May 30, 2012

Jesus I Come.

I’d tell you how many times I’ve listened to this song over the past month, but that would be embarrassing. Do yourself a favor and take a little bit to soak it in. If you’re anything like me, today you need the reminder that Jesus is always good, always enough, and is intimately involved in every little piece of our lives.

 

  1. Out of my bondage, sorrow and night,
    Jesus, I come, Jesus, I come;
    Into Thy freedom, gladness, and light,
    Jesus, I come to Thee;
    Out of my sickness, into Thy health,
    Out of my want and into Thy wealth,
    Out of my sin and into Thyself,
    Jesus, I come to Thee.
  2. Out of my shameful failure and loss,
    Jesus, I come, Jesus, I come;
    Into the glorious gain of Thy cross,
    Jesus, I come to Thee;
    Out of earth’s sorrows, into Thy balm,
    Out of life’s storms and into Thy calm,
    Out of distress to jubilant psalm,
    Jesus, I come to Thee.
  3. Out of unrest and arrogant pride,
    Jesus, I come, Jesus, I come;
    Into Thy blessed will to abide,
    Jesus, I come to Thee;
    Out of myself to dwell in Thy love,
    Out of despair, into raptures above,
    Upward for aye on wings like a dove,
    Jesus, I come to Thee.
  4. Out of the fear and dread of the tomb,
    Jesus, I come, Jesus, I come;
    Into the joy and light of Thy home,
    Jesus, I come to Thee;
    Out of the depths of ruin untold,
    Into the peace of Thy sheltering fold,
    Ever Thy glorious face to behold,
    Jesus, I come to Thee.

 

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Filed under God's faithfulness

May 23, 2012

Ladies Who [Are Out To] Lunch.

My 25th birthday was hallmarked by the rather terrifying realization that it’s finally happening. In a sort of “I still vaguely recall what to do with this tooth brush” kind of way, I am officially losing my mind.

It became impossible to deny the blatantly obvious when at approximately 8:20 AM on Monday morning, I discovered that I had walked out of my house, driven to work and sat down at my desk wearing two entirely different shoes. Justin Timberlake and I are in the business of bringing sexy back, and we’d appreciate it if you would simply leave us to it.

I felt very “ladies who lunch” sitting in my skirt and mismatched footwear. They added a certain “Je ne sais quoi” to my outfit-and technically, I AM a lady, and I DID eat lunch on Monday. Even if lunch consisted of a rather suspect stalk of celery, four limp grapes and a cube of Munster cheese. It might have been alone under fluorescent lighting, and it might not have been white wine and a strawberry salad, but there is no shame in lunches comprised out of the dregs of my refrigerator! Or in eating Nutella straight out of the jar with a spoon. Or taking purple Flintstone vitamins for adults.

There is no shame in that.

My fading mind is frazzled. Which is unfortunate, because I used to be able to remember an impressive variety of things and have now reached a point where the only thing I can recall with total clarity are the words to approximately every. single. Rascal Flatts song. Which is a handy life skill.

Sadly, I’m not even sure that Sudoku can help me now. …especially because I’m not entirely positive that I correctly understand how to do Sudoku.

Give it to me straight: is everything just downhill after twenty five? At this rate by the time I’m thirty, you’ll find me wandering your local Walmart parking lot and rummaging through their recyclables.

…while eating a strawberry salad.

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Filed under First World Problems, Life at the Frat House, My ghetto-fab life

April 16, 2012

Bagged Lunch Baggage.

It’s nice to see all of you again. You haven’t changed one bit.

I trust that the past several weeks have worked out beautifully for you and humbly apologize for my propensity to get sidetracked and forget that just because I’m not thinking about my blog does not mean it doesn’t exist. It’s very reminiscent of my sophomore year of high school, during which I temporarily forgot I was taking Algebra II because it was Spring and the sun was shining and I needed to be tan by Spring Break.

Speaking of Spring Break, why is it that adults don’t get one? The florescent lights atop my cubicle at the frat house are slowly frying my retinas and driving me to drink.

Which is unfortunate, given that keeping a bottle of Jack under your desk at a Baptist church is generally frowned upon.

And while we’re talking about food, if I weren’t too cheap to quit I’d be just about ready to give up on the whole “bagged lunches” idea. Don’t get me wrong, I love to cook-…just not at six thirty AM. I know, I know. PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, ASHLEY. IT’S A BAGGED LUNCH-NOT VIETNAM. But you’ve got to understand that at six thirty AM, you’re more likely to find me rummaging through the neighborhood recyclables than you are to engage me in any form of intelligent conversation, much less find me being creative with healthy foods.

Though actually, I suppose that hinges on what your definition of “healthy” is. My definition includes Nutella.

Every morning in a dazed stupor, I stumble into the kitchen to make my lunch-which given the fact that I routinely forget to go to the grocery store looks something akin to one of those bizarre Quick Fire Challenges on Top Chef. Except this doesn’t so much involve making a canapé in forty seconds using Brie and chilled lobster tail so much as it involves what kind of sandwich I can make using no bread or lunch meat or cheese. If not for a few rather questionable lettuce leaves and single triangle of Laughing Cow cheese I discovered on happenstance at the eleventh hour, all would have been lost last Wednesday morning.

Though caffeinated, pencil-skirted, hungry Ashley didn’t find anything humorous about the aforementioned cheese triangle six hours later at lunchtime that day. “Maniacally Taunting Cow” might have been more appropriate.

A wise woman might wander downstairs right now to pre-pack a healthy, creative lunch before drifting off to sleep. But like Scarlett O’Hara, I’ll think about that tomorrow.

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Filed under First World Problems, Life at the Frat House

March 12, 2012

John Henson is my Homeboy. Also, I am Cold.

While the harsh reality that I work at a church might suggest that I am, in fact, immune to the typical distractions that vie for the attention of the general masses, it’s far from true. Take this morning, for instance. I sprang forward at dark thirty to get to work, and in my dazed stupor decided to dress for spring. [In my defense, I’d only had two cups of coffee. Maybe three.] My winter-white legs and I ran outside only to be greeted by an iced over windshield and positively arctic weather-something my cute little blue skirt and t-shirt were ill-equipped to handle. Given the fact the very idea of being even five minutes late to anything in life sends me straight into an ugly cry, I de-iced the windshield with a name tag I found in my back seat [I lead a very glamorous life.], hopped in my little blue Bug, and violently shivered all the way to work. I spent the duration of the sermon hallucinating that I was Kate Winslet floating on a piece of the Titanic amidst frozen chunks of ice burg. I desperately wanted to get up and run back to my warm office, but that would have meant stepping outside which would have meant MORE COLD. And so I sat there humming “My Heart Will Go On” through blue lips and chattering teeth while the rest of the congregation learned something about the Holy Spirit.

For the record, it is not in fact spring.

I loathe, despise and abominate springing forward. Nothing good can come from this madness! Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar and a socialist.

Speaking of madness, I’m also not wild about my Heels losing to FSU-but then, we’ve got bigger fish to fry now haven’t we?

John Henson, any time you want to get over that wrist thing is good with me. You know. So I don’t stroke out.

Go Heels, go America!

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Filed under First World Problems, Life at the Frat House, The daily grind

March 1, 2012

Why Googling is Romantic.

It all started with lunch.

Kellan and I had only been dating for a matter of days when he extended an invitation to dine with him after church. I was to come over at 1:00, and he was cooking.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was big. Huge! Like, landing on the moon huge.

At that point in our fledgling “no YOU hang up” relationship, there were things that I knew about the arm candy that I’d begun to introduce as “boyfriend”. I knew he’d spontaneously drive to the beach at 2:00 AM if given half an inkling that I’d go with him. I knew never to play poker with him. [So, let’s be serious: never to learn how to play poker.] I knew that his his iPhone functioned as an extension to his arm, he was a dazzling conversationalist, and his eyes were just dreamy…

…I’m sorry, where were we?

Like I was saying, there were things that I knew-but nobody had yet bothered to clue me into this little gem: Kellan Dickens does. not. cook.

Period. I mean, we’re talking about a man whose fridge functions more as a cupboard for bagel bites and beer.
I walked into his bachelor pad that sunny Sunday afternoon, and my heart melted a little bit. There were flickering white candles. There were roses. There was a table cloth, a bowl full of meticulously placed berries, and a bottle of the white wine he was slowly beginning to learn that I loved.

Hello, sailor.

With all of the excited gusto of five year old Squanto in his school’s Thanksgiving play, he seated me and then ran over to the oven.

Carefully, with the distinct air of one that had entirely no idea what he was doing, he placed two potholders onto his hands and, looking for all the world like a chemist handling enriched plutonium, slowly opened the oven. To my unabashed delight, out came…

…two cheery yellow lunchable boxes.

It was between gasps of laughter and bites of over-processed turkey and cheese that I figured out that I might want to keep him.

We thoroughly enjoyed our lunchables and wine, and that was that. He never cooked again. And we all lived happily ever after!

Until Valentine’s day.

Several weeks ago, I walked into Kellan’s apartment for our date and was greeted by candlelight, the unmistakable aroma of molten chocolate floating through the air and the strains of “My Funny Valentine” crooning softly in the background.

If I had been wearing pearls, I would have been clutching them.

Molten lava fudge cake. Yes, and amen.

Be still my wildly beating heart, he’d cooked! Y’ALL. I’m talking sangria [oh just pour it into a big gulp], salad, “smothered chicken” [bless his heart, he made it up and it was to die for], and [drumroll please]: molten lava fudge cake.

Oh hello, fudge cake. Let’s fall in love. And have kids and drive them to soccer practice.

He’d used the google to learn everything from how to cut and caramelize an onion to how to defrost chicken [a necessary evil after attempting to cook a frozen block of chicken in the oven]-and let me tell you, nothing says “romantic” like “I googled for you”.

Once I woke up from my fudge cake coma, I decided I was never cooking again.

Unfortunately, Kellan vehemently responded that he was never going to either, which left me at quite a loss as to what on earth we’d do.

Whatever it is, it will probably have something to do with the aforementioned bagel bites.

The End.

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Filed under My favorite people

February 2, 2012

Tea Cups and Playboy. [Women and Sexual Sin.]

[This one is a bit different, kids. This is a blog I just wrote for the fratties to use at church. And really, this one's for the girls.]

I grew up in a youth group that just loved to separate the guys and the girls to talk about gender-specific issues. Now, if you want my unsolicited opinion, there are few things in life that are more distracting to a teenaged girl than sitting in a room wondering what all the boys are talking about across the hall.

Especially when the girls were being told the same thing over and over and over again. Inevitably, a slightly awkward older woman in a pajama-esque pant suit would spend approximately forty-five minutes attempting to charm the uninterested as she prattled on about what was apparently the weightiest issue facing our walks with Christ: the way that we dressed.

A group of impressionable young women in jeans would listen as she warned us not to dress like five-dollar hookers, because the animals masquerading as young men across the hall only wanted one thing. Now if we were really lucky, she might admonish us all to view ourselves like Jesus did—as delicate tea cups instead of paper Starbucks cups [can I get an amen? Anybody?]– but the bottom line always seemed to be what not to wear.

Interestingly, no one ever pulled her aside to tell her to leave her pant suit in 1978.

Across the hall, the boys were talking about sex. They were talking about the dangerous allure of pornography, of just how tempting it was to have sex before marriage, the sinful nature of masturbation…these boys were being equipped to fight the battle like the men that God had created them to be.

But no one ever talked with my friends and I about any of that. Delicate tea cups can’t handle those sorts of things, I suppose. Unfortunately, a generation of tea cups grew up steeped in the subliminal message that sexual sin is something that only men struggle with—but never women.

If you’re a woman reading this, you just rolled your eyes. You know all too well the battle being fought in the hearts, minds and bedrooms of the women that fill the sanctuary every Sunday morning. I’ve struggled with it, my friends have struggled with it, the women in my small group struggle with it…ladies, shall we let the boys in on our secret? Hold onto your hats, gentlemen: we have sex drives too.

The problem is, we don’t talk about that in church. While the men are being warned and equipped, we are quietly sitting on the sidelines, pretending to be unaffected and unconcerned as the battle rages on.

As a church, it is imperative that we debunk the dangerous myth that sexual sin is an exclusively male problem. Women struggle with masturbation. They struggle with pornography. They wrestle with the desire to have sex before marriage, and so many of us live with the crushing weight of guilt that comes from losing a battle that we were never equipped to fight. And it’s not the pant-suited lady’s fault; the responsibility for our sin is our own.

Ladies: you are not alone. It’s time for us to recognize the severity of the problem, and to combat our sin like the women God created us to be. Let us be the generation that acknowledges the battle, and fights it well.

To that end, I’d like to invite you to join me to be equipped to fight. On February 12th, from 5:00-8:00 at the Brier Creek South Venue, Brad Hambrick [counselor extraordinaire] is going to be giving a training seminar on how to combat and deal with the ramifications of sexual sin – False Love: Overcoming Sexual Sin from Lust to Adultery.

Ladies, you need to be there regardless of whether or not this is a current struggle for you. You may not be actively engaged in the battle right now, but it’s a guarantee that you know someone who is. Your sister, your best friend, the girl in your small group, your husband-this is a battle being waged across our church.

Join me on February 12th, and let’s fight it together. A tea cup can’t fight, but a godly woman can!

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Filed under Life at the Frat House, Musings

January 30, 2012

She’s a Lady. [Of Pajamas and Shrimp Forks.]

It all started in-utero.

I’m not kidding-it really did.

My Father and very-pregnant-with-me-Mother were at a pinkies-out cocktail party. Let’s give my Mother the benefit of the doubt and assume she was toasting with apple juice, shall we?

It was an extravagant affair, punctuated by the delicate ringing of crystal, bow-ties and the swish of elegant dresses as women that hadn’t the faintest idea how to wear them milled awkwardly about the room with all of the grace of Nazi Storm troopers.

Ladies by right of nature and little else, these missing links women made such an unfortunate impression on my parents, that they immediately decided that they would raise their daughter [read: me] to be a lady that Emily Post herself would be proud of. One that was well-versed in social etiquette. One that that understood not to apply her makeup with a trowel, how to wear a cocktail dress, walk in heels, and ascertain the crucial difference between shrimp and relish forks.

So you see, I really never had a say in the matter. Some of my earliest memories are of being taught how to sit up straight like a lady, how a lady shakes hands [they made me practice on a door knob], the graceful way in which a lady ought to walk [book on the head? I’m a pro.], how a lady ought to answer the phone [Yes, this is she.], politely decline an invitation [“H-no!” is never an option], eat a burrito [Just. Don’t.]…

And don’t get me started on the “do-nots”. A lady does not shout. A lady does not get a mullet. A lady does not eat anything that ends in “doodle”, “puff” or “whiz”. A lady does not buy underwear at Walmart, take relationship advice from Oprah, or agree to be on a reality show with the words, “Real Housewives”, “Bachelor,” or “Bret Michaels” in the title.

…interestingly, many of these lessons were set to the soothing backdrop of me softly humming the dungeon music from Super Mario for Nintendo. Which I loved to play with my brothers when we were not playing Duck Hunt.

You know, back before I learned that a lady does not shoot ducks. Or anything that’s not a cat.

According to my Father, one of the things a lady most certainly did not do was participate in pajama day at school. Growing up, it was the bane of my existence to be the only jean-clad high schooler in a sea of flannel and sweatshirts.

How. Humiliating.

It was with unabashed delight that I called my Dad on my second day of college. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was seven thirty AM, and my hair looked like it had been purchased at a thrift store, after all of the real hair was gone. Dark circles of leftover mascara left me with a face only a mother could love, and my pink flannel pajama pants trotting their way down the sidewalk left me an outfit a father certainly could not.

Dad picked up the phone, and with eighteen years of ill-suppressed glee, I impishly heralded the news that I was, at long last, wearing my pj’s in public-and there wasn’t a darn thing he could do about it.

Ever level-headed, Dad simply commented on how inspiring it was that I’d finally figured out how to use my cell phone, and hung up.

And my pajamas and I lived happily ever after-shrimp forks and all.

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Filed under Family