It’s odd that there’s something comforting about doing what has become so familiar to me.

I’m moving to Chapel Hill! I’m a happy kid-someone needs to teach me how to do a cartwheel right this very minute. But it’s true-after months of my parents graciously allowing me to use up all of their hot water and breathe up all of their oxygen, I am, through a series of wildly unexpected and inexplicable events, moving into a house with two girls that I just adore.

In a concerted effort not to end up on TLC’s “Hoarders” [terrif. fying. Every time I watch that show, my eyes start to water and my mouth begins to taste like bad gas station coffee.], I’m throwing away a lot of the things I simply couldn’t bear to part with in July when I get home from Senegal. Strands of dirty wooden beads that I thought would make just phenomenal gifts [if you received one of those alleged gifts, you have my heartfelt apology. At the time I was under the delusion that everyone wanted tackily rainbow-colored Senegalese beads.], half used bottles of shampoo and conditioner [and on that note, I really don’t think I’ll need to buy deodorant for at least another year thanks to my Senegal stash. Cheers to that!], filthy biohazard excuses for books…

The list goes on.

It’s all hitting the trash-joined by other treasures I’ve accumulated and kept over the years for some inexplicable reason. Really, I’m honestly rather concerned about myself. I think I go through life believing that everything that becomes mine, I will one day need and therefore can never get rid of. That, coupled with my marvelous habit of breaking anything with a plug can lead to a lot of ubiquitous stuff! You see, “defective” is a big word for me. Many things in my life are labeled “defective” only to miraculously turn functional again once the directions have been read more thoroughly. If the directions are ever read at all.

The aforementioned elephant graveyard of electronics is stressing me out. Along with North Carolina’s bipolar weather, automatic toilets and Newt Gingrich.

In no particular order.

In honor of my impending move and Duke’s impending spanking, I’ll  leave you with this little gem.

If I ever have children, you’ll see them on youtube doing exactly this.

I’ll buy them ponies if I have to!

Go Heels, go America.

Right outside of the botique where we found her wedding dress!

Ladies and gentlemen: without further ado-I give you: the smitten list.

1. 1. Christy is engaged. Christy! Is! Engaged! That boy of hers finally popped the question on a frosty December night under a thousand twinkle lights.  She was positively swooning when she called me at 2:00 AM, and I was so over-the-moon that I sat bug-eyed and upright in my bed until my alarm jolted me back to reality at 6:00! Two weeks later when she flew home, I was temporarily blinded by her ring in the Charlotte airport-an unfortunate inevitability that subsided in enough time for me to help her say yes to the dress. She was so breathtaking that I cried like a small, emotionally disturbed child-it was one of those moments that will spring to her mind later when they ask if there were any signs. Also, given that wedding planning doesn’t necessarily make her heart go pitter-patter, her impending nuptials have given me a fantastic excuse to implement creative ideas like this one:

I promise you that his bride fell in love with him all over again.

On July 7^th, Christy Seamon and David Noyd will become Mr. and Mrs-and a crowd of overjoyed former STINTers will reunite. …I just hope we’re a bit cleaner than the last time that we were all together.

2. Have I told you I’m co-leading a women’s Bible study? Probably not, given that the alleged date of my last blog was in November. But now that I AM telling you about them, you should know that they’re the bomb dot com. I am completely smitten with them. Every Thursday night, I sit down over copious amounts of baked goods [diabetics would be well-served to find a different small group] with a group of women who previously didn’t know each other. And we talk about everything. From what color our undies are [okay, maybe not the best first icebreaker question ever] to the pieces of our hearts that God is softening and making more like Himself. They make me want to be a better man.

3. The Fratties. I love them. Even if they do mock me mercilessly every time I wear heels or the color pink. They’ve been systematically trying to shame the estrogen out of me-if you ever pop in for lunch at the office, don’t ask for “Ashley” at the front desk. In an effort to butch me up, they’ve all taken to calling me “Peterson”.

4. I was home for Christmas. There is much to say, but I’ll leave you with this:

http://sermons.summitrdu.com/sermons/?sermon_id=235

It was one of my very favorite parts.  “A thrill of hope-a weary world rejoices!” I think I love Christmas because I love the idea of hope. A reason for a broken, tired world to REJOICE. Praise Jesus for hope.

An early morning in Utah-we were on a ski lift going up a mountain about ten minutes after this was taken. Bliss.

5. I just spent one glorious week snowboarding in Utah with Kellan and his family. There was snow. There was a hot tub. There was the most divine caramel latte I’ve had since August. And there was, as it so happens, one mildly embarrassed, over-caffeinated brunette dragging her bruised hiney around Park City, wondering at what point over the past six years she lost the ability to snowboard.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

It’s time, kids.

Christmas! I’m in love. I’m in love, and I don’t care who knows it! Starbucks cups herald the commencement of the Christmas season- and if Starbucks says it’s Christmas, then Christmas it shall be. Starbucks does, after all, dictate how I ought to feel and act and think. If Starbucks told me to take up residence with a two eskimos and a yak in an Alaskan igloo, I’d be on a flight to Anchorage within the hour.

I digress.

The entrance of my dearly beloved red holiday cups into a chilly world that could use a little Christmas [right this very minute!] was an auspicious event I’d been anxiously awaiting for two long years. They’re a big deal-my first year in Africa my sweet Mom sent me a package of those cheery Christmas cups, a casual extravagance that I proudly displayed both years.

…I don’t want to talk about how dirty they were by the time I moved. I don’t want to talk about how dirty I was by the time I moved. And while we’re on the subject, let’s all try not to think about how redneck my decorating scheme was.

I’d been longingly waiting for the chance to go get a holiday cup in person-a holiday cup full of fancy-pants coffee, no less! Ben made all of my Christmas cup hopes and dreams come true last week when he surprised me by showing up at my house and taking me to Starbucks. I walked into the world’s most renowned coffee shop, and lit up like Christmas itself.

Ben, on the other hand, doubled over in insuppressible peals of uninhibited laughter at the discovery that the “holiday cups” I’d been gushing over for two years are just that: cups. Not a special drink. Ben is such a man. Bless him. Though Ben and I have had a ball living in the same[ish] place and getting to hang out, we regularly lament the fact that some of our favorite people [read: the dream team] are scattered here, there and everywhere.

I have abandonment issues. I can’t even help it. Thus, it’s time for everybody’s favorite game: “Where are they now?” Given that our team is nowhere to be found, Ben and I decided to settle for the next best thing and take a series of horribly offensive pictures that depict the stereotypes we thrust upon them over the course of our time in Africa.

Christy moved to Oregon for love. We’ve been over this. She’s saving babies, volunteering at a homeless shelter, and going on regular date nights with the boy that stole her far, far away from me.

While Christy is not actually a redneck, we often joke that she is. Mostly because she lives within spitting distance of a Nascar racetrack. I believe we were trying to channel a barn dance here...

Dayton is still working for Cru part time in Kentucky-with [who else?] international students. We text or call each other every time we’re listening to Christmas music, since we’re no-judgement friends. He also directs music at a church part time, and is getting ready to go to grad school.

Dayton was our team piano man and prayer warrior.

Ted is working outside of Charlotte. He volunteers with Big Brother, Big Sister-and just adopted the cuh-UTEST puppy named Charlie.

Playing basketball. Clearly, I knew exactly what I was doing. Ted was our team jock.

Ben is going to seminary, working for Cru part time at Duke, and looking for a wife full-time.

We forgot to take a picture depicting this, but Ben was definitely the team nerd.

And Michelle. Michelle is still in Senegal-adjusting to life with a new [sob!] team, and patiently answering way too many skype calls from me. Follow her adventures HERE.

...I know, I know. Not okay. Except if you're on our team, it is. :)

What’s that you say? What was MY stereotype?

I’ll never tell. ;)

Team-you are dearly missed.

Unfortunately, life as of late has made it impossible to plan just about anything of importance. This has resulted in to-do lists that look a little something like this:

1. Paint toes.
2. Run.
3. Call Christy [again] and ask her [again] to move back to North Carolina.

Achievable goals. In lieu of an actual idea of what’s going on in my life, clearly I cling to the illusion of control.

I think Jesus has orchestrated this period of uncomfortable uncertainty into my life to teach me more about what exactly it is that I worship. You see, I love having a plan because I really, really  love being in control. And I love being in control because honestly, I’m afraid of what might happen if I’m not. While I understand that any thought I might have that I’m in control is laughable, that God is in control and His plan is always, always better than mine-it sometimes doesn’t feel like that’s true.

I fear something when I think that it can really damage me. Fear is usually a type of worship-when I place more weight on the object of my fear than the One who has told me that He loves me perfectly and I never need to be afraid again.

By exposing where I am afraid, Jesus exposes what I worship. He is gently, painfully, slowly teaching me what it looks like to unclench my stubborn fingers from their death-grip around my dreams, and tentatively hand them back to Him. Mind you, this is no simple process-I have attempted to wrench back the control of my life, and failed so frequently and consistently that I ought to apply for government funding.

As if. As if my life were safer in my hands. As if I were more concerned with it than Jesus is. What an odd, marvelous thought-that the same God who created Jupiter and the Swiss Alps and caramel lattes is more concerned with the details of my life than I am!

And so in the midst of uncertainty, I have to choose truth. And truth is that I simply am not in control-but God is. And He must-must!-be bigger to me than my fears, or I am not really worshipping Him at all. I have been commanded not to be anxious about anything, but to run to Jesus with every worry that I have and leave every single one of them with Him, believing that He cares more than I do and He is working for my good. And He has promised that His peace will guard my heart and mind. A lack of peace is an excellent indicator that I am not trusting Him.

I am declaring the folly of plans, not the futility of hope, mind you! There is hope in placing all of my worship where it belongs. In wrapping up every hope and dream I have in Jesus. That is, after all, what you and I were created to do.

I blame Obamacare.

Mistaking Chapel Hill for the Redlight District in Prague, they masquerade as trashy cops, skanky bumble bees, and whorish Crayola crayons. [Though truthfully, if you can channel your inner trollop into a crayon, my hat goes off to you. …now go use it to cover up.]

Yesterday, Kellan and I made a last minute decision to venture out to Franklin Street-where thousands of elaborately costumed ghouls, goblins and Steve Jobs’ were braving the cold to participate in the most spooktacular event of the season.

Having failed to give any prior thought at all to our costumes, and much too proud to join the masses without one, my genius boyfriend had a brilliant idea: we could occupy Halloween!

We quickly threw this together:

Let me tell you: I fit right in with the crayon-whores.

Our visit to the actual Occupy Chapel Hill protest site! ...these men are not in costume. They're just our new anarchist friends.

Kellan confidently strutted around all evening looking for all the world like someone who might commission oil paintings of his Yorkshire Terrier, while I gave off the distinct impression that I’d just finished rummaging through the recyclables.

Thoroughly self-amused, we grinned the whole way up and down Franklin Street-channeling our inner Miley Cyrus as drag queens and Michael Jacksons asked to take our picture. I think the fact that we were holding hands made it all the more comical-I received more than one comment about “fraternizing with the enemy”.

I know, I know. But I have such a very. large. crush on the enemy.

I can’t even help it.

Really, though, I don’t know what else could have been expected of me. It was the first time I’d seen a Christmas magazine for sale in two years-and I flew across the grocery store with all of the pent-up glee you’d expect when a girl has been cinnamon and pine tree deprived for that long.

Well bonjour Better Homes and Gardens Special Interest Christmas Cookies magazine, you beautiful thing you! I’d wager a gingerbread house with a peppermint chimney and gumdrop doorknobs that I can make all 136 recipes by November 1rst. And besides, the more I bake, the more it looks like it snowed flour in my kitchen, which is just. magic.

I know it isn’t quite time for Christmas yet, but my sweet, red and green cookie magazine has been a welcome distraction from the rather dismal reality that Christy moved to Oregon for love last week. It’s a crutch, that’s what that magazine is. An unhealthy, psychological crutch. And it’s better than lithium!

You see, I went to college with these girls.

The day that I met Christy, Jess and Cayce, I was blithely unaware that I’d spend the rest of my life referring to them as “my roommates”. No matter who moved to what continent or who fell in love with who. Back in college, we did everything together. We woke up at 3:30 AM to study together, talked each other into skipping class, belly-laughed until we couldn’t breathe over woefully pitiful stories of dates gone hopelessly awry,  burned turkeys in the oven together [okay, that one I might have done without very much help…] celebrated with cookie dough cheesecake, cried over…well, cookie dough cheesecake…

They’re the best, really. The kind of friends you can wear your yoga pants around for two weeks on end, without the slightest worry that they’ll so much as bat an eye over it.

…not that I’ve ever done that, mind you.

And then, in the most egregious display of poor decision making the world has ever seen, we decided to do this.

Several months later, after spending our senior year of college up to our eyeballs in wedding magazines, fabric swatches and cake samples, Jess [finally!] married the love of her life.

It was perfect.

The day after her wedding, Christy and I moved to Africa. Because that’s just not the sort of thing that you do alone.

While Christy and I were sweating over heaps of oily rice in Senegal and Jess was busy adjusting to life with a boy, Cayce was busy falling in love with a guy at work named Tyler.

He proposed after just a couple of months, and on October 1rst this girl:

Became this girl.

She was stunning. Given our strict policy that one of us has to move the day after another of us gets married, I hugged Christy goodbye in the parking lot after Cayce’s reception had ended, and the next morning she hopped in her car to drive across the continental US, where her excited boyfriend was waiting for her.

Because all you need is love.

I only cried three times. Which I feel like I ought to get a cupcake for.

“I hereby command you: Be strong and courageous; do not be frightened or dismayed,
for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

Joshua 1:9

Wherever we go-and wherever we stay. When everything changes, and when nothing changes. Emmanuel-God with us! I am so thankful to be loved by a God that has promised to never leave me. The things that matter to me matter to Him-and that changes my life. I think when change comes our way, God is not just watchful. I picture Him giving a standing ovation-savoring His grace and hard work in our lives. And because He’s God and we’re not, we can trust Him and boldly follow Him to the ends of the earth and back again with full confidence that He knows exactly what He’s doing.

Yes, and amen. Good to know!

Mind you, this is probably only thanks to the fact that I was absolutely religious about eating my vegetables as a child, and have never had a head injury.

But when Herb* [who works in the cubicle neighboring mine at the Frat House,] and I ran to a nearby deli for lunch, I sat innocently at a table with the tupperware of tarragon chicken salad I’d brought from home whilst he ordered. I expected a sandwich. We were, after all, at a deli. A demure turkey and swiss on rye, or possibly your run-of-the-mill ham and American on white. Something star-spangled and apple pie’d-the kind of sandwich that one might imagine would be preceded by that much beloved phrase “good ol’”.

The monstrosity that accompanied him back to our table, however, was anything but. The thing could have fed a small third world country for a month.

What is it with men their Neanderthal-like compulsion to conquer food? Only a man would eat a ten pound burrito for a free XXXL t-shirt and the dubious honor of having his picture affixed to the oily wall of his local Mexican dive bar.

I stared in horrified awe at what was aptly titled “The Death Wish”. Two pounds of roast beef, half a pound of bacon, cheddar cheese, copious amounts of slippery onions, and enough garlic butter to fill a small kiddie pool that oozed menacingly from the sides. It was bigger than my head, and seemed to take on a sort of life of it’s own the longer I stared at it. As Herb regaled me with stories of his highly illogical but very real fear of leftovers [he doesn’t even own a fridge], I watched in morbid fascination as he tackled Mt. Death Wish with a fervent gusto that left me strangely proud, and not a little nauseated. He chewed with the practiced ease of one who’d eaten a small cow for lunch many times before. Garlic butter dripped down his greasy chin and beads of sweat sprang to his forehead as he determinedly trucked through the alleged “sandwich”-resolved not to take any leftovers home. I sat in flabbergasted silence, not sure whether to stage an intervention or offer a standing ovation.

He slowed down about ¾ of the way through, and carefully wrapped the sopping remains in wax paper. I walked into cubicle land at the frat house fifteen minutes later only to be hit by a wall of garlic butter and shame. I kid you not-my eyes started burning as Herb sat impishly at his desk with the tell-tale, soggy remains of the offending Death Wish oozing beside his computer. Again, Herb doesn’t believe in refrigeration. It was unbearable. Through peals of uninhibited laughter I attempted to convince him that the rules of the Geneva Convention applied to him as well while tears pouring from my burning eyes made rivers of mascara down my face. Doubled over, I couldn’t decide whether to punch him in the kidney, or look up “aneurysm” in my medical dictionary to see if I’d just had one!

Mind you, this was all relatively unconcerning to Herb given that he’d just eaten a Heifer, and was quickly sinking into a food coma that no amount of Mexican narcotics could have revived. He groaned with his head in a pool of garlic butter on his desk, begging me to put him out of his misery. Which I very nearly took him up on.

Alas, wisdom prevailed and I decided instead, to run to the other side of the building, beg for a pack of matches [which in my panicked, red-eyed state were quickly given to me], and light my vanilla cupcake candle in a frenzied attempt to exorcise the stench from my office. Determinedly, I waved that cute little candle all around Herb’s head-combatting the criminal stench the only way I knew how.

It took about an hour, but eventually my eyes stopped burning and my vision slowly returned. For those of you that are concerned, Herb woke up after several hours, and we made a gentleman’s agreement about the garlic butter. Welcome to life at the frat house.

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Date night with Stan this week. Isn't he dreamy?

Oh my stars, September is here!

It’s time. Time for crisp, sunny football afternoons and newly sharpened pencils, corn mazes and pumpkin spice lattes [which I never drink, but get simply dizzy with bliss smelling]. It’s time for leather boots that crunch on golden brown leaves, and soft sweaters to sink into on frigid nights, with a mug of apple cider by flickering firelight. It’s time for fall.

It’s time. It is! And so why the devil is it still so hot!?

In the wee hours of the morning on September first, I seriously contemplated wearing boots and a sweater to stage an indignant, sweaty protest against the heat. It was upon hearing that little story that my boyfriend, who for legal purposes I will call Stan, informed me that fall isn’t officially here for another twenty days.

The utter dismay that washed over me was something akin to what I experienced the day that I was informed that Pluto is no longer a planet.

These are dark times.

Stan escaped with a mild decapitation. I’ve decided to ignore the calendar. It’s September, after all. It’s fall! Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar and a socialist.

If I could design the world, the intoxicating smell of pumpkin spice and apple cinnamon would waft through the air from September to February. While I sadly cannot control the smell in the great outside world [though really, it would be perfectly lovely if I could!], I can control what my house smells like. Enter my pumpkin spice Yankee candle, stage right. It smells divine around here- you really ought to come over! We’ll conspire as we sweat by the fire.

Which brings me to my next point: is it Christmas yet?

Life at the frat house has added a new twist to my usual cast of fall characters: fantasy football.

Which, as I understand it, entails a gathering of a group of normally responsible, rational men [and women that are much more well-rounded than myself!] from all walks of life, who drink beer while they play pretend football and bet real money.

I think the whole thing is just adorable, really. If Stan likes it, I love it-and that’s all I have to say that.

Fantasy football was one of two rather polarizing subjects of conversation during my lunch break at work the other day. It was, as I recall, “bring your pregnant wife to lunch” day-and sadly, I hadn’t gotten the memo.

There I was, wide-eyed and innocent, munching on my fruit-and-granola-parfait and nodding seriously whilst the boys prattled on about which players they wanted and which teams looked good. I even punctuated the conversation with neanderthol-like grunts that suggested that I was equally concerned about the status of so-and-so’s such-and-such.

Meanwhile.

Their wives, undeterred, were in the throes of an intense conversation about the perils of where you can and cannot breast feed. Indignantly, they ranted about being asked to take their “business” out of the public eye, and queried how “the public eye” might feel about eating their lunch in the bathroom.

There was something about “nursing blankets”, something about “designated nursing areas”, and something, [brace yourselves,] about a pump that sounded absolutely. barbaric.

Help me, Rhonda.

I had nothing intelligent to add. The conversations were exclusively devoted to fantasy football and breast feeding: and my knowledge of both was equal.

After the alleged pump was introduced into the conversation, I decided to recues myself, and went back to my cubicle to pour boiling lead into my ears.

And they all lived happily ever after.

A happy fall to you, too. :)

"Super Asian Buffet". I made her do this. It's amazing that I have any friends at all...

As much as I’m enjoying life at the frat house [read: my part time job at Summit], a recent gander at my bank account prompted a rather frenzied attempt to find a second job last week.

Well, if I’m honest, my first instinct was not so much to scour the internet for available jobs as it was to channel the old couple in Titanic, lay down and pretend nothing was happening.

Not. An option.

And so I googled. I yahoo’d. I craigslisted, want-added, and even trianglehelpwanted.com’d. [“Long name, amazing results” my BEHIND.] I was looking for something that might allow me to write-because something about writing makes me feel. It makes me remember. It makes me avoid doing laundry-and that just feels right.

The results were so depressing, that the only possible thing left to do is blog about them. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my top four options:

1. “Author wanted for humorous hunting and fishing blog.” How would I spin my cover letter for this baby? “Dear Sir, I believe I would present a unique asset to your blog, because I bring a distinctly raw, human perspective to the table. In fact, the last time I caught a fish, I sobbed the entire time that I watched it gasp for breath and die. Admittedly, I have never hunted, but I did watch Bambi as a child, and my therapist has high hopes for my full recovery. Truthfully, you needn’t be concerned about my lack of experience in this area, given that I have never sustained a head injury and thus have full confidence in my ability to pick it up. Is it anything like camping? I once stayed in a Holiday Inn, and thus, am an expert at roughing it. “
2.  “Author wanted for crocheting blog”.  “Dear Madam, I am tickled pink at the prospect of writing crocheting tutorials for your blog, mostly because the idea of showing up to work in my yoga pants looking like an uncooked chicken leg makes me want to burst into song. While I have never crocheted, my neighbor does have a cat-which I presume qualifies me to speak authoritatively on the subject.
3.  “Original erotic stories wanted.” “Dear Sir, while the idea of writing for you is simply fascinating, my Mother once told me to “stick with what you know”. Thus, I believe my talents might be better put to use devising crocheting tutorials for the masses. Crocheting is my life. Mr. Whiskers and I thank you for your time.”
4. “Seeking a Chinese Interpreter” “Dear Madam, you are probably unaware that one of my best friends is Indonesian. This qualifies as “relevant work experience”, because I thought she was Chinese for approximately the first six months of our relationship. While I do not exactly speak Chinese, I have developed an unnatural fondness for Hello Kitty and Pokémon that I feel would endear me to your clients in a way that language could not-after all, where language fails: Hello Kitty speaks. For your consideration, I would also like to point out that I once had a wicked case of food poisoning after eating sweet and sour pork, and thus feel as though your country owes me something.”

It’s back to the drawing board, with me.

Tis’ so sweet to trust in Jesus,

Just to take Him at His word.

Just to rest upon His promise,

Just to know “thus saith the Lord”.

Jesus, Jesus-

How I trust Him!

How I’ve proved Him over and over.

Jesus, Jesus-precious Jesus!

Oh, for grace to trust Him more.

I love those lyrics. I love the affirmation that “Yes, my trust is wrapped up in Jesus”, with the quiet plea for the grace needed to trust Him more.

We really can trust Jesus. I cling to that lately, as the bittersweet ebb and flow of a life turned upside down causes tears to spring to my eyes at the most unexpected moments. I came home the other night to the dismal discovery that my dog had chewed through a basket and left the pieces recklessly strewn about the hallway.

And I cried. I cried like an emotionally disturbed child who just wanted to take her E-Z Bake Oven into the bathtub with her. I believe that was the moment that I came to the startling realization that I am, in fact, in the midst of trying to adjust to this new piece of my life. And some days, it’s hard. This much change at one time makes my head spin.

Don’t get me wrong-there are an infinite number of things I love about being home. I can’t do justice to how glorious it is to be around the people I’ve missed so much until somebody teaches me how to do a cartwheel!

The thing is, there are other people that I miss now. Life as I knew it for two years is done-and suddenly, Dakar feels very much like Narnia must have felt to Lucy after the White Witch had been defeated. It was an entirely different world that was real and somewhere-…but she was never quite certain as to how to get back. As the years slipped by, she must have fought the gnawing feeling that her time in the snowy land past the wardrobe doors had simply been a dream.

Some days, Dakar feels like it never really happed. But in the drowsy split-second between sleep and my eyes fluttering open in the morning, I sometimes still half-expect to wake up on the dirty floor next to Michelle as the drunken lullaby of the mosque echoes throughout our room.

But I don’t wake up next to Michelle anymore. In fact, there are very few things about my life that are unchanged. It’s a sweet opportunity to press into Jesus and make much of Him-…and when I’m not doing that, I’ve sadly perfected the subtle art of taking my stress out on my favorite people. Let’s be real.

One of my first days at work, my boss handed me a credit card and asked me to run to the Apple store to buy an Ipad as a door prize for an event we were hosting. I drove to the mall in a sort of daze, unable to wrap my mind around the idea that we were about to spend over 500 dollars on a door prize, when there are people that I know just a seven and a half hour plane ride away that can’t always afford to eat. I’m not saying it was wrong. I’m just saying it was hard for me to do it.

It feels almost as though I’ve borrowed someone else’s life. That the cubicle at work, the pencil skirts and heels, the air conditioned car, the gloriously fluffy bed-those can’t possibly be mine. Something in me hesitates to buy a full gallon of milk-as though at any moment, I might discover that it’s time to leave again, and have to gulp down the whole thing before hopping on a plane.

I’ve said that I’m going to keep up with the blog, and I intend to. It’s just that these days, I’m not always entirely certain as to what to write about. The stories are so different now. But Jesus is the same, and He’s called me here every bit as intentionally as He called me to Africa. So hang with me as I figure out what that looks like-and how to write it down. :)