him to join me too :)

One more stop?

Lisa Kristine's photography gallery.

I learned about this place from a local, Dan D., who road his bike from North Carolina to Santa Fe in 1980 and never looked back. Dan D. and his dog Butterball spent a good long while sharing a bench with me this week and we got to talking. He said that if a picture can cause deep introspection and bring you to a place of 'higher consciousness' than you knew it was good. I took his word for it. You should too. Even if you can't go to the gallery, you can check our her website. These photographs capture something rare and beautiful about humanity.