Blue is a Circle

Title

2012-02-08T17:57:00.001-06:00

In October 2008, a friend asked me an important question. Today, I have an answer. (No, I'm not telling you what it is.) (But . . . you're invited to the release party.)

Mad.

2011-10-25T06:46:00.001-05:00

I have a friend, whom I'll call Matthew (because that's his name), who's a bit of a weather nut. Tonight on Facebook, he posted that he could see the aurora borealis from his house.

In Wentzville.

Missouri.

I wouldn't have paid much attention (read: I would've assumed this was one of Matthew's red-bull-and-cosmic-brownie-induced hallucinations), except that his status included a very official-looking Public Information Statement from the National Weather Service. So, I did what any rational, St. Louis-suburbanite mother would do at 9:15 pm on a school night in the middle of Game 5 of the World Series:

EVERYBODY! LET'S GO! C'MON! GET IN THE CAR!

My 13-year-old was game, almost without hesitation. My two-weeks-from-16-year-old, however--who was on the phone with her boyfriend--responded, "Nah, that's okay."

"NAH? THAT'S OKAY?! It's the AURORA BOREALIS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. This isn't going to happen again. We live in MISSOURI! Bring your phone and let's go!"

"Oooooookaaaaaaay."

And so, the hubby and the teenagers and I headed west, into the dark.

I just knew we'd see it. My girls had been away for four days, and I couldn't think of a cooler way to welcome them home then this crazy, too-close-to-bedtime treasure hunt. I searched for an unlit, safe place to pull off the highway. (Note: When it comes to rural highways, unlit and safe are mutually exclusive.) As time passed and the sky remained decidedly un-borealis-ish, I began to feel less certain.

"Oh, please God. I would really appreciate this one."

Nothing.

We left one highway for another. "No, really, God. Seeing the aurora borealis would be a true gift. Please?"

Nothing.

"Can you at least give my girls a glimpse?"

Nothing.

By then, we'd driven deep into the middle of nowhere, and my 13-year-old very calmly offered that she was feeling "uncomfortable" with our whereabouts. Admitting defeat, I turned east.

Ninety minutes of wasted driving and a terrible night's sleep later, I'm still mad. Yes, I'm over-reacting: My aurora borealis is Veruca Salt's golden egg. I know I'm being ridiculous, but I'm mad anyway. Frustrated. Feeling passed-over.

I wish I had a pretty bow of an ending for this post . . . some corner to turn . . . something at least worthy of a cheesy devotional guide on the clearance rack at Family Christian. But i don't.

I just don't.

Dear Lady

2011-05-21T00:17:00.001-05:00

Dear Lady,

I noticed you.

And your shrieking two-year-old.

I was aware of the businessmen to your left as they struggled to hold a conversation. I could feel the woman to my right, the one in the scrubs, bristle with every whine and cry from your curly-headed girl.

I silently cheered your efforts to distract her with your necklace. I smiled to myself as you stood up to bounce her and gently encouraged your son to take his time with his lunch.

I'm normally too shy to strike up conversations with random people, but I felt compelled to push pause on iTunes and say, simply, "It gets easier. I promise."

"Oh, she's my third. It's her birthday. We don't normally go out for lunch because it's just so . . . difficult . . . "

I applauded your patience, and you smiled, thanked me, and said, "You know, no one ever bothers to tell you when you're doing something well."

Well, you are. You're doing wonderfully.

Thanks for inspiring patience and gentleness in this mom today.

With gratitude,

Kelley

I Should've Taken a Photo

2011-05-16T13:00:00.000-05:00

Every so often, I feel compelled to subject myself to we're-not-laughing-at-you-we're-laughing-with-you comments as they relate to my general domestic ineptitude. (Remember the brownies? How about the Christmas centerpiece?) Today is one of those days.

See, we're in the middle of a home remodel project that began with the statement, "Hey, honey? Now that I'm self-employed, I need a space," and has morphed to include the nightmarish self-install of 1200 square feet of laminate flooring and many gallons of one-coat-coverage-is-a-cruel-myth paint. (Among other things, of course. If you've ever engaged in a home improvement project, I suspect you, too, have walked in to The Big Orange Box with a one-item shopping list--gallon of paint for kitchen--only to leave with new outlet covers, a bathroom vanity, and a six-months-same-as-cash disclosure statement.)

My husband won't allow me to use the miter saw. Normally, he's bright enough--and interested enough in self-preservation--to support my feminist leanings. However, in the case of the toothed blade that spins at roughly 4000 rpm, he's rightly pointed out three things:

My work requires a lot of typing.
It's difficult to type sans thumbs.
I regularly injure myself walking through doors.

I almost argued the difference between large motor skills and fine motor coordination, but I understood his point: I'm clumsy and I'd likely lose a digit or two running the saw. Okay, fine.

Since I'm not permitted to use the saw, my purpose in The Project is limited to filling nail holes and painting. Oh, and pointing out additional and necessary elements of The Project that hadn't previously occurred to us, but that's a whole other (or, for my Nebraska friends, "whole nother") post. Today I will focus on the painting.

When I was in elementary school, I regularly received "Unsatisfactory" marks in art. More often than not, I earned such marks not because I'm a terrible artist (although that's also true), but because I tended to run out of time to complete assignments. If we were expected to draw a face, I would begin the work, discover my oval was lopsided, and throw it away. I'd begin again, notice the left eye was larger than the right, make the right eye larger to balance it out, discover that the right eye was now larger than the left, end up with a face full of erased eyes, and throw it away. I'd begin again, get all the way to coloring in the lips, go slightly outside the lines on the bottom lip, try to compensate with a little extra color on the top lip, and . . . well, you get the picture, yes?

Now, pick up that whole experience and overlay it on the guest bathroom:

Paint the top edge of the wall. Get green paint on the white ceiling. Attempt to touch-up ceiling. Get white paint on the green wall.
Pull blue tape from around the white doorframe and take a nice chunk of fresh green paint off the wall in the process. Touch up the green wall. Get green paint on the white trim. Rinse. Repeat.
Check on ceiling touch-ups and discover it's now two colors: "ceiling white" and, apparently, "ecru."
Swear.
Apply ceiling white. On the last pass with the roller, trip (somehow, in a bathroom that's approximately 2'x4').
Prevent a fall by leaning the roller (filled with white paint) on the green wall.
Climb up on the sink to remove the white paint from the green wall. Stand up on the vanity to reach the very last bit of white paint aaaaaand feel head graze the ceiling. Yes, the wet ceiling.
Think, "I should've taken a photo of this."

Now, if you'll excuse me . . . I have trim to paint.

Charlie and Rebecca

2011-04-08T11:56:00.002-05:00

Meanness. Next to arrogance, it's my least-favorite character trait, and there seems to be a lot of it going around right now. I'm not talking about epic meanness of the war and hate-crime sort. I'm talking about garden-variety, opportunistic meanness.

I was laughed at as a kid. The last-chosen-for-kickball poster-child, I was chunky and buck-toothed. My name rhymes with both "smelly" and "jelly belly," and I was creative and smart (read: weird and nerdish). I've grown into a bit of quirky adult with a deep fear of rejection, so admittedly I'm extra-sensitive to mean. In fact, I've been accused of not having a sense of humor. (I have a sense of humor. I just don't think tacking "I'm just joking!" to the end of a jab at my looks or age is funny.)

All that said, let me ask you this: Why is Charlie Sheen's trainwreck entertaining? Can we honestly not see his humanity? Given the right circumstances, how broken could you be?

Another question: How can our schools successfully run anti-bullying campaigns while grown adults make fun of Rebecca Black at the dinner table? I can't imagine what's going through her 13-year-old head--her HEART--right now. *I* couldn't stand up under the mockery.

I don't know . . . maybe I really don't have a sense of humor. Am I being too goody-goody? Is it ridiculous of me to think compassion is wasted on no one? What do you say?

We've Seen Worse

2011-02-17T07:03:00.005-06:00

Last night, I experienced what my husband is calling a Brownie Attainment Incident.

So, here's what happened:

I arrived home from a full day of work and errands to find a still-warm pan of brownies on the counter. I *had* to try one, of course; not eating one of my aspiring-chef's brownies is tantamount to setting aflame the glitterfied Mother's Day coupon book from third grade. Right? Right. Okay, so with that justification . . . I selected my four square inches of heaven-from-a-box; picked up a nearby, chocolate-covered (steak) knife; and proceeded to separate the brownie from the Pyrex pan.

Note to self: Disclose location of non-stick cooking spray.

Note to self again: Steak knives aren't meant for brownie liberation. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Oh, I neglected to mention that the pan was perched on a flimsy cooling rack. So, I held the pan steady with my left hand while I (a bit overly enthusiastically) ran the knife under a brownie and ...

(You know where this is going, right?)

... straight into the web of skin between my left thumb and index finger.

Mhm. Yes. Yes, that's what I did.

I said, "Ow! Ow ow ow! OW!," dropped the brownie, and ran my hand under the kitchen tap . . . an excruciatingly painful maneuver. Presumably the knife fell out of my hand (I for-certain didn't *remove* it), and just after I wrapped my narrow--but 40-feet deep--wound in a dish towel, I had the wherewithal to put the weapon in the sink . . . saving my family from a reprimand that would've sounded something like, "Hey! Don't use that knife! It's Exhibit B!"

So then came the phone call to Jack. (Jack's pretty much Iron Man when it comes to pain tolerance. Well, except for that one time when he got his index finger stuck in the lid of one of those pop-up cleaning wipe containers. But that's a whole other story.)

Me (quite calmly): "Hey, honey. How far away are you from bein' home?"

Jack (just finishing up small group): "I need to put the DVDs away, dump the ice bucket, put up the chairs, re-tile the bathroom . . . "

Me (still calm, but impatient): "Um, okay. Hey, I stabbed myself getting a brownie out of a pan, and it kinda hurts, and I need your assessment of my need for stitches, so could you ..."

Jack (donning Super Man cape): "On my way."

So, long story short, we determined the ER was order, just in case I hit something I shouldn't have. (Like there are things that *should* be hit when stabbing oneself with a chocolate-covered steak knife?) Despite the strong temptation to make up a sexier story--maybe something about being stabbed while rescuing endangered pygmy water buffalo--I was honest with the receptionist, triage nurse, nurse practitioner, ER attending physician, and patient care lady. That's right: I admitted to five medical health professionals that "I stabbed myself trying to get a brownie." I gave them permission to use me as their "Can you BELIEVE how stupid some people are?" poster-child, but they seemed thoroughly unimpressed. "Eh. We've seen worse."

So there you have it. Brownie Attainment Incident.

There's an up-side to this. My discharge paperwork includes not only the words laceration and puncture wound, but also stab wound. Yes! So, the next time I'm asked if I've ever had a stab wound, I can say, "Why, yes. Yes, I have." Admittedly, that's not *quite* as cool as being able to respond affirmatively to, "Have you ever been jailed for civil disobedience?" But it's close.

Darn close.

Cha-cha-cha-cha-changes

2011-02-13T22:58:00.004-06:00

I feel like I'm the poster-child for I-just-turned-40-so-I'm-getting-all-introspective-and-making-OMG-sized-changes.

P.S. I am not having a mid-life crisis. And, no that's not denial. It's a preemptive assertion because I'm concerned you're thinking it. Or will be shortly.

Tumblers

2010-12-22T01:14:00.001-06:00

Okay, you know that neurological wackiness called synesthesia? I don't have it. But I have this other weird thing:

I feel words.

No, I don't feel the emotions conjured up by words. That would be normal and not particularly blog-worthy. This, though? This "feeling" words? It's like they have mass. Except that's not quite right either, because it's not as though I feel like I could catch them in a jar or carry them around in my pocket. (Although that would be remarkable . . . and could be an interesting start to a short fiction piece ala Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "Light is Like Water.")

I don't spend nearly enough time stringing words together, but on the rare occasion that I actually write something more significant than a bulletin announcement, it takes for-freaking-ever. I don't have an expansive vocabulary--just ask the people who beat the tar out of me playing Words with Friends. Regardless, I frequently agonize over word choice. My delete key is worn as smooth as a worry stone: Type a word. Delete it. Type the first three letters of another. Delete that one, too, along with the four words preceding. Rinse. Repeat.

Until.

I hit upon the "right" word. My ear pressed to the safe, the tumblers fall into place and the door opens, allowing me to pass through to the next thought. I feel those words--those "right" words--in my core.

(to be continued eventually maybe but pro'ly not)

Long Enough That I Forgot My Password

2010-02-25T17:29:00.004-06:00

That's how long it's been since I last wrote here.

I have a good explanation: Things on the homefront got a little whackity-whack shortly after my last post. Of course, now that six months have passed, I guess it's time to write about said whack. Yes?

The Leadership Summit #5 (Boo on Wireless)

2009-08-07T07:55:00.005-05:00

Yesterday I commited to posting my five key take-aways from each Leadership Summit session. Unfortunately, my wireless tanked on me shortly after typing that. Boo on wireless.

I'm easily frustrated by technology glitches, and so I found myself paying more attention to trying to get my stupid computer to work than to the speakers. So, I'm leaving the laptop at home today. My plan is to take notes today the, uh, "vintage" way and then blog my top 5's this weekend.

In the meantime, if you're anxious for thorough session notes, check out Tim Schraeder's blog. That guy's a rock star.

The Leadership Summit #4 (Hamel)

2009-08-06T11:50:00.004-05:00

Manage Differently NOW

Success is a self-correcting phenomenon. Most of what we do today will be rendered irrelevant by the future. (Note: This doesn't apply to our credo beliefs; it's about our methods.) We must embrace humility as a survival strategy.
We must overcome the temptation to take refuge in denial. Every organization is successful until it's not.
We must generate more strategic options/more new thinking. It takes 1,000 crazy ideas to generate the one that will transform an organization.
We must de-construct what we already do. Look at our initiatives and ask, "What hasn't changed for three years and why?" Is it better to plant clones of our church or to develop radically unique approaches? It's easy to mistake the end of your rut for the horizon. God expects us to be as unconventional as it takes to get His message out there.
We must get rid of top-down, autocratic systems. When the mental models of those in leadership depreciate faster than their power does, we're in trouble. Is the challenge building great leaders or to develop organizations that can thrive even without super-heros at the top? The early church was spiritually powerful and institutionally weak, and the church today is often the opposite.

Leadership Summit #3 (Hybels, Cloud, Lencioni, Fiorina, Ireland)

2009-08-06T11:04:00.005-05:00

Hiring, Firing, and Board Meltdowns

When you make a decision about someone in a great state of need, you'll idealize them into something you want them to be.
To really get to know a job candidate, take them out of the typical interview situation and into another setting where you'll see the "real" person. (Lencioni takes 'em shopping.)
It is not compassionate to be dishonest with people. It's disrespectful. The most important gift you can give someone is candor--with care, concern, and compassion. The kindest form of management is the truth.
We ask people in leadership to do things that they're ill-equipped to do, and then we wonder why sickness spreads through our organizations.
If people have to be laid off because of economics, handling the situation with care and clarity is critical.

Leadership Summit #2 (Hybels)

2009-08-06T09:28:00.009-05:00

Leading in a New Reality

Sometimes you have to make a philosophical decision--not an economic or pragmatic one--if you truly believe that the local church is the hope of the world.
Advocate for the powerless and hold the powerful accountable to do what they should be doing.
We must have an adequate replenishment strategy in place to offset how we're pouring ourselves into our work, especially in this new reality. "The pace at which I'm doing the work of God is destroying the work of God in me."
Develop a planned negligence strategy. Decide what you can ignore. Determine the opportunities you don't need to take advantage of. Reorder relationship priorities toward those who give you energy and away from those who deplete you.
The best thing you bring to the table is a filled-up bucket, a fresh spirit, and a grace-filled demeanor. So do whatever you can to get in that condition.

Leadership Summit #1

2009-08-06T09:04:00.006-05:00

It's day one of the Leadership Summit (TLS) . . . and I'm trying to get myself settled in and settled down. I look forward to TLS every year with a mixture of anticipation and, if I'm being honest, stress. At the back end of the Summit, without fail, I walk away with a "Wow" or, maybe even more important, an "Uh-oh." But on the front end, I'm worried about what's not getting done in the two days I'm here instead of in front of my desk.

See my pride showing? I mean, seriously: Is the world going to stop spinning on its axis because I'm not working on my to-dos? Hrmph.

Anywho, I'm going to try to do a bit of live-blogging, but I'm challenging myself to do my top 5 (only) take-aways from each session. See you again soon.

Will You Listen, Too?

2009-05-17T17:15:00.009-05:00

I’m especially grumpy today. I had a plan in mind for how things were supposed to go . . . and they didn’t.

I was supposed to:
• run through Starbucks for my favorite tea,
• shop for yet another new Scoop-able shirt for Tuesday’s filming,
• stop by Trader Joe’s for some of those lovely crispy green bean snacks, and
• cap off the day with a family picnic at a swanky recreation area.

Instead, I’m:
• sitting poolside at the St. Peters Recplex,
• listening to Yo-Yo Ma through my super amazing earbuds,
• watching a group of girls trying to coax my daughter off the highboard (she finally jumped),
• taking advantage of free city-wide Wifi, and
• complaining to you about my thwarted plans via a $1500 laptop.

Umm, right. Poor, poor Kelley. This gives me cause to be grumpy? What is wrong with me?

I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me (feel free to add more): I can’t remember a time when I had a real fear of doing without. In other words, I’ve never lacked. Yes, I’ve been denied stuff . . . really important stuff (*cough) like hardwood floors and an Audi TT convertible with baseball glove interior and a backyard pool.

But I’ve never lacked a roof . . . a meal . . . shoes . . . an identity.

That identity thing? That’s huge.

I mean, don’t get me wrong: It’s not like I was picked first for dodgeball, captain of the cheer squad, sorority princess (or whatever you’d strive for there), or top-ranked in the Who’s Who of American 38-Year-Olds Who Desire to Write Books But Don’t Prioritize Writing (although that one is, at least, in the realm of possibility).

What I’m trying to say is that despite my heavy leanings toward the uncool, I still fit squarely in the category of Us . . . mostly, I’d argue, because of my socioeconomic status. As such, I’m afforded (pun intended) all sorts of intangible benefits: common courtesy, respect, the benefit of the doubt, eye contact.

And I’m starting to wonder—in the midst of my unreasonable grumpiness—if I’m creeping so far into the Us mentality—if I’m starting to take things so much for granted—that I’m beginning to treat people like Them. Don’t we all? At least to a certain extent?

I mean, we might go downtown and pass out blankets to Them on occasion. Or we might volunteer with Habitat for Humanity and help build Them a house. We might make a donation of time or money to a food pantry that services Them. I’ve done all those things. And because they’re easy and I’ve felt good doing them, I’m still Us, and they’re still Them. (I’m not saying these activities are bad, and I’m certainly not advocating that we end them. I’m just thinking aloud—dangerously, maybe. I've been wondering, lately, if we're even capable of true philanthropy or if there’s always an ulterior, prideful motive behind our efforts. But that's probably another post for another day.)

What’s the solution, then? Better government? Better schools? Better churches? Yes. Yes. Yes. But not the institutions. The people.

What if all of Us started treating everyone like . . . one of Us? What if we all remembered our basic humanity? What if we took the time to really see what’s going on? What if we expended the emotional and psychological energy required to care about what we see?

What if we listened? This guy is listening, and he's giving each of us an opportunity to be a better Us. Are you ready to hear? If so, They're ready to talk.

Reconcilable Differences

2009-04-05T23:46:00.007-05:00

In a classic Kelley move, I made an impulsive decision tonight: I've reinstated my Twitter account. (I'm certain I just heard a chorus of, "You did WHAT?!" from somewhere in the vicinity of Morning Star Church.)

I am very aware that I've been a bit back-and-forth on the whole idea of technology and relationships. In September 2008, I was all yippy-skippy about it all, offering three strong statements in defense of my love affair with technology. Five months later, I wrote a farewell missive to Twitter, sharing six quite personal reasons for my decision to bid it adieu.

So, why am I back? What have I learned in the last 60 days that justifies this preteen-like mood swing? Glad you asked. I'll address each of my reasons for saying farewell:

About 140-character bits. I had a real sense that Twitter was wrecking my capacity for higher-level thinking, 140-characters at a time. I've since realized that blaming Twitter for my slow-down in mental functioning is ridiculous. I was experiencing a slow-down because I wasn't sleeping and my nutrition was horrendous. Plus? Thinking in 140-character soundbytes may not be all that bad of a idea, given my leanings toward verbosity. Don't you think?

About productivity. In my farewell post, I explained how Twitter hijacked my time. And I've gotta be honest: This is the one thing I'm most concerned about as I rejoin the conversation. I'll want to follow every link, look at every TwitPic, respond to global questions, and more. But here's the deal: I've recently discovered that I actually have, and can exercise, a goodly amount of willpower. Case in point: I've stopped biting my fingernails. Another: I have a leftover pizza in the fridge, and even though I love cold pizza almost as much as complicated ice cream, I haven't touched it. Yet another: I've willed myself to use my elliptical machine for at least 30 minutes, five-six days every week for the last three months. It boils down to this: Some things are difficult to manage. But some things are worth managing.

About missing things. In short: I'm going to give myself permission to pay attention when I can and to tune out when I need to. And that bit about self-doubt? Again: Not Twitter's fault. That's a whole other Oprah, and it's absolutely ridiculous of me to tune out voices like Kem Meyer's because of my lack of self-confidence.

About being all up in each other's jelly beans*. Here's what I have to say about this concern of mine: It's real and it's a problem. However, this too can be managed through common sense and discernment. Will I still occasionally offer TMI? Of course. That's just how I'm wired up. Will I be, overall, more discriminating about what, when, and how much I tweet? Absolutely. (Which brings to mind the difference between authenticity and transparency--but that's another post for another day. Or, more likely, month.)

*(I learned that phrase at Revolve. It sounded like it meant being in one another's business, and I've been waiting for a chance to use it. Someone clue me in if it means something entirely different. Please.)

About caring who follows me and pride and such. I crave affirmation, and so I'll continue to struggle with this. The key, I think, is deciding not to care about followers and grades and such . . . and then acting like I don't care . . . until I actually don't. This is an ongoing issue for me--the issue of not really behaving as though I have an audience of One. Being away from Twitter for 60 days didn't cure me of that, and I don't think Twitter was feeding my pride nearly as much as I suspected it was.

A new piece: For the last eight weeks, I've felt an acute sense of missing out on a conversation. One of the main reasons I signed on to Twitter in the first place was so I could learn from professionals around the country whom I don't have easy access to any other way. But what I've come to understand is that the knowledge base is just a small piece of what I'm missing. What I've really been missing is the sense that I'm a part of something bigger than me, bigger than Morning Star Church, and bigger than my part of the country. When I hear about what's happening in churches in Georgia and Indiana and California, I'm reminded again and again that the local church really is, as Bill Hybels says, "the hope of the world."

So, that's basically it. If you're unimpressed with my reasons, check out Kem's lastest post. And if you're still unimpressed, that's okay. As for me, I'm venturing out to the Twitterverse once again . . . more humbly, carefully, and reasonably, than before. It's good to be back.

itjustgotpersonal.com

2009-04-03T13:50:00.000-05:00

03.29.09, 9:48 pm (Or: There's No Place Like Home)

2009-03-29T21:47:00.001-05:00

Goodness . . . I kinda left y'all hanging there for a bit, didn't I? The last couple of days of my Guatemala experience were a little nutso, to be honest (power outage at the mission house, more police escorts, fresh cow snouts, a hike up an active volcano, a drive through a blizzard, and more).

Although I have nearly a dozen posts brewing in my head, real life abruptly begins again tomorrow, and so I've just gotta get some sleep. Thank you so much for coming alongside me . . . reading my blog, praying for me, and just generally sending encouraging thoughts in the general direction of Guatemala.

More soon.

03.28.09, 11:09 am (Or: Little Guy)

2009-03-27T12:09:00.005-05:00

03.28.09, 10:51 am (Or: Smiles)

2009-03-27T11:50:00.005-05:00

03.27.09, 11:18 pm (Or: I Heart Lists)

2009-03-27T07:53:00.002-05:00

The thing about mission trips, I’m learning, is that emotions are all over the place. Earlier tonight, I was a wreck. Now I’m giggling to myself. Since I can’t sleep, I figure I might as well share what I’m giggling about.

1. I came here with two, 50-pound suitcases, one stuffed with supplies that we’re leaving here. That bag is now empty, and so I’ve transferred all my dirty laundry to that one. Although having all my dirty stuff in one place satiates that mild OCD I keep talking about, I’m a little concerned. Here’s why: If customs gets curious about what’s in that bag, I’m liable to be detained for transporting biological weapons. Seriously funky. I’m just being honest.

2. There was this little plant at Sarita’s place that curls up its leaves when you run your finger down them. Weird and wonderful.

3. On the road between La Democracia and San Lucas, there’s a spot in the road that’s on a decline . . . but if you pull to the side of the road, stop, put your car in neutral, and take your foot off the break, you’ll roll backwards . . . which, if you’re paying attention, you’ll realize is uphill. Uh, how’s that work?

4. In Guatemala, Diet Coke is called Coca Cola Light.

5. Years ago Oprah revealed that the most germ-infested place in the world is the bottom of a woman’s purse. Yeah, well . . . I’d hate to take do a culture on the stuff that’s on the bottom of my little backpack after accidentally setting it down on the bathroom floor of the Puma station outside La Democracia today. Oh my goodness that bathroom was disgusting.

6. Remember how I said you can’t flush toilet paper here? Here’s another fun fact about toilet paper in Guatemala: It appears to be optional in restrooms. See # 5 and #7.

7. This afternoon, I saw someone selling four-packs of TP out of the back of their pickup truck.

8. In the last five days, I’ve eaten an absurd amount of dried fruit, nuts, Fiber One bars, dry-roasted edamame . . .and those chewy Rolaids.

9. I miss my elliptical machine.

10. Driving in Guatemala City is an experience unto itself. Also? Pedestrians have NO rights. If you step out in front of one—even with plenty of room—it’s apparently okay for drivers to run you over for the sport of it.

11. Guatemala has 33 volcanoes, four of which are active and one of which I get to hike up on Saturday morning. It’s one of the active ones, so we don’t get to go up to the crater, but I’m told we’ll see flowing lava and we’re supposed to bring stuff to throw in it. I’m so stinking excited I can hardly stand it. (Different, and less sarcastic, than the “Whoopee doo” in the post below.)

12. Gloria, the pastor’s wife at the feeding center we visited today, prayed a blessing over us, “even the blond ones.”

13. I met a Guatemalan girl today named Kelly. Maybe she spells it with the extra E, too.

14. I’ve been told that I can buy--in O’Fallon--the same cornmeal (for tortillas) and refried black beans they use here. Sa-weet!

15. I’m confused about why it’s colder near the top of this mountain than at sea level. Doesn’t heat rise? Aren’t we closer to the sun up here? Help me out, people.

03.27.09, 8:27 pm (Or: Surrounded)

2009-03-26T21:27:00.015-05:00

This may be long. Bear with me? I'm very concerned that I won't do this post well. Please, please, please don't finish reading with a, "That's nice." Please don't let my fatigue-induced writer's block to be an obstacle. Please.

Part the First: Sand
We began today with breakfast at Eden Pacific Hotel in Puerto San Jose, and then waded in the ocean for about 20 minutes at a black sand beach. All I can say is this: "Whoopee doo." If you know me, you know I'm in love with ocean. That my only response to that beach is "Whoopee doo" is indicative of how the rest of the day unfolded.

Part the Second: Agua
Our scheduled stop was at a church plant in a place called Masagua . . . but, as is typical for mission trips, I'm told, we had a last-minute change of plans. Instead, we ended up doing VBS at a primary school down the street. Although the front of the building was painted up all Noah's Ark-ish, it was a public school. The kids were a BLAST, and their parents (and neighbors, from the looks of it), stood outside the school gates watching our presentation. And then the cops came . . . but only to watch. And that scored us another police escort for the day.

Part the Third: Squatters
We spent the afternoon with about 50 children at a feeding center and church in La Democracia. Pastor Cesar and his wife, Gloria, have been involved in this work for over 20 years, and they're truly astounding people. They introduced us to Roberto, a 13-year-old boy whom they took in last year. Roberto's father disappeared (or maybe it's that they're not sure who his father is), and he lost his mother to a drug and alcohol addiction. Cesar and Gloria were granted permission from Roberto's grandmother to care for him. Until that point, he'd had no education whatsoever. He's in second grade now (he's 13, remember) and is planning to study medicine. That this little guy can think beyond next week is remarkable. That he even wants to is miraculous.

After VBS and lunch (I limited myself to just two tortillas), we had the opportunity to visit one of the feeding center kid's families. Maria is a 13-year-old girl whose mother "took off with some guy" and whose father works long hours in the sugar cane fields. She has a couple of brothers, at least, and a 16-year-old, unmarried sister, who is seven months pregnant.

When we arrived at Maria's home, I felt okay initially. I've seen "shelter" like this before, even in downtown St. Louis. It's a shanty-town, really. There are seven families who've built a compound on a dirt hill. Each family's area is separated from the others with tin sheeting and black plastic tied to sticks and hold taut with string. Inside Maria's "home," there's a tiny lean-to with three beds, a "kitchen" area, and a chicken coop with the most pitiful-looking birds I've ever seen.

Up to this point, I was all fine. And then we were introduced to Maria's pregnant sister. As I was looking around, I overheard the tail end of a horrible sentence, ". . . have the baby at home." I leaned over to a teammate and asked what was just said. "Well, these girls don't go to a hospital to have their babies. They have them at home with no medical assistance."

Done. I'm done. I cannot fathom this girl-child having her baby in the dirt. Please do not remind me that women all over the world do it. Please do not remind me that women in the States did that not too many years ago. I don't care. It's not right. We have birthing suites. She has dirt. Please do not remind me that she doesn't know any different. Please do not remind me that, in many ways, she's better off than US Americans are. This is a medical issue, not a material one.

I managed to hold it together for the rest of our visit, understanding that bursting into horrified tears in front of the family was completely inappropriate. But I have to tell you, my throat has never burned quite like that. My lips have never trembled quite like that. My knees have never gone weak with sorrow quite like that.

I had a brief internal debate about taking pictures of Maria's home. I almost didn't, because I don't want to exploit her family's condition. At the same time, as a teammate commented today, it's important that you understand that what's happening here is not just some National Geographic special. This is me taking these pictures. I'm experiencing it. It's real.

Part the Fourth: Surrounded
On the two-hour drive back to San Lucas, our van-load managed to pull themselves together. I could not. Honestly? I didn't want to. It seems like I've expended a ridiculous amount of effort in the last several months trying not to feel things. (I didn't realize that until I just typed it.) Instead, I pulled out my iPod, plugged my ears, and cranked the volume on a song called "Surrounded." My dear friend, Mark Roach, wrote this song in response to a worship experience he had. Or . . . he wrote it so I would listen to it years later, sweat running down my back, weeping out the open window of a Mitsubishi van on my way up a mountain in Guatemala.

In yesterday's post, I used the phrase "in this place" four times. In Mark's song, he uses that very same phrase: "I'm surrounded/I'm astounded by your presence in this place./ I can hear You/I feel so near You/I can almost see Your face./ I am clothed in love, surrounded by your grace."

In the midst of all this grief and conviction and anger I'm feeling, I've never felt more palpably the Spirit of God in any one place. How can I say that when Maria's sister is going to give birth to her child in that shanty town? How can I say that when Roberto went for 12 years with no education, no father, and a neglectful mother? I just can.

In fact, I can say with no hesitation that God has His hand all over the poor in this city. Then why are they still poor? It's more complicated than this, I'm certain, but the image in my head at this moment is that while God's hand is over the poor, the people who could do something about it keep pushing God's hand away.

I will not push His hand away. You?

03.26.09, 6:15 am

2009-03-26T07:15:00.008-05:00

Good morning! Just wanted you to see this picture . . .

We're heading to breakfast on a black sand beach* somewhere on the coast this morning and then we'll be off to a couple of feeding centers to hang with the kids. More later (of course).

*Black sand from lava dust. WAY cool.

03.25.09, 11:20 pm (Or: So Worth It)

2009-03-26T00:54:00.006-05:00

(I just finished the post below, and I’m pretty much spent. But I want so much to share this last thought with you. So, please excuse a lack of poetry here, and pretend like we’re just sitting down for coffee or something. Plus? I'm sitting in the dark really late at night in a foreign country, and I'm a little nervous . . . despite the armed guard, Isaiah the guard dog, and plenty of razor wire around the compound.)

Tonight, one of our teammates asked us this question: “At what point today did you find yourself thinking, ‘Oh my gosh, this trip has been so worth it?'” I had a great one of those moments today.

This morning, Sarita’s school kids did a closing program for us, and at the very end, they presented each of us with two gifts. I got a stack of beautifully decorated cards and this bowl, made from the shell of a medicinal fruit that's native to the area. (It's not out of focus in real life, of course. Ha.)

A sweet, shy 5th grade girl walked up to me, handed me the bowl, and gave me a quick hug. As the program wrapped up, I kept thinking, “I need to know her name.” Just before she walked back to class, I gathered up my courage and asked her for her name. “Marina,” she whispered.

A few minutes later, I realized she was still hanging around, so I decided I was going to get this girl’s picture. I leaned down next to her, held out my camera ala MySpace profile shot, and suggested, “Sonrisa!” (smile). I showed her the photo, she giggled (with her hand over her mouth, of course), and that was that.

On the way to Guatemala City, I was looking through my photos, and I realized that I had been trying to get a good photo of Marina for two full days. Although she seemed to want her picture taken, she’d shy away from the camera just as I clicked the shutter. Not this time, though. This time, she smiled.

So here's my “so worth it” moment. I look like heck, and I don't care.

03.25.09, 10:30 pm (Or: Wrestling)

2009-03-26T00:45:00.011-05:00

Why does God allow people to live in these conditions?

This question’s been asked in several different ways in the last couple of days, but this particular phrasing is the one that wrecks me . . . because it assumes another question: Why does God allow me to live in my conditions?

Enter Bono.

I mentioned on this pre-Guatemala post that Bono is at least partially responsible for my decision to come on this trip. (I may have written about this some time ago; if so, please pardon a moment of review.) Up until a couple of years ago, I wasn’t all that yippy-skippy about foreign mission work. When someone started talking about their experiences in Honduras or Russia or China or wherever, I tuned out and, more self-righteously than I really care to admit, countered with something like, “How nice for you. Personally? I think we have plenty of people to help right here in our backyard.”

But then a couple of years ago, I heard an interview with Bono that blew me away. I can’t remember the exact question he was asked, but it was something along the lines of, “So, what would you say to Ms. Holier-Than-Thou Hartnett?” His response: “Can an accident of longitude and latitude really mean the difference between life and death?”

Last night, I shared that quote with our team, and I was met with a challenge. My teammate responded that nothing is an accident and God makes no mistakes and there’s a God-inspired purpose for everything.

And so I was left with a conundrum. Because I believe what she said. But I agree with Bono.

I woke up this morning tearful. I cried at breakfast. I cried at the feeding center. I just could not wrap my head around the idea that any of this—what I’m experiencing in this place—is on purpose. Want specifics? Fine. Here are some things I’ve come to understand in the last 48 hours:

In this place, girls are raped—in their own homes by family members and friends—as young as eight years old. And then they’re told they have to keep silent about it because it’s their fault. They’re told to ask God for forgiveness for whatever sin they committed that caused them to be raped.
In this place, children die of starvation and lack of medical care. Their teeth are rotting out of their heads. They wear the same clothing day after day after day after day. Until very recently, their parents were taught that giving their children affection of any kind was wrong.
In this place, the government intentionally keeps people poor so they can continue to oppress and control them.
In this place, a woman who lives with her children in a 10x10’ mud hut with a dirt floor was given a roof. When she was asked what additional help she needed, she responded, “I have a roof. What else could I possibly need?” (And just to be clear: This does not bother me just because I’m a US American who believes everyone’s entitled to a cell phone and television and dinners at Denny’s and Gap jeans. I'm not talking about icing-on-the-cake stuff. I'm talking about basic physical needs.)

So this? This place? This is all part of God’s master plan? I don’t buy it. I won’t. This place can only be explained by an accident of longitude and latitude. Except that God is sovereign.

So what’s a simple girl like me supposed to do with all this? Huh?

One of my teammates is of the opinion that this is not God’s plan, but “this place” exists because Christ-followers aren’t doing their jobs. Another commented that the whole mess is because of free will and original sin. Another wondered if God allows people to live like this so that those of us with more have a way to live out our faith. (She didn’t say it quite like that, and it sounds wretched the way I’ve relayed it, so please: No judgment over that.)

Ugh. I usually try to wrap up the loose ends of my posts into some kind of clever thought. There just isn’t one tonight.

03.25.09, 5:10 pm

2009-03-25T18:09:00.003-05:00

Just a quick post to let y'all know that we've arrived safely in San Lucas, Guatemala. (And by "y'all," I mean the three of you who are actually keeping up with me--which, apparently, doesn't include my mother.)

I think I'll have a more significant post tonight, but I wanted to offer a quick list. As you know, that's how I roll.

1. You oughta take note of the safely in the opening sentence. Apparently there was some "unrest" in Guatemala City today . . . enough that we were granted a police escort. Yeah. It's nice to be behind a nice, tall, concrete, razor-wired wall. That's all I'm saying.

2. There's a beautiful dog at the mission house named Isaiah. He's even pettable, unlike the strays all over Sarita's school and feeding center.

3. I've been weepy all day today. If I get to update again later tonight, you should expect less list. You've been warned.

4. I'm taking orders for Guatemalan coffee. It's $6/pound, and I guess it's the best coffee in the history of forever in all the universe.

5. My teammates are really freaking cool people.

03.24.09, 5:12 pm

2009-03-24T18:12:00.008-05:00

I wasn't going to do a list today, but I just can't seem to help myself. Just don't stop reading at this one, please, because I did a non-list post a bit earlier. Ready? Okay! (Channeling my inner cheerleader.)

1. You'll be very pleased to know, I'm sure, that I was able to take a warm shower today. (Honestly? I don't really care if you're pleased. I'm very pleased. I'm squeaky clean for the first time in what feels like 6 weeks. Ahhhh.)

2. You'll be equally pleased to know that our toilet is now flushing. This is important because Fiber One bars are quite effective.

3. We had chicken noodle soup for lunch today. See #6 on yesterday's list and #4 below.

4. Word has gotten out that I'm a vegetarian, and I'm feeling stupidly high maintenance because people keep asking me if I've found something to eat. Uh, hello? I've eaten my weight in homemade tortillas two days in a row. I'll be the only person in the history of forever who's gained weight on a mission trip. Anyway, I want you to know that I actually started to eat today's soup. I was carefully avoiding the chicken pieces when Randy (our incredible Mission Ventures host) brought a specially prepared bowl of veggies for me. Very sweet. Oh, and I was also all prepared to extract the ham and hotdogs from my omelet this morning, but I was offered a cheese omelet instead. And yes, I said "hotdogs" and "omelet" in the same sentence. Guatemalans put hot dogs on pizza, too. You'd be vegetarian if you lived here.

5. One of my roomies, Jennifer, is a morning person. And I don't just mean that she's pleasant. She's positively perky. She even sings good morning songs. I've not yet strangled her, because I love her. I'm just not making any promises about the days to come.

6. I forgot to tell you that the church we attended the other night felt very much like a Spanish version of Morning Star . . . right down to the meet and greet and parking lot hospitality. I mean, other than the fact that I couldn't understand much of anything (including the translator) and the reality of a security guard carrying an assault rifle, it felt very much like home.

7. I learned to hand-mix concrete today. It's amazing what gets accomplished around here with so very little. Jack, my I-can-fix-anything-with-duct-tape-and-baling-wire husband, would be mightily impressed by the Guatemalan people's ingenuity.

8. The girls at Sarita's school (where we're working and doing VBS) put their hands over their mouths when they giggle. It's one of the sweetest things I've ever seen.

9. My fear of contracting some wicked bug is curing me of my nail-biting habit. Whoot!

10. We have six kids with us on this trip, ranging in age from 11 to 17. I'm floored and completely humbled by their level of engagement. No laziness. No timidity. No selfishness.

11. I was concerned that I wouldn't remember many of the kids from yesterday because they'd be wearing different clothing today. The thing is, many of them weren't wearing different clothing today.

03.24.09, 4:33 pm (or: God is an Ostrich*)

2009-03-24T17:32:00.010-05:00

I was told before this trip that it wouldn't be a problem that I don't speak any Spanish. While that's certainly true--it really isn't a "problem"--the more honest response would have been, "No, it's not a problem that you don't speak any Spanish, but you should be prepared to feel unbelievably and overwhelmingly frustrated by the inability to carry on a conversation that includes any words other than gracias, de nada, por favor, no, and bueno.

If I were on a mission trip in an English-speaking area, I'd be on the floor with the kids immediately, asking them all kinds of silly questions. Here, I can barely understand their names when I'm brave enough to stutter "Como se llama?" Yes, of course, there's the universal language of hugs and smiles, and yes, I've been asking "Como se dice" (How do you say . . . ) more frequently. As a matter of fact, today I learned the word for glue. So there. (It's pegamento, if you care. Or even if you don't.)

All that said, I really am trying to take advantage of this opportunity by pushing myself past "freaked out." I'm even trying my best to stop caring so much about looking like an idiot*. It's just tough. I love to have one-on-one conversations with children--especially the ones everyone else seems to be ignoring--and I'm not able to do that here. That's all.

Sigh. Me siento muy frustrado.

*Incidentally, Pastor Keith isn't afraid at ALL of looking like an idiot. Today he tried over and over again to say, in Spanish, "God is with us." Instead he kept calling God an ostrich. The kids absolutely adore him, of course.

3.23.09, 10:06 pm (Part 2)

2009-03-24T00:06:00.007-05:00

I promised pictures, so here are four. Why four? Because my connection speed is somewhere between snail and slug, and uploading photos is killing my battery. I know: Booooooo. I'll post a whole bunch when we're back home.

P.S. There's a gecko in this hotel room somewhere . . . last seen scurrying under my bed.

This is one of Francisco and Manuela's children. (See #5 on post that follows.)

03.23.09, 10:06 pm

2009-03-23T23:00:00.004-05:00

I've been thinking about this post all day, wondering what bits I could--or should--share with you. I gotta be honest: It's not as easy to blog about this experience as I anticipated it would be. I really thought I'd be able to offer long, flowing, moving commentary-bordering-on-prose about what I've seen and heard and felt . . . but I keep coming back to lists. And the list I'm about to share with you feels especially strange, because it's an odd mix of the amusing, the amazing, and the appalling. I worry that perhaps I should wait to blog until I can wrap a nice little bow around my thoughts . . . but maybe it's really okay for you to see the raw footage instead.

1. Just above and behind the shower head in our hotel room, there's a little device called the "widow-maker." It's so named because if you touch it while the water's running, you will be electrocuted. Presumably, it's worth the risk because it supplies you with warm-ish water. See #2.

2. "Warm-ish" is actually Guatemalan for "ice-freaking-freezing-cold."

3. I ate my weight in authentic, homemade tortillas at lunch today. Honestly? These things may have just overtaken "complicated ice cream" on my list of favorite foods. You have no idea.

4. After breakfast at the Pizza-Burger-Diner (no joke), our day officially started with hugs from more than 100 Guatemalan children. That's no hyperbole; it was like a receiving line at a massive wedding reception. Every single child in that building hugged every single one of us. Smile-hug-thank you-repeat.

5. This morning, a handful of us climbed into the bed of a pickup truck and traveled up the mountain to visit a man named Francisco. He and his wife, Manuela, live in a mud home with their three children. By Guatemalan standards, they have an incredible estate: one building houses their sleeping area and a front porch-like meeting space for Bible studies. A separate building houses their dining room and kitchen. Francisco farms pineapples, coffee, corn, cashews, and more. This set-up is virtually unheard of in this area.

About 10 days ago, Francisco was shot twice--in the head--by someone envious enough of his situation to want to kill him. The first bullet grazed him, leaving a three-inch gash on his scalp. The second bullet actually entered his skull just above his right ear and exited, miraculously, about three inches behind his ear . . . doing no damage at all to his brain.

It's clear, however, that his mind is irrevocably affected. As we visited with him, he lay in his hammock, avoiding eye contact and saying very little. Manuela sobbed, clearly overwhelmed by her husband's injury, by caring for three small children, and by fear. I should mention that in December, someone murdered Francisco's father--with a machete--for the same reason: his father had more. How could she not be terrified?

There's so much more to this story . . . but I'll have to wait for that red bow to wrap it up in for you. I'm doing a terrible job of inviting you in to that experience.

6. We also visited Francisco's mother today. She gave Pastor Keith a chicken at the end of our visit. We're having chicken for lunch tomorrow.

Huh. I guess I try to cover over difficult emotions with humor. Do I do that a lot?

03.22.09, 12:07 pm

2009-03-22T12:56:00.006-05:00

Okay, so after many, many, MANY hours of traveling and too many hours without teeth-brushing, we've arrived in sunny, downtown Chiquimula, Guatemala. I'm desperate to have a shower before lunch, so please forgive me the laziness of a list.

Here's what I've experienced/learned so far:

The Cracker Barrel in Bloomington, Illinois is unreasonably slow.
Chicago-area signage, especially at O'Hare, is terrible. F-. Because of said poor signage, I fully expect to receive a ticket and/or court summons for inadvertently getting in the fast-pass lane at a toll booth, thereby missing said booth, and shorting the State of Illinois $.80. For kicks, I waved and grinned at the cameras as we rolled through. (I realize my error might have been excused had I not gotten all cheeky.)
There's a really nice Taca Airlines ticket agent who will let your luggage slide on through as long as the weight can be reasonably rounded down to 50 pounds.
It is not permissible to flush toilet paper in Guatemala. You have to put in in the wastebasket instead. Yes, it's a gross as it sounds.
McDonald's here serves the same basic menu, but the breakfast platters come with black beans, goat cheese, and plaintains with cream. In addition to the sausage and eggs, I mean.
There are machine guns and pistols everywhere here. (Girls, if you're reading this do NOT freak out. We're perfectly safe.)
The "highway" between Guatemala City and Chiquimula is paved the entire way, is quite hair-pin-turny, and goes up and down and up and down and up and down. People pass one another anyway. We saw two semi-truck accidents . . . one a car carrier that dumped its load over the side of an embankment. Uh, whoops.
Although there was a seatbelt for me to use in our van, it did not work.
Praying for travel mercies, regardless of how Christian-ese that sounds, apparently does work, however.
When you first log on to the Internet in Guatemala, Google comes up in Spanish, as does Blogger. I had to tell my computer to translate for me. You'd think after a three-year relationship, Dell would know that I don't speak Spanish, but whatever.

Okay, that's it for now, kids. I'm off to brush the scum off my teeth (sorry, but it's true) and throw on some shorts for our lunch trip. Then it's back to the hotel to change into church clothes for a three-hour service that begins at 6:00 pm. Pastor Keith's preaching. Whoot!

(Pictures to come.)

Take a Dip in the Swirling Pool That is My Head

2009-03-21T14:15:00.003-05:00

In just a under an hour, I'll be driving five hours to Chicago to sit at O'Hare for six hours, awaiting a 3:30 am flight to Guatemala City, where I'll board an un-air-conditioned van for a four-hour ride to Chiquimula. Wow.

My head is a bit swimmy, full of wonderings and anxieties and worries and anticipations and . . . here. I'll just share. These are unfiltered and unedited:

1. I'm wondering how in the world I got from "We have plenty of people to help right here in our own backyard. Why do we send people overseas?" to "Sure! I'll give an international missions trip a try." It had something to do with Bono, but I just can't give him all the credit.

2. I'm thinking I may not actually get to sleep until sometime tomorrow night. That's a lot of hours to be awake at once, and I think I might get crabby.

3. I'm anticipating that God's going to knock me on my arse over any number of things. This is by no means an exhaustive list, but I suspect I'll learn some lessons about vanity, priorities, freaking out, materialism, pride . . . ugh.

4. I'm afraid my heart's going to break over a little girl and I'll want to bring her home. I'm sure my heart's going to break over some little boys, too, but it's the girls that really worry me.

5. I'm not looking forward to stinking for a week. But I am looking forward to some serious physical exertion.

6. I'm anxious about not knowing Spanish.

7. I'm feeling confident about surviving the week without my cell phone, Facebook, and work email. If the rumors about wifi at the mission house are true, I'll be blogging and checking for messages from my family. But that's it.

8. I'm wondering what the heck I'm going to eat, and I'm nervous about the possibility of being sick the whole time I'm there.

9. Speaking of sick, I'm starting to feel anxious about a long drive followed by a long plane flight followed by a long van ride. Sounds a bit puke-ish to me. Yes, I'll be popping dramamine, but still. Also, I couldn't find the non-drowsy kind, so I'll be sleepy and crabby for the next two days. (My teammates are going to be fed up with my very quickly.)

10. I'm wondering about all the usual junk: losing my passport, getting detained at customs, forgetting something important (not exactly a Walgreens on every corner in Guatemala, I'm guessing), and so on.

That's enough of that, eh? I'm signing off for today with the promise of much more insightful and entertaining posts to come. Gotta go love on my family a bit before I take off.

T-minus 45 minutes.

No hablo espanol*

2009-03-19T22:46:00.004-05:00

Ohmagoodness. In 48 hours I'll be sitting at O'Hare awaiting a flight to Guatemala.

*I know this requires a tilde. I can't seem to make one, though.

Dear Twitter: It's Not You. It's Me.

2009-02-08T21:08:00.006-06:00

Ten days ago, I was accused of being “addicted” to Twitter.

In case you’re thinking, “Uh, ‘scuse me? What’s Twitter?” here’s the brief explanation: Twitter’s a free service that allows you to send 140-character updates called “tweets” (via the web or your text-enabled phone) to, basically, anyone who cares what you’re doing.

I really like Twitter. I’m a think-out-loud girl, I enjoy non-sequitur, and ~~I’m nosy~~ I like to know what people are up to. I’ve been using Twitter for a year or so, I suppose, and I’ve sent over 1,000 updates to the 100 or so people who “follow” me. I’ve made connections with other church communications professionals from around the country, and my nearby friends and I keep close tabs on one another throughout the day. I dig Twitter.

So when my coworker ended a creative team meeting with an impromptu, accusation- and assumption-filled intervention, I was furious. I got all kinds of crazy defensive, had flashbacks to my blog post about relationships and technology, and, shortly after hissing, “You. Don’t. Even. Know. Me.,” stormed out of the room in tears.

A few minutes later, I wrote an email apologizing for my behavior and confessing that I typically only get defensive when there’s at least a shred of truth in someone’s accusation. As I pressed send on that email, one of my closest friends (who happened to be in the room during the Kelley’s-addicted-to-Twitter melee) asked to chat with me for a moment. He told me that while he didn’t agree that I was addicted, he’d been wondering for some time about the potential dark side of Twitter.

So I did the mature thing: I took up an attitude of, “Hrmmph. I’ll show them,” and I entered a self-imposed, week-long Twitter fast. Here’s what happened:

1. I discovered that I’d been thinking in 140-character bits. There’s nothing inherently troubling about that, I suppose, except that my capacity for more complex, higher-level thinking and processing seems to have suffered. Not kidding. Not even a little bit.

2. I emptied my email inbox in one day. I’ve been complaining for weeks (months?) about my overflowing inbox (average of 120 emails needing action/attention at any given moment) and about my inability to focus long enough to accomplish anything. In recent weeks, I’d even been seriously considering medication—for anxiety or ADD or whatever else might be causing my concentration issues. And while I’m not blaming everything on Twitter, it’s no coincidence that my productivity soared during my fast. Please don’t misunderstand—sending updates takes just moments, and reading updates from the 100+ people I follow takes just a bit longer. Except when those updates include links to blogs, photos, articles, and websites. In short, click-throughs were killing me. I spent time on things I had no time for, and I invested gobs of energy pulling my focus back to the task in front of me after jaunting about cyberspace on Twitter-inspired journeys. Yes, I could’ve ignored the links. But I couldn't. See #3.

3. I realized that I spent so much energy and time trying not to miss something *out there* that I was missing all kinds of things *right here.* I follow several influential movers-and-shakers in my field, and, through Twitter, I get to know what they’re thinking/doing/working on as they’re thinking/doing/working. It’s crazy cool. Since they’re so smart and inspirational, I became fearful of missing something important—something that would make me (seem) smarter, better, more informed, edgier, cooler, more relevant, more . . . you get the idea. So I clicked on every link. I read every blog post. I checked out every recommended website. I added every recommended book to my list of things to read “when I have time.” Trouble is, I’d been investing so much time, energy, and attention into what those brilliant folks have to say that I’d not been paying close enough attention to what was happening right here in my own context. Also? Following brilliant people in my field created nearly paralyzing angst. I can’t do my job like they’re doing their jobs, and I haven’t written books, and I haven’t spoken at conferences, and I don’t have a blog readership in the thousands (or even tens, in my case). I've spent so much time comparing myself to them that I've quit learning from them.

4. Twitter creates the illusion of “knowing” someone . . . aaaaaand it gets us in each other’s business way more than is necessary. Remember my friend who mentioned the potential dark side of Twitter? He’s a smart guy, and he gently informed me that, despite my arguably over-dramatic, you-don’t-even-know-me declaration, my interventionist has the illusion of knowing me because of the frequency and content of my tweets. Now . . . are 140-character sound bytes really enough to “get” someone? Even if those bytes occur several times each day? No. But they are enough to create an easy familiarity that can be dangerous. In other words, it’s entirely possible to get unnecessarily vulnerable over time—too intellectually/emotionally/psychologically naked—in 140-character increments. Not okay.

5. I was reminded that I care waaaaaaaay too much about what people think of me. Yeah, you’re right: This is not really news. Twitter, though, took it to a new level: During my fast, I reflected on how concerned I was about who was following me . . . and who had “unfollowed” me and why. I’d been spending time trying to find ways to get my field heros to follow me. And do you want to hear something really pathetic? I actually cared about my Twitter grade. Puh-lease.

6. Luckily, my Twitter fast knocked my prideful arse down a peg. Know why? I learned that no one in the Twittersphere actually cares what I’m up to. Despite my commendable Twitter grade (there I go again), I basically disappeared for a week, and no one asked after me. I’m laughing as I type this, because what in the world did I expect? That my followers (now called Twitter sheep!) would come to a screeching halt and beg me for more of my witty, insightful tweets? Whatever. The truth is, the people who really care about me and what I’m doing ask me . . . face to face. And they don’t require me to limit my response to 140 characters, either.

And so, I’m deleting my Twitter account. Some of you may feel that’s extreme, but let me say this: I’m not addicted to Twitter any more than I’m addicted to oreos and ice cream. But if I have easy access to oreos or ice cream, I will overeat. You know?

Again, Twitter: It’s not you. It’s me. And for the last time . . . Hartnett: Out.

(UPDATE: (1) Please know that I'm grateful to my interventionist. He thinks I made him sound like a big jerk in this post. He was 99.9% wrong in the moment, but the outcome was important. (2) I have plenty of far-away friends who can't ask me what I'm up to face-to-face, but they find ways to care about me anyway. Didn't mean to leave y'all out. Love you!)

But Happy is Square

2009-01-26T22:59:00.003-06:00

So, I started a second blog last night. It's not really a blog, actually . . . more like a sketch book. Anyway, go see. (It all started with Out of Left Field.)

Calling All Communication Directors and Such

2009-01-25T23:51:00.002-06:00

All righty . . . if you're a communications or marketing professional, I'd love to hear from you on this question:

How far should we go to protect our brand?

Here's why I'm asking. This week, I learned that one of our small group leaders designed and printed his own business cards to invite people to his group and to Morning Star. On the one hand, I'm all HOORAY. Inspired by Tony Morgan's recent post about church marketing, I've asked our entire church family to think of themselves as our marketing department. I also gave a talk at our in-house leadership conference challenging people to get out of their comfy Christian subculture bubble and start making friends with people who don't yet know Christ. So, it's great: This small group leader's doing exactly what I'd hoped.

Here's the maybe-not-so-hooray bit: What he designed isn't exactly an accurate reflection of our church. The logo's a cut-and-paste from our website. He used artwork that's dated and copyright-protected. I've already called him and fallen over myself thanking him for his initiative and for finding ways to reach out to his unchurched neighbors and friends. And I've already offered to come alongside him and provide him with a high-res logo and some current and legal-to-use artwork. I'm even thinking that the card he developed can be a jumping-off point for a standard invitational tool in our small groups ministry . . . and I told him so.

So, I already have the solution. I'm just troubled by the idea that perhaps I shouldn't have gotten involved to begin with. I shared this condundrum with one staff person, who wondered at what point we become snobs with this kind of stuff. Again the question: How far do we go to protect our brand? I know we can't know everything that's happening with our brand in the world . . . but should we necessarily enter the conversation when we are aware?

Would appreciate your feedback, y'all. Please be gentle with me, though: I'm still learning.

F. Scott Fitzgerald*

2009-01-16T09:55:00.007-06:00

I have these two ideas bugging me. They both seem true . . . and they seem mutually exclusive. So, they're wrestling one another in my head and, quite frankly, taking up far too much of what little intellectual energy I have.

Usually, talking and writing help me sort things through. (In grad school, I heard this statement and it's totally me: "Let me hear what I say so I know what I mean.") Unfortunately, though, I'm at work, and I can't just sit here waxing philosophical . . . but the ideas keep bumping into each other in my head and I've gotta find a way to let them go so I can concentrate on other things.

When I have a song stuck in my head, singing it aloud often releases me from it. I'm not sure if the same principle applies here, but it's worth a shot. So, forgive me: I'm going to just throw these two things out there and come back to them another time.

"It'll be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end."
"Everything ends badly. Otherwise, it wouldn't end."

(If you'd like to start the conversation without me, go right ahead. In fact, that'd be GREAT.)

*Brownie points to anyone who knows why this post is titled this way.

More Specifically . . .

2009-01-04T00:16:00.010-06:00

All righty. I've had some time to really think about 2009, and I'm now ready to offer up my specific resolutions . . .

First things first, though: I'll actually not be calling them resolutions; that label seems synonymous with failure. I considered calling them goals, but that word feels entirely too corporate . . . and calling them Bob feels too random. Even for me. So, instead, I'll be calling them my intentions. That word may prove too prone to loopholes and procrastination, but today it feels okay.

Here goes:

1. I intend to spend time in the Bible every day. I'll give myself the permission to spend a little time on some days and a lot of time on other days . . . but the point is that I will be exposing my heart, mind, and soul to at least a sliver of God's truths every single day. Only good can come of that. You know?

2. I intend to stick with cello lessons all year, and I intend to practice at least three days/week for at least 30 minutes each day. (I know I *should* practice every day, but I know that's completely unrealistic right now.) Lessons start Monday.

3. I intend to maintain my weight loss from 2008.

4. I intend to exercise and/or practice yoga at least four days/week for at least 30 minutes each day. (This will very likely prove to be the most difficult of my intentions. I absolutely loathe exercising. The only thing I dislike more is making phone calls. If you know me well, you know that's really saying something.)

5. I intend to write at least two articles/essays/stories and submit them for print publication.

Now, my last one is a little trickier to pin down. In this post, I mentioned my desire to shift my modus operandi from fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants to live-life-with-intention-and-purpose. This doesn't mean an end to spontaneity; it simply means an end to being late for everything and living off fast/convenience foods and spending too much money and feeling guilty about unwritten thank you cards and unmet deadlines. It also means getting more sleep and being a much more attentive wife and mother. I simply can't make individual ~~resolutions~~ intentions about all of those things, and so I took a look-see to discover any possible links among them all. I came to a "duh" conclusion:

My life is too busy. Full, I don't mind. Busy, though? Pretty much sucks and certainly isn't sustainable.

Interestingly enough, the solution seems to be somewhat of a movement in pop culture right now: Simplify. I've seen that word on wall hangings and cheesy folk-art figurines at Gordman's, in book titles at Barnes and Noble, and on t-shirts at Life is Good. I've heard people talk about it, long for it, complain about its elusiveness. And it's exactly what I need: Simplicity in my schedule, in my home, in my professional life, and, most especially, in my head.

So how do I turn this into an "I intend to"? Yeah, good question. I can't, in good faith, write "I will live simply in 2009." My guess is that simple living is, somewhat ironically, something to be pursued--perhaps over a lifetime. And at this season in my life, I'm not sure I know what simple looks like. So here's the best I can come up with:

6. I intend to explore simplicity. My first step is to work through this book and see what happens.

So, there you have it. I better get started . . .

Out of Left Field

2008-12-30T01:00:00.019-06:00

It's unreasonably late, but for some reason, this lady's on my mind. This is strange, and there's not much of a point. But here she is:

She's 94, and she aches. Neck, knuckles, the back of her head . . . just above the place where she'd lace her fingers together and fall back against her pillows, grinning at the boy's stories. Except her pillow is flat and scratchy and smells of bleach. And, of course, there is no boy.

On the good days, she doesn't remember him at all. But it's been a string of bad days and the morphine's not keeping him at bay and the only thing she can't remember is his name.

It was a long time ago, of course. No matter: Her still-keen (torturous) senses catch hints of him. A leather-sweat-grass smell: his ball glove. Rich coffee with a swirl of creamer: the backs of his knees in August. Wind seeping through the sill across the room: his low, slow whistle reserved for impressive baseball cards and his teenage babysitter.

They were in the yard--his Schwinn upside down and dripping from the hose, a splotch of soap bubbles on his left cheek. She only stepped inside for a moment . . . to put the cherry tomatos in the sink or put a pot to boil for mashed potatoes or to pour a glass of lemonade. She only turned her head for a moment. Just a moment.

Today, she turns her head into her pillow and, still trying to remember his name, cries for him again.

Ahead of the Curve

2008-12-27T22:39:00.005-06:00

So, it's only December 27, and I'm posting my resolutions early. Nice, huh? Makes me wonder if I ought to consider making 2009 the year I tackle procrastination. Nah . . . that'll be for 2010. Maybe.

Anyway . . . here goes:

1. Add regular, reasonable exercise to my lifestyle. (That's intentionally vague so as not to completely set myself up for failure.)
Last year, you may recall, I resolved to lose 20 pounds by my reunion. While I didn't quite make it by the reunion, I came darn close, and I've now lost nearly 25 pounds. (I have 5 more to go, and then I'll be all yippee skippee.) My favorite perk of losing weight? I like my back better. Yes, I know that's really weird . . . but it's true. Downside of losing weight? I can't afford to keep buying new pants, and saggy seats aren't all that attractive. Also, "toned" doesn't come automatically with "trim." This is unfortunate and will require actual movement. Movement beyond typing, even. Wii Fit and I are about to become best buddies.

2. This will sound familiar: Spend time in the Word every day. EVERY. DAY.
I don't think I even made it until February this year. This should be a given, not a resolution.

3. Get intentional.
I haven't fleshed this out entirely, but I feel like my modus operandi can be most accurately described as willy nilly. This applies to both tiny and ginormous pieces of my life:

planning meals
carving out time for Jack and for the girls
dealing with my work to-do list
investing in friendships
writing thank you notes
walking the dog
becoming a vegetarian (Fact: This was not so much a decision as it was a "Sure. Why not?")
learning new things just for the sake of learning new things
writing
writing
writing

In the spirit of getting intentional, I'll post more specific resolutions in the coming days. I don't know that I'll be able to go so far as to offer John Maxwell-esque goals and objectives . . . but who knows. (Those of you who know my aversion to Maxwell will be super impressed if I go that far, eh?)

How 'bout you? What're you thinking about for 2009?

Oh For a Time-Lapse Video

2008-12-03T01:50:00.026-06:00

Okay, so Morning Star is having this slow-down-and-remember-the-true-meaning-of-Christmas event for women this Thursday. Long story short: I offered to construct this über-cute centerpiece (Exhibit A) for our group's table.

Exhibit A

Some of you may look at this photo and wonder, "What was she thinking?" Well, to be honest, I was thinking, "I won't even have to turn on the stove! This thing requires no dirtying of bowls! I won't have to exercise every ounce of patience I own cutting butter into flour or waiting for the corn syrup mixture to reach the crackle stage! I won't throw dough across the kitchen trying to spin-clean the beaters on the mixer!" In other words, I'm basically lazy and I possess not a modicum of skill in that area of my home that's connected to the living room.

So, anyway. Here's the basic idea: Buy a 12" Styrofoam cone, cover it with foil, decorate miniature candies all Christmas-like, and then "glue" them to the cone with frosting. Next, enjoy accolades from women--young and old--as they fawn over your domestic prowess. ("Kelley! I had no idea you were so culinarily gifted! Have you considered a TV show?) Finally, offer your tree as a silent-auction-for-charity item, posing for a photo with the teary-eyed winner. Fight off paparazzi and politely decline requests for interviews with The Post.

Lest you see this photo and decide you could make it happen, I'd like to offer up some lessons learned. Because I care about you, and I don't really want you up at 2:39 am writing a blogpost about your disaster of a centerpiece.

Here goes:

1. You might think $20-worth of candy would actually cover a 17" Styrofoam cone. You'd be wrong. It probably would have covered a 12" cone . . . which was the directed size for this little nightmare-to-be. 12" just seemed too easy. Not that I'm normally an over-achiever.

2. You might think that frosting adds a bit of yum to the already-delightful mini-candy bars. You'd be wrong. It tastes something like a three-year-old licked it before you got to it. At least that's what Wilson's cookie decorating frosting tastes like.

3. You might think that copious amounts of frosting would create more stick-age. Wrong again. Frosting is, I discovered, an aider and abettor of gravity. Observe, if you will, Exhibit B. See that blank spot? See the candies laying on the plate where they don't actually belong? That's the beginning of the end.

Exhibit B

4. You might assume that my slightly OCDish tendencies would have compelled me to take the whole thing apart and try again. And you'd be partially correct. I took it apart because I forgot to wrap the Styrofoam cone in tin foil the first time around.

5. You might assume that on round two, I would have had a better plan. Not so much. I only had a different plan. It went something like Go Really, Really Fast Such That You Might Actually Outwit Gravity and Meanwhile Get as Much Frosting As Possible in As Many Places As You Own. Bodily and otherwise.

6. You might assume that candies are mute. They're not actually--at least not when planning a leap from a foil-wrapped Styrofoam cone. If you listen really closely, you can hear them try to counsel one another: "Don't jump, Rolo! What about the 3 Musketeers? You're their only support system, man!"

7. You might assume that Exhibit C was snapped just before I launched the whole thing into the laundry-room garbage can. Totally.

Exhibit C

The moral of the story? Don't try this at home boys and girls. Unless, of course, you want to try it before Thursday at 6:30 pm and deliver it to me. In that case, I'll arrange for much fanfare. And a Food Channel contract.

50K in 50 Days

2008-11-10T06:30:00.007-06:00

Ahem, ahem [clearing my throat before stepping on to my soap box] . . .

Number of children around the world who've never owned a pair of shoes*: 300,000,000. Yes, that's six-hundred million unprotected little feet. There is nothing acceptable about that number. Nothing.

Guess what? You can help do something about it. Nashville-based Soles4Souls has issued a challenge to bloggers and social media consumers to raise enough funds to purchase 50,000 shoes in 50 days.

Here's where you come in:

Open your wallet or your purse. Got 5 bucks? Good.
Got a debit or credit card? Of course you do.
Click here and purchase two pairs of shoes for $5. Not kidding. Two pairs. (I splurged and bought four pairs. $10. That's . . . what . . . two-ish venti skinny vanilla lattes?)
Congrats: You just participated in the biggest social media charity campaign in history. Pat yourself on the back for doing a really cool thing.
Please leave me a comment to let me know how you did. I'm curious to see how many shoe purchases this post can generate. I know there are a least four of you who read this thing pretty regular-like, not even including my mom. Don't embarrass me, 'kay?

Wanna take it up a notch?
Talk your fool head off about this project. Tweet about it. Blog about it. Post notes on Facebook about it. Snag a coolio banner from 50000shoes and stick it on your MySpace page. Email a link to this post to your friends and family. Ask your office-mates to skip the silly Secret Santa business and donate that $5 to this project instead. Just, please, do whatever you can. Thanks. Seriously.

*In case you're curious: There are 1,500,000,000 unworn pairs of shoes laying around in Americans' closets. Yup, that's the correct number of zeros. Five pairs of tossed-aside shoes for every one child without any shoes. Ugh.

Go Ahead and Yank that Rug

2008-10-24T07:45:00.005-05:00

This morning, I'm encountering what I believe to be the single most difficult aspect of being a Christ-follower. It goes something like this:

1. For all my adult life, I've believed a certain thing. I've felt it in my gut. I've debated it passionately. My opinion feels right. No . . . it feels true. Every fiber of my humanistic, mercy-filled, empathic-to-the-nth-degree, intuitive-to-the-core, underdog-supporting self is on board with this opinion.

2. Someone points out a Scripture passage that is 100% completely the opposite of what I've come to understand as truth.

3. Enter intellectual and emotional paralysis.

Topic du jour? The death penalty.

Campaign Reform

2008-10-22T07:02:00.010-05:00

Things I woke up wondering:

I wonder what would happen if presidential candidates--and their campaign machines--were no longer permitted to talk about the other candidates. At all. In other words, their communication would be completely limited to "Here's what I think and why," not "Here's what my opponent thinks and here's what's wrong with that, and by the way let me pull a few one-liners out of context, tack a 'verified by Snopes' label on it, and try to scare you into voting for me instead."

I wonder what would happen if every conversation about politics were based on fundamental rules of healthy communication: I-statements, reflective listening, seeking first to understand before seeking to be understood. Seriously. I'm turned inside out when I read things like, "Christian or Democrat: Pick one." Instead, why can't people own their own opinions and get specific: "I have difficulty reconciling what I understand to be a biblical worldview and the idea of supporting the death penalty" not "How can you call yourself a Christian and vote for someone who supports [insert your favorite issue here]."

I wonder what would happen if each nominee--from every party--were given the same, smallish amount of money to spend on marketing. I'm feeling more and more troubled all the time by the idea that someone could be elected president not because he's necessarily the best candidate, but because he has a brilliant marketing team. And don't even get me started on the amount of money that's being raised, spent, and--worst of all--borrowed. It's disgusting.

I wonder what would happen if bills included one issue so that the voting public had a more complete and realistic vision of what the candidates support and oppose.

I know I'm a simple girl with simple ideas. I'm just wondering.

When Pigs Fly

2008-10-16T01:02:00.007-05:00

Things you'll never hear me say [the silly version]:

1. "Pass the sushi."
2. "I slept like a rock last night!"
3. "I'm pretty sure I'm in the running for Mom of the Year."
4. "A pedicure would be so relaxing right now."
5. "Ohmagosh, I had the BEST run this morning!"
6. "I like my veal just a little pink in the middle."
7. "I'm just really not all that comfortable sharing my feelings."
8. "Laura Ingraham is my hero."
9. "Yeah, I'm totally okay with ending a list at #9."

Me on Wednesdays

2008-10-07T23:35:00.007-05:00

Trapped

Props to Jessica Hagy . . . apparently she's totally brilliant. If you haven't checked out her blog, go right now. I mean it.

Random #4

2008-10-05T21:40:00.006-05:00

Stuff I can't resist:

candy corn
sales at Old Navy
using a gift card the day I receive it
fire
the memoirs table at Barnes & Noble
correcting people's grammar (usually only in my head)
creating and re-creating to-do lists
sarcasm (this, I am aware, is not a good thing)
checking for blog comments
assuming that if someone's grouchy, it's because of something I did
those little donut-ish things at Chinese buffets
busy-ness
triple-checking that I turned off my flat iron . . . and then checking just one more time
ice cream
worrying that I've forgotten something I was supposed to be worried about (that's ate up, right there)
another helping of my mom's baked ziti (although it's loaded with meat, so who knows what I'll do now)
talking about work
reading anything instead of the Bible (Ugh. That was tough to admit.)
responding to email or text messages immediately, even if I'm in the middle of something crazy important (Tomorrow morning, I'm going dark until I finish all my "overdues" on Hiveminder.)
seeking praise
talking about my high school marching band experience any time I'm at a high school football game
reading the inside of a greeting card if the outside catches my attention
continuing this list of stuff I can't resist until I feel like I'm ending on the "right" number of things (I'm reading a book about OCD, and I think it's rubbing off.)

Startled

2008-10-04T09:13:00.005-05:00

I struggled to write this post because it exposes a degree of vulnerability that even I, ever-constant waver of the foam finger for transparency, find uncomfortable. Nevertheless, here goes:

This week, Mark asked me an out-of-the-blue question:

"So, what's the title of your book?"

For the next two minutes, the conversation went something like this:

KH: "Ummm, scuse me? I'm not writing a book."
MR: "Well, you need to figure out the title."
KH: "You mean a title for the book I'm not writing?"
MR: "Yeah. What's the title going to be?"
KH: "Hello? I'm not writing a book."
MR: "Well, the title's really important."

Am I supposed to write a book?

You need to know that I have viciously sarcastic, on-board editor/critic who is laughing his arse off right now. "You?! Write a BOOK? About what? The horror of not wearing makeup? Right. And who'd read it? You have, what . . . three people who even bother with your blog? Including your mother?"

When I relayed the book conversation to my husband, Jack, his first reaction was, "I think Mark should be subjected to random drug testing." Point one for my on-board editor guy. (Incidentally, Jack is not one of my three readers.)

When I shared the conversation with Emi, her immediate response was, "Well, that's nuts." Point two.

*sigh*

If you know me well at all, you understand that this post is NOT a self-indulgent plea for pats on the back and "go for it" comments. At the same time, you understand that I'm terrified that no one will say anything at all. And if you know me the best, you know that if I do get any "go for it" comments, I'll assume it's just because you're a really nice person and you feel sorry for me.

I think I'll quit and go stand in a really, really hot shower for awhile. And then I'll crack open--for about the sixth time--this book.

Rela-tech-ship

2008-09-30T23:20:00.005-05:00

Last week, Morning Star Church landed on the front page of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Long story short: We've been experimenting with using text messaging in worship. More specifically, we've invited our church family to send questions to the pastors during their message.

Before you get all "Say WHAT?" on me, let me clarify that all the questions go to a phone in the media booth where they're screened for relevance, and then they're fed to a computer monitor on the stage where the pastors can view them. Also:

No, the pastors don't flip open a phone during the message.
No, the pastors don't answer questions that have nothing to do with their message.
No, the pastors don't skip over the really hard ones, and they don't just give surface answers that will make everyone feel good.
No, there aren't cell phones ringing all over the auditorium.
No, text messaging isn't the only way someone can ask a question at MSC.
No, the pastors don't always have an answer. Yes, they're courageous enough to say, "I'm really not sure" instead of making up an answer just to sound smart.
Yes, the answers they give are biblically and theologically sound.
No, it doesn't make more sense for people to just raise their hands and ask a question because some people are afraid of being judged for having a question to begin with.
No, the questions are not staged.
Yes, these are actual criticisms we've heard--among others.

One of the loudest outcries we heard as a result of the Post article is that people are addicted to technology. "No one knows how to have a conversation anymore!" "Kids these days can't even spell for crying out loud." "Can't people turn off their cell phones for an hour?" You've heard these arguments. Perhaps you've even spouted one.

Some people complain that social media and texting are "replacing" real relationship. For me? Social media and texting are enhancing my relationships:

I'm connecting with people--more frequently and more consistently than I ever have. In the last few days, I've gotten real-time updates from friends about a death in the family, a sudden hospitalization, a first-ever homecoming date, and reactions to the presidential debate. I learned that a quiet church guy has an incredible wit, and I discovered that another church guy and I share the same wacky taste in music. All of my in-person interactions with these folks have an undercurrent of community that I'd not experienced before.
I'm learning from people--more effectively and more efficiently that I ever have. By paying attention to other church communications professionals (especially Kem Meyer, who recently offered her perspective on social networking), I'm discovering what conferences I need to attend and what books I need to read. During the Post aftermath, I tweeted an SOS to my social media guru friend who was able to offer immediate, sage advice. And because all of those people know other people, I have a virtually unlimited, instantly accessible network of really smart people at my disposal.
Perhaps the most controversial one: I'm loving people--more authentically and more freely than I ever have. Yeah, that sounds a little lucy-in-the-sky-with-diamonds, but it's true. Yes, it would be great if we could have backyard BBQs with our buddies every evening. But given our overloaded schedules, that's not realistic. Yes, it's nice to pick up the phone and call someone to offer a kind word and some encouragement. But no one's ever home. In the last week, I've visited someone in the hospital as a direct result of a tweet asking for prayer. I've sent a congratulations message to a teenager. I "LOLd" with a friend whom I haven't talked with in a while. I got to "listen" to one of my dearest friends express a new level of vulnerability.

So what's this got to do with the Post article? Well, based on the comments posted on the related blog (and a bunch of others to which it spread), many people view technology as a nuisance that has no place in church. Many people see social media and texting as a waste of time. Many people believe technology promotes superficial relationships.

All I'm saying is that I disagree. How about you?

Scrubbed Clean

2008-09-12T18:55:00.005-05:00

Okay, I'm posting a picture. But only because Jennifer ~~double-dog-dared~~ triple-dog-dared me to. Oh, and because Guch was sweet enough to tell me today that I don't look nearly as bad as she expected (or something to that effect).

Update: You can totally see how goofed up my right eye still is, eh? Ewww.

Cover Girl

2008-09-10T06:41:00.004-05:00

In the spirit of transparency, I have an announcement to make: Apparently, I'm a bit vain.

On Monday morning, I managed to scratch my right cornea when, in a maneuver I still can't quite wrap my head around, I jabbed my mascara wand into my eye. No, I wasn't driving. No, I wasn't texting. And no, I wasn't reading (although I wouldn't put that one past me).

Okay, so long story short: I have to put this nasty antibiotic ointment (not drops--ointment) in my eye four times/day, and I can't wear eye makeup. For a week.

Enter vanity.

Being in public without eye makeup is not an option. My eyelashes are completely blond. Without eyeliner and mascara, I look like my awkward stage. This is not okay with me. Not even a little bit.

I wrestled with solutions. Wear makeup on the left eye but not the right? I look like a before-and-after photo. How about a patch? Vetoed by my teen-to-be. Got it! Wear sunglasses all day! Tried that yesterday and got teased about acting like a rock star, complaints that people couldn't tell where I was looking, and a headache from eye strain. What's left? Going au naturale. Aaaaiiiiieeeee.

What's the big deal, you ask? Oh, you just don't understand! Even my sweet husband tells me that my eyes look "naked" without makeup. Until last night, I hadn't left the house without eye mascara since, oh, 1983 or so. Yes, seriously. And yes, this feels ridiculous, and yes, my liberal, feminist core is quite disappointed in my reliance on Cover Girl and cultural notions of beauty. I know, I know!

My friend, Lisa, says this is just another step toward hippie-dom and that I can soon stop shaving, too. We'll see.

Right Now

2008-09-07T23:18:00.005-05:00

This afternoon, I spent a couple of hours at the Saint Louis Art Fair. Before you get all "Wow! Kelley's so cultured!" you should know that I have absolutely zero artistic talent, and the only "art" displayed in our home is a Terry Redlin thing (ugh) and a couple of pieces the girls created in early elementary school. Oh, and the rorschach-esque schplop of toothpaste on the bathroom counter. If that even counts.

Despite my lack of talent (and, arguably, taste), I greatly enjoy wandering around juried art shows--if not for the art, then for the people-watching. The Saint Louis Art Fair is in a particularly hoity-toity area of The Lou . . . and so there's this wacky mix of starving-artist-hippies (one guy was wearing legwarmers made of large seashells and playing a didgeridoo) and the type of people who'll pay good money for jewelry made entirely of things we could find in Jack's "miscellaneous hardware" can in the garage.

I actually bought a little something today from this lady. It's a simple, torn-paper piece that reads: "It is our belief in goodness that lifts us up and over and beyond all that's ugly and tragic in the world. To keep that belief alive, that's the trick. That's the hard (but entirely possible) part."* I absolutely cannot wait to put it in a giant frame and hang it next to my bookshelves (you know, where the TV used to be?). Then every time Jack tells me I'm not being realistic, I'll just smile sweetly and point at the wall. That won't get on his nerves at all. I'm pretty sure.

Anyway.

About an hour ago, as I was thinking about some of my favorite bits of the show, I started to feel downright blue. I haven't sorted it out entirely, but I'm thinking there's something very mid-life-crisis about what's going on in my head right now. One photograph, in particular, nearly brought me to my knees. It was so simple--just a few pages from a writer's manuscript, editing marks and all, photographed on a white background. Again, so simple--but I stood there for a few moments with my fingers on the glass, smiling and nodding at my photographer friend as we talked about how to recreate the image . . . all the while my insides tying themselves in knots.**

Although I lean on hyperbole, I'm not often prone to melodrama, and so the rest of this may seem out of place. But here goes: For the last several months, I've had this vague feeling that I'm running out of time. To do what? Dunno. Because of what? Dunno. But today's experience surely didn't assuage that feeling.

Friends, I have to figure out what I'm supposed to be doing with my life, and I have to start doing it. Right now.

*Thank you to my dear (photographer) friend, Lisa, for wandering into Kay's booth and finding this piece.

**I found the artist's website, but this particular image isn't there. I'm beginning to wonder if I made it up.

Open Letter to the Sport of Golf

2008-09-02T22:02:00.004-05:00

Dear Most Annoying Game in the History of Forever on Planet Earth and the Cosmos,

I don't get you.

Kindest Regards,

Looking Forward to Horrified Comments from Golf ~~Freaks~~ Enthusiasts

Television Schmelevision

2008-08-25T06:52:00.009-05:00

Nearly three weeks ago, after months of hinting--then convincing--we extricated ourselves from the grip of cable television. Not just movie channels or sports networks, either. All of it.

People's reactions to this news have been very interesting:

"Nooooooooooo!" accompanied by a clutching of the chest and falling to the floor (neighbor girl)
"But, but, what about the Olympics?!" (30-something acquaintance)
"We could never do that." (30-something friend with small children)
"My daughter's had several homework assignments that required watching TV" (sister-in-law)

The most prolific response has been, "But, WHY?" Several reasons:

Watching TV was quickly becoming my kids' only form of recreation.
Interestingly enough, watching TV didn't really appear to be the girls' preferred recreation; instead, it was their default recreation. More than anything, it was just a habit.
One of my kids found it necessary to munch while watching TV. Constantly.
While the girls occasionally chose to watch Discovery Channel-ish shows, more often they'd watch Disney Channel mush like Hannah Montana and The Suite Life of Zach and Cody. What's more, they'd watch the same episode multiple times--sometimes the same episode on the same day. C'mon.
The ABC "Family Channel" airs shows about fraternity houses and teenage pregnancy. Hello?
Jack and I rarely, if ever, flipped on the TV.

Well-intentioned parents have asked me why I didn't just regulate the girls' television-viewing, rather than banning it entirely. Honestly? I'm inherently lazy in some aspects of my parenting, and it's easier for me to get rid of it than it is for me to police it. (No judgment necessary: I'm lazy about some things, but not the important things.) I know few families would make this choice, but we made it. And it's having interesting effects:

Almost instantly, Emily's recreation of choice became reading. Pages and pages and pages.
The girls have spent significant time outside with their buddies.
We have no more arguments about who gets to watch what and when.
Consumerism has significantly decreased, because commercials exited with the TV.
My home feels more home-y now that we've replaced the entertainment center with a couple of bookshelves.
We learned how to use Craig's List, posting and selling the aforementioned entertainment center. (Sold in like four hours. Amazing!)
My eldest daughter gets to tell her friends that her mom's a hippie vegetarian.

Don't get me wrong: We're still plenty plugged-in. We kept the dowstairs TV for family movie nights and Wii tournaments, and we still have the Internet. And, yes, those things can be just as addictive and just as damaging. To me, though, those are things worth regulating. Television, though? Not so much.

Oh, I forgot to share one other reaction with you: "You know . . . that's not such a bad idea." (the Dish Network Customer Service Representative who processed my cancellation request)

Exercising my Spiritual Gift*

2008-07-30T00:16:00.005-05:00

I know y'all are sick of looking at a dopey picture of Skittle with a bow. I know I've promised several of you that I'd "soon" get my act together and start writing again. Here's a line you've heard before: Bear with me. I really do have some potentially interesting ideas coming--about guns and vegetables and high school reunions and clapping and atheism and mercy. Just put up with my *procrastination until school starts, and then I'm on it.

In the meantime, do me a favor and meet William. Start with the post called "So, What's It Like Anyway?" and then read the one called "Part of the Public Consciousness?" These posts both shamed me and inspired me. Seriously: Pay attention. Please.

Pink

2008-05-30T01:47:00.003-05:00

Skittle came home from Yuppy Puppy Pet Spa with a pink bow. She appears to be plotting her revenge, yes?

12 Days

2008-05-29T23:56:00.006-05:00

Things I've done to prepare for next month's vacation:

1. I've obtained a skirted swimsuit. Lesson learned: It's super difficult to feel smokin' hawt in a skirted tankini. I mean, everybody knows there's a failed New Year's resolution hiding under there, right? Anyway, I tried the thing on for my girls, and they seemed to think they wouldn't completely die of embarrassment if I wore it around them. Next, I informed Jack that I'd need his opinion, too. You should have seen the color drain from the poor man's face. Still, he braved the try-on and pronounced that the suit makes me look "bosomy." Okay, then. It's a keeper. I guess.

2. I've purchased and applied sunless tanning lotion. Now, the bottle clearly declares, "Mistake-proof," and I have some questions about that. First, why do I look like I haven't washed my right wrist for weeks? And why is there a white oval on my left shin? And why is my right forearm from Haiti and my left forearm from Scandinavia? And hello? Why did someone not warn me about the odor? (I was sitting in staff meeting yesterday wondering what the weird smell was. It was me. That is not a pleasant realization.) So glad I listened to the persistent voice in my head that kept hissing, "Do not, under any circumstances, apply that stuff to your face."

3. I have in my possession a wide-brimmed, floppy, simulated straw hat. Okay, so if you haven't already, you must now assemble the whole picture: skirted tankini; irregular, smelly tan; head covering that might as well be bundled with the Time-Life Beach Boys collection.

Festive, eh?

OMG

2008-05-19T23:43:00.004-05:00

I have to tell you about:

the earthworm carnage on my street this morning
grace
swimsuits with skirts
disappointment
being a grown-up (read: Matthew 18)
earthquakes and other plagues
my way cool polka-dotty kicks

Don't give up on me. I'm coming back next week. I mean it.

So Here's What I'm Thinking

2008-04-18T00:01:00.005-05:00

How about if I quit my job and become a social justice guru chic who blogs and writes books and ~~goes on Oprah~~ ~~goes on the View~~ goes on Letterman and reminds people of the insanely simple, revolutionary truth that we're supposed to love one another. I could even grow dreads and get a tattoo. And drive a Vespa or something.

This rant brought to you by Love.Loud. (If you're new to the site, it might look like a building campaign. It's not . . . not for long, anyway. It's an initiative that's going to transform our community. Just watch.)

Freckle Face

2008-04-01T21:53:00.008-05:00

My 10-year-old has great freckles. I was admiring them this evening, and I noticed this pattern on her nose. It's not a great picture . . . but connect the dots. It's totally a heart. How cool is THAT?! Here's what she has to say about the whole thing: "I have many, many freckles. They have many different patterns in them. And I like them very much because people think that I look cute with them. The end."

The Whole Jeremiah Wright Thing

2008-03-27T00:01:00.003-05:00

(I'm wicked tired so I'm intentionally simplifying this post. Please don't yell at me.)

I was having a conversation with someone this weekend who commented that Jeremiah Wright shouldn't be stirring people up and focusing on stuff that happened in the past. This person suggested that if people want to get ahead in this country, they have to stop blaming others and rise above their circumstances.

I argued that perhaps it's not appropriate for a white, upper-middle-class suburbanite to make such broad generalizations. How can I even begin to wrap my head around the experience of a Black American in inner-city Chicago?

This logic earned me the standard disappointed roll of the eyes, incredulous shake of the head, and the label I'm quickly learning to embrace: "bleeding heart liberal." Yeah, well. Okay.

Half Full

2008-03-20T08:06:00.004-05:00

So, here's the deal. I'm tired of pessimism and cynicism and grouchiness and pettiness. I'm tired of arrogance and one-up-manship. I'm tired of "can't." I'm tired of "no." I'm tired of "don't bother." I'm tired of "that will never work."

I just finished a book in which the author comments that she's a victim of her own optimism. Me, too! Me, too! But you know what? I'd rather be a victim of my own optimism than move about this world feeling discouraged all the time.

Not to make this political, but this is one of the reasons I'm drawn to Barack Obama. (I can see you shaking your disappointed head at me. Just stop it.) His messages are encouraging. Hope-filled. Empowering. Visionary. They make me want to believe the best about others--and myself, too. Since when has politics done that for anyone?

So, this morning I put on my "head in the clouds" shirt, and I'm going to go back to my perpetually optimistic, terminally perky inner self. And I don't care if, for you, "head in the clouds" is equivalent to "head up my . . . (ahem)."

Big Red Boat

2008-03-18T06:33:00.005-05:00

So, I think I'm going on a cruise.

I'm feeling rather embarrased about it, to be honest. It feels extravagant. Indulgent. Dave Ramsey and Shane Claiborne would likely agree.

Still. It's the ocean.

Haiku-ish 4

2008-03-18T06:30:00.001-05:00

Puppy still peeing
Should have listened to Jackson
Dog Whisperer time

Random #3

2008-03-11T14:36:00.001-05:00

When did they stop putting cotton in pill bottles? And why?

Resolufessional

2008-03-08T07:55:00.007-06:00

On January 1, I resolved to lose 20 pounds by my reunion. I now have 22 pounds to lose.

Random #2

2008-02-09T15:59:00.001-06:00

1. I'm done flat-ironing my hair. Why am I always about the business of trying to be different than how I really am? I have curly hair. So what?

2. I lack discipline in all areas of my life.

3. I'm thinking of applying for an MFA program in writing, but the application process requires that I submit a portfolio. From what I understand, portfolios are comprised of finished pieces. That's kind of a problem.

4. I've decided that part of my perpetual angsty-ish-ness is that I'm a study in not-quites. I'm not quite a vegetarian, not quite a socialist, and not quite a feminist.

I Know It's Not

2008-01-18T22:37:00.000-06:00

But what if it is?

I mean, I know it's a little speck of dust headed to the party on my piano.

But what if it's not?

Seriously. This is creepyish to think about.

Bwah Ha Ha Ha Ha

2008-01-18T07:22:00.000-06:00

There are two kinds of laughter at my house these days. There's the totally spontaneous, ribs-hurt-can't-breathe kind. (Sam talks about it over here.) These moments are usually ushered in by Bekah, who's like a 10-year-old-girl version of Jim Carrey.

And then there's the kind of laughter that's soaked in disbelief . . . the are-you-freakin'-KIDDING-me?! kind. Apparently, it goes hand-in-hand with owning an adolescent daughter. Check out this dialogue that occurred at about 6:30 am on Wednesday:

Em [with the intensity and volume of a shrieker band] > YOUR HUSBAND [that's Jack, her step-dad] takes WAY TOO LONG IN THE BATHROOM. [Mind you--this is the first thing she's said to me all morning.]

Me [at normal volume . . . ever the adult] Why do you say that?

Em [making scary, scary face] > BECAUSE. I. NEED. THE. FREAKING. HAIR DRYER!

Me > You mean my hairdryer?

Em [all sassy and you're-so-lame-ish] YES, MOM. YOUR HAIR DRYER. AND I GOT UP AT 5:30 THIS MORNING AND WASHED MY HAIR FOR NO STUPID GOOD REASON!

Me [a wee bit louder, but still grownup-ish] > Let me get this straight. You're mad because MY hairdryer isn't available for your use because it's in MY bathroom where Jack's showering so you can't get to it?

Em > AAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH. [storms off]

[Perhaps stupidly, I fetch the dryer for her. She actually thanks me before she shoves her bathroom door closed. Now, fast-forward five minutes.]

Em > CAN I AT LEAST TRY TO USE YOUR STRAIGHTENER?

Me > Sure. But why? Your hair looks great.

Em > YEAH, RIGHT, MOM. THANKS A LOT.

Me > [?!]

[Fast forward another five minutes. Jack and I are in the kitchen. Em storms in and hurls her stuff on the table.]

Jack > Emily, you need to stop slamming stuff around.

Em > Jack, I'm already having, like, the WORST DAY OF MY LIFE!

Jack > Stop being so dramatic. [He does not know that this is the single most dangerous thing to say to an adolescent girl.]

Em > AAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHH! [as she's storming off to her room] I HATE THIS FAMILY! I HATE THIS HOUSE!

Me [not so grownup-y] > You are SO grounded.

Em > GOOD!

Me [auditioning for aforementioned shrieker band] > BRING ME YOUR CELL PHONE AND IPOD RIGHT NOW!

Em [nearly throws them at me but thinks better of it] > HERE!

[Fast forward another five minutes]

Em [all sweetness and light; it's totally like living with Sybil] > So, when do I get my phone and iPod back?

There. That's the moment--the perfect moment for the are-you-freakin'-kidding-me? laugh. So, I did. I laughed . . . which was not especially appreciated by Emily/Sybil.

Em > AAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH! [grabs stuff and slams out the door]

Me [as she's slamming] > Love you, honey! Have a great day!

Parenting is fun, eh?

Haiku-ish #5

2008-01-08T08:26:00.000-06:00

One week of diet:
Jack's lost six. I've lost ZERO.
What's fair about that?

Haiku-ish #4

2008-01-07T23:53:00.000-06:00

Bad, bad day at work
And tonight? Roof is leaking.
This day sucked. For real.

In Case You're Wondering

2008-01-05T11:28:00.000-06:00

Macaroni and cheese made with pureed cauliflower tastes like . . . pureed cauliflower. Despite what Jessica Seinfeld would have you believe.

I Resolve

2008-01-01T21:13:00.000-06:00

1. To lose 20 pounds by my reunion. Notice: You don't get to know what I'm subtracting 20 from, and I'm not telling you what I weigh when I get there. Because gross.

Notice also: I'm not telling you which reunion it is because I'm feeling old today. I should mention, though, that I'm not as old as some people think. One of my buddies (who shall remain nameless but whose initials are Ryan Redding) recently commented that he would never guess that I'm 47. FORTY-seven. I nearly threw up. Anyway. Me minus 20 pounds is the goal. I'm going to be HAWT, boys and girls. (Yes, that's what I said.)

2. To spend time in the Word every day. EVERY. DAY. I'm more serious about this one than the first. Here's how I'm going to make it happen: I've made a pact that I can't get on my laptop until I've done my daily devotion time. If you know me well, you know this will work . . . because L.T. and I are totally like THIS (do that thing where you cross your index and middle finger and make that conspiratorial facial expression that means "they are tight like peanut butter and jelly").

By sharing these resolutions with you, I'm also giving you blanket permission to hold me accountable to them. That means that if you see me in line at Starbucks or Ben and Jerry's, you are permitted to forcibly remove me from the premises. And if you get a MySpace message or a blog comment or an IM from me, your first question ought to be "Kelley! Did you do your devotion thing yet?!" Seriously, this will help me.

So, I shared. Cough 'em up. What're your resolutions?

Barkarella

2007-12-14T06:36:00.000-06:00

I have bad luck in the pet department.

When I was a kid, we had this Lhasa named Dusty. He was nice enough at first, but then something went terribly, inexplicably wrong. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that he walked around with, well . . . he walked around with a bright red balloon sticking out of his boy parts for quite some time. And I do mean balloon . . . like the retractor got plugged or something. Agh.

Then came Shania. Those of you who've been with me in the blogosphere since the start may remember this post.

And now there's Skittle. Last weekend, my parents brought their male Cairn terrier, Oz, over for a visit. Long story short: Skittle attempted to mate with him. I didn't respond well. "SKITTLE! ACK! NO!" And then came the jokes: Where does one get that kind of dog toy? Does this necessitate a name change to Barbarella?

Immediately, I opened a Google session. I hesitated. What search terms does one use in such a situation? Do you recognize the bravery required when choosing a site based on such search terms? Anyway, here's what I learned: Skittle was attempting to establish dominance.

Resume dominatrix jokes. Seriously. Who has this kind of luck?

All I Want for Christmas

2007-12-13T07:15:00.000-06:00

And now, the real (read: materialistic, me-me-me) Kelley is exposed:

Nice cookware . . . the kind so substantial that it could shelter you from nuclear annihilation. Those of you who know me well are thinking, "Umm, but you don't cook." TRUE! But if I had said cookware, I would. No, really! Okay, I might.
A digital camcorder
An Audi TT convertible, navy blue with baseball glove interior--or maybe just a nice detailing on my station wagon
Run, Dairy of a Face, My Lobotomy, A Thousand Splendid Suns, The Glass Castle Walls, and any number of random titles on the memoir table at B&N
A home on a lake . . . or the Atlantic
Jersey-knit sheets . . . and one of those O'Reilly-endorsed swedish squishy beds to put them on

And then, much more importantly, there are the intangibles:

A release from the desire to accumulate stuff (like most of what's on that list up there)
Willpower against any number of vices: time on my laptop, bad-for-me food, work
Patience
Simplicity
A release from my habitual busyness
An end to the constant bickering between my girly squirrels
More laugh-till-you-cry time with my smallish circle of friends
Discipline (not the punishment kind, but the kind that would compel me to read Scripture and write a little something every day)
A sense of direction
A noticeable increase in Skittle's intelligence that would, for example, allow her to recognize that ceramic tile is not so much for pooing on

Sigh. At least my intangible list is longer than my gimme list, right? When I first thought of this post, it was going to be funny. Now I'm depressed.

Posts to Come

2007-12-09T21:14:00.000-06:00

Which should I do first?

1. Black Friday
2. My Gender-Confused Puppy
3. All I Want for Christmas
4. Open Letter to My Kitchen Floor

Seriously: Vote!

Experiment Over

2007-12-07T06:39:00.000-06:00

Nose ring's gone. Here's the deal: It didn't hurt often, but when it did, the only thing that made it feel better was washing it several times during the day with anti-bac soap. And that made the skin on my nose all red and flaky-ish.

And that's really attractive, right?

Plus, I seemed to be developing a goodly amount of scar tissue inside my nose, which made my breathing a little loud.

And loud breathing is really attractive, too, right?

Besides, I'm trying desperately to know what simplicity looks like--and the nose ring became one more thing to "deal with."

So, it's gone. Cool no more.

Open Letter to My Shower

2007-12-01T13:08:00.000-06:00

Dear Shower,

Please accept my heartful apology for my egregious disregard of your needs. During my hour with you this morning, I came to understand just how poorly I've treated you.

Weeks ago, I promised you that I would squeegie regularly, and I've let you down. Please know that today (as I was rinsing away the last of the entire can of Comet it took to clean you), I renewed my vow of squeegie-ing.

Nevertheless, it's important for us to be realistic: Short of leasing a surgical-grade laser to blast away at the tiny little crevices in your stupidly textured shower pan, I don't think you'll ever be completely white again.

Plus, I've already broken the vow of flossing I made to my teeth on Thursday after an unpleasant hour at the dentist. Don't expect greatness.

Regards,
Kelley

Since Last I Posted

2007-11-30T01:33:00.000-06:00

I spent a dumb amount of money getting my hair colored.

I started reading Shane Claiborne's Irresistible Revolution, which is totally freaking turning my world upasidedown.

I stood in line at Kohl's in a Dallas suburb at 3:30 am on Black Friday. I promise to dedicate an entire post to that experience. Good grief . . .what a ridiculous thing to do.

I watched my 12-year-old kick butt in her middle school play. Girl's got guts.

I received a handful of incredible, bright pink gerbera daisies for my birthday.

I cleaned up a number of puppy accidents. Will she EVER be totally trained?

I emptied the dishwasher. This is an accomplishment worthy of note, as I seem to be losing what little domestic goddess I had in me.

I decided that I need to take Mark 8:34 way more seriously. ("If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.")

I decided that Mark 8:34 shouldn't really apply on one's birthday, and I bought myself a cashmere sweater. (I'm a piece of work, eh?) I've never had one before and it was on sale and holy cow is it warm and soft and yummy. And then? One of the seams unraveled three hours after I put it on. Nice.

I stayed up way too late entering receipts in Quicken, trying to catch up on email, Face Book, and My Space, and writing a semi-pointless blog post.

If You Have a Daughter

2007-11-16T06:32:00.000-06:00

Watch this. It's important. (Viewer discretion advised.)

How I Spent 15 Minutes This Afternoon

2007-11-14T17:12:00.000-06:00

Haiku-ish 3

2007-11-11T20:44:00.001-06:00

dairy queen blizzard
peanut butter and chocolate
sabbath sundays rock

Just Me

2007-11-11T08:59:00.000-06:00

No matter how badly I want to be as
smart
well-read
profound
talented
creative
edgy
rebellious
pretty
productive
revolutionary
thin
disciplined
funny
well-liked
outgoing
contemplative
philosophical
gutsy
respected
compassionate as [insert name of friend or mentor] is . . . all I can be is me.

Just me.

I wonder when I'll decide to be okay with that.

Really. Actually. Totally.

2007-11-11T07:50:00.001-06:00

I had a revelation this morning, partly inspired by posts over here and over here.

So, I'm the Director of Communications for this ridiculously amazing church, right? I write stuff about the church. I talk to people about the church. I invite people to participate and see what a difference God can make in their lives. I talk about spiritual growth and I sit it two- and three-hour meetings strategizing about how to best help people take their next steps toward Christ. I encourage people to seek God in times of trouble--to call on God when they need power or wisdom or discernment or strength.

Well, guess what? I don't. Call on God, that is. Or, very rarely. I continue to behave as though, and this is now cliche, but it's true, so true . . . I continue to behave as though someone has appointed me general manager of the universe.

I mean, here's the deal. I have these bright, sassy, passionate, wonderful kids who are like crazy-making, right? I pray (occasionally) for patience and smarts in dealing with them, but do I really, actually, totally believe that I can entrust them to God? 100%?

Another one: My job at the church is incredible, and I get to work with some of the coolest, smartest, most devoted Christ-followers ever. But most of the time I'm a stress ball. I regularly have 100+ emails in my in-box, most of which are flagged in various colors or marked as un-read multiple times. My project management spreadsheet is just sick. The first third of my Outlook task list is now red (read: overdue). I pray (once in a while) for God to direct my priorities, but do I really, actually, totally believe that things won't fall apart if I'm not in total control of my own to-dos?

Here's a silly one: I want desperately to get healthy. I wake up every morning promising myself that THIS will be the day that I remember as the day I got my act together. I even take note of the date so I can say "Since [date], I've lost 25 pounds." But I have no will power. And my chubbiness is tied to my self-esteem which is tied to my stress, so one little Twinkie or mocha or Skor has significant consequences. And I've been told . . . I tell other people . . .that God wants to intervene in every area of my life. But do I really, actually, totally believe that God can be bothered with a "Oh, please let me resist this Twinkie" prayer?

Another: I have two very dear friends whose lives are upside down. I worry about them. When they confide in me, I'm concerned that I'm not offering them good-enough advice, sincere-enough sympathy, profound-enough wisdom. I pray for them (sometimes, and certainly more than I pray for this other stuff), but I still act like I'm the one in charge of making things all okay again. Do I really, actually, totally believe that God has it all under control?

We just finished up a series on Noise at church . . . talking about how much we need stillness and silence and sabbath to hear God's voice. If you know me well, you've heard me say this before: I'm rarely tempted by TV, but I'd much rather pick up someone's memoir or a friend-recommended novel [update: or my blogroll] than my Bible. Am I crazy? Do I really, actually, totally believe that God's word is a light for my path?

Please don't misunderstand. I know that I can surrender my kids, my to-dos, my stupid weight management, my friends, my life . . . I just . . . well, I just . . . don't.

I heard a question posed some time ago: Do you really believe that what you believe is really real? Yes. I just have to start living that way. Really. And actually. And totally.

My Favorite Ball Player

2007-11-07T22:39:00.000-06:00

My youngest, the fourth grader, is playing her first season of competitive basketball. She’s on a “high school feeder team,” which means that by the time this group of ten girls gets to high school—assuming they keep making the team year after year—they’ll have already been playing ball together for five years.

It seemed like a good idea at the start, but now that we’re a few weeks in, I’m not sure I like it so much. I thought this would be good for Bekah—my “anxiety girl.” She desperately needs to feel like she’s good at something, and she was thrilled (THRILLED!) when she learned that she made the cut. For the first few weeks of practice, she didn’t complain about going, and she practiced at home. She loved it.

But then came the wind sprints. Remember them? Baseline to free throw line and back. Baseline to half-court line and back. Baseline to far-court free throw line and back. Baseline to far-court baseline and back. Repeat.

Bekah’s slow. The slowest. It’s not because she’s not trying, either. She doesn’t dilly-dally. She pushes it as hard as she can. The stage mother in me uses her stature as an excuse. She’s the shortest on the team. She has the shortest legs on the team.

The truth is, though, she’s the slowest because she’s out of shape. And she’s out of shape because I’m a loser mom who can’t figure out how to balance work and family life in a way that allows for normal things like nutritious suppers and plenty of exercise.

One of her teammates wears her State Games shirt to every practice. Another used to play on a boys’ league because the girls’ leagues weren’t challenging enough. Another is 12 feet tall. And as I’m typing this, Bekah’s having a not-so-good practice. The drills are complicated. She’s hesitant. She’s having zero fun. The girls keep stripping the ball from her.

And even though she’s running her butt off, she’s still the slowest.

Update: Bekah told me on the way home that she was "so happy" that she went to practice. Such different perspectives. I'm glad hers is the "so happy" one.

Mean

2007-11-07T06:22:00.000-06:00

Yesterday morning, Bekah took her usual glance out the window to see how the day was shaping up. As she passed me in the hallway, she muttered "Teenagers were out again." "Huh? How do you know?" "Pumpkins. All up and down the street."

This is my new moral outrage. What's up with the pumpkin smashing? Any former smashers out there care to chime in? (They even smashed this one. I'm not all yippy about Star Wars, but come on. This was a cool pumpkin.)

Yes, it's a little thing. But it's mean. And I don't like mean. And I'm PMSing, so darn near everything is elevated to the level of moral outrage. So there.

Procrastination, Thy Name is MySpace

2007-10-23T23:25:00.000-05:00

We're doing this series of messages at my church called Noise. The basic premise is this: We complain that God doesn't speak to us . . . and yet our lives are so full-up with junk that we couldn't hear God if He dragged out His karoake machine and 40'-tall speaker system and screamed Hoobastank tunes in our ear for an hour.

So what do I do? Like, the day after a message about busyness? I get myself a MySpace.

Right. I'm that dumb.

Terror

2007-10-20T07:05:00.000-05:00

I had to do a little public-speaking today . . .and like every other time I've done that (all two times), I've approached it with loud-mouthed dissent: They're making me do this. I'm not at all interested in doing this. I'm only doing this because K needed a day off, and wait a sec . . .why is he HERE if he's supposed to be taking the day off?! Is this some kind of conspiracy?!

So, before I take the platform, I'm a complete wreck: heart pounding, leg bouncing, thoughts racing. When I'm done, I'm a different kind of wreck: I have to pee and my fine motor skills go out the window because I'm shaking like I've been taking in Starbucks intravenously.

But get this . . . in the middle of it? The time I'm actually on the platform and, like, speaking? Cool as a cucumber. And if someone asked me to do it again right now? I'd say "BRING IT ON." But if someone asks me to do it again tomorrow, I'll be like, "Nuh-uh. Nope. Never again. You can't make me do it."

What is up with that? It's a pattern. When I got my nose pierced: freaking out before, wigged out after, totally calm in the middle. When I did one of those parachute-simulator things at Worlds of Fun: petrified before, nauseous after, totally brave in the middle. When I tried tofu for the first time: cautious before, disgusted after, sick in the . . . okay, not a good example.

In the case of public speaking, I think I get jazzed about the "great job" comments afterwards. That's sickeningly prideful . . .but so true. But it only lasts a day. And then I'm over it and ready to dig in my heels at the suggestion of doing it again. (But in the back of my mind, I'm thinking, "But you'll get praise for it, so come on . . .just do it." Again with the pride thing. Yuck.)

So, do you suppose I have a fear of public speaking? Oddly enough, I don't think that's it. I think it's just that I want to make sure I express myself well . . . I want to try to affect people . . . I want to not trip over my words and make people feel sorry for me up there. I mean, I AM shy. But I'm not nearly as afraid of public speaking as I am of, say, large spiders or butcher knives or being trapped in a sinking car. Or the color orange. (No, not really.)

So, no real point this post. Just a bit of public introspection. And a question: What does it for you? Do you have a terrified-calm-terrified relationship with anything?

Skittle: No Scary Eyeballs

2007-10-15T08:34:00.001-05:00

Skittle: Four Months

2007-10-11T06:18:00.001-05:00

Random

2007-10-11T05:48:00.000-05:00

Why do all pharmaceutical salespeople look like they've just walked off a GQ or Cosmo photo shoot? Seriously. They're all young, beautiful, and incredibly well-dressed. Has anyone ever seen an old, frumpy one? Is there an age and weight limit for that job? It's a little spooky. Like maybe there's a factory somewhere.

I Don't Have Enough Frustration in My Life

2007-09-29T21:48:00.001-05:00

So Jack bought a set of golf clubs for me.

Boing

2007-09-22T07:32:00.000-05:00

Okay, trampolines? Coolest ever.

My family's Friday Family Fun Nights usually involve pizza and Blockbuster. Last night, though, I was up for a little adventure, and so I suggested going to this trampoline place I'd heard about called SkyZone.

Being an over-protective mom, I've expressly forbidden the girls from jumping on their friends' trampolines. I've heard too many stories that go something like, "My son's friend broke both legs, ruptured his spleen, and cracked open his skull on our neighbor's trampoline and now he's in a wheelchair and his football career is over."

SkyZone is all good, though. There's no way to fall off the thing and no way to get your leg stuck between the springs. The floor is made of dozens of trampolines hooked together, and only one person is allowed in each square. The walls are trampolines, too, so you can bounce off them (or, if you're a show-off, do back flips off of them--which, as we witnessed, does occasionally result in a bad landing and bloody nose). There's a side section where you can sit and take a breather--which I did frequently because oh my gosh bouncing on a trampoline for an hour is a serious cardio workout.

I won't be able to adequately describe the experience, but I had completely forgotten what it's like to be on a trampoline. My family and I grinned and giggled for an hour straight. As I was trying to match the height of Jack's bounces, I was brainstorming all the groups I'm in that absolutely MUST experience this together: our church staff, the Praise Band, my small group.

When we were done on the trampoline, one of the staff suggested we try jumping on the concrete. It was the most bizarre sensation ever . . . felt like I was barely getting air. Such a stark difference: no life, no lift, no bounce. I haven't fleshed out the metaphor completely, but I immediately thought, "I want to have a Trampoline Life." One in which every muscle is engaged in the jump. One in which my focus is on going higher and landing firmly and confidently. The Concrete Life is far less adventuresome. Far less enthusiastic. Much less fun.

I am SORE today. I thought it would be my neck and back, but it's my shoulders for some reason. And my right knee. And my left ankle. And I don't care. The jump was worth it, and I'm ready to go back. Call me Tigger.

Wanna join in?

Nashville, Day 3

2007-09-15T10:36:00.001-05:00

1. Shawn Wood's talk was fast-paced, engaging, compelling. His definition of brand is my new favorite: the emotional aftertaste left by an experience. Yeah, buddy. That's smart stuff.

2. Got to hear a fun presentation by Ginger Sinsabaugh MacDonald, who advised us to create a craving with our communication pieces. As she mentioned, commercials don't tell you that you "need" something . . . they inspire you to "want" something. This lady's worked on some high-power campaigns, including the Michael Jordan Wheaties one. Great session.

3. Bumped into Brad Abare at Starbucks and talked with him a bit. Look at me being all brave and network-ish.

4. Kem Meyer showed some cool media pieces and challenged us to make sure we care for the people we're working with . . . to serve as a force multiplier rather than an obstacle to our church staff. . . to lead by relationship. I'm oversimplifying for the sake of brevity, but it was a great talk.

5. By the way, when did speeches and presentations become "talks"? I noticed this for the first time at the Willow Creek Leadership Summit. Suddenly, talk is a noun. Maybe it always was, and I'm just a dip.

6. Drove home six hours and the fam was still awake. Yes! They were happy to see me, of course, but Skittle nearly licked my face off. I'm looking forward to giving the weird yellow PT Cruiser back to Enterprise this afternoon.

Nashville, Day 2 (Part 2)

2007-09-13T21:52:00.001-05:00

Just got back from eating at Demo's with a bunch of people I don't know. Fun! Coupla' people from Dallas, two from Denver, three from Houston. All of 'em BIG churches. Of course, because I'm me, I'm sitting in the hotel room analyzing every word I said, convincing myself that they'll be talking about me on their flights home. "Remember that girl from St. Louis? Sad, huh? Wonder how long it'll be before they fire her."

Random: I met a guy who's responsible for web, print, set design . . .and peonies.

(And am I totally mortified that Terry Storch found my blog post that commented on his style and hair? Yes, I am. Hey, Terry.)

Nashville, Day 2

2007-09-13T17:27:00.000-05:00

1. Terry Storch from lifechurch.tv is brilliant, and I could have listened to him for days. He taught about Web 2.0 (which is not two-point-oh, but two-dot-oh)--the "participatory web"--and how we can harness it to reach people for Christ. Terry's also a snappy dresser and has great hair.

2. The People's Church knows how to throw a conference. Great hospitality.

3. This morning, I stretched way beyond my comfort zone and plunked myself down in front of my church communications hero, Kem Meyer, and told her how thankful I am for her. She didn't even look at me like I have two heads or anything. And she wants to get together tomorrow for breakfast or something. What?

4. I met some folks from Houston today, and they invited me to have supper with them in town tonight. So, I'm going to go. Again, way outside my comfort zone. Way.

5. I learned that authenticity is HUGE in marketing to multicultural audiences. And we can't just think outside the box . . . we have to throw it away.

6. Brad Abare, the guy that started this genius blog, encouraged us to be salty, be transparent, think local, and keep it simple. Put another way: Pursue more of God, pursue more of our own story, pursue others, and pursue a life of less.

This post is probably dreadfully boring for y'all, but I'm having a ball, so bear with me.

Nashville, Day 1

2007-09-13T00:30:00.001-05:00

My first impression of Nashville: The BellSouth building is disturbing. Apparently, people really like it, though. I rounded the corner on whatever highway I was on, and went "ACK! What the heck is that?" You'd probably have to see it in person. And, remember, I'd been in the car for a long time by myself, and I'd had quite a lot of caffeine and sugar.

Why My Husband Calls Me a Socialist

2007-09-11T17:56:00.000-05:00

I don't much like driving by myself, and tomorrow night I have to drive to Nashville for a conference thing. I mentioned to a friend that I'd be listening to right-wing talk radio the whole way there so I could stay awake. I yell at the radio, you see.

This friend of mine says, "So, are you, like, against closing our borders and all that?"

So we had this brief conversation about how jacked up my politics are, basically. All of my opinions are based on heart, not reason or logic. I look at how each situation might impact one person . . . and speak from there. I don't think about widespread political, social, and economic consequences. And so, therefore, my positions are often just flat-out wrong. And I'm okay with that.

(I feel like I've had this conversation before. Am I repeating myself on my own blog? Did I start this conversation on someone else's blog?)

It's possible that none of the illegal immigration conversations interest me because I don't personally feel the effects of it. That I know of, anyway. I mean, if my daughter needed a blood transfusion, but an illegal immigrant got the last pint of her type, would the border situation become more important to me? Would I be less upset if a legal immigrant got the last pint? Goodness, I hope not.

I've often stopped to wonder this: If I were the age I am now when racial segregation was mandated, would I have offered my seat to Rosa? Would I have harbored a Jew in Germany? Would I have protested the exploitation of Japanese workers on the railroad?

It seems easy to THINK radically. But to ACT radically? I don't know. I have a friend who was arrested for civil disobedience, and I was jealous. But would I have actually participated in the protest she did? I don't like to get in trouble! I don't like to make people mad at me! I just want to be loved! And, yet, I want to be arrested for being a loudmouth rebel?

No wonder I have a headache . . .my brain's arguing with itself.

That'll Learn 'Em

2007-08-30T23:12:00.001-05:00

Jack and I went to Em's middle school open house tonight. Frankly, I'm horrified.

All but one of her teachers commented that they try NOT to give their students homework. And if they do, they try to give them at least 15 minutes at the end of class to work on it so they don't have to take it home. Hello? That's not homework. One teacher's rationale is that it makes more sense for the kids to do the work while she's around to answer questions.

Isn't the point of homework to learn how to find answers on your own?

I realize this is just sixth grade, and not too long from now, I'll be blogging about unrealistic homework expectations. But still.

I was talking crazy earlier: private school or home schooling. Jack, ever the voice of reason, recommended that I supplement Emily's schoolwork with stuff I want to make sure she learns. Because I have time to prepare lesson plans.

So talk to me: Do you think private schools offer a better education?

BTW: As mean as it sounds, I'm not sure that all of Em's teachers are all that bright . . .

Ouch

2007-08-27T23:39:00.000-05:00

So I looked at my calendar today and promptly hit a massive brick wall. I've been saying "too much, too much, too much" for weeks . . . months. I didn't think it could get worse. But it did.

The way I see it, I have two possible solutions: (1) quit doing anything in the evening that's not absolutely required by my job or my family or (2) keep things the way they are and start drinking heavily.

Neither solution is really acceptable, of course. Especially the drinking one. And I was really kidding anyway, mostly.

The whole hitting a brick wall thing? Painful. Really painful.

That's all.