Unleashing My Inner Shauna

I have a confession: I’m obsessed with Shauna Niequist. The woman is incredible: She loves Jesus; she loves her family; she’s a chronic overcommitter (which means I totally relate to her); she writes about food every chance she gets.

I’m not saying she calls up her girlfriends and rehashes every calorie she consumed each day. I mean she has a dinner party and she describes the food in detail; she has a simple lunch and makes the sharp cheddar and grainy bread an adventure to live, not just another box to check.

Shauna has struggled with food the way most of us (certainly I) have, and she’s lived to tell the tale in an epic and delicious way: with garlicky tandems and spicy side notes.

The other night, I had a group of friends over to celebrate a last night in town before one of them was deployed to the Middle East. They walked into the house where I was already cooking (reading between the lines, that means my hair was in a messy top bun and all the makeup had been steamed off my face) and I put them to work, slicing cheese, setting the table, arranging the salad and getting out drinks.

As the dinner was set and we all sat down to eat this final meal together, with old friends reconnecting for the first (and last) time in a long time, no one really paid much attention to the little shrimp swimming in couscous and pine nuts or the way the creamy avocados perfectly coated the spinach salad. They made a polite remark or two and, of course, had seconds, but the main point of the evening wasn’t about the food.

And yet, as I sent them off to the backyard for some male bonding (did I mention it was all guys because all of the girls bailed out last minute?) while I did the dishes, I realized something important:

This same group of guys can (and does) meet in other circumstances, but there’s something missing. When they’re all sitting around a table with candles and sparkling glasses of red wine, something magical happens and there’s more to the story than may at first meet the eye.

They walked back inside as I pulled chocolate chocolate-chip cookies from the evening, the smell filling the house.

It’s in these moments, as my parents came to hang out with us and the clock ticked later and later, as nothing serious was said except goodbye as we all prepared to go back to our “normal” lives: one to school, one to an accounting firm, one to write a book and one to the Middle East, it’s here in the mundane that we get to cross paths, where lives intersect and stories unfold.

Shauna taught me that all of life is beautiful and mysterious, and that it’s the little, seemingly insignificant moments where all the weight of the world rests. Those moments tend to be over a meal- a good, healthy, filling meal. Not just food filling the stomach, but a meal filling the soul.

That night I unleashed my inner Shauna to the room full of wandering boys.

Tomorrow, who knows? I may unleash her on the world.

Cops and Christians

What do cops and Christians have in common?

For those of you outside the DC metro area, I would like to offer up a warning before you drive here: be careful. There are cops everywhere (and I do mean everywhere). I can’t remember the last time I got on the road and didn’t see at least one (usually more than three) out and about.

I take it back: they’re usually not “out and about.” Typically, the cops I see are sneaky. They hide behind trees, hills and houses; they wait for their moment to bust you. That’s right: speed traps. These clever little cop cars have hideouts the whole way from my parent’s house (where I work) to my grandma’s house (where I sleep), and they prowl the area like fruit flies on a rotten banana.

Tonight, as I was driving home, I saw the other kind of cop, the one I sometimes forget exists as I make absolute certain not to exceed 25: the kind of cop that speeds off down the highway, doing at least 20 over and clearly annoyed when you’re driving so slowly (chill out, I was in the right-hand lane!).

This brings me back to my original question: what do cops and Christians have in common?

They’re both perceived as self-righteous hypocrites.

These Fairfax County cops have this glaring double standard. They’re allowed to zoom past those white rectangular boxes, ignoring the little black numbers as they zip along home. But woe to anyone else who dares inch a few miles per hour past the limit: whammo- ticket time.

And I’m talking to the tune of $200.

Meanwhile, Christians are seen much the same. They go to church only to come home, fight with their families, gossip with their friends and get their weekend party on, only to clean up nicely for church again the following week so they can sit in the service and judge all those sinners who aren’t present, who are so lazy as to sleep in on a Sunday after the undoubtedly wild and crazy night they had had the previous evening.

Confession: I’m no fan of the cops around here. But I’ve acted worse than cops when I’ve hoity toited my butt to church, only to use it as a bargaining chip to boost my ego and blast anyone who didn’t live up to my standards of perfection.

And they called Jesus the friend of sinners.

He loves people, not because they clean up nicely on Sunday mornings, but because He created them and endured hell on their behalf.

That’s like saying the cop who never speeds sat through traffic court for my (totally deserved) speeding ticket and then paid the whole thing off when the judge (in justice) condemned me “guilty as charged.”

My ticket meant an eternity separated from God- that’s a little bit pricier than a mere $200.

With a love like that, I don’t want people to see me as self-righteous. I never want to be compared to a cop. When people look at me, I want them to see Jesus.

Because He loves them, and because He deserves them- for He endured hell for them.

For us.

Doesn’t Jesus deserve those for whom He suffered?

Starbucks Obsession

Confession: I like Starbucks more than the small, locally owned coffee shops.

It has nothing to do with big corporations or the belief that Starbucks products are better than others (to be honest, I actually don't really like their coffee or tea selections).

It has everything to do with brand recognition.

Seriously, hold on- don't write me off. I'm going somewhere with this and it's not mainstream.

On Sunday, one of my seventh graders reached the end of her rope. She was tired of middle school, sick of being 12, and completely overwhelmed with her life. So, I did the only thing I could think of:

I brought a Frappuccino to her at school.

And it's incredible how much that one simple thing made such a difference.

Now I recognize that there was more to it than just the fact that she now had in her possession a frothy, blended, highly sugared drink. It was more than just a green logo with a weird mermaid in a circle on a cup. There was something magical that happened in between walking out of the Starbucks, drinks in hand, and walking into the school that Monday, armed and dangerous.

The Starbucks cup was filled with more than just empty calories. It was a clear status symbol. This seventh grader had friends in high places: friends who could drive and who thought her cool enough to take time out of their days to make a delivery.

Would a generic, local drink have done the same?

Somehow I don't think so.

And that's why I like Starbucks so much.

Walking Across The Parking Lot

Today was a day just like any other.

And by "just like any other," what I mean is "significantly more than I wanted to handle." I woke up before the sun (which is saying something as we get into the summer months), got my little brother up, fed, dressed and out the door, spent the day serving various people in various ways (and also being challenged to fix some mistakes I had made), receiving a text alerting me that I would be playing the mom card for the evening, so I set out to make dinner.

Halfway through the chili prep, I realized we were out of tomatoes, so my trusty little wallet and I headed across the street to our friendly neighborhood grocery store.

Now, remember, it's Mother's Day, and like any holiday in Northern Virginia, that means drama. Families are ou in storms "to celebrate," aka fight with each other because the day hasn't turned out to be everything they'd hoped for and more. I saw frustrated and angry moms dragging goofy boys across the parking lot, stressed out waitresses trying to seat the mass of people as quickly as they could, drivers honking at pedestrians who had the audacity to walk rather than sprint across the street. I ran to the Safeway, collected my things and got out as quickly as possible, eager to be home and as far away as possible from all the stressed out people in the shopping center.

As I walked home, someone new caught my eye.

There is a man with special needs who, since my childhood, has wandered the sidewalk around the stores, zig-zagging back and forth in an attempt to look like he has a place to go, but I've always wondered if he does. As the years have passed and I've grown older and infinitely busier, I've seen him less and less, to the point where I had completely forgotten he existed.

But of course he still does.

I watched him for a few moments,  this man who probably had no idea what panics and stresses were eating the people in the cars around him as he calmly walked in circles around the Pizza Hut, and I was torn.

On the one hand, I was so ashamed of myself for forgetting. I have the luxury of going home to a house with electricity, running water and food. I have a body that (for the most part) does what I tell it to do, a family who, for all their flaws, loves and supports me, and enough opportunities to make any young adult jealous. But over the last few days, I've forgotten those who don't. I haven't been looking for the men and women who need help, much less offering any if I see them. I have put aside the thoughts of the kids I spent every day with last May, as I went to care points in Swaziland feeding children their one meal a day. I'm content to shower under a hot stream of water and pretend like the buckets I used last year don't exist.

I've grown complacent.

The other thought that struck me was that, even in the midst of this man's defects, he seemed to be content. As I run around, trying to do everything for everyone and coming up short more often than not, I was so jealous by his calm composure, and one again so sickened by the American dreams of excess that I have to fight daily.

My prayer is that I remember him when I'm tempted to yell at my parents for making me babysit. I want to remember the children from Swaziland when I'm complaining about not knowing what to do. I want to remember the things I've seen, because there's too much at stake for me to waste my days on myself.

These are my Mother's Day thoughts, straight from he parking lot.

The Need to Write

I feel like my life is a whirlwind.

The mornings begin earlier than I’d like and end well past my breaking point. Most days are hardly memorable, a flurry of drive here, speak there, type this and review that. Though they’re all different, they all feel the same.

Lately they’ve been ending with me in the driveway, head in my hands, sobbing deep and endless tears that I can’t seem to control, searching desperately for answers to questions I don’t even seem able to put into words.

An older friend calmly told me, “You’re 23. It comes with life breakdowns. A lot of them.”

But Little Miss Fix It over here doesn’t like that. She’d rather set her alarm earlier to run, or stay up later to read, or promise herself for the ten thousandth time that she will pray before gossiping… again.

I feel like Solomon in Ecclesiastes, that everything is meaningless: all of our toils and troubles, our joys and victories.

But this afternoon, something changed.

An old friend from the Race contacted me. Though her message was trivial, it reminded me of her and all of the serious conversations we had had during those long days and late nights. This time last year, she was challenging me as I went through a similar season, where my tears seemed to outnumber my smiles and I was convinced my life was over.

Natalie, she challenged, again and again, you need to be journaling.

Journal. Write. Let the words unleash on the paper or screen or even dirt on the ground. Let loose your thoughts and emotions and prayers, let the deepest parts of yourself be known, even if only to God.

Because in that release, there is healing.

In that release, there is freedom.

In that release, all of the creativity that God put in me as He knit me together in my mother’s womb is set free on a waiting world- a world seeking to know their Creator.

In that release, I get to be God’s voice to His beloved, desperate creation.

I can sit outside in tears, or I can stand before mankind as an ambassador of Christ.

There is a time to live and a time to die, as Solomon wisely noted. This is my time to live.

And I’m not going to waste it.